[229zmi]

vy (20) any pronouns

carrd / masterlist

RECENTLY POSTED

i want

aye there’s the rub

because singing killed my grandma ok

[merumis]

it’s a little after six when you text kuroo—are you still in office?

you’re standing, a little pathetically, under an awning just a few doors down from your office entrance. it’s raining, and it’s freezing, and you’re wrapping your raincoat so tightly around you that you can hardly stick your arm out to look down at your phone. the wind still manages to bite through your sleeves, against your sweater, and along your cheeks and nose. you lean a little too far forward, and a couple rain drops land against your screen. you rub at them with your sleeve over your fist—smearing them all along the top.

then, three little bubbles pop up next to his name. unfortunately, he replies. what’s up?

can you let me in?

the bubbles pop up, then disappear. your eyes flick up towards the doors, and then kuroo pushes them open—propping the door while he squints out into the rain. you dodge the rain between the awning or two that sit between him and you—diligently stepping over a puddle because you’re wearing your new mary janes, and you love these socks, and you don’t particularly want to ruin either of them in a deceptively deep pool of water.

“jesus,” he says as you duck under his arm and move through the door, “miss me that much?”

you eye him—first, the absence of the sweater he was wearing over that white t-shirt earlier today; then, the pen mark sitting on his jaw, just below his ears, and then the way he’s biting back a shit-eating grin, though failing, horribly.

“oh fuck off, tetsurou,” you reply with a wave of your hand. you walk past him through the office to get to your desk, and he follows right behind you. his computer—next to yours—is still on, his email open. two more messages come through as you pass it. you lean down below your desk, reaching all the way towards the back. you can hear kuroo clicking his mouse, typing something out. a reply to one of those emails, maybe, or a note to himself for tomorrow, you can’t be sure. you know he’s just as likely to stay here until seven as he is to leave at 3:30—though it seems like tonight has leaned into the former.

you pop back up, the strap of your purse dangling off two of your fingers. you spin around and smile at kuroo—all teeth. “got it!” you say, and he looks up from his computer to glance between you and your bag.

“you know,” he starts, and he leans back in his chair. there’s a half-written email still sitting on his screen—seven o’clock it is then. “you don’t have to forget things at my place to come over.”

you swing your purse at him. he gasps, all dramatics, and rubs at his chest where you hit him. he’s got a pouty little look on his face, but the corners of his lips are starting to turn upwards. you lean in, rest an arm on his shoulder.

“you know,” you mimic, “you really shouldn’t be calling here your place.”

“are you done?” he asks, he’s leaned in close enough now that his hair is moving yours. you’re watching his eyes flit across your face. is the office empty? you wonder, if anyone saw us now, what would they think?

you grin, “never.”

he sighs—dramatic, again—and leans back. you stand back up to position yourself behind his chair, your folded forearms resting on the top of it. you look over his desk; there’s an empty coffee tumbler on the corner, his sweater, thrown haphazardly along the edge of it, a notebook that’s been left open to a scribble of notes on one page and lazy doodles on the other. you look down at him, the crown of his head is brushing against your arms.

“you should go home,” you say, and you wonder how dangerous it is to want to twist your hands into your coworkers hair; to brush it out of his face, to scratch at his scalp and run your nails down his neck. you think about how his place, his actual place, is only three blocks away. how you know there’s a half-finished wine bottle sitting in his fridge from last friday (is it wednesday, already?) and how you know the way his couch cushions sink under your weight.

he hums, eyes closed, “probably.”

“have you eaten?” you ask.

“eh,” he replies, “here and there.”

“and if coffee doesn’t count?” you add.

you watch the smile grow on his face, the opening of his eyes to finally look at you.

“can i plead the fifth?” he asks. he’s got that smile that almost turns downwards—a not-quite-admission of guilt. you lean into him. if you get closer, you think you might be able to feel the way his voice blooms out of his chest. there’s something hot bundled up in yours, an almost pleasant tightness in your throat.

“nice try, big guy,” you say. you don’t think either of you can help the way you break into smiles.

your hair falls from behind your ear and dangles between the two of you. you watch as his eyes follow it, and then slip back to your gaze.

if i took you home, you think, what would we do? would i make you dinner and tell you to devour it and hope you knew i was talking about me? would you know that i was? would you do it, and then come to work with me the next morning and buy me coffee and sit across from my desk and pretend you don’t know what i look like naked?

do you hog the sheets like i think you do? do you sleep with the ceiling fan on high because you’re never cold enough? because you can’t stand sleeping in silence? would your hands feel the same in my bed as they do when you lean over my desk, your hand on my back as you squint your eyes at my computer screen? do you think about this like i do?

“come to dinner with me,” kuroo says.

“i’ve already eaten,” you reply.

“come anyway.”

your mouth hangs open for a moment, words dying somewhere just under your tongue. your teeth feel heavier than usual and then you feel heat flood your face and you remember exactly where you are. you stand up straight, back away from his chair, turn toward your desk to pick up your keys where you left them.

“tetsurou, i’m sorry, we really shouldn’t do this here-“

“there’s no one here,” he replies. his chair squeaks a little, his laptop clicks shut—you know he’s coming up behind you, but it’s still a surprise when you turn around and he’s there, just a few inches in front of your face.

“come to dinner with me,” he repeats. “come to dinner, come home with me, get in my car-“

you shush him and flutter your hands in front of him, they land on his chest, his jaw, a flurry of panic and white hot embarrassment flooding your veins with the movement. you want to scold him, and then tell him yes. you want to go back to his place and sit on those cushions again and finish that bottle of wine and you want to feel the weight of him on top of you—from whatever this is to that.

instead, you ask, “are you sure there’s no one here?”

he smiles.

“positive.”

you watch the way his mouth shapes the word. his teeth press into his bottom lip with the ‘v,’ and then his eyebrows lift, a little nod of his head towards you. you twist your index finger in the collar of his stupid white t-shirt and pull until his nose is almost touching yours.

“you’re sure?” you whisper again, and he laughs. he moves towards you but you back away, widening your eyes at him. you watch him suck on his teeth, you think about running your tongue along the tips of them.

“the cleaning crew doesn’t come until eight-“ he leans back to pick his phone off his desk, “-it’s 6:45. i’m the last man out.” you bite at your cheek, twist and untwist the fabric of his collar. “promise,” he says.

if you were a better woman, you might make him take you out to his car for safety-sake. you might think about how badly you can’t lose this job, about how making out with your coworker in any situation is bad enough—but this right here might be the worst of it.

you don’t, of course. you pull him those last few inches and you think about swallowing him whole. you think about the way his mouth is warm and about how he tastes a little like those minty breath strips you keep in your top desk drawer. you think about his tongue in your mouth and his hands as they press into your back and the way he sighs, just a little, when you finally scrape your nails down the back of his neck.

“take me to dinner,” you breathe—his mouth is against your cheek, your jaw. you glance down, and you can see the little pen mark (and another one, just behind it on his neck).

“i thought you’d already eaten,” he mimics. you laugh.

“take me anyway.”

you feel him laugh, and you feel him nod because his nose is brushing against your collarbone, and you let him guide you out of the office (the back way, to the other parking lot, because you insist and he says okay). and the whole way, you think of his teeth, the warmth of his cheeks, and the sweater that was thrown in the back of his car, your purse sitting underneath.

(your keys and wallet are in your pockets. the purse, you think, can stay the night. or two, if need be).

[yuanist]

you start your text to kuroo with the most beautiful array of words a 22-year-old can muster.

you busy rn?

no, he sends, quicker than you’d expected. what’s up?

sometimes, you expect him to finally block your number, or ignore your texts, or throw his phone in a river, but he never does. you’ve been broken up for months now and, somehow, every time your dryer breaks, or your windshield cracks, or you have a day so horribly terribly bad that you just can’t breathe, you still have tetsurou on speed dial.

you’re not complaining, of course, but the evil of it isn't lost on you. he should move on, and so should you—it’s your fault that doesn’t happen.

can't i just be curious? you ask.

no, he replies. not your thing.

you chuckle a little at that, mostly because you can imagine him saying it. he's got a smile on his face, pulled up towards his eyes from his cheeks. the image makes you miss him in the stark, white kind of way—empty, but whole.

you start typing out a response (i'm bored..........) until the ellipsis gets so long you have to delete it. you start again (i think you left a coat at my apartment? do you wanna come-), but you're lying, so you delete it again. before you can think about it too hard, you swipe your fingers over the call button.

"you okay?" he asks after three rings. you don't usually do this sort of thing—texting has always suited you well enough—but the sound of his voice makes your legs feel weak and you feel a little bit like the world was going to collapse if you didn’t hear his voice, so you're calling it a worthy endeavor.

"i miss you," you say. It's quick—a little to loud and a little too forward—but it rolls off your tongue so naturally that you let it hang in the air, giving the words a little grace.

a beat, and then, "yeah?"

“yeah,” you say, a soft pause, almost finalized but not quite there yet. you can hear his breath—a mechanical rattle, just a little.

a laugh bleeds through the phone and then, “how much?”

if you were better—as over him as you tell everyone you are—you would have better resolve. you’d say a little, not too much, just sometimes when i’m bored or lonely or especially horny or scared. instead, you chew on the side of your lip for a second and say, “enough.”

“enough to call me?”

your laughter breathes out of you sort of thoughtlessly. you imagine saying, enough that sometimes it aches. like there’s a piece of me that always feels cut off at the stem—my phantom limb, my missing piece.

instead, you say, “i guess so,” a little too quickly and quietly.

a beat of silence and you can hear his breath through the receiver. he’s not panting, but he’s moving enough that the sound leaves your phone in steady heaves.

“are you—running?” you ask.

“a little.” you can hear him grin. “just around the neighborhood.”

“mine or yours?”

a pause, and then he breathes, “does it matter?”

you sink your teeth into your bottom lip. if you know kuroo like you think you do—and oh do you, all nearly-six-and-a-half-feet of him—he’s wearing some tiny little athletic shorts he bought in college that, admittedly, should probably be illegal to wear outside. if weather’s permitting, there’s a fifty-fifty chance he’s in a t-shirt he doesn’t usually wear anymore or no shirt at all. it’s dusk, but it was ninety-two today—dead of august summer heat—so you would bet the latter.

“it does,” you say, suddenly struck by the ex-boyfriend shaped mental image swirling around your head. “just for curiosity’s sake.”

“curiosity? you want me to run by your window?” he huffs, presumably jumping off of a sidewalk, or over a patch of grass, or down the staircase leading into the park next door. “let you decide whether or not i still entice you?”

instinctively, you draw your way towards your living room window. four stories up, south-facing for the light. you can see the street below you and the sort-of-evil part of you hopes to he’s there. the sidewalk is glaringly empty, baked by the heat.

“very funny,” you say.

“i’m serious!” he replies. “sort of.”

you chuckle, resting your forehead against the glass. you can feel the weather fighting it’s way into your apartment and, if the utility bill wasn’t already sort of a nightmare, you would open the window just a crack—let the air bridge the gap between your world and his.

you wonder if you’d be able to sense him out there somehow. if the air would smell different or the breeze would stall or if his presence would be so heavy you’d feel his gravitational pull down the block.

“can i ask you something kind of fucked up?” you say, and there’s a pause on the other line. quick hesitation, and a slow reply.

“sure?” he drags the ‘u’ a little.

“when i broke up with you,” you start, pressing the phone to your ear a little too hard. “who did you call first?”

you don’t really know why you’re asking him this right now, if you’re being completely honest. maybe to think about the look on his face, or the way his breath sounds when he’s nervous. maybe it’s the reassurance that he didn’t call some other girl he used to see, or a friend who said you guys were bad match, or—

“my dad,” he says suddenly, clicking his tongue against his teeth. the crackling of the wind stops for a second and you imagine him standing at the edge of the sidewalk, dragging his free hand through his hair.

you breathe, “what’d you tell him?”

he’s walking again. you can just barely hear his feet against the ground. they’re slow, steady steps. something crunches under his feet like gravel.

your eyes dart out to the naked pavement again. you can nearly see yourself, standing there like a ghost. it’s almost midnight; he’s telling you he loves you; you’re telling him it’s hard; he’s quiet, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching at the bridge of his nose; you’re telling him you’ve never felt this way before and that it scares you; you’re telling him that the world feels too big.

“you really wanna get into this?” he asks.

your tongue almost feels too big for your mouth. in your head, you say, i want you to tell me i fucked up so bad that you never want to speak to me again so i can get over this. i want you to say that you’re tired of answering my texts—that i’m exhausting, that this is exhausting.

“not—over the phone, i guess,” rolls across your pallet in one big blob of words and spit instead.

“okay,” he says, sort of absently. “fuck, okay. give me a sec.”

he’s moving again—your phone is making that staticky noise that sounds like he stuck his speaker into a fishbowl. you can hear him breathe (in and then out).

i miss sleeping next to you. sometimes, i can feel the weight of you stirring on the other side of the bed and i wonder if i’m psychic or just insane. remember that time we hooked up in college? before you told me you loved me and before you got that new tattoo and i took that shitty job that made us both miserable? remember how hot it was that night? the ac was broken and we were both so fucking sweaty but i think i know the feeling of your tongue in your mouth more than i know my own name.

“tetsurou?”

it’s quiet on the other end. you watch him cross into view from your window and you stand there, kind of stupid and hopeless. every once in a while, you see him somewhere out in the wild (your favorite coffee shop downtown on a sunday, when it’s almost too packed in there to breathe; at the park, drawn across the grass, looking up at the sun; in a bar, cheeks flushed, eyes wide, grin big and toothy) and you’re reminded of the fact that he is, in fact, real, and looks up at your window from the sidewalk, panting and out of breath.

you hold his gaze from three stories up, not thinking about it too much when you hang up the phone—instinct more than anything else. the silence in your apartment is nearly deafening. you swear you can hear him as his chest rises and falls.

by the time you slide your shoes on, drifting your way towards the elevator without locking your front door, your eyes have glazed over. your out-of-body feeling doesn’t fade until you’re leaving the building, a disgusting rush of humid air hitting you head on. you’re not usually prone to freezing up like this, but you stand there, just outside the exit, staring again.

he is shirtless (points for you), but he’s standing with an uncomfortable hunch to his shoulders, like the whole thing feels off. it does, you’ll note. for as long as you’ve known kuroo you’ve been playing this horrible game of cat and mouse. you’ve wanted him so badly so many times, but you’ve wanted him to chase you even more. you tease him, you tell him you like your alone time, you never let him stay for longer than the night. you make for a horrible girlfriend, and an even worse ex.

“hi,” you say, finally. you’re standing a little too far for it to come out normal.

“hi,” he replies. a smile peeks out from behind his lips—a flash of shining teeth.

do you ever think about that time you bit my inner thigh so hard that it left a long, spiraling bruise across my leg? you were so apologetic about the whole thing, but i remember being fascinated—more that my body could produce such dark shades of purple than anything else. i remember running my hands along it, thinking i should have felt it in some way or another, but, by touch, it was like it wasn’t even there. were we even a couple yet? you always did have such sharp teeth.

“you didn’t have to come all the way over here, y’know.” you’re smiling, but half of you means it and half of you is sort of begging for him to invite himself inside.

“it’s fine. i was at the park.” he bobs his head to the side, gesturing towards the big patch of grass across the road. the construction finished last spring, just as it got too hot to really enjoy it.

“oh.” you feel kind of foreign in yourself—stiff. “did you like it?”

he eyes you, “seriously?”

kuroo steps forward, over the sidewalk and onto the concrete slab in front of the exit. you consider closing the gap—only a foot or two between you—but you hesitate. he smells like sweat, and skin, and whatever cologne he picked out this morning. you know he’s never been able to settle on just one, switching back and forth between some cheap shit he picked up on vacation and a birthday present from his grandfather, based entirely on a whim.

he’s just so—familiar. for as strange as making eye contract with your ex-boyfriend can be, he knows how you have to hide you phone charger from your cat so he doesn’t chew it, how you take your coffee, how you love to cook, even when you don’t want to. you know he still sends birthday cards to his friends from highschool; you know he hasn’t talked to his mom in months; you know his favorite songs, the spots where he’s the most ticklish, how his worst fear is falling so far behind that he can’t get back up.

you’re awestruck, almost, every time you see him. for how much you can pretend you don’t want him anymore (that you never did in the first place), he’s magnetic. you’re drawn to him in a way that you have never, and probably will never understand.

sometimes your sister still calls me when you’re especially upset. i don’t know if you’ve told her that we broke up, but i don’t fill in any missing pieces for both of our sakes. is it wrong to ask you if you’ve talked to her lately when i already know the answer? did your shitty roommate ever move out? did you ever donate that stuffed animal from your mom that you don’t like looking at? i like to wonder if you know about the nooks and crannies of my life the way i still know about yours. i think already know the answer anyway.

“did you wanna come up?” you ask. i love you. “i can get you something to drink” i love you.

“i shouldn’t,” he replies.

“i know.”

i’ve only ever woken up before you once. you drool in your sleep, y’know. just a little. for a while that morning, i watched you snore with your head stuffed in between my pillows. there was something sort of exciting about it—like i knew i was never gonna see it again. when you woke up, i rolled over, pretending i was still asleep so i could hear the way you yawn, and stretch, and crack your back before you get out of bed. i think about someone else getting to wake up next to you one day and i feel sick with myself. i hope so badly that they deserve you.

“i miss you,” you say. you run your tongue along the back of your teeth.

“so i’ve heard,” he grins.

“i know.”

it was such a pleasure to love you. i’m sorry i took it for granted. can you come inside? can we talk it through? you can tell me how bad i fucked up (you won’t) and i can nod along, looking down at the floor so i don’t have to meet your eyes, and then we can go back to doing whatever we did before this, even if that’s nothing at all.

he wraps his hands around the railing next to the door, shifting all of of his weight back and forth between his heels and his toes. it’s so brutally humid that he looks hazy while he does it, like the air is lagging a second behind his movements.

“when i called my dad,” he starts, his gaze shifting in your direction. “i told him that i asked you to move in with me, and i told him that you looked fucking petrified. you hadn’t broken up with me just yet, but i could tell it was coming.”

(you can see it again—that night on the sidewalk in front of your apartment. he’s scrolling through apartment listings, showing you different ones in the area. do you want a one bedroom or two? the one bed is cheaper, obviously, but i think we can make the other one work if you really want it. he flicks through one picture and then another. you feel dizzy. you’re both a little drunk—not enough to be completely out of your mind, but enough that he walked you home to make sure you made it all the way. his tolerance for that type of shit has always been so much higher than yours.

my lease isn’t ending until july, so we can think about it for a while if you want. he grins, and you start counting his teeth. he asks you something about uhauls and moving out, but all you can think about is how fucking cold it is. january’s almost over but you have your coat buttoned all the way up, and you’re ducking your nose into the collar to avoid the wind. he asks you something else, you don’t hear him. he asks if you’re alright; his eyes get wide and the smile drops off of his face. you wave him off and tell him it’s time for you to go inside. you love him, you tell him, you’re sure you do. you’ll see him tomorrow, you smile, but you can feel the way it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.)

“what’d he tell you?” you ask. it comes out sort of flat and dead.

kuroo laughs, in a dry, humorless sort of way.

“that he taught me better than to try and predict the future. worst fucking advice ever.”

you snort, “seriously.”

silence swells between you again, tipping between warm and awkward. a bike flies by about a street over with a speaker in the basket, playing a song you liked a lot when you were fourteen or fifteen but don’t much care for now. for a half second, you think about how funny it is that the people around you are conscious and living too. they, for all you know, don’t yearn for people right in front of them. kuroo links his hands together, cracking each of his knuckles.

have you been on any dates lately? i went on one, about a month ago. i sat across from a guy at a bar and i knew my makeup was fucked up because my hands had been trembling the whole time i was getting ready and he just wouldn’t stop staring at me. we ate shitty bar food and made shitty conversation and then split the check afterwards. i went home and thought about the inside of your mouth. when i looked in the mirror, there were three big blobs of mascara on different parts of my face.

“did you call him after i did it—tell him you were right?” you smile a little sloppily, and he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, shaking his head.

“didn’t have the stomach for it.”

can we start over? all the way—like, i tell you my name and where i’m from and that my mom and i don’t get along like we should, because that always seems to come up first. you can tell me how tall you are, how you know a fantastic fucking thai place that i need to try and we can sit across from each other, picking up food and telling the other one to try it because it’s just too good to pass up. i’ll pretend i don’t know which t-shirt of yours is the most comfortable and you can pretend you don’t know what the inside of my body feels like. we’ll be decent about it because we’re decent people who have never fucked on the first date and have never broken up because one of us had never known commitment like this before and was scared to know what it feels like.

you move your toes around in your shoes uncomfortably. kuroo leans forward on the railing again, hanging nearly half his body into the patch of garden below the exit’s stoop. you think for a second about how pretty he is, and then about what an asshole you are for thinking about him like that in the first place.

“you didn’t deserve what i did to you,” you say, stark and sudden. you barely recognize your voice out of your own mouth. “i don’t know if i’ve said that before, but you didn’t.”

“i moved too fast,” he hums, not moving from his half-up-half-down position. “i knew you were scared, but i kept pushing and pushing and pushing because i thought if i could just get you over the hump it would be okay.”

“it might’ve been.”

he shakes his head, “you know better than that.”

your fingers twitch, and you reach a hand towards his back, sliding it up the curve of his spine. his skin is warm—you can feel goosebumps work their way up towards his shoulders. the familiarity of it makes you feel like throwing up.

“do you remember that one campus bar where you lost your id?” he asks. he’s leaning back toward your hand as he speaks—you can feel the ripple of his skin across your fingers. “we spent all night looking under tables and asking people if they’d seen it—“

“just to find out it was in your wallet,” you grin.

“because you left it at the bar,” he says.

“and you were too drunk to remember you grabbed it,” you reply.

he pushes himself up from the railing and you pull you hand away, rubbing your fingers together to strip the magnetic feeling out of them.

“you thought it was so funny after we found it.” he’s looking at you, but you can see the way his eyes are starting to glaze over, stuck in another moment in time.

“because it was,” you laugh. “i’d never seen you so apologetic.”

you held my hands and said “baby if i knew i would’ve given it you, you know that right? like, i didn’t know it was in there—i didn’t even know i brought my wallet inside.” you could barely get the words out you were so bombed. i held your face between my fingers and told you that i loved you, and i loved you, and i loved you, and that that you were one of the funniest people i had ever met.

“when i went home that night and laid in bed, all i could think about is how bad i wanted you there—how bad i always wanted you there.” he chews on the inside of his cheek. you can see the indent of his teeth moving back and forth. “you ever think we were meant to be together?’

“constantly,” you say, a little smile working its way up your face.

he rubs his hands up and down his thigh, the weird synthetic material of his shorts making that horrid crinkling sound each time he moves.

can you be here all the time? can you come fix my sink and lie in my bed and tell me how pretty i am every time i need to hear it most? can you talk to my mom when i don’t want to? can you tell me about your favorite movies? can you fall asleep next to me and let me complain about your snoring all night long? can i promise you that i’ll try my best for you? that i won’t dive head first but i’ll get as close to the water as i can? can that be enough for us? just for a little while?

“can i come up, actually?” he says. “i’m thinking maybe i really need that water.”

you grin, a little wider than you intend to. “yeah, yeah you can.”

[sashimiyas]

osamu has an instinctive response to your tears thanks to growing up with atsumu. the first time you cry in front of him, you don’t even know what it was even for. stubbing your toe? a movie? something so trivial because it’s osamu’s reaction that you remember.

immediately, a single slip of your sorrow, osamu’s towering over you. his shadow engulfs yours, his scent swallowing the salt of your tears. a gentle touch gathers your hand, but his voice, though soft, is harried.

“oh shit, fuck, what’s wrong?” osamu rushes through words like he’s not even thinking. “don’t tell ma. i swear i didn’t make ya cry.”

and it’s that out of place comment that proves he’s not. you look at him completely bewildered. he doesn’t even realize it, questioning you with an open gaze. another thirty seconds follow for him to actually process what he’s said but you’re already full blown laughing at him, crying for a different reason.

now, every time you cry, you always threaten to tell his ma on him.

[marisolls]

081825 ♥︎ let the question spell into an answer—the only answer there is.

content. fluff for comfort. not edited. prompted by anon ask: when did tsukishima realize he’s in love with you?

notes. self-promoting this playlist for the extra feels! ily, this is for you my dear.

“when did you realize you were in love with me?”

oh. tsukishima kei exhales softly. he sets his phone down. looks at you as if you’ve said something stupid (or painfully obvious. though the question sounds too genuine for him to simply leave you hanging, thus concluding that you are in fact, stupid.)

he blinks away after a few heartbeats before he responds with a deadpan remark.

“how random of you.”

“thanks, now answer me.”

he gives you a hum. debating. or more like he’s actually thinking— when did he? 

(if he could give himself three hours into deep cleaning his room, he’d find a crumpled paper of a back-and-forth note tossed during a class in middle school. one that you initiated with your stupid penmanship he can’t seem to read. he remembers giving you a scoff after you confessed on the note, he remembers catching the glimpse of hurt wanting to trickle down your eyes but performed to shine instead with a smile. you walked home together with yamaguchi as if nothing happened. 

yet somehow tears stained the paper that night, with a penmanship much cleaner than yours. and then he buried them in between pages of a book he hasn’t seen in years.) 

he feels a weight on his shoulder, the scent of your shampoo guides him back into tenderness and nostalgia. he slightly adjusts himself, bringing comfort as you both reminisce.

(“tsukki. what’s taking you so long?” 

yamaguchi stands close beside him. and he smells like sweet osmanthus the way your grandma really likes. he looks through the cooler and mulls over whether he should treat you lychee or yakult because you’re too indecisive on the phone, voice gravel with sleep. “should i get both?” 

“they’d probably drink them at the same time.” 

“i don’t think thats a bad thing.”

yamaguchi chuckles. 

tsukishima takes both, and brings them to the counter when his friend says, “aren’t you spoiling them.” 

he grimaces, astounded, “i just don’t want them complaining nonstop if i got the wrong one.” 

when he visits your home, your grandma always ruin yamaguchi’s hair by ruffling it a little too much, gushes about how much of a lovely boy he is. and him, cheeks hurt from squeezing and nagging him to eat more. honestly, he should’ve just lend yamaguchi to you. he’s got more homework piled up than any other nights he’s had, got more things to worry about than the random sickness you’ve caught out of nowhere.

he walks up to your room, grows a habit of knocking two times to let you know that it’s him. when you don’t answer, he rolls his eyes and tries turning the knob open.

there’s a hill of clothes in the corner of your room, a date on the calendar circled in bold marker indicating your 16th birthday. and you, curled up on your bed and coughing like a sick victorian child, looking miserable and spent.

“i can’t believe you’re still managing to stay alive.”

“please get out of my room.” you sound awful, he thinks. maybe he should’ve chosen something healthier to offer to you.  

“i wish i could.” he crouches in order to look at you. even though your eyes are closed. “but guess who insisted on spending my remaining pocket money because someone’s dying from—“ he sputters a laugh, “sickness or craving?” 

you mumble something through your comforter, though he knows its nothing more than a muffled groan. he laughs harder and softer this time, and sets down the plastic bag on your nightstand. tiny particles floating within the ray of dusk from your window, poured into your room. he wonders if its the cool air or the proximity, but he can smell something sweet, sweeter than osmanthus, sweeter than your grandma who constantly nags. 

“you bought the lychee?” 

“and yakult.” 

you turn your head away, “…thanks.” 

“hm? what did you say?” he leans in, smug laced in his tone. “i think i deserve more than just a ‘thanks.’”

“if you don’t want to catch these sick germs of mine, you better leave.” 

he doesn’t. quite the opposite, he stays for a bit until the blood orange from your window drowns in blue. his chin propped against your sheets as you sleep away without knowledge of his presence. 

“tsukki, granny baked us a— oh.” 

tsukishima doesn’t bother recalling the details after, but he doesn’t seem to let go of the urge to buy you a pack of lychee after learning that it’s one of your ‘faves.

on the day you turned seventeen, he gifts you a pack of it. but he knows you’re sweeter than anything in the world.)

maybe he never realized he’s in love until you actually found someone. maybe it’s when he slowly softened over the years of your friendship. maybe he always knew ever since you were thirteen and that he couldn’t bear the thought of hurting you again. couldn’t bear hurting you ever. the creased paper a perpetual reminder that seared enough in every moment spent with you. maybe it’s when he caught himself searching for flowers to supposedly ‘comfort’ you after your date stood you up. 

(four januarys ago, you’ve stained his shirt with gruesome tears after being sore from all the standing and waiting and hoping on valentines. he didn’t have to ask you what happened. you’ve been tearing his ears off the night before that you’re finally meeting your long distance, four months in, and a ‘loving’ partner. you passed out on the couch after crying your arse off, and he…he had chocolates ready, just sitting patiently on the top of his fridge. he searched for flowers online as he tucked you in. so when you wake up, you won’t have to wonder on completely nonsensical things like being a second choice. 

he should’ve told you right off the bat that this ‘person’ of yours was an asshole.

nineteen years in and he has to admit. he’s not really any better. he can still feel the texture of a paper crumpled beneath his palm. can still taste something salty and guilt that won’t stop flooding the night of your silly confession. 

hesitant, he tries to brush your hair aside, kiss your forehead as you snore away the bitterness of nineteen.)

“i think it was when i kissed you out of a dare.” you pull him out of it, tapping his palm two times as you muse. 

“uh, no.” he says it almost immediately, “that’s too far off.” 

“really?” 

(you were both twenty. drunk off campus. you taste of sauce-dipped salmon slice and reek of drunk, long stewed fervour. someone dared you to kiss him. you didn’t even hesitate. just grabbed his cheeks and pressed a sloppy one to his mouth, laughing. everyone laughed while something throbs against his throat. and when he drives you back to your studio, he can’t even—stay mad at you. though he was at first, tried holding on until he realizes how stupid you look. he’s not one to be lenient, but with you, he’d take the extra mile to be patient. because it’s you. always been you.

he scoffs softly, you started crying out of guilt.

“i’m so sorry,” you let out a wince, “i’ll never get drunk around you again.”  

he raises one brow, tilts his head and lean a little to your face, still warm and red “just around me?” 

you nod. one of your dreams consist of kissing him since— well, since you know. but not like this. mouth filled with all the wrongs you can’t speak of. you twist your fingers around the loose thread of your worn sweater, blink away any stray tears left to fall. it never feels good to pine. 

it feels like you can’t tame it with language, stuck being a wordless funk forever.) 

“so that means, you already knew before that?”

“something like that.” 

you end up nuzzling against his chest, yawning in between your words. “you sure like to keep a lot of secrets from me.” 

“not a lot.” he combs your hair through his fingers. rain starts to fall outside. he engulfs you in his arms for a long while until a yawn escapes his own. “just one.” 

(that same night, tsukishima kissed your forehead, looking at you as if he meant it. “this is payback.” 

“oh.”

he gifts you another. throws away the pride before the fall. “kiss me again when you’re not drunk, okay?”)

“so that’s why you asked me to kiss you again.”

“—when you’re not drunk.”

humming, you intertwine your fingers with his. a touch that feels too reminiscent of your childhood together. staring at your hand until it bleeds when he closes the curtain of his eyes, your preference for sweet scented cologne— where will his life take him if he had sent back his response to your confession?

probably not here. where he tucks you in for a nap instead of properly answering the question. its obvious isn’t it? yamaguchi knows, its honestly surprising he kept his mouth shut this long, yachi considered it, but ultimately couldn’t, knowing tsukishima could have done the same.

everything has led to this moment, a love not impulsive nor juvenile. not too early nor too late. he buries the letter to promise himself to do better in the future, knowing that he knows nothing about love— but tries to learn it because he feels it’s true. and real. and something like it could be told forever.

he steps into twenty three knowing everything there is to know. not all, but what he considers important ; where his happiness comes, where his love will take him, where your hands have finally fit between his.

[229zmi]

I WANT

Kuroo Tetsurō/Reader | 6.7k words, apartment neighbours to lovers, fluff

The first time you actually meet your apartment neighbour, you really, really don’t mean to close the elevator doors on him.

It’s a bit self-explanatory, but this is how it goes anyway.

You’ve just stepped into the elevator of your apartment complex, your phone in one hand and the index finger of your other hand hovering over the button that says one. There’s a half-finished text on your screen, something along the lines of I swear I’m on my way! plus a million apologies to your friend, who’s probably sitting at a café all by themself and wondering what the hell happened to you because it just so happens that you accidentally slept through your alarm… again.

However, all of it slips away from your mind the moment your neighbour comes barrelling down the hallway, flooding the once-peaceful atmosphere with raucous footsteps and winded swears under his breath—lots and lots of them.

You hear him before you see him, really, but the latter doesn’t take long to occur because seconds later, Kuroo Tetsurō shows up with wrinkles in his white t-shirt and hair looking more frazzled than usual, although you only know him as Guy Who Lives In Apartment 706 at the time. And you say “more than usual” because admittedly, this is not the first time you’ve seen him.

Actually, over the past few months since you moved to your new apartment in the spring, you realise you see him all the time (in the least stalker-ish way possible), except it always happens in snapshots.

You know, like short glimpses of his hair at eight in the morning as he disappears into the elevator, though you’re never in a hurry enough to try to catch him in time before the doors close. A quick glance of the design that’s on the back of his sweatshirt, which you recognise as your university’s logo, right when he’s entering the apartment next to yours. Sometimes, you get a full view of him out on the balcony, the bottom hemline of his shirt lifting up just enough to reveal the smallest sliver of tan skin as he hangs his laundry up on the clothesline to dry.

(Again, in the least stalker-ish way possible.)

Nevertheless, Guy Who Lives In Apartment 706 appears just a couple feet away from the elevator, looking like a total hot mess, and when his eyes suddenly lock onto yours, there’s a brief yet silently intense exchange that goes on exactly like this, according to your imagination:

HIM: Hey.

YOU: Hi.

HIM: I’m in a rush. Can you, like, hold the door open for me please?

YOU: Okay.

So, your hand moves without thinking. It presses a button.

Then, a quiet ding! plays, although it sounds a lot louder once you realise what you’ve done. And the last thing you see before the doors close is his face—drop-dead gorgeous but also shocked and, much to your horror, maybe even a bit betrayed.

Frantically smacking the button to open the doors again, you repeatedly swear at yourself in your head. First sleeping through your alarm, now this?

Today is so not your day.

Your shoulders are incredibly tense, almost hiked up to your ears when the doors finally reopen after a gruelling amount of time. It must’ve been mere seconds that had passed in between your accidental mistake and your neighbour’s face appearing in front of you again—still frowning, perhaps even more now because of your stupid actions—but it might as well have felt like hours to you.

What to say to someone in a situation like this? Maybe nothing at all, you decide as your neighbour wordlessly steps inside the elevator, moving to press a button before realising you’ve already pushed the button to the first floor. Eventually, he settles into the opposite corner from you, not even sparing you a quick glance.

It’s final, you think with the same terror of a middle schooler experiencing heartbreak for the first time. The guy who lives in Apartment 706 absolutely hates your fucking guts.

Neither of you speaks the entire elevator ride.

*****

The first time Tetsurō meets his cute apartment neighbour, he’s in a rush because his statistics exam’s supposed to start in seven minutes and it takes fifteen minutes on average to walk from his apartment to campus.

So, if you do the math, clearly he has got some sprinting to do.

It’s a bit embarrassing, running down a quiet hallway like this, because even if he’s trying really hard to land on his toes, it still seems as though he’s hollering at the top of his lungs like a madman while holding a giant sign that says, in big and bolded letters: HEY! I’M BAD AT TIME MANAGEMENT!

Regardless, he tries to physically shake the thought out of his head—and, in doing so, he hopes that’ll somehow help to push his embarrassment aside. Right now, he just needs to focus on getting out of the building as quickly as possible so he can book it down the sidewalk to his class.

And for several seconds, he’s successful.

But then, the immersion shatters once the elevator comes into view and he catches sight of the person who lives in Apartment 707, next-door to his: you. He doesn’t know your name yet, though, so he’s settled for calling you Pretty Neighbour in his mind whenever he thinks of you.

Not that he thinks of you. Often, that is.

Okay, maybe he does think of you often, but it’s reasonable in his opinion. The walls are thin, so there are more times than not when he becomes an unwilling-but-actually-willing audience member to the singing performances you put on in the shower.

He also hears your alarm blasting in the morning everyday, the way the sound abruptly ends along with a muffled groan. Occasionally—and he finds this hilarious, actually—an hour later after your alarm rings, he’s able to make out a string of swears paired with rustling that lasts for several minutes, before he finally hears a door creak open and then hurried footsteps down the hall.

Not to mention, you’re the first person he sees in the hallway while he waits for the elevator at eight in the morning on Tuesdays and Thursdays, just the back of your figure as you fumble with your keys. Sometimes, he finds himself counting the number of keychains you have attached to your bag and there’ll be one more than the last, so either he can’t fucking count or you have a habit of collecting a new one every other week. It’s cute, he thinks regardless.

Once you come into view, he shoots you a desperate look. Eyebrows raised, wide-eyed, cheeks flushed from running, nostrils kind of flared like a bull if you look closely enough. Thankfully, you’re too far to see the true extent of how insane he looks right now. It’s all a pathetic attempt on his end to emit the passion of a person who’s about to be late to their exam, but you must’ve not gotten it, he realises when the elevator shuts with a delicate chime, leaving him to stand in the hallway all alone and wallow in self-pity.

Staring blankly at the closed doors, he breathes a sigh. His luck has been so terrible lately.

However, before he can consider taking the stairs, it turns out that his try at neighbour telepathy really did work because the doors reopen a few seconds later with you still there, huddled in the corner as if the rest of the elevator carries some sort of fatal disease.

He steps inside and flashes a relieved smile at you, though you do not notice because you’re too busy vehemently avoiding eye contact with him for some reason. He disregards the matter anyway as the doors shut again, and with yet another chime, the elevator starts to descend.

Tetsurō watches the number above the doors decrease from 7 to 6 to 5 before glancing at you briefly out of the corner of his eye. There’s a part of him wonders if he should say anything to you, but he’s not sure what he’d even say.

Hey, my name is Kuroo Tetsurō and I’m your next-door neighbour? Greetings, I live in Apartment 706, which is coincidently next to yours? Salutations, fellow resident—forget it.

Brain turning to mush at the thought of a conversation with you, he decides to keep silent. He then looks forward at his reflection, only to feel a sudden wave of mortification.

He’s horrified. And it isn’t because he realises he’s about to be late, but after seeing a distorted image of himself in the metallic surface, the hint of orange in the midst of grey-ish white is what reminds him of his choice of t-shirt for today.

Awesome since 1994, in neon orange Jokerman font across his chest. A hole in the sleeve by his left shoulder. Finally, near the bottom hem at the front of his shirt, there lies a giant coffee stain that never truly washed out, although the placement makes it look more like an unfortunate bathroom accident than anything else—the cherry on top of an already horrible morning for him.

The first time Tetsurō meets his pretty apartment neighbour, he’s in a rush and so it ends like this:

The elevator emits a high-pitched sound. The doors open. And, with rose-tinted ears, Kuroo bolts out without a single word to you.

Maybe next time, he hopes.

*****

In a minute or two, there’s going to be a bad storm.

The sky is an eerie kind of grey, the kind that makes you feel all heavy and dreary just by looking at it through your window. It’s an instant moodkiller in your opinion, although maybe it would be the opposite for someone who lives off of coffee, the smell of old books, and words like ‘petrichor’ and ‘melancholy’ printed on a foggy background. Unfortunately, you are not that person.

When you slip out onto your balcony to get a clearer view of the clouds, leaning your elbows against the railing, the atmosphere is suffocatingly warm against your skin; the wind alleviates it somewhat, yet the air still feels heavy with humidity and a touch of something electric. It’s a pretty good indicator that maybe you should turn right back around and go inside, but some invisible force must be holding your feet to the floor when your gaze shifts onto the next balcony over.

Or rather, the man standing on the next balcony over, frantically unclipping his laundry from the clothesline.

Guy Who Lives In Apartment 706 is what first comes to mind as per usual, but your brain soon makes a correction: Guy Who Lives In Apartment 706 And Actually Hates You, abbreviated hideously as GWLIA706AAHY. It’s only been a few days since the embarrassing incident, so you’ll have to get used to that.

Upon seeing him, you think that is yet another indicator you need to go back inside before he spots you and finds one more reason to hate you because you’re staring at him like a creepy neighbour. And, as if on cue, thunder rumbles overhead as one more warning. Wind rustles the hood of your sweatshirt, causing you to shiver.

You really should return to the warmth of your apartment.

Still, you don’t. You don’t have the heart to.

Perhaps it’s the strange curiosity you get out of watching him yank various pieces of fabric off the line and toss them over his shoulder into his apartment, not caring where or how they land as long as they’re dry. When you feel a cold drop of water land on the top of your head, you wonder if he’ll even make it in time before the rain fully hits.

Most likely not, you think.

“Hey.”

His shoulders still face the laundry line, and his hands currently rest against the railing instead of reaching upwards, regardless of the several clothing items that remain. Lightning flashes in the sky, illuminating the sharp curvature of his jaw for a split second as you suddenly realise he’s looking over in your direction.

“Hi,” you return simply. By this point, rain begins to speckle the city—just a light drizzle, but enough to prompt you to pull your hood over your head—and you’re certain he won’t make it now, not if he’s going to stop just to talk to you. One shirt even looks like it’s about to blow away, though he pays it no mind, so you decide to offer, “Need any help?”

GWLIA706AAHY shakes his head, his messy hair swaying partially from the movement and from the wind as well.

“I got it, I think,” he mumbles that last part, rubbing the back of his neck. “But thanks anyway.”

“Oh, okay.”

Silence falls between the two of you, nestling into the empty space in the middle of your balconies. However, for some reason, your neighbour doesn’t try to salvage his remaining laundry despite looking so worried earlier. He must’ve given up already, you conclude, which is kind of a loser move in your opinion but you digress.

The two of you don’t make any move to head inside your respective apartments either, almost like you’re both waiting for the conversation to continue; you think that perhaps a part of you doesn’t want it to end just yet. It’s not ideal, after all, to be hated by someone who’s just a door away.

“You might catch a cold if you stay out here in the rain any longer,” he speaks up eventually, after several seconds.

“Says you.”

GWLIA706AAHY throws his hands up in defence of himself. “Hey, I have a good reason to be out here. You see all this laundry? I’ve got work to do.”

“Well, I don’t see you doing anything,” you comment lightheartedly. Your apartment neighbour seems to take it as a challenge anyway.

“Yeah? Watch me.”

He begins unclipping a shirt from the line, glancing at you smugly over his shoulder to prove his point, although it’s fruitless by now. No longer a drizzle, the rain seeps into all of his clothes on the line and on his body too, painting his previously light sweater a dark grey.

Holding back a smile, you point out, “Colds are from viruses anyway, not the weather. I won’t get sick.”

GWLIA706AAHY gazes at you with a curious glint in his eyes before the corners of his mouth start to curl upwards, amused. You know that what he says next is scientifically accurate, maybe, but it’s hard to take him seriously when he has that tone of voice that makes it sound like he’s just pulling shit out of his ass.

“You might think that, but cold weather can still weaken your immune system. You’ll be more prone to sickness.”

“What are you, my doctor?” you reply haughtily when you can’t come up with anything else, and he laughs. Not out of condescension, though. You don’t know what it is because you didn’t think your response was really that funny, but it makes your chest feel warm in spite of the dampness that has settled into your favourite sweatshirt.

“Something like that,” he says once his laughter dies down, the evidence of it now reduced to faint crinkles near the outer corner of his eyes and a softened smile. He then nods at you in a manner that is too casual for the role he’s claiming to be, as if there isn’t a storm currently brewing over your heads, as if you’ve known each other for years—and, you realise, as if he doesn’t actually hate you?

Huh.

“Dr. Kuroo Tetsurō at your service. And you are…?”

You squint at him, the rain blurring your vision a bit. “If you’re a so-called doctor, shouldn’t you already have my name on record?”

“Ah, you know. This is just for confirmation. Basic protocol.”

You’re highly unimpressed by his lack of professionalism, but you tell him your name anyway.

And after that rainy evening, it finally occurs to you that GWLIA706AAHY is actually GWLIA706AADNHY, aka Guy Who Lives In Apartment 706 And Actually Does Not Hate You. Still, it’s a bit of a mouthful, and it doesn’t quite flow off your subconscious’ metaphorical tongue as well as the name Kuroo Tetsurō does, so maybe you’ll just stick with that instead.

*****

It isn’t a big deal, you’re trying to tell yourself. Except it is. Kind of. Maybe. You don’t really know anymore.

What you do know, however, is that you’re standing in front of the door to your neighbour’s apartment and there’s a shirt in your hands. White with some ugly orange text on it that reads, Awesome since 1994. It isn’t yours, thankfully, although that doesn’t do much to calm your nerves.

Regardless, you’re not sure why you’re so nervous, anyway, when you’ve already concluded that he doesn’t even hate you. So, after consolidating all your remaining courage and dignity into a singular hand as you bring it up to the door, arms trembling and everything like you’re currently in a life-or-death situation, you finally knock.

It only takes a couple seconds before the door opens.

Kuroo shows up at the doorway, hair visibly damp and a towel hanging around his shoulders as if he’d just taken a shower. Fortunately, he’s fully clothed.

“Oh hey,” he says, followed by your name. His eyes observe your face first before moving down to his folded-up ugly shirt in your hands, not that he can recognise the design from the way you’re clutching tightly onto it. “A gift for me? How sweet of you. My birthday isn’t until November, y’know.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I believe this is yours.”

You hand over the shirt, ignoring both his surprised expression and the way your fingertips brush against one another. It could have almost played out like a scene from some cliché romance, except there are no sparks or fireworks or dramatic ballads that arise from that millisecond of physical contact. Just a flickering light several feet down the hallway, the noises of a couple arguing passionately above the ceiling, and an ugly design to grace your eyes in all its glory as Kuroo unfolds the shirt. It truly doesn’t get more romantic than this.

“I think it blew over to my balcony from yours during last night’s storm,” you explain awkwardly.

To your relief, recognition crosses his face and he nods, though he appears a little solemn or maybe embarrassed. Whichever one it is, you feel that it’s understandable. “Yeah, it’s mine, sorry about that. Thanks for returning it.”

“Yeah, no probl—“

All of a sudden, a particularly loud shout echoes over your heads: I’m over this, we’re done. Then, the sound of a door slamming and aggressive footsteps that become gradually quieter as whoever’s on the eight floor stomps away in a flurry of rage.

Your eyes catch Kuroo’s, a shared understanding between the two of you. He arches his eyebrows in disbelief. A small smile manages to weave onto your face, and you don’t know if it’s because of the amusing situation itself or because of the way Kuroo is smiling back at you like an old friend. It’s genuine—infectious.

“They’ll be back together by the end of the week,” he says to you with a roll of his eyes, which you can clearly see are hazel beneath dark eyelashes, now that you’re finally face-to-face rather than shouting across balconies or awkwardly ignoring each other in the elevator. No longer the guy you only ever saw in fragments, you can’t help but stare when your neighbour leans against the doorframe casually and crosses his arms, nestling the hideous shirt underneath his bicep as a bunched up mess in his fist, despite your earlier efforts to fold it nicely for him without wrinkles.

His posture is overly comfortable, almost like he’s expecting you’ll be here for a while. You hadn’t been planning on it, but perhaps you will on second thought.

“How do you know?”

He raises one eyebrow. “You never noticed?”

All you can do is shrug. It isn’t that you never noticed a certain couple’s quarrel happening on the floor above you so often that you went out and bought noise-cancelling headphones. You just didn’t pay enough attention to realise it was a near weekly occurrence.

“The break-up usually happens on a Wednesday. Sometimes Tuesday, if one of ‘em decides to piss the other off earlier than usual. Then by Friday night, after some flowers, chocolates, and an apology full of tears and snot”—you wrinkle your nose at that, to which Kuroo reacts with an involuntary chuckle before continuing as if he’s giving some big report at a company meeting—“it’s like clockwork. Like the big, bad fight never even happened.”

“You know a concerning amount about them. Stalker much?” you accuse half-heartedly.

Slyly, he taps his temple. “I like to call it being ‘observant,’ actually.”

“That’s exactly what a stalker would say.”

Kuroo laughs with a hyena-esque expression, shoulders shaking and arms stabilising around himself. It takes everything in you to cage yours in, but again, a smile slips through the gaps. You can’t help it.

“Look like you caught me,” he teases, surrendering. He then stands up straighter, regaining his composure; one arm rests casually against the doorframe, while the other dangles by his side. Back when you first moved in, nothing had irked you more than how small these doors were when bringing boxes into your apartment, but now, they appear even smaller with Kuroo taking up the empty space. It occurs to you all of a sudden just how tall he really is.

He leans in, smile still wide. His voice smoothly slices through your thoughts like those aesthetic ASMR soap-cutting videos you resort to as a desperate measure when you can’t fall asleep.

“You busy right now?”

You blank for a second, mentally conjuring up a time table for today, specifically within the next hour. It looks empty, but maybe that’s just the natural state your brain reverts to whenever you’re around your gorgeous neighbour.

“Not as far as I’m aware,” you answer uncertainly. “Why?”

“As a thanks for giving this back to me,” he holds up the shirt, shakes it once in the air like a cheerleader waving around a pom-pom, “do you want to grab something to eat with me? My treat.”

Guilty, you shake your head, scrambling to respond, “Oh, no. You shouldn’t feel obligated, just because—“

“I want to.” Kuroo’s hazel eyes puncture yours, no longer carrying their usual slyness but a tinge of something more sincere. Something softer. Timid, maybe. Regardless, whatever it is, you think your stomach did a back handspring just now. “I’d say this shirt is more of an excuse than an actual reason, if I’m being honest.”

Pulse hammering in your chest, you process his words while your stomach does another gymnastics move you can’t identify the name of. You wonder what’s wrong with you. “Where did you have in mind?”

“Anywhere. Your choice. Whatever your heart desires.”

That last part—spoken in a humorous and genial tone—finally brings forth a laugh out of you.

(It’s quiet, unexpected—and you cut it off abruptly just to answer him. Nevertheless, ignoring the sudden tightening in his chest, Kuroo admires the lines of your unfamiliar expression and the sound of your voice in those few seconds and beams like a man who’s just won the lottery.)

You don’t have it in you to reject such an appealing offer.

“There’s this udon shop that opened up recently. I’ve been wanting to try it out.”

“Great. You can text me the location, I need to go change first and get my keys.”

You nod, about to leave and retrieve your phone from your apartment, before you realise—“I don’t have your number.”

He’s already pulling out his phone out before you’ve finished your sentence, looking smugly at you as you roll your eyes. Such a sly guy, you think his fursona could be a fox, if not a cat or a hyena.

“All you have to do is ask,” he says in a sing-song voice. In another universe where there exists a hot dog-eating contest but for shit instead of hot dogs, his grin would win first place by a long shot.

Out of spite, you tell him bluntly, “I’m not asking.”

“Fine, whatever. I’m into the more domineering type anyway.”

“What the hell?”

Kuroo cackles.

You later set his contact name in your phone as ‘GWLIA706AADNHYAOTUSE(AAHAHL),’ which stands for Guy Who Lives In Apartment 706 And Actually Does Not Hate You And Owns The Ugliest Shirt Ever (And Also Has A Hyena Laugh). Obviously.

*****

You’re sick. Not that that matters, in your opinion.

But to your apartment neighbour? It definitely does, even if he says otherwise.

Approaching your door, Tetsurō tries to convince himself it’s only because the walls are basically paper-thin, and having to hear you cough and sniffle and hack up snot nonstop for the past few days is, like, totally annoying.

With a bowl of warm soup in one hand and a large tote bag hanging from his shoulders—containing a cooling pad for your forehead, cold medicine in case you don’t have any, enough cough drops to share with an entire graduating class, some tissues, the softest spare blanket he could find in his closet, and lastly a cute keychain he won at the arcade a few days ago to help lift your spirits—he swears he’s doing this only for the sake of himself and and whoever lives in the other apartment next to yours. It’s not because listening to how raspy your voice sounds and your complaints as you rant on the phone to your friend isn’t worrying him in the slightest, no way.

…Even though, when he decided to video-call his best friend five minutes ago and ask if this was perhaps a little overboard, Kenma had said he looked like an overly caring boyfriend. Whatever that means.

Anyway, he knocks on the door with a gentle yet firm tap. Once, twice, then waits several more seconds before lightly grazing the wooden surface with the ends of his short nails until you finally appear in front of him.

Clothes messily strung over your figure like you’d put them on with your eyes closed, you glare at him as if he’s the one looking insane and not you, with an unflattering picture of your friend’s face printed all over a pair of pyjama pants.

(A purchase you’d got custom-made from some shady online shop back in high school for shits and giggles—how unfortunate it is that Kuroo has to see you like this, you groan inwardly.)

Tetsurō’s eyes quickly brush over your appearance, and despite your ill state at the moment, he thinks, with a hint of relief and some pity, that he had absolutely nothing to worry about back in the elevator.

“Hey.”

“Don’t ‘hey’ me,” you rasp, rubbing groggily at your eyelids. You look like you’ve just slept for the past forty-eight hours straight and could probably go for another fifty more, but there’s always something about you that he finds endearing nonetheless. “Are you a stray cat? Who in their right mind knocks like that?”

“It’s a perfectly normal way to knock. Scientifically proven, actually.”

You stare at him with a sort of lukewarm gaze, flitting between the tote bag over his shoulder and the bowl in his hand for a brief second before returning to his face. “By who?”

“Oh you know, by this handsome, sexy, and intelligent guy named Dr. Kuroo Tetsurō. Remember him?” he purrs, affection tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s a smile that contrasts the tone of his voice, warm in spite of his sarcasm and particularly revolting use of third-person to refer to himself.

“Doesn’t ring a bell. Sorry.”

“Shame.” He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “You’ve been feeling a little under the weather lately, haven’t you? Don’t worry, he’s here to help you now.”

(You jerk back, opening your mouth to ask what the hell is wrong with him.

But the subtle concern in Kuroo’s expression—as much as he’s trying to conceal it beneath layers of tactical cringe—is nothing but the equivalent of Cupid shooting an arrow through your heart, and that bowl of soup does look appetising. Better than eating instant ramen like you’ve been doing for the past week and mulling in the darkness of your room all by yourself, you suppose.)

He grins when you open the door wider for him to come in.

*****

You don’t mean for it to become a regular occurrence. It just happens.

Somewhere along the line, your apartment neighbour making chicken noodle soup when you’re sick turns into him bringing you meals in a plastic container at least once a week because according to him, he just can’t seem to prepare the right amount of food for just one person.

Somewhere along the line, the location you sent him of an udon restaurant and reminders to take your medicine become buried beneath messages about your day—simple, easy conversation.

It’s only natural when he starts sending you random puns and pick-up lines, along with pictures of angry cats that remind him of you. You retaliate with an image of a hyena with its mouth wide open and call it his fursona, just for him to respond with a voice message of you singing in the shower. You almost block him right then and there.

He texts you when he can’t sleep, and you can’t either, so you grow to expect it when the next thing you hear is two quiet knocks on your door, followed by scratching noises.

Somewhere along the line, that blanket Kuroo brings over becomes a staple on the couch in your living room because of Friday movie nights after he tells you he’s never watched any of your favourite ones. And sometimes, it’s not even just that.

Sometimes, you’ll stay up late finishing up an essay you’ve been procrastinating while he studies for his statistics mid-term. Sometimes, you’ll share the story behind those ugly pants you wore when you were sick, and he’ll tell you one about his Awesome since 1994 shirt. Sometimes, you’ll make fun of the couple on Floor 8 and bet on who will storm out into the hallway first, the person whose voice sounds like a kazoo or the person who still can’t seem to get over their ex from college, apparently.

And sometimes, you’re the one visiting, sitting in the floor of his kitchen in the middle of the night, your back against the cabinet door with Kuroo in front of you, knees brushing against each other, all while eating ramen and exchanging memories—reminiscing, complaining, sharing. You don’t think you ever met someone as good of a listener as him.

Then, somewhere along the line, you call him Kuroo, like you’ve always done.

It isn’t out of the ordinary at all, you think, but out of nowhere, he appears as if the cogwheels in his head are rotating. You can see it in the way his eyebrows furrow together, revealing a familiar wrinkle in the middle of his forehead that you like to make fun of from time to time, and the way his tongue pokes out and sweeps over his lower lip in the span of a split second. You’ve grown to learn that this is a clear indicator of him thinking, even if it doesn’t look like it.

You wave your hand in front of him, feeling mildly confused because what the hell, you were just talking nonsense about how one of your coworkers acted today and now he’s acting completely lobotomised.

“Hello? Earth to Kuroo?”

“Tetsu,” he speaks finally, insisting. “All of my friends call me Tetsu.”

(No, they don’t. But you don’t need to know that.)

“Okay.” It’s uncharted waters, you think to yourself as you repeat your previous sentence, the name feeling strange on your tongue at first, “Earth to Tetsu?”

(His heart hammers in his chest rapidly. It takes him several more seconds before he processes the rest of your question.)

“…I’m still here.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell.”

Somewhere along the line, the guy who lives in Apartment 706 had become Kuroo Tetsurō, among a million other titles you came up with after each new thing you learned about him. Most often, though, he was just Kuroo.

Kuroo, your friendly neighbour who makes food for two every week and buys you the most obscure, ugliest keychains to attach to your backpack. Kuroo, who carefully lays a blanket over your body when you end up falling asleep on his couch because you’re too tired to make the short journey back to your apartment and wakes you up with breakfast in the morning. Kuroo, who holds you close to his chest, lets you cry all over his sweater, and knows exactly how to cheer you up at the end of the day—Kuroo, who, even in a public space full of people, looks at you as if you’re the only one there.

(Or, really, the only one who matters.)

Then, you say it in your mind again, Tetsu. And this time, it burns at the tip of your tongue, no longer unfamiliar, but front and foremost.

*****

YOU [22:36]

im gonna die aaaaaaaa <— me when the power goes out wtf

GWLIA706AADNHYAOTUSE(AAHAHL) [22:37]

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

YOU [22:37]

asshole

This is no laughing matter.

GWLIA706AADNHYAOTUSE(AAHAHL) [22:37]

ahaha

GWLIA706AADNHYAOTUSE(AAHAHL) [22:38]

i have a medieval type lantern

i’ll be over in a minute :)

You liked a message!

*****

It’ll be storming for a while, Tetsurō concludes before swiftly pulling the curtains closed and turning away from the window.

What he likes to refer to as a “medieval type lantern” is actually just a modern battery-powered lamp that easily floods the living room with a warmly dim haze, revealing harsh shadows across the walls and the soft features of your face as his gaze focuses on you. He can admit it’s habitual at this point, his attention always lingering on you when he thinks you’re not looking, hazel eyes filled with a certain fondness that you never seem to catch.

You look comfortable, hugging your knees to your chest while you curl up against the armrest of the couch with a blanket wrapped around you like a cocoon, and your eyes are glued to a video of someone cutting soap on your phone. There’s the familiar empty space next to you, where Tetsurō always fits perfectly, but this time, he opts to shuffle behind the couch, behind you, towering over your figure.

Slowly, he leans down until his chin rests against the top of your head. You don’t have to look up to know there’s that contest-winning, shit-eating grin on his face again.

“Tetsu.”

His heart stutters. Voice cracking just a bit, he hopes you don’t notice. “Yeah?”

“Go away.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause you’re annoying. I’m trying to watch soap-cutting ASMR so I can fall asleep, and here you are, being the opposite of soap-cutting ASMR.”

He isn’t so sure, but he thinks you sound extremely passionate about soap-cutting ASMR.

“Mm. I like bothering you, though,” he hums with a smirk, before snaking his arms around you, pulling himself closer and closer (and shit, you realise with a start, he’s really close) until he’s burying his face into the fabric of the blanket, right at the juncture between your neck and shoulder. Feeling you tense up, he lifts his head slightly, just in time to catch the way your grasp suddenly tightens around your phone, as if it’ll grow limbs and run away any second now. “You’re going to strain your eyes, looking at your phone in the dark like that. Might you consider, looking at me instead?”

“You know, there’s this thing called a bubble space,” you say tentatively, like you’re coaching a kindergartener on the basic concept of personal space, completely ignoring his offer.

He heaves a dramatic sigh.

(And despite the thick blanket separating the two of you, you can still feel the warmth of his breath permeating the fabric, unfurling across your skin, sending a shiver up your spine.)

“Never heard of it.”

“Whatever. Go bother someone else. Like,” you pause for a moment to scour your brain for the name of one of his many friends, “Kozume Kenma.”

“No thanks.”

“Bokuto Kōtarō? Tsukishima Kei?”

He chuckles at the way you always refer to his friends by their full government name. “Nah.”

“Daishō Suguru. You used to love riling him up in high school, didn’t you.”

“Hm, yeah.” He pretends to ponder before shaking his head. “Tempting, but still no. I want only you.”

“You want to bother only me,” you clarify, something unreadable in your expression when you turn to your head to the side, just to see that his face is only centimetres from yours.

After a moment of hesitation, he replies sincerely, “That, too.”

You blink at him, slowly, like you’re unsure what to make of his response.

Silence stretches on for nearly a minute, but it feels more like an entire decade to Tetsurō, tense with the sudden urge to physically clutch at his chest when nervousness gnaws at his heart.

Or—he deliberates as his half-lidded eyes sweep across your features, ghosting over your lips for a second too long to be considered natural for two people who call themselves ‘just’ neighbours—perhaps he’s mistaking it for a different kind of urge from how pretty you appear in the warm light right now, looking so cozy underneath a blanket that’s no longer his as much as it is yours, still surrounded by his arms in a gentle hold because neither of you have made any move or shown any desire to pull away.

Tetsurō knows this, though. Ever since you so kindly reopened the door for him on the elevator when he was running late—and it’s only been reinforced when you laughed for the first time at one of his jokes, when you showed up to the door in those pyjamas with a PNG of your friend’s face on them, whenever you call him Tetsu instead of his surname in that sweet voice of yours—he knows that he doesn’t want to be ‘just’ neighbours anymore.

“You want me,” you say at last, more as a statement than a question.

Heat crawls up the back of his neck. He couldn’t be more thankful for the power outage right now because you’d surely notice the pink tips of his ears in a heartbeat, otherwise.

“I like you a lot,” he answers, by way of warding off your uncertainties, all traces of his usual teasing tone long gone.

Loosening his arms around you, he plants one hand against the back of the couch right by your shoulders and reaches up with the other to cradle your jaw. Fragility coats his fingertips as they brush over your skin.

“I want to bother you with bad jokes and pick-up lines just to hear you laugh. I want to be your overly caring boyfriend who brings you chicken noodle soup and herbal tea when you’re sick. I want to stay up late watching soap-cutting ASMR videos with you when we both can’t fall asleep.”

I want to kiss you now, in the light of this totally lame and not-medieval lamp.

He pauses, then repeats, “I want only you.”

(His voice is tender amidst the harsh clamour of the storm outside, laced with something you couldn’t pinpoint before, but now you recognise it for the first time—and it isn’t uncharacteristic of him at all, you realise. It’s been there all along, even if you couldn’t see it earlier.)

“Can I kiss you?”

You’re the one who asks, voice trembling and heartbeat racing.

And you don’t have to tell him twice; Tetsu gladly pulls you in, closing the gap.

(Longing.)

[mylahrins]

TIME — OIKAWA T.

synopsis—late, in a barely lit bar you watch a volleyball match in a language you can't understand, watching a man you once knew but now hardly recognize. it's in this dim setting, that you realize that neither time nor love wait for you—yet when you hear your name, spoken so familiar after years, you smile.

content—timeskip!oikawa, angst, profanity, intentional lowercase, not really any comfort???, bittersweet because i live for it, lowk oikawa isn't even physically there, iwaizumi being a good friend, not at all proofread

word count—928

author note—literally a thought that came up after watching sad haikyuu headcanons on tiktok LOL.. also lowkey there's some iwaizumi x reader in here if you squint?? maybe ill write a part 2 w him/his POV mwuahahaha also deadass ive never seen a vb game before so idk if the interviews are before or after or in a seperate screening and frankly IDC!!!! i literally finished writing this at 5:37am, give a girl a break </3

it was late, or rather, it was really really early in the morning.

2:30am in japan, and 2:30pm in argentina.

the bar was dimly lit, with very few people inside. you were in the same spot you always happened upon when tooru had a match.

hajime sat beside you, tired, but with you nonetheless. he always tagged along with you when he was in town, whether it was out of interest of his old best friend, or out of pity for you.

you took a sip of your sweet tea the elder man behind the bar table prepared. despite it being a bar, you never ordered alcohol so you could keep your focus on the screen. you didn't even like sweet tea—but tooru liked it. maybe that's why you always drank it at nights like these, so you could pretend you were closer than you really were.

"are you planning on staying til closing?" hajime asks rubbing his tired eyes. you nod your head and he lets out a quiet sigh.

"alright, i'll stick with you."

pity. he definitely stays out of pity.

hajime visits home every once in a while and spends time with you, but its been years since tooru's come back. he hardly contacts you nowadays, too busy with volleyball. yet, not busy enough to forget to send his obligatory "happy new years," or even "happy birthday" text.

you're doing well, but of course you miss how things used to be—when everyone was together. you miss him.

things wouldn't be the same after high school, you knew that. you knew after the night seijoh lost their final game, and everyone cried like someone had passed away. you knew when you hugged him tightly, tears falling down your faces as you said goodbye at the airport. you knew when you broke up over the phone, and agreed to stay good friends 5 months after he moved to argentina because it was "for the better." you knew.

but you didn't know that it'd be the last time you hear his voice.

you've heard it in interviews, old voicemails, and videos, but it's not the same. it's been so long since he's spoken to you and god you'd give so much to hear him say your name again.

you hear hajime let out a small sigh, unintentionally, as tooru cheers with his new teammates over scoring a point. you're sure watching hurt him as much as it does you, it probably hurts more. you're more than thankful to still have him by your side. you didn't just lose tooru as a lover, it seems like you lost him as a whole.

after some time, maybe 30 or 40 minutes, you get up from your seat on the barstool.

"i'm gonna use the bathroom, drank too much tea."

hajime nods his head, not tearing his head away from the screen.

"don't take too long, the interviews are starting soon." he beckons.

by the time you finish your business and wash your hands, and leave the bathroom drying your hands on your pants, you see his face right in the center. he's smiling as he nods his head to the reporter.

he looks so different, but not enough to be a stranger.

"did they just start?" you ask, taking your seat as you read the captions.

"yeah, it just came back from a commercial break." hajime nods, also focused on the words on the screen.

"so, this was a big game for you and your team! it was certainly exciting. how does it feel to defeat your long-time rivals?"

tooru nods before answering.

this goes on for a while, it usually does, until the final question.

"you played incredibly today, many have said so! is there a reason—is someone special to you watching?"

he lets out a light chuckle at the question.

"ah, well maybe, you never know! i called my mom earlier today and she wished me luck, so maybe that's why." he laughs some more, "since then i've been thinking a lot about home. my closest supporters are back in japan. it's been a while since i've visited, but i can feel their love from miles away—maybe that's why i did well."

despite how drowsy you are, you smile at his words. it's nice to know he still thinks of home.

"i'm not sure if they're watching now, they might later since it's really early morning for them." tooru stops looking at the reporter, and instead straight into the camera, "thank you for supporting me and my choices."

and you almost start tearing up, as if he's talking directly to you, but you blink away the tears and center yourself and you're fine. you're fine, until the next sentence he speaks isn't spoken in spanish, but in japanese, and the subtitles are no longer translations—but simply his voice rewritten.

"i thank all my dear friends, hajime and y/n, and so many more for taking care of me all these years."

maybe its the way hajime wraps an arm around your shoulders and squeezes tight, or the way tooru says your name with such warmth and familiarity, but tears start to fall and you seriously can't help it.

"jeez.. that guy." he looks at you at gives you a sad smile, and you know it's his quiet way of saying, "i know, me too."

as the interview moves on to another player, you both get up from your seats, hajime's arm unmoving. he gives you one last squeeze as you exit the bar.

"let's get you home."

masterlist

[literatooru]

╭───────── .𐔌՞. .՞𐦯.. ─╮

ωσυℓ∂ уσυ ѕтιℓℓ ℓσνє мє ιƒ ι ωαѕ α ωσям.ᐣ

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ραιяιηg⟢bokuto kōtarō, miya atsumu, kuroo

tetsurō, ushijima wakatoshi x gn!reader

╰─ ..𐔌՞. .՞𐦯. ─────────╯

⊹ ࣪ ˖⟢✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

вσкυтσ

“Would you still love me if I were a worm?” you ask with evident curiosity, tilting your head slightly as you look at your boyfriend.

Bokuto hesitates for a second with the rim of the glass he's holding against his lips and blinks at you a couple times, then mimics you.

“I’m gonna need a little bit of context,” he finally replies after a moment, eyes just as curious as yours as he sets his glass down on the counter. He pops his lips and presses his index finger against his chin, deep in thought. After a second, he asks, “In this scenario, were you always a worm or did you just suddenly become one?”

You snort, shaking your head softly as you watch him with humor.

“Why would I suddenly become a worm?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs, a soft smile on his lips. He honestly has no idea why you’re asking such a random question, but it’s so ridiculous that he loves it.

“Let’s say I became one suddenly,” you finally say, leaning forward with expectation.

He hums, nodding a couple times as he stares off into the distance. After a moment, his eyes fall back on you.

“And did I meet you before or after becoming a worm?”

“Before,” you say.

He breaks off into a big smile, straightening up and making his way toward you. Bokuto places his hands on your shoulders, looks you in the eye and, with all the certainty in the world, he says, “Then yeah, I’d still love you.” 

“You sound so sure of it,” you chuckle, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting your forehead against his chest.

He presses his lips against the crown of your head in a gentle kiss, and you can feel him smiling against you.

“I am. I’m sure I’d love you in any possible scenario. And that includes if you suddenly became a worm.”

“Good.” After a quiet moment, he laughs heartedly. “What?”

“Would you still love me if I were a worm?”

αтѕυмυ

Atsumu looks at you with bewilderment while you purse your lips as you wait for his answer. 

“What?” he asks, wondering if he heard you wrong.

“I asked if you’d still love me if I were a worm.”

He pulls a face, looking up as he thinks. After a second, he shakes his head.

“I’m honestly not a big fan of worms,” he says, letting out a deep breath.

“But what would you do then?”

Atsumu hesitates for a second, drumming his fingers on the table. You’re about to ask him a second time when he looks at you, slightly wide-eyed.

“Wait, do I know it’s you?”

“Yeah!” you chirp, bouncing on your seat.

His grimace deepens, and he averts his eyes. Then, in a low voice, he says, “I really don’t like worms.”

You blink at him, lips parted open as you think. Atsumu doesn’t know why you’re suddenly asking this, and he was honestly not prepared at all. Would you break up with him if he said no? He scoffs softly. That’d be ridiculous! You’d never be a worm.

“Let’s say we’re talking and all of a sudden you hear a pop and boom, you look down and I’m a worm. What would you do?” you insist; you’re not going until he gives you a concrete answer.

“I mean… I guess I’d… try not to step on you?” 

You let out a dramatic gasp, placing a hand over your chest.

“Wow, Tsumu. Wow. So you’d just break up with me?”

Atsumu can’t stop the laugh that bubbles out of him, and he claps a hand over his mouth a second too late. You glare at him.

“Can you really break up with a worm? Would you even understand me? I don’t know about you but I’ve never had a conversation with a worm.” When your expression doesn’t soften, he laughs again, leaning a little bit closer. “Well, would you love me if I were a worm?”

You roll your eyes, folding your arms across your chest. “This isn't about you.”

“Rude,” he mutters, brow furrowed.

“You really wouldn't?” you ask after a moment’s silence, pursing your lips.

He blinks once more. Surely you can’t be serious.

“Well, I’m sorry, I’ve never had a pet worm before. Shouldn’t I just, like, leave you outside or something? You know, so you can go live your best worm life or whatever.”

You huff.

“That’s as good as killing me. I’ve never been a worm before, I wouldn’t know what to do!”

“Well, what, you really want me to date you as a worm?” he asks, disbelief evident on his face. “Wouldn’t that make me some weird kind of furry or something?”

You hesitate, stifling a laugh behind your hand. 

“Well, I hadn’t thought about that. I don’t think worms count, tho.” Atsumu gives you an extremely unimpressed look, and it looks like it’s taking everything in him not to snap. You throw your head back with laughter, and Atsumu mutters something under his breath, shoulders slumped. “Fine, you wouldn’t. That’s all I wanted to hear.”

Once he’s done grumbling, he shoots you a sideways glance and squints at you.

“I do love you as a human, though. Very much.”

You smile, cupping his chin and turning his head so he’d look at you. He complies, struggling to suppress the smile threatening to make an appearance.

“And I love you.” You pause, grinning at him. “And honestly… I wouldn’t want to date a worm either.”

кυяσσ

Kuroo is used to your weird, random questions, but he thinks this one is one of the weirdest you’ve come up with in the span of your relationship. However, he seems to be always ready for whatever you throw at him, the smartass. It’s a little infuriating how he seems to have an answer for everything.

“Question, do I know it’s you?” he asks, leaning his weight against the doorframe.

You think for a second, wondering if you should mess with him a little. You end up deciding against it, too curious to wait for an answer.

“Yeah.”

“Then yes,” he says with no hesitation. He gives your head a soft pat, and smiles. “I bet you’d be the cutest worm ever. I’d feed you, and walk you. I could even build you a small terrarium and everything; there are so many cool plants I could put in it for you to chill on.”

You open your mouth, pausing for a second before speaking. Then, you frown as you look up at him.

“How’d you walk a worm?”

“I’d put you on my shoulder,” he says with a bright grin, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Gotta get you that vitamin D.”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” You deadpan.

“You know what’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve everheard?” He leans down slightly until his face is right in front of yours, and talks in a slow, slightly mocking kind of voice. “If I’d still love you if you were a worm.”

“…but would you though?”

He snorts, pulling you in for a hug. Kuroo looks down at you, a fond smile on his lips. No matter how ridiculous your questions are, he wouldn’t change them for anything in the world. After all, they’re part of what makes you you.

“I would, yeah. I’ve always wanted a pet worm.”

υѕнιנιмα

“Would you still love me if you were a worm?” you ask suddenly, peering at Ushijima closely to gauge his reaction.

He looks up from his book, eyebrows drawn as he studies your face. He probably thinks you’re trying to be funny, but you honestly want to know what his answer would be. Is it a stupid question? Yes. Do you care? Not at all.

Ushijima sighs, closes his book, and turns to face you.

“Why would you become a worm?” he asks, seeming genuinely confused.

“I don’t know,” you say with a light shrug. “I just want to know.”

“It’s not possible for you to become a worm, is it?” he murmurs, frown deepening. He looks at you as though he’s expecting you to shrink into a worm at any second.

“…no?”

“Then why would I pretend that you can?”

“It’s hypothetical,” you say with a smile. “I’m just asking what you’d do.”

“We won't know unless you became a worm.”

His answer appears to be final, and you stare at him for a couple seconds before pulling out your phone.

“Never mind,” you say with humor, hoping he never changes.

[reynarri-deactivated20260228]

— bookworm ; shimizu kiyoko

note : realized i write a lot about guys so now girls are here

Kiyoko liked how you'd look when you're reading. She loved how your hair would fall slightly down, they way your eyes moved side to side as you read, how you'd make a slight expression at whatever was happening, how your hands were holding the book and the way that you just looked peaceful.

Every other week she'd see you with a different book, or with the same book you've before. She admired how you loved reading so much.

She was too shy to ever talk to you, so she'd only ever admire you from afar.

The other third years – Sugawara, Daichi, and sometimes Asahi – would give her some tips on how she could approach you.

Though, she didn't know that you knew how she'd been staring at you whilst you read. At first you thought she was being creepy or, something. Eventually you stopped paying any mind to it.

Kiyoko had gathered up the courage to go up to you when you reading.

"Hello."

She stood in front you, looming over you as you were on the floor reading. Looking up, you saw how her cheeks were slightly pink.

"Hi."

Throwing her a small smile, making her pink cheeks growing even more. Her heart felt like it was going to explode.

"May I sit with you?"

You scooted over to make room and patted the space next you. She sat next you, both of your shoulders almost touching.

"So, you finally came up and talked to me hm?"

Closing your book, you turned to look at her as her eyes widden a bit. Now she felt embarrassed snd wanted to die right then and there.

You looked at her more and saw how much more pretty she was up close.

"I guess so, you always looked at peace when you read.."

Kiyoko pushed up her glasses and glanced at the book that laid in your lap with your hands clasped over it.

"Oh, I've read that book, it's fairly a good one."

You looked down then back at her.

"Really? So far it's been pretty boring for me. Don't spoil what makes it good."

Her chest was exploding with butterflies. She felt how her heart was racing.

"Don't worry I won't."

She smiled at you, causing you to have a blush like hue across your face.

Contining on to talk about books and whatnot, there around a corner, you could see Daichi, Sugawara, and Asahi look at you both.

Daichi and Sugawara high fived each other as Asahi looked happy.

"Oh she finally went up and talked to y/n?"

Looking down, they saw Yachi staring.

[229zmi]

AYE, THERE’S THE RUB

Shimizu Kiyoko/Reader | 0.6k words, reader has motion sickness

The bus ride back to Miyagi is silent—a rare occurrence among the Karasuno boys’ volleyball team. Regardless, you aren’t sure whether this could be considered a blessing or a curse.

Bile threatens to surge up your throat and out of your mouth as an ache manifests in your temples, and the surface of your seat is starting to stick to your skin with how overwhelmingly warm the bus is. Your neck sits at an uncomfortable angle from resting your head on Kiyoko’s shoulder, though it’s better than letting it jostle against the window to your right with every movement of the bus. There’s the option of leaning against the headrest of your seat, too, but Nishinoya’s socked feet currently dangle just over the top of it, and you’d rather not put your face anywhere near that.

(With him positioned in the shape of a check mark in the seat behind you, you hope he wakes up with the worst neck and back pain imaginable.)

Given these rather unideal circumstances—although the rural scenery through your window isn’t totally boring to look at—you could really use a distraction right now. However, as far as you’re aware, the only ones awake on this bus right now are you and Kiyoko, who’s sitting next to you and looks unbothered, as per usual.

Worst of all? She’s reading a book.

“Kiyoko, you’re seriously insane. Like, sick in the head.”

“Hm?” Pushing her glasses further up against the slope of her nose, she finally turns her gaze away from the pages of whatever book she’s reading. You could look over and try to read the title to see what it’s about, but honestly? You’re certain that if you focus on anything that isn’t the tall grass outside the window for more than a few seconds, the nausea will make you hurl all over the two of you.

Kiyoko faces with you with her eyebrows knit together in confusion—confusion over whether she should be offended or flattered. Perhaps if anyone else were to utter these words to her, the answer would be much clearer, but with you, it’s a bit of a coin toss.

“I’m so jealous of you,” you elaborate with a slight curl of your lip in distaste. “Why are you reading? How are you reading? If I ever tried to read on a moving bus, I’d throw up immediately, no joke.”

Her tone softens. “Are you okay?”

“I think I’m gonna die.” You bury yourself closer to her side and allow your voice to be muffled by the fabric of her jacket. Her arm wraps around you, rubbing soothing circles against your upper arm upon hearing your morbid statement. “I feel like an ill Victorian child on their deathbed. Aye, there’s the rub.”

“Hey.” Ignoring your historically inaccurate combination of those two sentences, her other hand comes up to rest against the back of your head with a featherlight touch. Clearly, you’re too delirious to be making any sense right now. “There’s only an hour left until we’re off this bus. You’ll make it ‘til then, I know you will.”

“Are you clairvoyant?”

“…Yes.”

“Will I die?”

“No. Hopefully,” she adds after a pause. “Why don’t you try falling asleep?”

“I have. I’ve been trying to fall asleep, but Nishinoya and Tanaka’s loud ass snores combined are the equivalent of ten airplanes taking off at once,” you grumble. “Also, I don’t know if you’re smelling what I’m smelling, but Noya’s feet stink.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll scold them after we get off this bus,” she assures you, patting your head for good measure.

You might as well have bright red hearts printed on your eyeballs like a cartoon character. “I love you.”

“So suddenly?”

“I might die in the next hour, Kiyoko, and those will be my parting words to you. The least you could do is say it back.”

“I love you more. You won’t die. I know that because I’m clairvoyant.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

In the end, although you run straight to the nearest toilet to throw up as soon as the bus doors open, you still make it out of the journey alive. Maybe Kiyoko really wasn’t lying after all.

[229zmi]

BECAUSE SINGING KILLED MY GRANDMA, OK?

Iwaizumi Hajime/Reader | 0.7k words, established relationship, trolls reference

“I can’t believe you spent ¥6500 on this. On a kid’s toy,” Iwaizumi emphasises as if that’ll somehow change your mind or make you regret your financial decision.

“It’s not a kid’s toy, it’s a grown adult karaoke machine made for grown adults who can make grown adult decisions with their grown adult money.” You flop onto the floor of your living room, motioning with your hand for him to take the spot beside you before taking your latest purchase out of its packaging.

“I can see the box. It literally says ‘Kids Karaoke Machine with 2 Microphones, Voice Changer, & Flashing Lights,’” he says, watching you fidget around with the buttons on the karaoke machine.

“Oh, so you can read. Big deal.”

You feel him swat the back of your head as he settles down next to you.

“Don’t purposefully miss my point. Besides that, I thought I told you that my money is your money and you could use my card for anything. Even this, as ridiculous as it is.”

When you turn to glance at him for a second, you’re amused to see that he’s pouting: faint but for sure there. You think he’d burst a blood vessel if you pointed that out though, so you keep the observation to yourself, responding, “You never said that I had to use your card. Just that I could.”

Honestly, you’re not too sure how this is supposed to work, but you must have done something right at some point because suddenly the machine lights up in an assortment of colours with a sparkly-sounding noise. An eager grin stretches across your face as you bring the mic up to your mouth.

“Testing, one, two, three. Ooh, I’m loving the reverb on this,” you say, turning to Iwaizumi and waggling your eyebrows at him. “With this, I can serenade you every night before bed. Or if that’s not quite your lane, I’ll recite poetry in your ear Rupi Kaur style.”

Tongue poking the inside of his cheek in an attempt to hide a smile, he responds dryly, “Actually, I’d like none of the above, please and thank you.”

“Oh, come on, Haji. You have to admit it, this is soooo worth it. Now we gotta sing.”

“Sing?” he repeats as you shove a microphone into his hands and hold the other close to your face while you hunch over to pick a song. “I don’t sing.”

“Why? Because singing killed your grandma?”

Iwaizumi heaves the biggest sigh you’ve ever heard, the kind that probably could’ve started an earthquake had it lasted just a second longer. You’re pretty sure that doesn’t make any sense, but whatever.

“You can just do a solo performance,” he suggests after a moment, “since you’re the one who bought it. I’ll cheer you on from the sidelines.”

You frown. Although you’d appreciate the unconditional support offered to you, the idea is not as appealing as the thought of your boyfriend singing into a sparkly pink microphone.

“That’s so boring, though.”

A comically large, hemorrhoid-like irk mark materialises on his forehead in a cartoon-ish manner. “Then, why did you—“

“Plus, wouldn’t it be so romantic if we did a duet together?” You sigh wistfully and then answer your own question without giving him the chance to answer, “Yeah. It would be so romantic. Like in the movies, my angelic singing voice’ll impress you so much that you fall in love with me all over again or something.”

“Fine,” he concedes eventually. However, before you can shoot up to stand on your feet and starting performing some weird celebration dance at your victory, he holds up his pointer finger, making sure that you’re seeing it very clearly. “Just one song.”

Raising your eyebrows, you hold up two fingers and waggle them enticingly. “Two songs?”

“One song.”

Eventually, you compromise on one and a half, although Iwaizumi knows that’s not reasonable and he ends up singing the entirety of the second song anyway—but who’s counting?

(And even later, after way more than two songs—when the both of you are singing along to the instrumental of one of your favourite songs and you keep insisting that he’s the one who’s off-key, not you, obviously—he could hardly complain. Because it’s you, and as silly as he feels holding a microphone the size of his thumb, he can’t think of any other way he’d rather spend his evenings.)

author’s note: this is so mid but it’s been sitting in my drafts for Too Long…

[dira333]

Hinata Shouyou - Peace and Quiet

No one would have ever believed that Shouyou Hinata, aspiring little Giant, could be quiet. Or calm.

He twitches in his chair during class, doodles around his notes, giggles to himself, whispers with his friends - or Kageyama, who's just as easily distracted.

Too much energy, his mother used to sigh. He gets it from his Dad.

Not even asleep, he's quiet. Or calm. Mumbling to himself, fingers twitching, legs bending as if he's readying himself to receive in the middle of a dream.

But that was before Brazil.

-

You turn in bed, blinking awake. Your book slides onto the floor and Smudge, your Calico Cat, immediately investigates, hoping for a snack.

You had meant to read for an hour before bed; wait up until Shouyou returns. With a yawn, you shuffle out of bed. The apartment is quiet, dark except for the reading lamp hooked onto your nightstand.

Smudge follows you, to the kitchen, where you get yourself a glass of water, and to the couch, where she climbs onto your lap, her curious paws reaching for your face.

Shouyou should be home soon, you think, just as the door slides open.

He's quiet as he enters, doesn't even turn on the light as he slides of his shoes.

"Pspsps," he calls for Smudge, who immediately leaves you in the hopes for something to eat, purring as she pushes her head against his hand.

You watch him, content for a glimpse of something you usually don't get to see. The Shouyou he is when he doesn't know he's being perceived.

"Where's Mumma?" Shouyou asks Smudge. "Is she asleep already? She is, yes? Hmm, it's late, I know. Are you hungry?" Smudge Meows. "You are, I know. Let me get you something to eat. Don't tell Mumma, she'll be mad."

He doesn't stumble in the kitchen, has no problem finding his way in the dark. You suspect he's the reason Smudge is steadily gaining weight.

Shouyou's quiet as he moves around, settled in himself. You watch him, fascinated by the way he is at the end of a day. Satisfied, with himself and his surroundings.

That is, until he notices you.

He breaks into a smile, blinding with glee. "You're awake!" He calls out, his excitement obvious. "You didn't say anything!"

Smudge's food is forgotten as he rushes over instead, almost headbutting you as he goes in for a kiss. "Missed you!" He presses his lips against yours, then your cheeks, your nose, your temple. "Missed you so much!"

You giggle. "Missed you too."

-

It's rare that you wake before Shouyou does. And when it happens, it's your bladder's fault.

He usually wakes when you slip out of bed, reaching for you with his eyes half-closed, calling out your name. He's most possessive when he's only half-awake.

Today, though, he's deeply asleep. Smudge curled up on his chest, purring as you slip out of his hold. A street light casts a golden glow over him and you can't resist to snap a picture, only for you - and maybe him - to see.

But he's only quiet for so long. His fingers start to twitch, his knees bend slightly, and then he mumbles, barely loud enough to hear:

"Love you."

-

for @dearru

Join my Taglist

@kaykaystrings @tsxkishimx @rory-cakes

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

@notsochillnerd @darthferbert @kyluskaye @moochiwoochi

@stellar-haikyuu @alienaiver @thelameone101 @haikyuusunsalad

@lemurzsquad @natdu @lees-chaotic-brain @yuu-via

@tsumtsumya @integers @zizishleezy5 @tetsuukuroo

@dog55teeth @writingsofanomnivore @missmadness123

@kawaiiisis @true-deru

[marisolls]

040625. have this meet-cute drabble with atsumu while i decide what theme i should do next <3

the first time you make eye contact with atsumu miya, you think you’ve gone mad.

because no sane person would lock eyes with a stranger mid-chaos—while being dragged by a dog on a mission of mass destruction—and think,

god, he’s pretty.

but there he is, flat on his back in the grass, hair tousled, hoodie speckled with leaves, and a golden retriever (probably) standing proudly on his stomach like it just conquered mount fuji. and he’s looking right at you, brows furrowed, like you summoned this nonsense.

your dog, meanwhile, is in a full tail-wagging, tongue-lolling friendship sort-of-ceremony with the retriever, their leashes entwined in an unsolvable knot of destiny.

"you owe me a new shoulder," atsumu says, still not moving. “and maybe a new dog.”

“your dog started it,” you try to argue, breathless, wrestling your leash back from the vortex of dog limbs.

atsumu sits up with a wince and a smirk. “and yer dog finished it. i’m impressed. also a little scared.”

you blink. “are you always this dramatic?”

he shrugs. “only when cute people crash into me.”

god. maybe you have gone mad.

[wordsofelie]

🔭Saturn

kuroo tetsurou x f!reader

summary: you’ve finally found a rival who meets your standards. too bad the man is the most infuriating, stupid and annoying person on earth.

content warnings: high school setting, hurt/comfort, sports / academic rivals, swearing, reader kinda has an inferiority complex

words count: 1.4k

It started as a game. A silly, stupid, little game.

At least, that’s what you told yourself at first.

You’ve always been rather—competitive. Ever since you were a kid, you chased after every first place, every gold medal, every record waiting to be broken. Higher grades, longer races in PE, and everything else that would make you better. And then, you found volleyball—a sport that only fed that hunger, made the desire to win burn even brighter.

But before, no one had ever truly met your standards.

That is, until you met him.

Kuroo Tetsurou.

You became classmates in your first year of high school. You didn’t pay much attention to him on your first day (he seemed like the perfect depiction of a teenage boy—messy-haired, slouched over his desk, probably more interested in making dirty jokes than studying). But when the first chemistry grades came, your jaw dropped—that bastard had a better score than you. Maybe it was chance, you tried to tell yourself at first, but the semester passed, and his grades only improved.

“Need something?” is the first thing he ever asked you.

You didn’t realise you were staring at the paper in his hands until his voice reached your ears.

“I don’t,” you quickly regained your composure, clearing your throat and lifting up your chin.

His mouth turned into a side smirk. Infuriating. “Cause I can tutor you if you want.”

That motherfucker, is the only way you could describe Kuroo at this moment. You gripped your pen like it was his throat. Your hands clenched so hard your nails dug into your palms.

Still, you forced a smile in return, “I’ll pass thanks.”

“Too bad. I’ve got the annals from last year’s exam at home. I could’ve lent them to you. Or maybe they’d be too hard for you to understand.” He rested his chin in his palm calmy, looking almost bored.

Oh, you were going to kill him.

“Don’t bother, I fear I might smash your face with the book.”

His eyes widened in surprise, but his laid-back attitude came back just as fast.

“You can try, but I don’t think you can reach me. I’ve seen you play, I jump higher than you, you know.”

“Wow. Real mature-”

You were convinced the game could have gone on for hours, but unfortunately—or fortunately—the bell rang, and the class got dismissed.

You remember watching him getting up. If you didn’t just get belittled by him maybe you could have given credit to his looks. Tall, athletic, confident. That’s what Kuroo was like in your eyes. If he didn’t have a shitty personality and a stupid hairstyle you think that maybe he could have been less unbearable. But as you got out of the classroom, you only wanted to prove him wrong and dethrone him.

Your first-ever interaction transformed into a declaration of war. And the war lasted all high school.  Because, obviously, Kuroo wasn’t just good in chemistry—maths, physics, PE. Teachers loved him, praised him, classmates laughed with him. He was perfect in everything. And what made your blood boil in your veins was how effortless he made everything look. You sacrificed so much to be where you were, gave so much passion and time into school that you couldn’t stand the sight of him acting like it was easy.

And he played volleyball, which gave you even more reason to compare yourself to him.

It got worse when you both became captains of your team. You started comparing scores and blocks and victories.

At first, you liked the unspoken rule between you—the constant back and forth, the rivalry that kept you both on edge whether it was for school or volleyball.

Then, it became an obsession.

You started waking up earlier to go for a run, going to bed later to study for exams. You did everything you could and still—he was better.

You remember seeing Kuroo once on the sidelines at one of your practice matches, grinning at you with hands on his hips. “You’re looking a little slow today, Captain.”

You shot him a glare.

“Why are you even here Kuroo?” You spat once the game was over. “You’re not gonna get any girls with that haircut, you know.”

“Making fun of my hair again? You’re getting a little repetitive these days.” He chuckled. Gosh, you hated this laugh. “Besides, there’s only one girl I want attention from.”

You rolled your eyes and walked away, but deep down, your heart was pounding fast. You hated how good he was. You hated that he pushed you to be better. And more than anything—you hated how much he could control your emotions, making you sad and angry and frustrated just by being close to you.

The Inter-High qualifications arrived too fast, but you were ready.

Your team had trained relentlessly. You’d pushed yourself harder than ever, and now, it was time to prove that you could do this. That you could win.

You made it to the semi-finals. You were so close.

And then—you lost.

You didn't even make it to the finals, let alone Nationals. Your dream shattered in front of you, a cruel joke the universe had played at your expense.

You shook hands with the winning team, congratulated them like a good athlete should. Then you headed to the locker room, collapsing onto the bench; your throat was tight and your eyes burnt.

You didn't hear the door opening.

And a few seconds later, you knew he was here.

You hated him. Kuroo Tetsurou.

You hated him from the bottom of your heart.

And that hatred only grew bigger now that he was standing there, hands in his pockets, ready to make fun of your loss.

“I’m not in the mood for your teasing, Kuroo.”

Silence.

Then, softly: “I’m not here to tease.”

You finally looked up. His usual smirk was nowhere to be found, you almost missed it. Your eyes immediately stared at the floor again. “I just-” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You don’t deserve this.”

You scoffed, bitter. “Yeah? Tell that to the scoreboard.”

Kuroo took a step closer. “I know how much this meant to you.”

Your jaw tightened. You couldn't look at him. If you did, you’d break. And you didn't want to break in front of him.

“Don’t you ever get tired of always winning?”

Kuroo blinked in surprise. “What?”

“You’re always ahead. Always. You beat me in volleyball. You beat me in grades. You beat me at everything. It’s exhausting.” Your voice cracked, and you hated it. “I’ve spent years trying to keep up with you. And now-” You laughed, but it was humourless. “Now, you get to go to Nationals while I sit at home and watch.”

Kuroo frowned. He opened his mouth—you saw it from the corner of your eyes. “I never—”

“You never what?” you snapped. “Never tried to one-up me? Never enjoyed being better than me? Cause I’m way behind you, aren’t I?”

“That’s not-” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I never wanted to beat you.”

“Bullshit. Every time we got a grade, you asked to see mine. You came to every practice game, telling me I could do more. You stayed late after school just to show me how your receives were better than mine. At tournament, you came in the frontline just to see me lose and-”

Kuroo shook his head. “It’s not that-” He hesitated. “You inspire me.”

Your heart stopped beating for a second, or two. “What?”

“You’re the best opponent I’ve ever had,” he admitted. “And yeah, I like pushing you, but not because I want to humiliate you. I just-” He rubbed the back of his neck. For the first time in the three years you had known him, he looked nervous. “I like seeing you play. I like watching you get better.”

You stared at him. This—this wasn't how your conversations usually went. Kuroo was supposed to be smug, sarcastic, insufferable. Not… this.

Not kind.

“I don’t need your pity,” you finally muttered as you looked away.

Kuroo stepped closer again and knelt down in front of you. “It’s not pity.”

“Then what is it?” The words quieted one after the other.

He seemed to be looking for the right words. But then—

“I’m going to miss you.”

You froze and your heart stuttered, and you hated that it did. (Or maybe the feeling wasn’t so bad, maybe you didn’t hate it, maybe you could get used to it.)

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you asked. You tried to sound annoyed instead of breathless, but your voice betrayed you.

Kuroo grinned—soft, for once. “It means I don’t want this to be the end of our game. Even in uni, even when we’re old and can’t play volleyball anymore, I want you to remain my best opponent.”

You stared at him. He was serious.

“You’re an idiot.”

He chuckled. “Maybe.”

A few seconds passed before he spoke again. With his usual smirk and his stupid bed hair, he asked: “Need something?”

And then—because you were exhausted, because you’d lost everything that day, because you didn't have the energy to fight anymore—you let yourself leaned into him, just a little.

His arms were warm as they wrapped around you.

Tears started falling from your eyes, your muscles eased. Everything hurt and softened at the same time.

He was right. Maybe this wasn't the end of the game.

Maybe it was just a new round.

a/n: i had so much fun writing this <33

thank you so so much to @keishuii for beta-reading it, you’re the best!!

[urtwigg]

LETS GO LESBIANSSS

[mattsundaes]

meet cute with iwaizumi hajime athletic trainer except it’s less cute and more him nearly bursting a blood vessel while he’s in line waiting to order a coffee watching you (a barista) try to lift a stack of heavy boxes in the most back-ruining way known to man.

[marisolls]

012125. cw | none. just fluff. 731 wc. notes | i got my first strike YEY 🧑‍🦲🔫 @phantasmaebg nighty night zzz

matsukawa issei isn’t the type to openly gush over people, though that’s not the same to say that he doesn’t. you know this. because he’s always gushing about you in his own way, the only form you’ve learned by heart, one you’ve come to fully adore.

when he spotted you across the room, he swore his chest tightened in a way he’d never admit out loud. still, his affection screams — in the spaces that reach you to understand without fail, how honest his eyes are, an open journal of sorts.

you were curled up on the couch, sinking deep into your phone in your hands, your messy hair thrown into a half-lopsided bun, only the upper parts alongside your bangs, sweatpants slung low on your hips, stomach looking so delicate & slightly revealed under your sleeveless top, and headphones perched lazily over your ears.

you look half-asleep, groggy. the sunlight filtering through the windows renders your tired eyes to look more dreamy. your whole skin glowing, lashes glimmer like specks of jewels. you yawn, looking soft and untouched and undone.

something about you like this—so completely yourself—has his heart diving over itself. he has no idea how you managed to look so utterly captivating without trying. his heartbeat races when you stood up, unaware of his presence. and you head to the kitchen, probably going to make something really delicious—like always.

he watches you in quiet reverence, lips pulling a slow grin, nothing but adoration in his gaze.

his arms crossed over his chest, letting the sight of you etch itself into his memory. you’re too caught up in whatever quiet ritual you’ve set out to do in the kitchen, and he finds himself enamored by the way you move—relaxed, deliberate, but so distinctly you.

he always think he loved you most in moments like these, where there was no effort, no pretense, just you being you.

you stopped in front of the counter, reaching for something on the shelf, and the hem of your sleeveless top lifted just slightly. that little sliver of skin caught the light in the gentlest way, and matsukawa felt his restraint falter.

before he knew it, he was behind you, large hands sliding around your waist with the familiarity of someone who’d done it a hundred times before.

you stiffen slightly at first, but then you easily settle yourself, the familiar warmth of his palms sending a shiver of comfort through you. “issei,” you murmur, your voice soft and tinged with sleep, “when’d you get here?”

he tugs the side of your headphones down as you turn to look at him.

“just now,” his voice low and husky, lips curling into a smirk you can’t see. “you looked too good on your own, had to come ruin it.”

you huff, chuckling, your body leaning instinctively into his as his arms loop around your waist, pulling you flush against him. “i haven’t even washed my face yet,” you mutter, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“doesn’t matter. you’re cute when you’re half-dead, y’know?”

you rolled your eyes, but before you could reply, he leaned in, resting his forehead to the back of your head, then he lowers himself, lips coming to plant tender kisses on your temple, a gentle nibble on your ear, and a shuddering warm peck to your nape.

this makes your cheeks flush, but you shake your head, focusing instead on the task at hand. “if you’re gonna keep distracting me, at least help me cook something,” you say, trying to sound stern but failing—quite horribly, actually— because he pulls you impossibly closer, practically snuggling against you so shamelessly.

“come take a nap with me instead.”

“issei.”

“please. i just wanna—” he inhales, a long, deep breath, and exhales, you feel his chest against your back rise and fall in result, “you’re the only thing i wanna see all day.”

and just like that, any lingering grogginess thawed away, like popsicles melting from the beautiful warmth of everything. like his touch, especially his touch, along the undertones of intensity laced by his words. you turn slightly in his arms, your hand reaching up to playfully flick his forehead, though your smile betrays so many parts of you.

“you’re impossible.”

“yeah? impossible for you, miss.” he quipped back, smiling tenfold.

you wouldn’t have it any other way.