Notes: Found this in my drafts from my (still in) Blooming Panic phase. Wild times
Nightowl has this habit of biting his nails when he gets overly nervous.
You often notice it on your nightly calls when he's preparing for a big exam or caught up in his midnight endeavors of all-nighters while he finishes a final project. You've tried to call him out on it every chance you got and watch fondly as Nightowl sheepishly apologizes every time, promising not to do it again—though he finds it hard to keep his word.
Besides your worry that he would gnaw his fingers off, you also hate to see his freshly painted nails chip off faster than intended.
That is why you made this one of your things to do together on your list when you finally met.
You sit on the couch, him lounging on the floor sideways, leaning on your thigh as you gingerly held his hand, applying the first coating of his signature black polish. You're not an artist but held yourself capable enough of steadily applying, making sure not to go over his cuticles.
He surprisingly follows your plea to sit still obediently, but you feel his intense stare as he lays his cheek on one of the pillows you plotted in front of him to make him rest comfortably.
You can’t help but blush as you feel the intensity of his stare. The heat of it starts from your focused eyes to your cheeks, and a little harder on your lips that you know are quivering in their attempt not to react.
On some nails, you paint a heart only. This manages to catch his attention.
“Loveyy,” he smiles at you. “It’s so cute.”
He brings it up to his face after you finish adding the final coat of black and blowing on it to dry before adding the clear nail polish next.
His smile can’t be contained as you bring the pad of his fingers to your lips, careful not to touch the wet polish, and kiss each pad, making sure to linger a little longer on each one.
Nightowl can’t help but feel his chest tighten at the tenderness you so easily give to him. Sometimes, he feels the need to pinch himself, to remind him that this is, in fact, real. You’re real. But he figures the already fast thumping of his chest and its tightness that makes it a little hard to breathe is sign enough of reality.
“There. Now every time you resort back to that habit of yours, you’ll see this heart and remember the promise you made…that you’ll try, okay?”
He has to close his eyes hard until he sees spots, to somehow ground himself, because he wasn’t used to such care.
Why would you even care? Much less this?
No one cared when he was at his breaking point.
No one cared when everything seemed to collapse on him, drowned in his own perceived stupidity, watching his dreams be effortlessly achieved by others.
Not even he cared when his careful pace began to slow, and time itself seemed to pass him by.
And yet, here you are, worrying. Worrying about these damn habits like they’ll consume him…and it hurts.
It hurts that your kindness is directed at him.
Does he deserve this?
In all the honesty he can muster, he doesn’t know yet, and he still has to find the answer himself. But he settles with an, “Okay.”
He watches you admire his hands, feel the callouses on each tip from years of drawing.
“You’re insufferable, you know that, right?”
You grin at him. “I know, which is why we’ll be matching. Sit still so you can do mine next.”
His reply comes back muffled, and you can’t help but smile at his efforts.
This is not much, and you know there are some things that will take longer to work on—carved through years of being dealt hardships with no one to handle them alongside him. But in this small thing, you wanted the message to come across: you're there to care, even on the days he can't.
He hates the way you wear your emotions on your sleeves. It’s excruciatingly endearing to find your gentleness in a world that does nothing but provide you with worries. He hates how, despite your doubts and trepidations, you still look at it with such wonder one couldn’t even fathom or place.
He'd always wondered how such a pure soul—beaten and calloused—can look at the endless possibilities before them and believe they’re worth it.
He considered he might be a coward then, for don’t we all have fears that stop us from stepping beyond the line that confines our capabilities?
He hates your gentleness. How you look at people like they hold the world in their hands. How you listen intently to everything they have to say. How you would offer a hand even if your arms are already full.
He hates the way you wear kindness. How it’s perfectly knitted to your skin, it’s almost second nature. He hates how you would go out of your way to put others before yourself.
"Selfless", he would call you.
"Pushover", he would label you.
But insults were a mere façade to the raging questions in his head as to how. How do you have so much to give?
But most of all, he hates himself for not hating you. Not even a fraction.
You are like a printed polaroid; he wants to vigorously shake to reveal the entire picture.
A pipe dream, that’s what you are. But that doesn't erase the fact that he once stooped so low to even—in his unabashed desperation—consider asking himself if he is worthy enough to experience what it's like to be cared for by you.
tag nine people u would like to know better: thank u for the tag @kaiijo <33
last song?
greengreengreen — chase atlantic
currently watching?
just finished lawless lawyer and abt to start it’s okay to not be okay
currently reading?
as in manga? im keeping up with bllk + gonna start jjk — nothing as in actual books for now tho </3
current obsession?
subway surfers !!!
tags : @jaeyunnie @earthtooz @rinmine @bby-bo @cosmi1k @yenqa @loveydovey-leviathan @sinnful-darling @fluffyf0x + anyone who wants to!! (ignore tags if u dont want to do this, no pressure !!)
dear writers who are slower/take more time with their writing or writers who are on hiatus or writers who are trying to find their voice again, i see you and i love you and you are valid
Kageyama huffs beside you, struggling to get the crochet hook inside the last stitch.
"We've been at this for an hour. Don’t make the tension of your yarn too tight."
"That's exactly what I've been doing." He eventually gives up, tossing the unfinished beanie in his lap.
You cast a glance at him and snort at the already-forming pout on his lips. His furrowed brows are almost comical.
“Here. Give it to me." You reach for his work and examine the progress he's done. It wasn't bad considering you only started teaching him yesterday. In fact, it was better than your initial progress as a beginner.
“You’ve got the idea of it though, which is good. Just…”
You move closer to him and grab his tucked hands. Suddenly distracted, you trace the bumps and scratches on his smooth skin, admiring how they contrast with the callouses that are forming on his fingertips as a result of years of volleyball practice.
Kageyama has lovely hands. His dedication to the sport never ceases to amaze you. Especially, when you sometimes find him filing and prepping his fingers before a game.
You make him hold the yarn while adjusting its tightness. You demonstrate how to relax his fingers by looping a strand of yarn around his forefinger and guiding him through a few double crochets. Eventually, you let him do it on his own. Often glancing to see if he needs any help.
Kageyama would begrudgingly deny the enjoyment one gets from such a tedious and mind-numbing task at first, but over time, he finds himself relaxing deeper on the couch and even occasionally glancing at the show on the TV.
When he's finished, he'll hand to you his work, a proud expression on his face as he watches you weave in the ends and put the beanie he helped make on his head.
"See, it wasn't so difficult now, was it?"
He fusses over this new achievement, even nodding to himself. "Only when you help."
You try to hide your laugh at the child-like adoration in his eyes.
And now, unbeknownst to him, it has become Kageyama’s favorite afternoon activity with you. He would waddle to the couch in the middle of the afternoon with a hook and yarn from your collection in hand, joining you in your crocheting.
Not only is it therapeutic, but it also gives him a sense of fulfillment to know that he has a part in your favorite little hobby.
Note: Helloo! It’s been a while :< It’s finally our summer break which means more time to write and go through my drafts woop woop!
Im just stalking your account for domestic fluff and I just found your drabble of a reblog annotation book for akaashi, and i just- melted on my place. I just finish reading a book 'Unravel the dusk' by Elizabth lim and reading that post makes my heart more melted. After the angst i endure from the book, thinking domestic drabble is the best remedy. I dont know you very well since this is my first time anon to you but your work is amazing, i only read some of them and I love them please have a great day, have some rest if the work is overbearing, dont forget to eat, drink and sleep alright !
Hiii! this made me smile so much <3 and yes thank uu I shall take lots of rests!! ALSO, sending hugs of comfort (〃^∇^)ﾉ I shall add that book to my reading list. I love me some good ol' angst
Uhm hello I'm not sure if you're still active here it would be so weird and awkward to me if you weren't but your writing makes me so so so so happy and there's this warm lingering feeling in my entire upper body and I can't help smiling
Hi hiii! I'm sorry for not posting lately, but I'm still active here! THANK YOUU!! I can't stop smiling as I read this, it literally made my day >< So glad I was able to channel some comfort and happiness through my writing huhu (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
He is engulfed with a sense of awareness whenever he sees you. It’s not butterflies in his stomach or the sensation of his heart beating out of his chest, but a longing.
He can’t seem to take his eyes off of you as he picks up on your mannerisms instinctively. How you smile, the little nods you make when you converse with people, and the animated movement of your hands when you retell a story to your friends.
And every time he forces himself to look away, he finds his ears picking up on these minor details instead; Your hums of approval as someone adds to your little story or the way you would slam your hands on the table just before you break into laughter.
Your excitement can be heard a mile away, piqueing the interest of those in your vicinity. Even more so, his.
You meander recollections of events and conversations throughout your day that should be nothing but boring. But somehow, when mixed with your opinions and colored by your thoughts becomes interesting. He can’t help but think he could always distinguish your voice over the din of the crowd.
But despite all this, he never summons the courage to approach you, preferring to just be drawn into your orbit. Silently appreciating. Silently loving.
He is engulfed with a sense of awareness whenever he sees you. It's not butterflies in his stomach or the sensation of his heart beating out of his chest, but a longing.
He can't seem to take his eyes off of you as he picks up on your mannerisms instinctively. How you smile, the little nods you make when you converse with people, and the animated movement of your hands when you retell a story to your friends.
And every time he forces himself to look away, he finds his ears picking up on these minor details instead; Your hums of approval as someone adds to your little story or the way you would slam your hands on the table just before you break into laughter.
Your excitement can be heard a mile away, piqueing the interest of those in your vicinity. Even more so, his.
You meander recollections of events and conversations throughout your day that should be nothing but boring. But somehow, when mixed with your opinions and colored by your thoughts becomes interesting. He can’t help but think he could always distinguish your voice over the din of the crowd.
But despite all this, he never summons the courage to approach you, preferring to just be drawn into your orbit. Silently appreciating. Silently loving.
After a long day of shouting orders and briefing the first years, Oikawa finally succumbed to the fatigue eating his body and the pounding in his head since the late afternoon.
After all, being captain wasn't easy. He's still getting used to supervising the group and stepping forward when necessary. Although, nothing beats the satisfaction of seeing his teammates improve and be within their element. To look them in the eyes and see the reflection of trust in them.
None of it, however, compares to the same trust reflected in your eyes as he lays himself on your chest. He hums as you run your fingers through his hair and kiss his brow, whispering, "Rest well, darling. You deserve it."
Despite the stress of the upcoming seasons and the raging doubts in his mind, he finds solace in your presence and in your gentle hands as they trace the exhaustion away.
I’ll do it all again, Oikawa says to himself. Knowing that at the end of the day, he’s in the reprieve of your always-awaiting arms.
Love for him isn’t a concept of ‘want’ but rather a “Tell me the problem and we’ll face it together.”
Growing up in a household where affirmations are scarce and fending for oneself equates to success, he made sure that ‘love’ within the 4 walls of your home is built on deliberate care. Where vulnerability is valued and growth is acknowledged. He takes pride in you leaning on him and seeking his guidance, but at the same time, he would cheer for your accomplishments to the ends of the earth, treating each one as his own.
He pursues the kind of love that does not rely on false assurances of safety, but rather on the promise of facing the dangers together. Of growing despite the hurdles.
The kind of love that heals and liberates. He may be lacking in the right words, but he’ll never fail to express his willingness to stay and share the burden.
Sundays are for spontaneous getaways, stolen kisses, and…Suna Rintaro.
It’s the only day of the week when Suna takes you both to nowhere and plans absolutely nothing. Except for the prospect of getting away from one’s responsibilities and the anticipation of potential hand-holding and endless kisses. And, of course, unsolicited company.
Feet placed on the dashboard, you bop your head to ‘Build Me Up Buttercup’ by The Foundations.
Why do you build me up?
Buttercup, baby
Just to let me down?
And mess me around
Beside you, on the wheel, Suna hums along. Sunglasses perched on his head as the wind musses his already ruffled hair, courtesy of the open windows.
“Put your feet down will ya?” He glances your way.
As much as it annoys him, he indulges himself in the carefree glint of your eyes and the teasing smile on your lips. Something about your carefree demeanor as you ignore his complaints prompts him to kiss your left cheek chastely—the only place he can, unfortunately, reach.
“Eyes on the road, Rintaro.” You say, already used to his antics. Your cheeks, however, are not as you feel the heat radiating from them to your ears.
“Only if you give me a proper kiss.”
He laughs as you turn to him incredulously, faking disgust on your face. “You’re crazy.”
Suna’s quick to respond, “Just for you.”
When you take to completely ignoring him, he pokes at your side. “The offer still stands though.”
“Right.” You reach over and crank the radio volume up. “In your dreams.”
You may or may not have taken that offer. Once or twice, losing count after the seventh time.
彡 SYNOPSIS: Bandages and lingering confessions. Perhaps it's the worry in your eyes or the gentleness in your touch that always draws him back to you.
Notes: Surprise, surprise!! Going through a tokyo rev hyper fixation woop woop!!
Baji believes that his selfish tendencies are the cause of him knocking at your door in the dead of night. While everyone seems busy navigating the nearby hospitals or rushing home, he finds himself yearning for your touch instead.
He longs for your kind caresses and patient eyes. Emotions he can’t seem to place. The calm after the storm.
You don’t greet him as you open the door–already moving aside to allow him enough space to slip through the threshold–an indication of becoming accustomed to these nightly endeavors.
Baji strolls through your kitchen and sighs as he slumps on a stool, his head throbbing from the sudden drop in adrenaline. He winces as his shirt brushes up against the scratches and bruises on his side.
"Who was it this time?" You ask.
He squints at you, offended by your unprovoked accusation. A playful grin on his lips. "You've got to have a little more faith in me, sweetheart. It wasn't me who threw the first punch. They were the ones provoking."
"Say that to me when you don't look as if you're about to collapse. Take your shirt off."
He whistles at the bold remark but doesn’t argue. All he can think about is getting a good night’s rest. He winces as he pulls the shirt up his figure, careful not to let the fabric graze some of the open wounds.
He didn't say that the real reason for the fight was someone's disparaging comment about you. Insults were nothing new to him. But, the mere mention of your name and the nasty remark that followed forced Baji to strike. Their pleas tuned out by the anger ringing in his ears.
He wouldn't say the only reason for not beating them unconscious was the satisfaction of imagining their figure beg for your forgiveness.
Simply recalling the incidents is enough to ignite the anger, so Baji chose to settle instead on watching your mechanical movements. There’s something in the way you navigate under the dim kitchen light that evokes a sense of familiarity. Allowing the stillness to calm his head.
As you open drawers, he is now only aware of a slight tremble in your hands. Your supposed "profound" confidence about where supplies are is replaced with uncertainty. Doubt dabbled at his conscience at the extra tightness in your face and the way your shoulders is way more tensed than usual.
Guilt made him sick to his stomach. Maybe this wasn’t a good time. Maybe he shouldn't have bothered you.
Baji tries to erase his dubiety as you turn to face him. If you didn’t want him here, you’d have kicked him out moments ago. Or better, you would’ve never opened the doors for him. He was sure of that.
"Are you mad at me, sweetheart?" he asks, grinning at your silhouette.
You tuck yourself neatly between his extended legs, maintaining the same expression aside from the sudden sharpness in your eyes as you consider which wound to treat first.
“Hey, stop igno–”
The clean cloth against his wounds is abrasive. Baji attempted to stop from yelping. Although a little leniency would have been greatly appreciated, what did he expect?
“Taking it easy would be nice.” He gritted his teeth through the fresh, piercing pain as you press a tepid cloth to a scrape–an obvious result of skidding on the tarmac–on his side.
You don’t seem to relent and he regrets riling you up even more.
“Be quiet.”
It’s difficult when you’re practically jabbing at his injuries. He concentrates on counting breaths, trusting you to know what you're doing, as you’ve proven many times before.
Minutes pass, and Baji is certain he will pass out soon. He's sweating profusely, although you've progressed to a much gentler process of applying cream to his cleaned cuts.
“You worry me you know.” He startles at your voice.
“You worry me so much. Every night, I think about the possibilities of you passing out in the streets all beat up. I worry if you’re hurt, or if you’re stupid enough to start fights you can’t handle.” You laugh, but it comes out all wrong. "And as much as I hate to see you in pain, I tell myself that it's better to know you're here. That I can see you. Not passed out somewhere. Here. Unscathed. I hate myself for finding reassurance in that. I hate myself for not knowing how to be angry with you." There’s a slight tremble in your voice now.
The open honesty with which you spoke. The intensity of it distracts Baji from the years of repressed confessions that twisted into the only two words he can bear to utter. "I’m sorry."
He leans his head against your shoulder, scared to admit more. It wasn’t a question of why. He’s always known why he’s drawn to your kindness.
Captivated he might, it’s something that can’t be helped. You’re the dawning of a future where he allows himself to be worthy of such light in a bleak world.
Rather, he’s scared of the hows.
How can he tell you without scaring you away? He fears of feeling too much. Of burdening you with ‘something’ he himself can’t even explain.
He absentmindedly presses his lips against the delicate skin of your shoulders. Mindful of any slight changes in your figure and prepared to withdraw if necessary. When he senses you relax, however, something in his chest aches more than the already forming bruises on his side.
Your head slightly leans on his. Almost cradling his head.
“It’s alright. Just...” You pull back, staring at him with so much resolution. “Refrain from doing anything stupid.”
Baji nods, preparing himself to pull away. He was foolish enough to believe that he has a chance beyond this.
But you don't let him, already threading your hands through his hair. "And stop trying to hold yourself together; Either way, I'll be there to patch you up along the way," You add.
Maybe he's not as selfish as he thought because that could only mean one thing: Stay.
And who was he to deny that? After all, you're the only fight he'll never be able to win.
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