not an art blog but i draw 2d men when i have the time.
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#🗝; 18+ — explicit posts !! MINORS DNI & BLOCK THIS TAG !!
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concern — drawing anatomy … song — not cute anymore
thought — kuroo tetsuro ♡ … reads — korean webtoons \ haikyuu!!
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.
soft sukuna's had his eye on you ever since you joined his chemistry class. after crushing on you for months on end, he finally plucks up the courage to ask you out on a star gazing date for valentine's day ! 💘 apart of my valentine's day event !
a thought very prominent in ryomen sukuna's mind as of late.
chemistry class used to be such a drag, he'd show up, do absolutely no work, complain that he failed to all of his fratty friends, then do it all over again the next semester.
until, of course, you joined his line.
you were the picture perfect example of a shy, nerdy girl. with your clothing an array of soft colours and vintage hollister sweaters, your notes all neat and thorough, and your eyes always focused on the professor, you had him awe struck from the second you walked in.
it was a little strange, considering he was 6'5, 95kg of pure muscle, pierced to hell, and tatted from head to toe in fierce markings. you two seriously couldn't of been more different.
still, nothing enthralled him quite like seeing you every monday morning.
he'd started showing up to class early everyday to catch you on your way in, pushing the big, heavy door open so you didn't have to tire such pretty little hands. he'd started sitting in the row behind you instead of way up the back, just so he could watch the way you wrote so nicely.
he'd even started paying attention, proving to the assholes he left in the back row that he was smart when he applied himself.
answering questions in class became a regular, just so he knew you could hear his voice in a different sense than goofing off in the corner, or making bad jokes with his mates. he clocked the way you'd look over your shoulder briefly in surprise whenever he got stuff right, and his heart had never thumped faster.
so, after about three months of obsessing over a girl he hadn't yet spoken to, (not because he was nervous, frick no.) he'd decided with valentine's day coming up, now was a better time than any to ask you out on a date.
y'know, how normal people pursued a relationship, not the age old snap n tap method he'd been using since highschool...
so, with all the courage he could muster, a week before valentine's day he'd waited after class for all the other kids to filter out.
you always stayed behind to look over your notes, something he'd always admired about you was your dedication. as well as being admirable, it gave him the perfect slot to get you alone and finally pop the question.
he'd been rehearsing it in the mirror of his ensuite for the past week, it couldn't go wrong, it shouldn't go wrong! he had the perfect ratio of nonchalance and chivalry packed into his planned out attack, it just had to go smoothly.
he watches you from a few rows back, the lecturer had slipped away and it was just the two of you.
you can do this, ryo.
he pushes up from his seat before he stress too hard about it. the row of chairs creak as he steps sideways through the row, one hand braced on the backs so he doesn't trip over his own boots. this was supposed to look all suave and smooth, effortless, even.
it really, really didn't. he looked like an oaf.
he moves down the steps, eyes fixed on you where you sit looking over your notebook, flicking through the pages with your lips around the tip of a pen in concentration. fuuuck.
mind out of the gutter, ryomen.
he tells himself to slow down and walk like normal, he can't look like he's stalking up to you for any nefarious reasons.
but, as god would have it, by the time he reaches the last few steps you're already packing up.
no.
no, no, no. shit!
your pencil slides into your case, your notebooks shut, and your bag zippers get pulled shut. crap, he was supposed to catch you before that. say something casual while you were still seated so you couldn't escape.
instead, you stand.
he gets choked up halfway down the steps, brain going blank because this was not a part of the plan.
you swing your bag over your shoulder and turn toward the aisle, eyes down as always, clearly aiming for the door before anyone can corner you.
he sighs and books it, he's not acting all cool and composed anymore, no way. he couldn't just let you get away, he was desperate.
he takes the last few steps too fast, almost missing one, then strides down the aisle with a pace that borders on a jog. the sound of his boots slipping and slapping against the wooden floor echoes so loud he might as well have yelled at you by now. you glance up at the noise, looking all cute and startled.
you try to sidestep him in fear of getting in such a big man's way, but he panics and plants himself directly in front of you.
it happens in a split second. your bag catches against his hip, your stack of textbooks jostle loose, and multiple papers slide free like a magician’s trick gone horribly, terribly wrong. everything spills to the floor between you in a loud, humiliating cascade.
the dull sound hits him straight in the gut.
“fuck. i am so sorry.”
he practically screams that, he winces at himself immediately, hands lifting as if that fixes anything. you are staring at the mess, then at him, eyes wide and absolutely mortified.
“god, i didn’t mean to block you. i just, i was trying to—” he cuts himself off because explaining while your notes are scattered everywhere makes him look ten times worse.
he drops to a crouch, the floor is cold against his palms as he starts gathering all the loose pages, careful with the edges like they might and will tear under his big fingers. your handwriting is small and tidy, lines straight as if written at the edge of a ruler.
“shit, i’m sorry,” he tries to mutter a little softer than the ear rape from before.
unfortunately you decide to kneel down and pick up some stray pencils just as he shoots back up to hand you the papers, and your heads collide with a dull crack.
it is gnarly enough that he hears both it and the hurt little sound that hisses past your lips, more surprised than anything. you rock back on your heels at the contact, and that wincing look on your face smashes his heart smack bang in the middle with a wooden, spiked mace.
“oh fuck—” he hisses, reaching toward you instinctively. “are you okay?”
his hands hover near your temples, big fingers spread wide and ready to check your skin for a bump. he stops himself an inch away, since touching you out of nowhere is probably the worst possible move he could make at a time like this. you already look like you want the floor to swallow you whole.
he pulls his hands back so fast it almost looks like he got burned.
“sorry. sorry. i didn’t mean to— i just—”
jesus christ, get it together.
he smooshes a hand down his face, very annoyed at himself. this was supposed to be all smooth and simple. stroll up, say something chivalrous, then ask you out like a normal person.
instead he has assaulted you and ruined your cute little organized notes.
real charming.
you press your fingers lightly to your forehead, blinking up at him. “i’m fine,” you say quietly.
he doesn't believe you, that much is obvious. the spot he knocked feels fine on him, but you are most definitely not built for hard knocks like he is. guilt creeps into every pore of his skin.
“i should’ve watched where i was going,” he says, even though it was very much him who stepped in your path. he shoves the rest of your papers into a neat stack and holds them out to you with surprising care. “i, uhm... i didn’t mean to scare you like that.”
that part slips out honest.
you nod shyly, then take the papers from him. your nails brush his tough skin for a good second and it sends his brain haywire. it was insane how even the smallest of touches could make him shiver.
he straightens up, giving you space this time, forcing himself not to loom over you like a weirdo freak. the door is right behind him, and you glance at it, then at him. waiting.
he can feel the opportunity slipping through his hands again.
say it.
his mind supplies every rehearsed line he practiced and then promptly erases them. all that comes up is the image of you walking out that door and him sitting with this embarrassment for another week.
he swears at himself internally, vicious and relentless.
you had one job. do not mess this up.
“i wasn’t trying to block you,” he says, finally. “i just needed to talk to you for a second.”
you look up at him through pretty, fluttering lashes, blinking away some of the leftover pain before nervously nodding. “hm? what is it?” you murmur.
you were so shy, he could crush you with two fingers if he wanted. he meant to be gentle with you.
he takes a deep breath, then bends down a little, trying his best to be on your level. “i think you're really cute... y'know that?” he starts. “n' i think i could treat you real nice.” he chokes a bit when your face somehow twists into a shyer expression.
“jesus christ— i.. i would really, really like to take you out this weekend. i get that it's valentine's day, it might be a bit much right now, but i—”
“okay.”
“...what?”
“i... uhm. i said okay?” you repeat.
the smile this man cracks is embarrassingly cheesy.
“wow, sweet! that's sweet. i'll uh... can i get your number? shit— probably should've asked that first—”
before he can panic any further, he's ripped from his ramble by the heavenly sound of your soft laugh.
he stops immediately, a hand flying to his neck to rub at it softly as his smile grows tenfold. you're holding out your phone, your phone number displayed on the screen. “cool... cool...” he smiles, typing in the digits.
~
[ryo] 7:42pm: hey. how’s your head?
he stares at the screen with the nail of his thumb between his teeth, flops back against his pillows and then immediately sits up again... because what if that sounded too blunt? maybe too concerned? too much?
three dots pop up almost right away and he almost shits himself. you're texting him. right now. holy fuck.
[name❤️] 7:43pm: hi!! i’m all goods (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ
[name❤️] 7:43pm: it was just a tiny knock!
he exhales through his nose, shoulders finally dropping.
[ryo] 7:44pm: tiny knock
[ryo] 7:44pm: i literally clobbered you with my thick ass skull.
he winces at the memory and it replays on loop. y'know when you do something so embarrassing and you just can't stop hyper fixating on it? yeah, that's what he'd been doing for the past two hours.
[name❤️] 7:45pm: it was kinda funnyy
[name❤️] 7:45pm: well, after the shock wore off kdkxjsjdj
he grins at that despite just cringing over it all a second ago.
[ryo] 7:45pm: yeah? didn’t look funny. your poor face was all scrunched up
he runs a hand through his slick hair and starts pacing now. his roommates are loud in the hall but he's shut his door, he needed quiet for this very important moment.
[name❤️] 7:46pm: nooo
[name❤️] 7:46pm: you just surprised me is all
[name❤️] 7:46pm: i’m okay, promise (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧
that stupid little emoticon turns his ears a raw red, you were so dorky, it was adorable.
[ryo] 7:47pm: good.
[ryo] 7:47pm: wouldn’t be a great start to valentine’s day if i concussed my date.
he cringes after sending that. hmm, was that too forward? or too confident?
[name❤️] 7:48pm: noo it's okay, my head feels good!
he laughs under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck.
[ryo] 7:48pm: okay thank fuck
[ryo] 7:49pm: i know i'm a little rowdy, i mean obviously after that little display. but i can tone it down if you scare easy.
he bites the inside of his cheek the second that goes through. why would he say that? he's throwing.
[name❤️] 7:49pm: i don’t scare easy!
[name❤️] 7:49pm: i just… startle easy 🙂↕️
he imagines you typing that with your little nose scrunched trying to defend yourself.
[ryo] 7:50pm: noted.
[ryo] 7:50pm: i’ll try not to charge at you like a linebacker next time.
he sits at the edge of his bed now, phone in both hands. his heart will not calm down. c'mon. this is texting, he's done this a thousand times! it's just, with you? it feels so intimate and.. different. like he's whispering in your ear. maybe he was just a pervert.
[name❤️] 7:51pm: i appreciate that very much
[name❤️] 7:51pm: my poor textbooks would too
he groans quietly, dragging a hand down his face.
[ryo] 7:51pm: don’t remind me.
[ryo] 7:52pm: i’m still embarrassed about that
[name❤️] 7:52pm: you said sorry like… five times, it's fine!
[ryo] 7:52pm: wasn’t enough.
there is a pause. longer this time. he almost types something else just to fill the space but decides that might come off too strong and stops himself.
[name❤️] 7:54pm: it’s okay, really
[name❤️] 7:54pm: i only got a small bruise
his stomach drops.
[ryo] 7:54pm: you’re kidding.
[name❤️] 7:55pm: nooo it’s tiny
[name❤️] 7:55pm: wait i’ll show you
he quirks a brow at that.
show him?
a second later, an image comes through.
[name❤️] 7:55pm: {image attached}
you are sitting cross legged on a soft looking bed with a pale pink duvet and copious amounts of plush pillows stacked behind you. youre staring at the lens all smiley, giving an adorable little thumbs up to the camera. there's the faintest shadow of a bruise high on your forehead, barely noticeable unless you were trying to really look for it.
still, it guts him. or maybe turns him on, he can't really decide right now..
he actually makes a strangled noise in his room that's somehow a laugh and a groan at the same time. he stands up, and starts pacing again.
“you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he sighs to himself.
you look so stupidly cute tucked into your bed with your hair loose and a sweet sweater swallowing your hands whole.
and you sent that to him. him!
he drops back onto his mattress, staring at the photo picking apart its every detail. like a loser.
[ryo] 7:57pm: you look fine.
[ryo] 7:57pm: cute, too.
his thumb hovers over the word cute before he sends it. too much? too soon? he sends it anyway.
[name❤️] 7:58pm: cute?? (///▽///)
[name❤️] 7:58pm: that’s not fair i look like a marshmallow
he laughs again.
[ryo] 7:58pm: i love marshmallows
he immediately groans at himself, that was so corny.
[name❤️] 7:59pm: oh my god
[name❤️] 7:59pm: what a line
[ryo] 7:59pm: shh
[ryo] 8:00pm: i’m tryna be suave
[ryo] 8:01pm: you really are okay though?
[name❤️] 8:01pm: yes sir
[name❤️] 8:01pm: it’s barely even there
[ryo] 8:02pm: don’t call me sir. makes me sound ancient.
[name❤️] 8:02pm: sorry, sorry. how old are you, btw?
[ryo] 8:03pm: a year older than you.
[name❤️] 8:04pm: you are ancient !
[ryo] 8:05pm: stop being a brat 💔
he winces at himself for that, maybe that was a bit too relationship-y... oh well, he could save it.
[ryo] 8:06pm: so
[ryo] 8:06pm: about saturday
[name❤️] 8:06pm: yeahhh?
okay he's locking in.
[ryo] 8:07pm: i was thinking i’d pick you up around seven
[ryo] 8:07pm: there’s this lookout spot just outside town. not a lot of people know about it
[ryo] 8:08pm: figured we could go stargazing?
he stares at the message, that sounded decent, romantic but not cringe, right?
[name❤️] 8:09pm: stargazing!
[name❤️] 8:09pm: that sounds so fun!
[ryo] 8:09pm: yess
[ryo] 8:09pm: we'll have blanket and snacks and no loud idiots.
[ryo] 8:10pm: promise i’m not taking you out there to kidnap you or anything
the second it sends he wants to launch his fuckass phone across the room.
why would you say that, who says that?!
three dots appear then disappear then appear again.
[name❤️] 8:11pm: HAHAHA
[name❤️] 8:11pm: that’s exactly what someone planning to kidnap me would say
he lets out a relieved laugh.
[ryo] 8:11pm: yh i walked into that one
[name❤️] 8:12pm: it sounds really nice though!
[name❤️] 8:12pm: i’ve never actually been stargazing before (๑°⌓°๑)
[ryo] 8:13pm: then it’s settled
[ryo] 8:13pm: first time for you. i’ll make it good
he pauses, then adds:
[ryo] 8:13pm: the stargazing. i mean
he buries his face in his pillow with a groan.
[name❤️] 8:14pm: i knew what you meant!!
[name❤️] 8:14pm: you’re so awkward it’s kinda cute
cute.
you called him cute.
he stares at that word until it feels hot branded into the folds of his brain.
[ryo] 8:15pm: don’t get used to that
he is grinning like an idiot in his empty room.
[name❤️] 8:15pm: awe man
there is something about the way you type that's so careful yet playful, he adores it.
[ryo] 8:17pm: seriously though.
[ryo] 8:17pm: i’m sorry again about earlier.
[name❤️] 8:18pm: awe sukuna, it's fine!
his name on your screen makes him jitter with excitement.
[ryo] 8:18pm: you can call my ryomen, if you want. or ryo?
[name❤️] 8:18pm: ooo okay! ryo it is.
[name❤️] 8:18pm: i promise i’m not secretly mad at you or anything, btw, so don't stress it
[ryo] 8:19pm: okay good
[ryo] 8:19pm: i’d hate to think my first move was almost knocking you out cold
[name❤️] 8:19pm: you’re being dramatic
[ryo] 8:20pm: i’m allowed, you have a bruise with my name on it
he lays back again, phone above his face waiting.
[name❤️] 8:21pm: well
[name❤️] 8:21pm: i guess that just means you owe me a good date 😊
he laughs out loud.
[ryo] 8:21pm: oh i plan on it
[ryo] 8:23pm: hey. can i get your socials too?
[name❤️] 8:24pm: sure!
[name❤️] 8:24pm: it’s @—— on insta
[name❤️] 8:24pm: and the same for twitter but i barely use that one 🙂↕️
he immediately opens instagram, types your handle in, and your aesthetic little profile pops up.
your smiling face looks back at him for the second time that night and he smiles just as big as before.
[ryo] 8:25pm: got it
[name❤️] 8:25pm: ur stalking me already?
[ryo] 8:26pm: absolutely
he switches back to instagram to properly stalk your page.
he's not thinking about parties or stupid hookups or whatever his friends are doing down the hall, no. he's dreaming about saturday. about you under the night sky and about him trying his hardest to not mess this up
~
pep talk time.
it's the day of valentine's day, and sukuna's standing in front of his mirror talking himself up.
you can do this, you're a sexy guy.
he's got his best looking jeans on, a studded belt, some nice sneakers, and a black beater. his jewellery matches for once, with his face an array of shiny silver to match his rings and chain.
he looked good, better than usual.
he could do this.
on his way out of the frat after getting good luck wishes from his brothers, he's up and out the door checking his appearance one more time in the reflection of his phone.
he pulls up to your dorm a little before sunset with the busty engine rumbling beneath him as he parks out front. he cuts it, but he doesn’t get out straight away,
he just sits there with the bouquet of lilies resting on the passenger seat, wrapped in brown paper with a neat little twine bow he tried desperately to tie himself. he'd spent half an hour in the florist with the old store owner picking out the perfect ones for the occasion, making sure they'd fit your personality just right.
he runs a hand over his mouth, then through his hair, then checks his reflection in the rearview mirror for the fifteen hundredth time.
“you’re fine,” he mutters to himself. “you look good. you’re hot. she already said yes.”
he grabs the flowers before he can stress even more about it and steps out, boots hitting the pavement.
the air’s cool and the sky’s all streaked with orange and hues of pink. perfect conditions for the perfect date he'd been meticulously planning. he leans back against his truck for a second, rolling his shoulders, then walks up to your dorm entrance.
he knocks twice, waits a minute, then almost fucking chokes at the sight of you, standing there in the doorway, framed by the warm hallway light behind you.
your outfit is this cute downtown girl kinda vibe that's short enough to show your legs but still loungey, very star-gazing appropriate. your makeup’s done all nice with glossed lips and pretty lashes. you’re fiddling with the strap of your bag, fingers twisting it nervously.
he stares in awe, his brain shorting out completely. he was prepared for you to look nice, not this good. jeez, were you tryna kill him?
“hi,” you say softly.
“hi,” he manages back.
red orbs drag over your being before he can stop himself. not in a pervy way. just… taking you in.
he clears his throat quickly and thrusts the bouquet toward you like he almost forgot he was holding it.
“these are for you.”
your face lights up. “oh wow…”
you take the lilies carefully, bringing them close to your nose.
“they’re so pretty,” you murmur, smiling up at him.
he rubs the back of his neck, shy himself. “of course... uh— you deserve somethin' pretty.”
your face grows hot at his flirt.
“you look amazing,” he blurts out before he can overthink it. “like— so pretty. just... wow.”
you duck your head a little, clearly very flustered. “thank you..." you start, "you look really good too.”
he grins at that, confidence creeping back in.
“yeah?” he steps a little closer. “told you i’d clean up nice.”
you nod shyly, hugging the flowers tighter.
“i’ll just put these in water really quick,” you say, stepping back inside.
he stands there awkwardly in the doorway while you move to a little table beside the entrance where a glass vase is already sitting. already filled with water.
he notices that.
you were expecting flowers? shit, he's glad he asked nanami for some first date tips earlier that week.
you slip the lilies into the vase carefully, adjusting them so they sit just right. then you turn back to him, smoothing down your top.
“okay,” you smile. “let's go.”
he offers you his hand without even thinking about it.
you look at it for a second, then place your smaller one into his.
it fits. perfectly.
he cups his fingers around yours gently, not too tight, and leads you down the steps toward his hilux.
he opens the passenger door for you, hand steady at your waist as you climb in. he shuts it carefully, then jogs around to the driver’s side.
once he’s inside, he starts the engine and peers over at you. you’re sitting there with your hands folded neatly in your lap, looking a little nervous but still harboring a smile.
“thanks for coming out with me tonight,” he says after pulling away from the curb.
you stare up at him. “of course. i'm excited.”
“yeah?” he asks, trying not to sound too hopeful.
you nod. “yeah.”
he relaxes into his seat a little.
“i’ve kinda wanted to ask you out for a while,” he admits with his eyes peeled on the road for once. he couldn't drive recklessly like with the other chicks he's used to, no. you weren't like that and he couldn't risk you thinking he was an asshole.
you turn toward him more fully now. “really?”
“yeah,” he huffs a throaty laugh. “i’ve seen you in class since the start of the semester. always sitting there so engaged.”
you giggle softly and he almost swerves. that sound hits him straight in his ridiculously fast beating chest.
“don’t do that,” he mutters under his breath.
“do what?” you ask.
“laugh like that. it’s distracting your uber driver.”
you giggle again, trying to muffle it this time.
he shakes his head, smiling. “you even made me start paying attention.”
you nod. “i noticed.”
“oh, you did, huh?”
“mhm. you started answering questions more, n' stopped sitting all the way at the back.”
he glances at you impressed for taking note of him.
“damn. you pay attention too.”
“i do,” you say proudly.
“well,” he continues, “you kinda inspired me. i didn’t wanna look like a total idiot in front of you.”
you blink at him. “you’re not an idiot.”
“good,” he says lightly. “i’m tryin' real hard not to be tonight.”
for such a big buy, he was shaping up to be more awkward than you. you could get used to this.
the conversation starts moving along quickly as you drive further.
he tells you about how he switched majors once before settling where he is now. about how his brothers at the frat drive him insane half the time and that he's getting a little sick of the party animal lifestyle everyone loved to glorify. about how he likes working out because it clears his head of the stress of life.
you tell him about your favorites, about how you almost dropped the class the first week because you thought it would be too hard.
“no way,” he says. “you? you think chemistry's hard?”
you roll your eyes playfully. “it’s intense!”
“you’re intense,” he shoots back.
you look at him like you don’t know if that’s a compliment.
“in a good way,” he adds quickly. “you care about stuff. that’s, like, rare.”
frank ocean plays quietly in the background while trees zoom past the window. he throws in a few dumb jokes here and there to keep you entertained, and you laugh at almost all of them. every time, he has to clutch the wheel tighter in fear of crashing.
by the time the town lights start thinning out and the road gets darker, you’re both talking over each other a little, interrupting, smiling, and laughing like you were already a couple.
he pulls into the lookout, gravel crunching under the tires. your eyes are wide, staring out at the open sky. the first stars are already visible like little flickering fireflies in the big black ink.
“wow,” you sigh, but he's watching you, not the sky.
“you like it?”
“it’s so beautiful.”
he kills the engine and turns toward you fully.
“sit tight,” he says softly. “i’ll get the tray ready.”
you nod and offer him a smile. “can’t wait.”
he hops out, heart racing for a whole new reason now, and moves to the tray of his truck.
he rounds the back of the hilux and drops the tailgate with a metallic clank that echoes out over the quiet lookout. you hear him shuffle around back there, the soft click of a switch, then another, then a string of warm yellow blinking to life.
“okay,” he calls, trying and failing to sound casual. “c’mere.”
you hop down from the passenger side and walk around the truck, hugging your arms around yourself against the cool evening air.
and then you see little lights. fairy lights. strung so prettily along the inside edges of the tray, looped around the bars in uneven lines that clearly took effort. a thick mattress laid out flat with layered blankets in different colors, big pillows (some with the tags still on them, bless his heart for buying the expensive ones for such an occasion) piled up against the cab. there’s a little wooden crate acting as a table with snacks stacked on top, chocolate, strawberries, chips, a thermos, even those stupid little heart candies that taste like chalk but everyone eats on valentine's day regardless.
you stand there in complete and utter awe.
“well?” he asks, suddenly very insecure and unsure, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck again. “is it… is it too much?”
you shake your head quickly. “are you kidding me?”
you step closer and trail your fingers over one of the fairy light wires, staring at the glow against the darkening sky.
“you did all this?”
“yes, ma’am,” he shrugs, but he’s watching your face so closely it’s almost comical how nervous he looks. “figured valentine’s day deserved something better than a movie and greasy takeout... not that i’d ever dream of taking you out on something like that! i just— i mean—”
“it’s beautiful,” you cut him off.
he stops and sighs so deeply. “thank god,” he says with a small grin. “took me forever to figure out how to make the lights not look so stupid.”
“they don’t,” you promise. “they’re perfect.”
he steps closer without really thinking about it, stopping just in front of you. the fairy lights reflect in his red eyes, turning them golden at the edges.
“may i?” he asks quietly, with his hands hovering near your hips.
you nod, and he smiles.
his hands settle at your waist and he lifts you up like you weigh nothing at all. you let out a cute, surprised laugh as he sets you gently onto the mattress. you flick your shoes off, then crawl back a little, getting comfortable against the pillows, smoothing your skirt down. he watches your every movement with a fond expression and climbs up after you, sitting on the opposite side at first, legs stretched out, bracing one arm behind him.
you tilt your head back and look up. the sky has gone fully dark now, stars scattered everywhere, more than you’ve ever seen on your light-polluted campus.
“the sky's so gorgeous,” you whisper.
“yeah,” he says. but again? he’s not looking at it. he’s looking at you.
the lights from the strings frame your face in gold and your pretty lashes cast tiny pinned shadows against your hot cheeks. your lips are still glossy, and he swallows down the thought of what it would be like to kiss such perfection.
you don’t notice because you’re too busy tracing constellations with your finger in the air. “i can’t believe you did this,” you say gently.
he exhales a short laugh. “i can’t believe you even said yes to me.” that makes you glance over, surprised. “hm? and why wouldn’t i?”
his eyes drop to his hands and he opens and closes them bashfully.
“i dunno. you’re just… you.”
you frown. “huh? what does that mean?”
he combs his thick fingers through his pink spikes.
“means you’re smart as hell. and sweet. and you actually care about stuff. you sit in class taking notes while i’m trying to remember not to fall asleep.”
“yeah? but you’ve started paying attention,” you remind him.
“because of you,” he says immediately. “that’s my point.”
you blink up at him as he explains further. he huffs, frustrated with himself.
“i just— i feel kinda outta place sometimes. being this… attracted to you.”
your heart stutters at that.
“attracted to me?”
he scoffs lightly. “don’t act surprised.”
you smile shyly. “i’m not acting.”
he leans back against the back of his truck further and nods.
“i guess you’re just… a little different to the chicks i’m used to.”
he thinks back to the amount of girls he’s hooked up with three minutes after meeting them. he can’t remember any names or any real conversations.
“they’ve all been kinda shallow. or maybe i’m shallow, i don’t know. but this is…”
you blink but you don’t pull away.
“but you?” he continues. “i’ve been sitting behind you in chem for three months trying to figure out how to ask you to coffee without sounding like a fucking moron.”
you laugh softly.
“it’s not funny,” he mutters, though there’s no bite in it. “i’ve never had to rehearse a sentence in my entire life.”
“you rehearsed?”
“mhm. in the mirror,” he admits. “today. for like ten minutes.”
your hand flies to your mouth to hide your giggle.
“that’s actually really cute.”
“don’t call it that,” he grumbles.
“why not?”
“because i’m trying to look cool.”
“you’re failing.”
he narrows his eyes at you, but there’s amusement in there somewhere.
you scoot your butt a little closer across the mattress until you're almost touching him.
“i’m glad you’re into me,” you say quietly.
“yeah?”
“yeah. i always thought you were really cute.”
what?
“what?”
you feel a little self-conscious now. “i just… didn’t think someone like you would go for someone like me.”
his head snaps toward you.
“what the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
you look down at your hands. “you’re charismatic. confident. everyone knows you. and i’m just…”
“just what?” he presses.
“shy.”
“you think that matters?”
you hesitate. “doesn’t it?”
“no,” he says far too loud. “no, it doesn’t.” he corrects. “you’re the one who shouldn’t be into me.”
your eyes widen. “what?”
“yeah,” he says, getting worked up now. “you’re organised, you’ve got your life together. you’re probably gonna graduate with honors and get some insane job. i mean, i live in a frat house with idiots who think setting a couch on fire is peak entertainment.”
you giggle.
“i’m serious.”
“i know,” you say, smiling.
“i’m not used to girls like you,” he admits, voice dropping again. “girls who… don’t just want the version of me that’s all loud and risky at functions.”
you reach out without thinking and rest your hand on his forearm.
“i like you how you are,” you say.
“oh yeah?”
“mhm. the guy who ties twine bows really badly and buys silly fairy lights to make things moody.”
he looks away, embarrassed.
“shoosh.”
“no,” you say softly. “i really mean it.”
you scoot even closer than before, then lean your head gently against his shoulder.
oh god.
he's had girls straddle his lap five minutes after introductions. he has had hands in his hair and acrylic nails down his back, mouths on his neck without a single 'hey, how are you?'
and yet, something as mediocre as putting your head on his shoulder has him cheesing.
you look up at the guy. “you okay?”
“yeah,” he says.
“you’re really stiff.”
“i’m fine.”
you smile against his arm. “relax.”
easy for you to say.
he forces himself to loosen up, letting his shoulder drop slightly so you’re more comfortable. after a second, he lifts his arm and carefully drapes it around you. ok, getting bolder.
you tuck into his side closer happily.
he stares straight ahead at the horizon, trying to steady himself for what he's about to spill.
“you make me nervous,” he admits quietly.
“me?” you sound genuinely shocked.
“yeah. you.”
your heart jumps and flutters with all different species of butterflies, “yeah, why?”
“because i don’t wanna screw this up.”
your hand curls lightly into the fabric of his black beater.
“you won’t.”
“you don’t know that.”
“i do,” you say simply.
he looks down at you, “how?”
“because you care,” you answer. “and guys who care usually don't screw stuff up.”
okay, he guesses that was true. he hadn't tried this hard for anyone else, so it had to be why this was going so well and he hadn't totally fucked everything up.
the fairy lights glow around you, little reflections dancing over the blankets. somewhere far below, a car drives past on the main road, its headlights tiny in the distance.
“you’re seriously the cutest girl i’ve ever seen,” he says suddenly.
you blink up at him.
“i mean it,” he continues. “the way you get all serious in class. the way you correct the professor under your breath. the way you just—exist.”
you hide your face against his shoulder.
“stop.”
“no.”
“you’re embarrassing me.”
“good,” he murmurs.
you laugh softly.
“i’m really glad i asked you out,” he says. “i almost pussied out.”
“well, i’m super glad you didn’t.”
“yeah?”
“yeah,” you nod. “i would’ve never done it myself.”
“why not?”
“duh. i thought you were out of my league.”
he lets out a disbelieving sound.
“that’s insane.”
“is it?”
“yes,” he says firmly. “if anything, i’m the one punching above my weight here.”
you lift your head. “you really think that?”
“i know that.”
your smile turns softer this time.
“well,” you say, settling back against him. “good thing we both ignored our own bad opinions.”
he laughs for the millionth time that day, something very out of the ordinary for someone like ryomen. “i guess yr' right.”
“hey,” he says after a while of just being in each other's presence.
“hm?”
“this is just our first one.”
you look at him. “first what?”
“first valentine’s day together.”
your heart grows ten times in size.
“first, huh? that's bold of you,” you tease softly.
he smirks. “well, i don’t plan on going anywhere.”
you smile and press a small kiss to his shoulder through the fabric.
oh god. oh god. we got a kiss boys.
his body's gone completely stiff. every. single. part..
"someone's all nervous again, y'know, ryo? you're really—hmph—!"
he cuts you off with a proper kiss, one smack bang in the centre of your lips with one hand tilting your head to face his, deepening it all.
as you're kissing back, his hands grip up on your waist. you reply by snaking your hands up his shirt against his warm torso, feeling each and every one of his rippling abs.
“not so shy now, huh?”
"what can i say... i'm getting comfortable." he laughs in reply, kissing you harder.
he moves his hips around, then grips your waist and lifts you straight into his lap like it’s nothing. you gasp softly against his mouth as you land there, legs settling on either side of his meaty thighs.
this kiss was nothing of the gentleness the first one had.
it’s much slower but somehow so much deeper.. he's got his hand placed at the back of your head, pushing your mouth against his rougher, the other holding you tight and snug against him. he tilts you just right so your lips press harder together.
you kiss him back just as eagerly, fingers pushing higher beneath his shirt, palms skimming over his pecs now.
he exhales through his nose, almost a laugh.
“best valentine’s day i’ve ever had,” he murmurs against your mouth.
you smile into the kiss.
“yeah?”
“yeah,” he says, nudging you gently until you’re both tipping sideways, down down down until the blankets catch your weight. he lowers you down, hovering over you for a second, eyes dark with want but still appreciative.
this date? complete win, go ryomen.
and as he leans back in to kiss you softly, the fairy lights glowing around you sparking long like a second set of glimmering stars, he knows he’s never going back to anything less than this. than you.
valentine's day with the cute girl from his chem was a complete success.
oh? you want to see what dates the other college jjk characters would take you on? then look no further! my valentines writing event has all you could ever need ! sixxels' valentines event masterlist 💘
this fic is good because you can read my frat!sukuna x shy!nerdy!reader headcanons AND oneshot as add ons!
All work belongs to @sixxels Do NOT repost, modify, translate to another language, or plagiarise in any way on ANY platform.
Logging back in here after almost a year. I missed out on a lot. I now see Blue/Green ticks. And a Fire icon? Not sure what they are. I'll find out soon.
I hope everyone's been doing well. Is haikyuu still a big thing here? I hope so. I miss them. I miss all the stories & art from amazing people <3
Also, I've started watching Naruto. My husband told me it's a good idea. I'm on season 7. I think it's going pretty well. I'm in love with Kakashi. And Genma? He's so hot? Why.
yuuji is sukuna’s younger brother and he doesnt know about him being a sorcerer. sukuna doesn’t want yuuji to be associated or connected to whatever he’s doing.
yuuji continues to live a normal high school life and he’s still a part of the occult club. so of course their club accidentally summons a special grade curse and of course sukuna was the one sent over to exorcise it.
izuku coming over to your place after a night of patrol because it's closer and he's weathered, sore and tired. he's your bestfriend and always welcome to use his spare key, something that took a great deal of encouragement on your part. he lets himself in at 4am with a quiet murmur of "i'm home", only in the comfort that you wouldn't hear it, wouldn't look into the implication of it. he lines his shoes up beside yours and navigates your apartment easily in the dark, heading in the direction that he knows your bedroom is. the door is slightly ajar and he winces at the groan it makes as he pushes it further open, eyes already adjusted to the lack of light and honing in on your figure as it shifts beneath the bed covers.
he wants to feel guilty that he woke you, but he only feels guilty that he's relieved. feels guilty about how greedy he's becoming now that he's comfortable here, pulling a mile with every inch you gave him. but you let the spool continue to spin, you let him settle into your life as if he belonged, just as you were now pulling back the quilts and letting him into your bed.
the sheets are warmed by your body heat, the smell of your conditioner lingering on the pillows. he feels himself sink, feels the rigidity leave his muscles as he exhales.
"hard shift?" you ask, voice laden with sleep. no, he thinks, not particularly. but when compared to your soft gaze, your quiet concern, everything else in the world seems much harsher.
he hums in acknowledgement, not a lie but not a truth. you take it as a yes, reaching out through the shadows and threading your fingers into his hair to comfort him. dipping in and out of sleep, your hand eventually slips tiredly down the curve of his cheek, and when it remains there he covers it with his own. only when he hears your soft snore does he turn to press a kiss to your palm.
Kuroo Tetsurou is the type of man to memorize your Starbucks order no matter how complicated it is because he loves you.
Kuroo Tetsurou is also the type of man to give the barista a ridiculous made-up name so you get embarrassed to go get your drink after because he loves to tease you.
