hi, hello. my name is april. this is a side blog that contains all writings from my main blog --> KENTOCALLS . minors do not interact please as stories can be +18. mostly focused on jujutsu kaisen fics at the moment âĄ
just recently writing. requests are open, i do not write gore / cannibalism. expect delays. all dividers belong to saradika-graphics
nanami kento || first love
2.5k nanami week day 1 prompt: first love, au professor, sfw, Reader is an older student in college getting her creative writing degree. Nanami is a Professor. Enjoy!
Contrary to what one might think, Professors do notice students.
Especially the ones who slip in mid-way into the semester and run up, requesting an extension. Someone has passed or an unforeseen accident has occurred, and Nanami Kento cannot tell you the sudden decrease of both once he shifted his 8am course to 4pm.
He almost achieved world peace.
Though currently, you stand before him, requesting an extension on an assignment that should be childâs play. Youâre an adult, older than the rest of the recently emancipated crowd that warms the seats of his lecture hall.
Heâd notice you right away, the corporate attire heavy on your frame, still a polished look near the end of the day. The work badge always being rolled into the lanyard and stuffed into the first left pocket, not the rightânever the right.
Heâs noticed where you choose to be seated too, the third front row, four seats in. No one sits on either side of you, a chair for your bag, a chair for your water, and a laptop ready to take in his next presentation. You were mostly diligent the first three weeks of school, then disappeared; his eyes couldnât help but long for another soul who understands exactly why low rise jeans should be abolished.
 And now, suddenly, here you are.
 âI wouldnât ask, another week, I havenât fallen in love with any of my first drafts for this assignment.â A common appeal to his teaching sensibility, that you have been working itâs simply the written words that are the issue. Not ethic or procrastination.
As a writer he can attest to this conundrum, though heâs gotten a reputation. No extensions, regardless of the reason, any student will simply need to take the lower grade and do their best on the final.
However, his eyes see yours and the words easily saunter over to your side of the desk, âSo, what happened?â
 You make a face, somewhat unprepared, quickly though, soothing away the shock as you readjust your office blouse that wants to bunch up today of all days, âAs you know I work, thatâs not an excuse. However, I was abroad on a client site inspectionâ I had my laptop hence the few first drafts, I wrote them on the plane but nothingâŠâ a sigh, ââŠit all feels like a cop out.â
He canât have that, the theme for this particular assignment is serious business and often students surprise him with their responses. âA cop out for, first love?â
A soft nod, your mouth opens and closes, editing and re-writing your thoughts in real time. Nanami finds it fascinating, as you prepare to speak again, âItâs super open ended, which normally appreciated but given⊠well, work, I havenât had an inspiration ping.â
An inspiration what? His eyebrows raise slightly, you wonder if thatâs a smile or a smirk on his lips. Is he amused or is heâŠ. well heâs always been handsome but ignore that. Heâs your Professor in this capacity! Not a colleague to review creative writing with, not someone to sit in a bougie coffee shop and count up the use of commas, not someoneâ âPing?â
You lean into the most uncomfortable wooden chair known to humans and narrow your eyes, âA ping. It was mentioned in the âwhatâs your writing processâ reflective work.â
âReflection journals are for you, I canât say I read each one that is submitted in the portal. There would beâŠ. too many of them.â Huh, a mandatory daily assignment that the dear Professor doesnât even read but gives you automatic points for? Noted. âTell me about it.â
 âConsidering I already have, Professor, what is your writing process?â He leans back himself, an arm dangling on his office chair as he considers the question, âIt starts all the same for us, doesnât it? A bubbling up of a scene or sentence, the chase to make pen to paper before it gets washed away in the sink.â
Bath metaphors, interesting. âSo you understand then, why I need more time?â
The worn wood of the desk creeks under the pressure of his elbows, the roll of his chair is slow, almost deliberate; Nanami is not a fan of the carpet getting caught in the wheels and embarrassing himself, especially in front of you. âTell me about it, inspiration ping?â
An inhale to brace yourself as you start, âI wanted to get back into writing after being away for so long⊠and the way I forced myself into it was, simplyâonce the inspiration pingsâa song or a scene or a objectâto go! Start writing and let it all map itself. Without a draft or an outline, as I know those are important now to really hone in on a narrative butâŠâ he notes the way your eyes fall from him, roam the many big serious books on writing that outline his office walls, the rows of filing cabinets and the window where the sun has set, shootâyou need to move your car out of the timed park zone soon.
 âButâŠ?â
âIt hasnât happened for this. A ping.â You shrug, âUsually it does and I can whip out a couple hundred words, let them settle and use it for the proper way to write an outline and then the narrative.â
Heâs frowning, why is he frowning? Itâs not like youâre cheating, you make a first pre-draft of what would be a solid piece of workââThatâs wrong.â
You click your tongue, looking at him annoyed, âHow exactly? Itâs still my original idea and words being used to draftââ
âNo, forgive me. What I wanted to correct is âthe proper way to writeâ â doesnât exist.â He leans back now heâs not so sure if you really did submit a reflection journal, he wouldâve remembered something like inspiration ping. Itâs so direct, simple, succinct.
You look at him with furrowed brows, âYou said to provide a logical structureââ
âThat was for the kids who havenât written an essay by hand ever.â He holds his hands up, âNot saying you arenât young but weâre not, kids are we?â
âWe?â your arms cross over another, he swallows hard, for a creative writing professor he finds himself fumbling his own argumentative structuring, âYou listen to James Brown.â
Oh now heâs on thinner ice.
âWhat I mean is, from everything Iâve read, you already have an established writers voice, a point of view for each assignment. It's effectively illustrated and adapted to meet every requirement, you donât need the ABCâs of creative writing, youâre already writing creatively. If your process works for you, then keep it.â
 âWell itâs not working, right now, hence the extension request.â He nods, right, youâre not a friend saddled with writers block or lack of confidence, youâre his student struggling with an assignment. âShow me the drafts.â
You scoff, âYou donât believe I did them?â
From this little interaction, he knows itâs better he not speak and let you act, what he expects is a laptop with a document full of started and stopped ideas but instead is a journal, the surprise on his face is evident. âYouâre not the first to recommend an actual writing journal, Professor.â
âAnd you arenât a new student to creative writing, when did you start yours?â You hand the diligently cared for journal over, with all itâs stickies and tabs, âThatâs almost as bad as asking how old I am.â
âYou started that young?â But thereâs a smile to his tone, which leads a smile to yours, âMaybe. I always liked making new things up.â
âTo be a writer, you have to know how to lie.â Heâs enjoying this, god when was the last time his eyes have read cursive like this? Itâs almost textbook how your râs look and how every t is crossed. You even write the letter g the proper way andâ
âOR know how to use the truth.â You smile at him, âItâs a delicate balance between the truth, a lie and something else.â
âSomething else.â he parrots, not sure what heâs seeking in your eyes but he drops his back down, the writing alone has him captivated and when he reads the first few words heâs hooked. The sound of pages being flipped over fills his tiny office, is he aware heâs licked his thumb and with great scrutiny cards his thumb over the edges of each page? Is he that hungry for your next sentence?
One idea ends, another beings, each hold him hostage, glued to the edge of his seat and then he flips a final page and empty narrow ruled margin laughs at him. He looks at you, mouth hanging open, a big of a shrug to his shoulders, âYou could take one of these ideas andâŠ?â
âPolish it off or wait for a new one to ping me and polish that off.â He flips back through over your writing before slowly closing the journal and handing it back, âAny one of those would be excellent to explore, what feels off about them?â
You scrunch your face at him, shit itâs cute, âYou need a bit of truth with the lie, right?â
He nods. He nods and then he letâs his brain process, the assignment is about first love, your writings are dreamy, airy, whimsical, how anyoneâs first love should be but âthe truthâwhatâs the truth needed here? âAn extension?â
âAn extension ifâyou turn it into me, not the TA. I want to read it myself.â
âSo not only do you not read the reflection entries, you donât read out weekly assignments?â Thereâs two hundred students in one lecture hall, and with his four TAâs that leaves about 80 papers for one human to consume and grade, maybe direct feedback is asking for too much. Damn, maybe larger universities arenât everything their made out to be.
âI read what I can, I do.â You want to believe him, âBut as you know,â he gestures around the office, âwork.â
 ____
 The thing about you, and your writing is that it's a bit too honest. For all the big talk about dancing with the truth and lies, you⊠really can't submit work you're not proud of. And this stupid assignment, even though it's only 30 points and in the grand scheme of all assignments, missing it won't hurtâ(you have an excel spreadsheet to verify this)âeven then! This is a prompt you want to complete.
First Love.
It's so open ended and there's so many types of love to write about, and you did. Granted, you didn't really annotate 'draft one - my love for flowers' 'draft two - my love for bakeries,' 'draft three - the love of crunchy texture' â all of those seemed to captivate Professor NanamiâŠand yet, none of them were actually about romantic love.
You've wondered if that's what Professor Nanami wants to read and was basing all his comments on, that if he found out you wrote about your favorite dutch bread sandwich, would it make your entire essay a whole bunch of bologna?
You feel like a fraud.
But you can't necessarily create a truth that doesn't exist, maybe if you stretch your writing a bit, maybe jog your memories, perhaps you got close to romantic love, once, butâŠ. ugh!
Writing is hard!
Can you reset your brain and get a new inspiration ping? Why is everything you love edible?
You're not gonna do it.
You won't submit the paper. Claim work got busy again and he won't even notice.
____
Only he emails â no subject line, no hello or sign offs, simply 'Extension granted.' Every. Single. Week.
____
 The semester ends, you pass with flying colors but are called to his office anyways, not that you have to go he can't rescind a grade that's already been posted butâŠ. since it's not totally in the student handbook you go to meet him anyways. Sitting across from him, in much cooler weather, that sweater of his, the bronzed version of the frames that sit delicately across his nose.
Does he swap out his frames for autumn?
"I've never had a student miss an extension request." He's at the fancy kettle, making himself a cup of tea, you had denied his offer to make you one.
And god, does he have to be nice? Just, lie to him! Get ready to shrug, just like you practice in the mirror, say the sentence about being caught up in work, he'll believe you, he has to. When the cup of tea you previously rejected ends up in front of you, like a sad balloon you deflate. "I couldn't do it."
"No ping?"
"No ping."
He nods, swivels a bit in his chair, looks out towards the window, "No ping." He says softer, quieter. "Well, how do you usually get a ping?"
You narrow your eyes at him, but it's not a joke, it doesn't feel ill intended either, so now you do shrug, "Anything, a song or show or bagel."
He raises his eyebrows, "A bagel?"
You close your eyes, sipping the too warm tea, "Sorry, I missed lunch, work's⊠work's been hectic." He leans back in his chair, swiveling to the side, "The best bagel I ever had was in at an airport."
Okay⊠what are you supposed to do with this information. "Every time I hear the word bagel, I think back to getting off a terrible six hour flight and biting into the too tough bread with slightly warm cream cheese."
"That doesn't sound like the best?"
He shakes his head, a soft chuckle to himself, "Technically true. It was probably a bit stale too, however, it's the first real meal after days of not eating well. It felt like coming alive again, something I could taste."
You get that, thinking to your own favorite dutch bread sandwich. "Food is amazing like that."
"It is." He takes a sip of his tea, "So why not submit one of your drafts?"
Oh, you don't like this man, how dare he, the heat rushes to your face, "You⊠no, how did you know they were⊠about food?"
Now a shock on his face, he smiles, "I didn't, I wouldn't have." He pauses, "Are any of the places local?"
"Professor!" He raises his hands as his shoulders move up and down, this is simply not done, he's supposed to be a professional, you're paying so much money to learn from him, despite all of this, you smile anyways. "Even if they were local, what I love and what you love wouldn't be the same."
He shrugs, "They don't have to be."
It's a bit too swift how he flicks his wrist and glances at his watch, he's got time before the staff meeting, "I thoroughly enjoyed reading your writing, and I know you'll have continued success in the program."
There he is, ever the professional.
Though when he invites you to lunch, you say yes. When he takes you to a very familiar hole-in-the-wall sandwich shop, you narrow your eyes. "Let me introduce you to my first love."
It's a bit too cute, how he half smiles, how the shop owner knows him by first name â Kento â and how your ex-Professor learns just how strict you are with your sandwich assembly.
And maybe you don't have a first romantic love, but as you bite into what could be your new favorite bread, hazel eyes watching yours expectantly, maybe that's about to change too.
nanami kento || papamin
1.7kish, reader, baby yuji, and nanami celebrate his birthday. no bears or subway employees were harmed in the making. Day 3 prompt. Yes this is out of order and Yes I am late. Shh!
"Shhhhh!"
You would not argue with Yuji for any reason as small as this, however, surely, the pad of your feet against the wooden floors at 2pm, an hour before Nanami Kento is said to come home, doesn't need shushing does it?
"Someone'sâ" "Shhhh!!!"
In a whisper, you try again, "Someone is excited."
"Papamin can hear."
You quirk an eyebrow up, the boy returns to his task at hand. Sawing strawberries, the long ways, for cake decorations. It's a bit lopsided, but Yuji insisted every single bit of cake was necessary.
How else would his precious Papamin know how much the youngest adores him? Every single sprinkle and crumb is necessary!
You cut the blueberries for him, because those are too small and too squishy for his child-safe knife. It's cute, watching him concentrate so much, the boy has never been silent this long, if that doesn't speak to his devotion of Papamin what else would?
The lopsided cake becomes yours and Yuji's to decorate once all the fruit is chopped up. Yuji wants more fluffy clouds and you're not sure which frosting tip is supposed to make that, but selecting a 'open star' and praying it meets the critique of your harshest grader yet.
He claps happily and then carefully holds tongs to get the fruit onto the cake, though one drops a bit prematurely and his fingers go to grab the slippery sweetness. "Uh ohâŠ." You can see his eyes water, there's a large hole where his finger previously was. You smile all the same, "Watch this."
You've binged a plethora of cake decorating videos, grabbing a flat long spatula and dropping a dollop of frosting a top, you sooth over the hole best as possible and make a flower with the tiny strawberries Yuji has cut up. "Flowers for Papamin!"
Nodding, you decorate the rest of the cake with help from the youngster, blueberries in the middle, more sprinkles on the cloud. It's no where near the pinterest photo but it's real and here. On the table where you, Yuji and Nanami will have lazy late lunch together. "Time to put it in the fridge!"
He escorts you like a bodyguard, pulling chairs and decorative vases larger than him away from your path, opening the fridge and insisting to hide the cake behind apple juice. His Papamin isn't a fan of that, after all, it's only for Yuji.
He gives you a high-five as you set about cleaning up. He's reciting all the words you've taught him today, spelling them each while he bounces around you, mostly excited the longest word he knows how to spell is birthday. Yuji did confess earlier, he didn't think it was such a long word, "B-d-a-y-, birthday." "B-i-r-t-h-d-a-y- birthday."
đ
It isn't as if Nanami Kento is anticipating anything big, birthdays have taken new meanings once Yuji stepped into his life. Never had he imaged actually stepping in to parent his Godson, but he is nothing if not dutiful. He made a vow to keep Yuji safe always, and if that means processing his own stunted emotional baggage, then so be it.
He's brought balloons that fly, the kind Yuji will enjoy. He smiles picturing the blue and gold balloons floating around his kitchen, Yuji hidden by the island. Maybe Nanami should keep balloons on Yuji always, this way he'd always have awareness to his location.
You may not be a fan of that.
You and your sweet smile, kind eyes and, happy-to-help attitude. You work at Yuji's day care, one illness gone on too long, you staying by Nanami's side late into the emergency room, and he⊠he's a selfish as any man isn't he?
"You don't have to do this alone, Nanami." You had said it so matter of fact, as if the entire world would conspire to help protect Yuji if Nanami dared to look for hope.
Either way, his heart fills and is ready to spill over hearing, "Papamin!", upon entering the apartment. He tucks his shoes into the cabinet, places his coat and briefcase on the chair on the side, meant for these things, and keeps himself in a crouching position when Yuji's tell-tale feet pad across the floors. Your huff of "Yuji!" as he rounds the corner, giggling into Papamin's arms who raises to his full height.
He squeezes his arms around Nanami as best he can, "B-e-r-d-a-y! Happy Birthday!"
"Is it mine? Already?" Yuji laughs at that, you sigh, "He does know how to spell it, properly." Yuji does a 'Nu uh' and hides into his Papamin giggling, kicking his feet. "Happy Birthday Nanami, Yujiâ" "Shh!"
You lift your arms, "Alright alright, all we did today was spelling." Yuji lifts his head, "Spellings." Nanami tilts his a bit, assessing your words, does he allow this little secret you two are in on? "Spellings."
đ
The "stuffed" bear Yuji has made for Nanami is a hoot. It's tiny head and entirely too beefy middle body has the Nanami Kento laughing in ways that feel too precious to share with the world. And somehow you're allowed here, on this sofa, to watch him soften in safety. "Papamin!" Yuji lifts the bear in triumph, clearly his gift for Nanami will be the one snuggling him for weeks on end.
You pull out a miniature stuffed teddy bear, "Yujimin."
Yuji gasps, dropping Papamin teddy into Nanami's lap before crawling over the sofa cushions, stepping into your thighs and raising his arms for the teddy. It's a bit painful, he's starting to get too big for this kind of climbing adventures, but you drop the bear into his hands. He sits in your laps, tiny gasps and oohs, "Pink! Like me!" He points to the fur, you nod, brushing his pink hair from the back of his face, "Like yours."
Nanami pulls the Papamin teddy up, "Bath time."
Which is longer, because Yuji needs a story on how Yujimin and Papamin Teddy's came to be, how they found one another, where will they find honey? Do they know Winnie the Pooh? Important considerations to be made!
đ
Yuji sleeps star fished, Papamin teddy on his belly and Yujimin teddy near his cheek. He made it through four pages of the book Nanami read to him, and then lights out. "He had a big day." You say to Nanami.
Tucking in the chairs at the dinning table, out of habit. Yuji has run into these more often than not, Kento clears the crayons and table set. A wipe down with a disinfecting wipes, down the sides of every chair's arm and he's in the kitchen. "I got this."
He notes, you trying to unload the dishwasher, it's more routine now. Him insisting on taking on the chores he can't due to his job, you meandering around the space, reluctant to leave. "How's your book coming along?"
"Hmm, still have just one fan." Your eyes dart over to Yuji's door, and then at the ground. You should get on that, finding a way to print and publish the children's book you've been working on. Nanami believes in your project, but that's Nanami, you wonder if there's anything you'd insist on doing that he wouldn't support you with.
It's not that his faith is blind, you've seen him reject the business ideas his blue eyed friend brings him, so⊠it's hard to say he's a bit soft on you. Cuz maybe he is, and then what does that mean?
You're an important piece of the village Nanami has mustered around him, he was suddenly thrown into guardianship. So unequipped he was those two years ago, now he understands Yuji before Yuji himself can find the right wordsâwhich he knows, he needs to break the habit of doing. Encourage Yuji using his own voice, allow him to fumble and struggle over certain words, yet he can't can he?
He wants to protect Yuji, who is too young to understand where his mother and father have gone, why Papamin is here. "Hey." A warmth that spreads only under your fingertips, your palm must be the missing piece from the sun, he turns softly, inquisitive.
A tiny blue box, a green ribbon, "Happy Birthday Kento."
You didn't have to, you know this. All the extra care you do with Yuji is the gift itself Nanami could never, ever, repay you for, but here you are again. Helplessly kind, caring, doting.
A selfish man he is, drying his hands with the sink towel, letting it rest over a broad shoulder as he takes the box, "Can I open it now or later?"
"Now." You wanna hear it, the big hearty laugh you know he'll let roar from his throat. Carefully he tugs at the green ribbon, ever gently, slides the tip of his finger into the careful folds of the paper. It's blue, which means it's Papamin, which means Yuji will absolutely want to play with it, draw on it, etcâŠ
The plain box gives away nothing of it's contents, but as he removes the lid, the laugh he lets out is infection! Gosh, what a handsome, handsome man, he lifts the Italian Herbs & Cheese inspired seasoning, "Now, you know this could spell trouble."
"Trouble?" The smile doesn't fade from your lips, he nods, "What if Martha from Subway catches wind of this? Buying off-brand seasoningâ"
"It's an artisan blend," you shrug, "if it reminds you of your precious Subway bread, that's on you." He loves when you do that, calling him out on his slightly unhealthy habit of eating at Subway almost daily. Yuji was much younger and Nanami still unprepared for what it takes to feed, raise, clothe, bathe, keep alive a toddler.
"I haven't been there inâŠ," Gosh how he crosses his arms, hand to his chin, exaggerated thinking, "Huh, five days."
"Crazy." You lean close, hand on his forehead, "Are you catching something Kento?" You hand drops back to your side, he's tempted to catch it, you need to check again, who is he? Not eating at Subway for a whole 120 hours. And then you sing-song, "Must be all the recipes I've shown you, real food Kento, is unbeatable."
It is.
He thinks fondly of your patience in teaching him Yuji's favorite 'green sauce' pasta, an abundance of tenderness in your hands, helping him chop, stir, plate. "But⊠if you'd like to, scratch that craving, I guess I could be free tomorrow noon."
"Tomorrow noon?" He has a call with Gojo Satoru about thermal socks and their untapped potential, an easy thing to cancel. "Well, I can't promise a thing about the service," he holds the seasoning up, "But we could absolutely compare the two."
hoshina soshiro | loan
PG, 1.7k
Summary: hoshina takes care of sick reader, dubious kaiju medical knowledge, they're in love your honor
Note: I've never shared my hoshina writing on here? It's all in DMs lol. Oops.
"SoâŠshiâŠ" the arm that lifts sways as a white flag pleads for it's enemies to stop. And you are pleading, for affection, for comfort, for this lava to remove itself from under you skin and let your blood cool from it's roaring boil.
Soshiro is working from home today too, he'd pushed all in person events to next weekâas much as possible. The Defense Force is obligated to allow him to nurse the only solider to return with living bacterium from the disgusting plant-like Kaiju that sprawled up.
You and your scienceâŠ. A means of pride for Soshiro usually, but as he lifts his eyes from the screen to follow the wave of your arm, he resents it.
He resents you being in the office, on the long leather couch because you're too important to remove from his sight, especially like this. He resents your muscles ache with fever and joints gnaw into spaces that were home otherwise. He hates he wasn't close enough; your fortitude had the suit reserves spent and luck, what he was told, got you back to him.
It's the danger he wears readily and yet, resents that you face it too.
"'m here." Kneeling beside you, eyes tracking the timer on your phone placed above your head. He has three going. One for the next round of medication, the other to get you hydration, the third to change out the towels and cooling packs on your skin.
You're not out of danger but thank fuck the ice baths have stopped. The "hardest" job is done â now it's recovery. If he could punch your commanding officer he would. What about this is easy?
Seeing you writhe in pain, the monumental effort to get your limbs to move, mouth opening, "IâŠloâŠneâŠ". He hums, clearing your forehead, still too warm to touch. He can't even hold you through this, offering you comfort would mean supplying additional body heat which, yesterday, is finally on the downward trend.
You should be in the hospital, with IVs and nurses but instead you pushed everyone into analysis of the specimen you retrieved. They're stuck working around the clock to figure how to break the infection that youâ and countless civiliansâare currently facing. You didn't want to tie up hospital resources, so Hoshina Soshiro has tied himself to you.
Fuck it.
He'll change out the cooling pads, the towel on your brow, shift your position now and reset the timers, "Gonna move ya loveâwanna change this shirt out?"
He gets it, words are hard, and he still wants to hear you. "No, loanâŠSoshiro, IâŠ" He kisses the back of your hand, melds it into his own chest, he's stealing affection, he knows this.
"'ve paid all the bills, nothin' to worry your pretty head aboutâŠ" it is pretty, it'd be prettier with your eyes rolling and a lifted eyebrow, a quip at the ready, Hoshina Soshiroâdo you think I paid bills on the fly before you? He smiles to himself, you'll be like that soon.
He places your hand back to your chest, off to get the next cooling supplies and another cotton shirt; something you'll sweat through but that's not a detail he cares about. Laundry is his favorite chore.
+
"SoshâŠ." this is better, you're in a bed now, able to turn and roam and grab at him, your finger tips are still warm and he may admit he misses your usual cold feet scratching up his shins. "IâŠloâŠ.an."
Ah this!
He's forgotten to ask you the last few times you've been conscious, what loan? His car is paid off, the Defense Force has generously helped you two afford this home, it's not as if you've secretly signed up for an advanced educational degreeâwhich the Defense Force would also cover.
He hums, turns a second too late and your eyes are closed again. Lost to the world and taking all your whims with youâ his sweet gal. He remembered to use your moisturizer today, helped your hair into a soft silk something to keep it from getting to frizzy and dryâyou don't trust him to wash it yetâthat's okay, he'll earn that soon.
His thumb traces your lips, luckily not chapped. Luckily returning to their natural shade. A round of immunization already in your system, you silly, beautiful, brave solider.
Tch.
And science. Your love of science and the discovery of Kaiju species. It wasn't enough working in the labs or being escorted to Kaiju sights, you wanted to see them living, breathing, movingâ in the flesh. He can't blame you, truly. Your mind works in wondrous ways, a messy constellation that connects dots no one else can draw a line tooâyou've grown that encyclopedia of kaiju tenfold. All under a years time.
He sighs, pulling you close.
Two minutes.
He's allowed to be loaned two minutes of holding time!
+
"Soshi?" It's dark, your limbs feel they've been dipped in molasses and asked to walk through swamp water. You don't trust the ground to be there when you take the one, two, steps towards the closet. The shirt sticks to you in a not sexy way, your scalp is starting to itch and a shower, suddenly, feels like the best thing since sliced bread.
It was too dark to tell if Soshiro was home or not, he's been home so many days as it is, you're betting on him not being around. He's been rummaging through the closet, as a rouge legging snares itself around your ankle, you land with a thud, fall braced on forearms and knees. There's a sharp call to your name, his accent thick in the air, "Naiyainâ" huffs his fear down in an instant.
Lifted up up up so easily, doesn't he feel the impact of think syrupy sugar-caned limbs? You're fully dead body weight now, the energy to find something soft and dry lost âgosh how has evolution selected you to survive?
But he seats you down in a cool white tube, plugs the drain, adjusts the water temperature with the fancy remote that you haven't gotten the hang of. So much of this apartment is fancy and mechanicalâyou tug at his pajama bottoms, "Be righ' back, love."
A kiss of promise and you watch the water fill up.
He talks to you, through the haze you find yourself in, you're with him and not. You hear him and not, muffled in the way one wades through water without clear visionâhe's speaking Soshiro. He has nice lips.
You'd like to feel his teeth on your skin, can he confirm you haven't been turned into honey? "Runny honey, all through my musclesâŠ"
He noses along your neck, "My favorite."
"HushhhâŠ." You sway and he wraps you up, dries your skin, prays for forgiveness that has you realize your scalp is wet, but he kisses quick, once, twice, thrice before you gasp â "Contagiousâ"
"'s not. Only potent 24 hours after spores containment the air."
"It's been longâŠer thanâŠ" that. He completes in his head, grabs your lotion and seats you between the double sink. "What's today?"
You've asked him before, "Still Thursday."
"But it's dark."
"Curtains."
Ah, black out curtains. The abyss creators, you nod. "Soshiro, I loâŠan?" Your tongue feels heavy but it's pertinent he understand your words, why do the v's fall heavy.
"There's no loan, you hungry?"
What loan? You didn't say loan, brows furrow, where is he moving? Why won't he listen?
+
You sleep soundly, he finally lets himself crash into the mattress, your breathing is even, your fever nearly gone, the last immunization injected. There's enough food in your belly and he's had the left overs. It's all he can handle when his entire world is confirmed to a mattress, in a dark room.
Your hair is going to dry funny. He can't wait to be reprimanded because it'll mean you have the energy to engage with him. Not that you haven't been trying but the fever and induced brain fog have made you feelâŠaway.
"SoshiroâŠ" a whisper and the leg being kicked out, an ankle to his shin and slowly your body drips over his, his arms move on memory, eyes barely opening, as the rise and fall of your chest docks at his side body. "ShoshiroâŠ" a cheek now, pushed into the port of his neck, the exhale heavy at his collarbone, but you need to get this out, he has to hear what you've been trying to say since picking up the stupid kaiju-spore, "love you."
Ah, the v's are easy to say now.
But he only exhales. Hmph!
You've been battling mini Kaiju inside your blood all weak and that's all he rewards you with? Eyes shoot open and lock to his jaw, "Soshiro."
Firm, unwavering, his brows crease, slow lazy opening of his lids, those cat like blinks, "Love?"
In an instant, melted away, "Nothin, go back to sleep."
A hand to part his hair, expose the most sought after real estate of his forehead and two kisses dropped to claim the space as your own, placing his hair back, as if secret that he belongs to you, "Sleep."
"'m slept, enough." He's moving his body, your fighting to keep his toned muscles in line, under you, "What's the time?"
"Time for sleep." It's late, 3am or so. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah." You burrow into him, legs fully vines around his own, "this is niceâmissed ya." Even if you've been here all along? Oh, you're gonna tease him about this in the morning, "What was the sample?"
"Hmm?"
"The spores, what was it made of?"
"Macrophage scienâŠcey things." He wasn't paying attention, he heard the immunization was safe enough and that it'd be sent to you; that's all he needed. An end to whatever temporary illness this was, you've had it rough already, he doesn't wish for a world where less ease finds you.
"Soshiro." He rubs your back, "What loan were you talking about?"
Thatâthat gets his attention, "The loan you were talking about."
"I wasn'tâŠ" now you really need to get his attention, reaching up to angle his chin down, "I was saying I love you. Not loan." and the following words, "I would never loan you."
Confess themselves, he smiles soft, what an honor he wants to tease but no, not with your eyes looking at him so adoringly, "I would never loan you either."
sukuna | heh, technology
Count: 1k
Summary: Sukuna sends you 37 messages. True Form Sukuna is his own warning.
Note: Inspired from the great @innaillus's art x. Read at your own pleasure. divider by @uzmacchiato
It's the most unexpected occurrence.
So unimaginable you consider it a fluke, a butt dial type of situation. There is no way, that being of twenty fingers has actually sent you a text with a photo attached. This must be another 'voice to text' failure.
You've asked him to do more than answer the phone when you call. Send you texts when he thinks of you, photos of things that remind him of you; return the affection you send him.
He doesn't get it, shuns away the idea because "I want to see your face. Not my own."
Old relic of a being from a past where life was slow. All this new technology is probably overstimulationâthat too he'd tell you he's not easily flustered. Sure. You took him to a Costco and he barely left the meat section.
Whatever.
Ignore the text.
It's going to be gibberish that you can attend to after your Pilates class. So you put on the 'do not disturb' focus and slide your phone into your stylish fanny pack, into the little caddy next to your reformer machine and it's time to lock in.
Glutes aren't built in a day and your thighs still shake but you used fifteen pounds for all exercises this time. You may not have done more than that seventy year old overachiever Joan but heyâyou didn't quit either!
You are all but ready to put in your driving directions when the shift of 'do not disturb' insults you with a barrage of messages from Sukuna.
This is the height of it, you call him right away, while the auto-car play connections. Swiping to your messaging app and reading off the count, "Thirty seven messages!"
Before he even says hello, you huff at his lack of response. "I'm in class, I taught you how to look up my location."
Yeah and he doesn't need to use it, he can sense where you are easy enough, he rolls all four eyes of his and the words, "Did you open them?"
Not read, open. "Ah, so it wasn't a fluke old man?"
"Careful, you wouldn't want me to lose my good mood now, would you?" That smug tone of his. You tap tap on the fancy car screen and wait for the latest of his messages to download, "You sent me a video?"
He smirks on his side of the screen, not that you can see it. Not that he needs you to see it, because his ears pick up the tell tale hitch of your breath, and the subsequent frazzlement. "YOU SENT MEâ"
Oh my god, throw your phone over the screen, throw your water-bottle, throw your damn KEYSâwait no, not those.
Holy fuck Joan was parked next to you, did she see? Did she? "Sukuna, I'mâŠI'mâŠ" mortified, you can't come back to this location ever again.
"Speechless. Perfect. Ten minutes."
It takes only 8 to get home, but he'll allow you two extra minutes to compose yourself. "This is not what I meant when I said you should embrace modern technology."
"Beggars can't be choosers now can they? Nine minutes." You click your tongue, "You don't even know what you did, do you?"
"I have solicited the exact response I wanted." Before you can protest, he drops his voice, "I can hear it."
Oh, oh, your face burns. The car is reversed slowly, thank fuck for the motion sensing cameras and sensors because you did NOT clear your left or your right, speaking softly, "You hear nothing."
"Right, nothing. Eight minutes now." He inhales deep, exhales slow and you can only imagine he's laid out, on your bed, taking up the whole thing, shirtless and likely pant-lessâwait, "What are you doing?"
"Seven minutes."
"Are you in my bed? Naked? Touching yourself?"
"Did you not see my images?"
Oh god.
The 36 other messages.
That cackling chuckle of his, "Oh my sweet human, I can almost feel it now."
"You can't."
"The way your blood is thrummingâŠ"
"Don'tâŠ" Was that a red light? Was that a stop sign? Shit did you pass the McDonald's, didn't you want to pick up nuggets and fries?
"Mmm, and the tenderâ" you hear something, your mind displays the picture of his hand working over one of hisâno, no don't, don'tâ "âŠbeat of your heart, how it marches to rival a drum."
"ShutâŠ" you can't finish. You don't.
The driveway of your home manifests. You undo your seatbelt, was it ever clicked? Unclear. Pick up your things, march inside, barely waiting for the garage door to close, up up up those steps.
Not bothering to take off your grippy socks, things you've yelled at Sukuna to treat most preciously, but everything hits the spare chair in your room with a loud crash.
Eyes on Sukuna, who has a phone in hand, aimed down between his legs, "two minutes early, did you rush to get here?"
Would he have finished before you getting there? No. Pause that thought. You see some fur that should not be in the vicinity of salaciousness.
Somewhere, you turn to close the bedroom door, kick your precious darling pet out. Taking off your tiny Pilates jacket, the flowy top, leaving your matching red top and leggings. His eyes do nothing to hide his intention and your own can't be deemed any less innocent.
Right to his lap, "You made a mess."
"Hmm?" He shrugs, "I'm just getting started. And besides," the pitch of his voice dropping, one of his clean hands to the back of your neck, careful to not touch the hair scarf that secures your locks safely, "Who's to say this was all me?"
Your hand finds his phone, pauses the recording, thank fuck you're the only contact on his device. Your eyes drop to the Photos album and he really, really has been filling out this applicationânot in the way you recommended but surelyâyou aren't disappointed either.
A smirk to your lips, "Well, you see, I have evidence."
He frowns, "Give that back. It won't unlock with your face." Uh huh, as you, without looking, type in your birthday and his phone sheds all his secrets.
"Make me."
Ah, technology, Sukuna thinks, a great way to get you home.
nanago | cats & flowers
Count: 1k
Summary: Nanami Kento gets pulled into Gojo Satoru's shenanigans, it's all for a good cause though -- you.
Notes: for @radish-breath, happy hella belated bday. I've had this idea in my brain for the last 9 months; and all the words have finally flown and baked themselves together. Thank you for being an amazing human đ
divider by the lovely @uzmacchiato
He's been coerced into much worse, though Nanami Kento would be hard pressed to admit it. Currently, the sleeves of his blue formal have been unbuttoned, rolled up, forearms making seams weep under tension, no match for his own furrowed brow.
Why exactly had Gojo Satoru chosen a realistic cat design? And no less, a Norwegian Forest cat as the model. Nanami Kento stares at bright, too realistic green cat pupils, taking a moment to understand what has led up to this moment.
Satoru had already baked, cooled, shaved and crafted the cake into a frame. Applied the crumb coat, let the form cool, while he whisked all the frosting colors together for the fur. And not just one color of fur at that, two browns, two blacks, white and an off-white, he's also put sugar crystal whiskers aside to cool.
Nanami Kento came home with the requested flowers, which are now being used by Satoru to model something else, Nanami had been taken aback at the neatness of Satoru's baking. No less, he had probably cleaned up.
But that was a ploy, because the next thing Nanami was handed a big frosting bag, "You ready?"
The debate last night comes to the forefront of his mind, thankfully with a resolution. Which nib to use to make the frosting look most cat fur-like. Nanami still doesn't understand the need for Satoru's realism, you'd be happy the cake exists without any harm to the kitchen.
Nanami takes pause, his hold on the caramel brown frosting bag softens, the bag itself exhales in sweet relief, "Gojo, are they aware of this?"
Gojo, not Satoru, so he's concerned now that Satoru's meddled into something that maybe unwelcome.
Satoru hums from other side of the kitchen island,he's made thirty perfect pipped flowers, the tray looks almost professional. Would it hurt Satoru if he wasn't so darn good at everything the touches?
"What's that?" Already on his way over, Kento should've clarified this isn't an invitation his space. But nope, too late, there's already the long platinum blond man shoving his face into Nanami's neck, hands at his hips, "Oh, it does look like fur, see!"
"That wasn't my question." An over-grown man pouting does little to soften Nanami's expression; though a tug at his heartstrings might be occurring. He'd never admit that.
"Yes, they are aware I'd back them a cake. They don't think I can. Ne ne ne, Nanamii, is it so far stretched that I wouldn't know how to bake?"
Satoru uses this excuse to nuzzle into the blond man, affections usually held for when you are out and about. They are a private coupleâno, Nanami Kento is a private person. Gojo Satoru is simply whipped and therefore, now, a private person too.
"Why this particular cat?"
"They said it was the hardest." Satoru shrugs, Nanami sighs. Another thing his precious companion cannot give up, a challenge.
"And the flowers?" Satoru makes a noise in between a laugh and a giggle, when he turns his back Nanami allows himself a smirk, and then the utter shock. "Well, I couldn't make one cat by it's lonesome right?"
Gojo Satoru produces a whole Nanami Kento chest wide sheet cake. Colored green, with what looks like grass already frosted onto the base.
"I'm gonna put it on here, cats roll around in grass right?" Has he given up teaching and gone into baking? Is there a new secret TikTok that Nanami is unaware of?
"SatoruâŠ" softness unmatched and then Nanami reminds himself that no, any leeway and Satoru may get even more ahead of himself, what if he gets obsessed with that 'Is it Cake?' TV show again?
He clears his throat, "Gojo, tell me that's the end of it?"
Oh, those baby blues, Nanami Kento is momentary left buffering his brain because in what ever world do Satoru's eyes need to be that blue?
Perhaps to warm over his own heart? File this under things Nanami Kento refuses to admit.
"Well this and this is at Utahime and Shoko's placeâŠ" It's a picture of a tuxedo and melon cat. Nanami holds his breath, because then Satoru swipes, "And this is at Suguru's." It's a Bengal and Egyptian Mau.
Granted, all these cakes are substantially smaller than the one Satoru has tasked Nanami to frost. However, it seems Satoru has already done what he intended with this project, Nanami's hold on the frosting bag loosens completely. Aside from flowers, whyâŠ"Gojo Satoru, why am I frosting this cat?"
"Because you love me." That gets a stern look to switch Satoru shrugs, "I overhead them saying how they're the hardest cat to draw, so I thought I'd surprise them, it's not so hard right?"
To Satoru, maybe, but Nanami has been straining his biceps and flexor carpi, pushing his muscle fibers to remain delicate and strong enough to force the whipped frosting out.
Is he not needed?
"SidesâŠ" Satoru grins, now opposite Nanami, eyes hungry at the phone set up capture a time lapse kind of video. "This is gonna go viral."
The faceless and voiceless thot, thirst trap account. Filed under things Nanami Kento has been coerced into and does not admit he enjoys. Not when Satoru's whole focus is on that tiny screen, zoomed in to capture every movement and twitch of Nanami's muscles.
"Maybe I should make one for your butt too, instead of just our arms." The push of Satoru's balm against Nanami's plump flesh.
Good god, Nanami swallows hard, this man will eat him alive. Not that he'd mind, he releases a poorly disguised shudder. He's seen the videos Satoru makes, and of course, he understands lighting, composition, angles and thirst.
And if Nanami is being filmed for content, he'd make Satoru film himself too and thatâthat isn't something Nanami Kento can remain composed about. The though of his companion's cake on display for an entire audience to lust over.
"Get back to your station."
"Aye aye!" He salutes and walks away.
Nanami can indulge Satoru in more content creation after, they do have that private account.
But first⊠there is a cake to finish.
For those left wonderings, is it even possible to make a cake like this? Why yes, yes it is » https://www.youtube.com/shorts/0LjsotvP7Ic
zanka | interlude
Count: 2.8k
Summary: Chocolate cake, a boy with tassel earrings, feelings ahead!
Â
notes: For @xstarjam part of a server fic exchange â„ïž I hope Iâve brought a smile to your face, happy holidays! divider by the lovely @nectardaddy, manga screencaps are mine source: gachiakuta, fragrant flower blooms with dignity
themes ahead: meet uglies-lite, strangers to beginnings, no miya atsumu was harmed, canon divergent, sfw
They say the first person you spend the new year with is the same person youâll end the year with.  But who are they and how can you punch them in the face?  Because you were here, at this shrine, last year with a big group of friends. Well, a big group of friends and that one boy who made your heart pitter-patter.Â
He had his sights set on Nationals and you had your sights set on helping him get there. The late night tutoring, the extra protein rich bentos, the oranges, slightly too sweetâelectrolyte mixed water â all of it; done happily if it meant helping him achieve his dreams.  Â
Next year, you had thought, next year if Miya Atsumu is standing by your side youâd finally confess how you feel.Â
Only, you didnât realize that winning Nationals meant even more training and schedule conflicts. More fans and admirers and the noise of it all. It didnât feel insignificant to him, he wanted to give you his uniform button after graduation. That had to have meant something.  Â
Three whole years of growing together, waves of coming closer and drifting apart. Watching him strive day after day for his dream had helped you find determination too â as his Captain Kita had said, itâs the daily habits that add up. Consistency, routine, the process of falling for your classmate snuck up on you. Those things made you happy, catching his smile when heâd hold up an exam he passed, knowing it was your stubbornness helping him. It felt natural, being with him, no matter how small the moment.Â
You had hoped that little by little care wouldâve added up for him too.Â
Only, itâs now past noon, the crowds are still heavy and there is no sight of Miya Atsumu.Â
A post on social media lets you know that due to weather, meeting him at this shrine would be impossible. The specially wrapped, homemade chocolate cake, sits in a pretty box next to you as you try not to feel bitter. Is this how your first crush comes to an end? Not even given a chance to be more? Is all of it going to stayhidden behind lingering gazes, smacks on the back and memories of âWow! Youâre the best, I didnât fail, couldnât have done it without ya!â ?
Is God that mean?
Is the Universe that evil?
âIâm gonna kill thoseââ
âWhoaâŠâ you notice his blue tassel earrings first, the rasp in his voice second, the traditional attire third. He looks your age, âA bit early for all that anger in the year, no?â
Tch. Spoiled brat. You look away, noticing how pleasant the tone to his ash blond hair is, how he smells of jasmine and entitlement. Maybe, who cares. Youâre here to wallow in your very bad no good first day of the year and this guy is judging you?  He may not deserve whatever daggers are being thrown his way but he seems undeterred. Sits down, an arms length away, without your permission.
Not that youâve invested in bench ownership or anything but youâre having a moment! Youâre trying to package up the ending of a first couldâve been love and thisâthisââAre you here alone?â
âNo.â You snap, a quick look into his eyes the color of the deep sea and you steer your battle ship far away. âIâm waiting for someone.â
A hum of some sort, you donât like the disbelief left unsaid. He leans back, an arm across the backrest, eyes focused on the groups of people passing by, youâre forced to watch too. A couple, clearly hear to seek blessings for their new union, a family with teens glued to their phones, and a group of high schoolers moseying along holding up the crowd behind them.
The tassel earring stranger turns his face towards you, it would feel warm and comforting, the presence of someone witnessing your inner turmoil; however he is not a friend. At least, you donât want him to be. This was your time for a confession, to figure out if Atsumu would continue on in the next chapters of your life or if heâd become a footnote. It feels like heâll stay a footnote. Not that he could ever be a footnote, not those 183.6 cm of him. That makes you mad. This stranger is the one next to you on New Yearâs Day and you donât want him.
âZanka.âÂ
âOkay.â What would you do with his name? He snorts at your response, âI get it. Iâm not hitting on you. Iâm also waiting on a friend.âÂ
You mimic his earlier hum, hoping it carries a devastating wave of disbelief back at his sea blue eyes. Thereâs a quiet between you two again, the crowd seems to thin out and you figure, fine. Youâll donate the cake to a hungry looking shrine attendee and walk your way back home. Â
Technically, there are 44 milesâno, 70 kilometers between you at Miya Atsumu but you might as well be on Mars and him on Neptune.  Â
One last trip with his volleyball mates, before the next game, before being drafted and training for a professional team; before everything that cascades with his dream coming true. Youâre so proud of him. You are. Â
But, itâs okay to want him here too, right? Â
You turn to look at Zanka. Expecting his eyes to be searching through the crowd but theyâre looking right at yours. Magnetized, stuck, looping in the same circle before a voice pulls you away â âCan we sit here?â
Zanka scoots closer to you, making room for the couple that is blissfully unaware that you and Zanka are not friends. Heâs a stranger that youâre displacing your anger onto and youâre his⊠judgement of the day. Probably. Â
You look down at the box, the chocolate hits your nose, carried on the wind that cuts through the jasmine whirlpool. âDo you like cake?â
Zanka blinks. âItâs not a trick question. Yes or no?âÂ
âYeah.â He coughs, clearing his throat, âI mean yes.â    Â
âGood.â   Â
He watches as your hands slide into the inconspicuous looking tote bag, paper plates, forks, a very dangerous looking knife that is pointed at him, âDo you know how to cut a cake?â
âDonât most people?â What is it with this boy and being difficult?
âThatâs not a yes or no.â You make the executive decision to scoot off the bench, place the box where you were sitting and gently undo the hidden tape, revealing the best attempt at a chocolate cake you could muster all week.Â
âYou made this.â
Not a question, a statement. Youâre already scowling, ready to defend yourself, it only looks misshapen but itâs tasty and that gloss on the chocolate means it was tempered to perfectionâjust you wait Zankaâyour taste buds are in for a treat; cannon ready to aim at his sapphire orbs but then he adds, âIt looks delicious, I want a slice with the decorations.â
âAs you wish.â Your first good deed of the New Year, feeding a stranger. He uses his fingers to assist your very sharp knife, slapping the chocolate slice onto the paper plate with glee. The bench-hogging couple also looks over, the rumble in their stomachs already causing your knife to cut a large slice. Zanka frowns a bit, comparing the slice the couple received to his own. You point at him, the silver of the blade shines in the afternoon sun, âThereâs two of them.â
They thank you for the cake and snap selfies, Zanka eats fork-full after fork-full, âYour friend missed out.â You nod, âHeâs stuck in traffic.â
âLame.â  It makes you smile. How easily heâs summarized what all of this means for you, âYeah, lame.âÂ
You eat in silence, the bench hogs leave, Zanka sits with the pretty box in his lap, half a homemade chocolate cake waiting to be devoured, âYou sure you donât wanna take this back with you?âÂ
âYeah, Iâm sure.â Eating chocolate cake, that was intended to be eaten with your crush, on New Years, by yourself, is a little too sad and dramatic isnât it?  Â
âThen let me make it up to you.âÂ
Your eyes communicate the confusion, Zanka continues, âMeet me here again, 7ish?â Â
âYeah, no. I donât plan on going missing or dying in the New Year.â He laughs, shrugs, âBring your friends, the more the merrier.â
đ°
Zanka realizes heâs looking for you, however brief, his memory of you is crystal clear. You were at the shrine for a reason, determination held behind shimmering eyes, seated patiently. The buzzing of the crowd seemed too silent, a path opened up and Zanka strayed away from his own group. A falsification of waiting for someone too, he simply wanted time with you.
Maybe itâll mean less, if you bring friends; or the intended cake giftee. Maybe thisâll keep Zanka from propelling unrequested protectiveness onto you, still thereâs something he canât shake. The way you were waitingâŠhow long have you cared for that person?
HeâsâŠ.not jealous heâs only curious.
Just like his chest doesnât loosen, his exhale doesnât whisk away tension from his body as he spots you in the crowd. Alone.Â
You do not, bring your friends⊠nor good judgement.  Going off to meet this Zanka Nijiku, yesâ you searched him on socials! He seems like a fairly normal and somewhat cool dude. Not that youâll ever tell him heâs cool, because heâs not! His hobbies, art and fencing, are.  âThere you are.â
Heâs dressed down in a hoodie, jeans, gloves and a blue muffler. Almost the same as yours. Itâs still cold this part of the year â he pulls out his phone, âJust so you know, my family is watching my location. I also donât plan to go missing on New Yearâs Day.â
It gets a smile out of you, the first one all year. If you had the ability to read Zankaâs mind, youâd know a big part of him wants to see that smile again and again. Being near you feels like a relief, from what Zanka doesnât know and why he doesnât want to answer.Â
You walk next to him as he leads to a park outside the shrine neighborhood. Itâs not deserted, which helps unfurl the tight knot in your chest, he leads you up the jungle gym and onto the highest peak. âI didnât make this at home butâŠenjoy it.âÂ
He likes that your face shows your emotions, the confusion causing your nose to scrunch, the tilt of your head pulling his own to the opposite angle, the way your eyes have something deeper Zanka wants to unwrap. It shouldnât matter either, the accidental brush of his fingers on top of yours as he steadies himself, it shouldnât. Your eyes hold him for only a second before they shift, to the sky, to the bang and burst of light.  Â
Fireworks.Â
Red, yellow, orange. Green and blueâ your eyes go to Zankaâs, they take on a darker shade in low light, the calm before the storm, maybe, is what youâd call his eye shade. Not that youâre keeping track of the blue in his eyes. Not that you care. Heâs a guy returning a favor, even though yours was homemade.Â
âThis is the best part.â The lean in and away takes the momentary warmth, you want to scoot closer to him but donât trust the jungle gym or your relationship with gravity. Â It is the best part, the big three sparkles at the end.Â
However, âI am going to die.â
He makes a face, already successfully moving lower on the jungle gym, âThought you were aiming to kill todayââ Â âI canât see my foot.â Â When did it get so dark?
A hand finds your ankle and firmly places your foot on a bar lower than where it was hanging from, âI told you I didnât want to die today Zanka.â
âYou wonât.â  Not on his watch, slow and steady he helps you down to the ground. You donât breathe a sigh of relief as he expected, itâs a hard slap to his arm. âHey!â  âHey yourself! That was amazing, thank you! Minus the climbing down, letâs not do that again.â   Â
âIâll reserve us a spot for next year.âÂ
Your stomach summersaults.  Eyes feeling a bit misty, because you already know, if you spend the New Yearâs Day with someone, it doesnât mean youâre guaranteed to come back and spend the next one too. âZankaâŠâ
âThatâs me. And youâreâŠ.?â A name that will echo around his mind well into the night. Maybe heâs simply tired, thatâs why heâs still smiling, long after he gets home and settles into the dark of his room.
Morning comes sooner than heâd like, he lights the incense, eats his breakfast, prepares himself to make up his volunteer hours. He doesnât regret it, sitting next to you and watching the fireworks. The name of yours rolling over his tongue as he steps into the cold morning air.  Â
The shrine continues to be busy, footsteps, voices, bells, many people asking him for directions, the scent of more incense curling around his entire being.
Itâs not that he looks for you, least not consciously.
Someone is simply shorter or taller than you would be, someone a bit louder, a bit softer. His shift ends without incident and he stops by the park from last night. Itâs not a faster path home or closer to his favorite bite to eat, thereâs nothing compelling him to go other than the memory ofâŠyour eyes.
And you feel him first, turning as the wind blows wild, your scarf caught in the gust.
Youâre smiling now, at him. Not a half-dream, half-thought Zanka had made up. A real smile, a real you, standing maybe twenty steps away.
Maybe, the wishes made on New Yearâs Day arenât a guarantee, but thus far, heâs gotten to see you every day of the new year. Â
He likes this beginning, as he picks up your fallen scarf, finger tips brushing again, he hopes you do too. âI still owe youâŠâ he looks away, hands in his pockets, cheeks red from the cold and not his own blush. You look at him confused, âFor?â
âFor the cake.â He kicks the ground, âFireworks donât really add up to food so, let me pay you back. Come on, I know a spot.â
You donâtâŠyou wouldnâtâŠyouâve already spent what feels like your entire first day with him, and now the second too? This is different, but it doesnât feel wrong. Nor unfamiliar. âYouâre buying?â
He scoffs, âOf course I am, I said I owe ya, my treat.âÂ
âI guess.â You step beside him, thereâs a grin on his face that must be infectious, you find yourself openly rejecting his restaurant of choice, half of them feel made up. Who opens a restaurant that only serves crackers? Who goes to a restaurant that only serves cheese? If heâs doing it on purpose, itâs working. He has your attention, your wit, your disgruntled disbeliefâthis feels like the start of something, doesnât it?Â
You pause walking across the street from the shrine, thereâs a book you must force Zanka to read. His fingertips brush against your hand, why are neither of you wearing gloves? Someone should fix this. âYou still waiting on a friend?â
 âNo, not really.â
âGood, cuz I wanna spend the rest of the day with you.â Itâs a bit direct for Zanka but he rather be clear, heâs enjoyed the last two hours and heâs hungry for more. âWhen did I agree to spend the day with you?â
âYou want me to read a book.â He crosses his arms, sighing, âSomething tells me you wonât believe I read it unless you watch me.â
Loser, the comment cheats a smile out of you. âThen Iâll have you watch you for a whole month.â
âWell weâre already coming back here in a year soâŠâ he shrugs, eyes landing on your bare hands. He needs to fix that soon, before he does something silly like reach out and hold it. He nudges your shoulder, âA whole month doesnât seem bad at all.â
âIt might take you longer.â It doesnât scare you, shouldnât it scare you? How easy this is with Zanka, the promise of tomorrow. âYeah.â Deep ocean eyes, âProbably longer.â
Not more is said after that. Not even when Zanka turns confidently to walk in the wrong direction, you feel too unhurried to correct him. Wondering what expression heâll make, wondering what tomorrow will look like. Somehow, you find yourself excited? Thereâs no bracing for a confession next year, youâre simply walking together, with someone new.
It may not be the perfect start to the New Year, but youâre already moving forward.
hanma shuji | a whole red flag
Words: 1.6k
Summary: You donât want to consider that Hanma Shujiâs attention is more than fleeting. Happy belated birthday @cmdrfupa ! Thank you for being a wonderful human being. Please collect your man.
Warning: Hanma Shuji is his own warning, vauge description of violence, smoking, blood
Youâd never imagined being thankful for this bastard's smug face.Â
Once again, a pinstripe suit tailored to perfection dons his form, the tie is crisp gold, matching the highlights in his pushed back hair. You wonder, did he get them redone because of you? You mentioned it at the last meeting, his roots were showing. As a joke, a tease, a shield, ward off this tall man who drips of danger and promises sin.
His charisma, rizz, he called it, can be assessed another day. Because right now, you need his witch hazel yellow eyes on the punks behind you. Normally, youâd have caught them sooner, normally youâd have made a stink and have them regretting ever considering you a mark. But the days have all run long this week, the nights have been shorter, and if Hanma Shuji has told you to use himâŠthen why not use him like this?
âOh honey, I knew you missed me.â He clocks the release of tension in your shoulders, how your hands ease their hold on your reusable grocery bag. And then he tilts his head, widening his field of vision away from your visage and to the seals thinking theyâre sharks. âOh pretty, you brought me gifts.â
He moves like a ghost. The only real proof heâs moved is your sense of smell shifting from the night air to orange, cedar, and expensive. The hand with âpunishmentâ tattooed on it barely graces your shoulder before heâs on them, no questions asked, no words spoken.
The only talking is his fist and their jaws. Down they go, a perfect storm of violence, power, adrenaline. Not even three minutes, he stands tall, stretches his arms wide, cracks his neck and adjusts his tie as he turns, grinning.
Thereâs that tension again, the one in your hands as your grip fastens on the heavy tote, control, you must maintain control. Heâs excited, a predator seeking approval from his future mate â thereâs no other way to appraise the look in his eyes. Heâs still hungry afterall, what good is a fight if he hasnât worked up a sweat.
Itâs clear heâs waiting for you to move, maybe for you to notice the drip of blood down his knuckles. On purpose, he kept his rings on, on purpose he may have torn his own skin.Â
Afterall, a law abiding citizen, who takes her own bags to the grocery mart, wouldnât let a man who defended her honor leave with crimson dripping down his fingers, right?
âYou, good Ma?â  Shujiâs eyes sparkle, from you to the newcomer. A little too late for an old man like that to be playing bodyguard. âWeâre good here, Toji.âÂ
You turn and smile, Fushiguro Toji hasâŠalways held a soft corner. Heâs out here, smoking it seems.You frown, didnât he give this habit up?Â
The heat of his body is evident, the purr of his voice draping over your shoulder, âAnother gift for me, pretty?â
The instant reaction, you grab his wrist before he can move, the tote bag falls as an exclamation to your, âNo!â Eyes pleading, as confusing as this man is, Hanma Shuji, you donât wish him an early death. And he may be a shark but heâs not Fushiguro Toji, he doesnât know what waters heâs attempting to dive in. âAww, worried about me?â
Heâs an idiot, the biggest idiot ever.
Out of the corner of your eye, Toji drops the cigarette, puts it out, and starts his body towards your direction. Itâs only twenty or so steps. Your heart pounds faster and faster, not here, not like this. Not when Hanma isnât your anything and TojiâŠÂ
Not that youâd ever owe him an explanation for anything, youâre an adult, heâs an adult. You simply live in the same complex and watch his kid from time to time. It doesnât give him the right to be possessive, it doesnât give you the right to want him to be either. Not when thereâs Hanma, not when heâs been showing up everywhere to get a reaction, a smile, a slap, anything, something, whatever from you.Â
His phone rings, to save him or yourself from making a decision too soon.
His smile cracks a bit, he turns away, that rumbly mumbly voice of his, that âYa hoooo!â
âDonât miss me too much, pretty. Iâll be home soon.â His eyes flash to Toji before he turns, taking all that citrus danger with him.
Toji doesnât say a word.
A white furred puppy nips at your fallen grocery, âAh! Sit!âÂ
The puppy sits as Megumi runs over, holding a similar black pup. âAh!!!! Miss 221!â Â Heâs a sweet child, a little sulky and sullen compared to his peers, but here in the cover of starlight, his smile shines bright. âI taught tricks!â
He puts down his other pup.  You look to Toji, remember him considering one for Megumi, something to help him out of his shell and loneliness.  You watch Megumi demonstrate sit, stand, roll over. You give him a cookie you brought for a sweet midnight snack. He insists his Papa take you to your floor, that itâs late and there are weird people around.
Silhouettes of punks struggling to walk now on the far horizon.
Is it a lie?
Do you want it to be a lie?
âPromise?â Your voice is smaller than youâd like, the scent of iron hits your nose as he cups your cheek, lazy, easy smile, he says nothing. His earring dangles free, âIf you want me to go, Iâll go.â
iwaizumi Hajime | fall(en) for you
Count: 3.3k
Summary: The five times youâve wanted to kiss the handsome human and the one time you do. .
Notes: strangers to more, sfw, creative liberties with school timelines & flavor preferences, for @prettyiwa as part of the summer fic exchange, thank you for giving me the opprotunity to write Iwaizumi! I hope I've done him (and you) justice!
đ·Surprised đ·
For you, itâs exciting. Getting out of your comfort zone and meeting up with âthe perfect guyâ your friends have set you up with. That you simply know him as Sakura Haruka, just a name; heâs seen a photo of you though.
âItâll be romantic, running into each other on the street!â They did tell you he got flushed and flustered, âYouâll enjoy his company.â
You trust your friends, they wouldnât be in your life if you didnât. Â Yet, theyâre taking this blind date a bit too literal. And yes, you wanted an organic meet cute but like, isnât this a little too organic? Only the salute emoji as a response to your âI think he got lost, maybe I should look for him?â message.
But there he is! Sakura! A bit taller than your friends told you, dark spiked up hair, earthy dark brown eyes and a serious expression. Heâd just happened to look up from his phone too, the other hand holding papers when his eyes caught yours. He tilts his head just subtly to the right, as if comparing whatever image his device has to the real human calling out to him.
Is it possible to want to kiss a person you met only a second ago, now two seconds ago, three, shoot! Go say something!! âSakura! Did you wait long? I got here early too. Seems we were thinking alike!â
Itâs cute, you hope. The nervousness, the stolen glances, the way youâre talking with your hands, shoot shoot shoot, calm down! You exhale, âIâm so happy to meet you, itâs meââ
Your name is said, loudly, from a mouth not belonging to you.
Itâs a slightly shorter guy, two toned hair, that matches his heterochromia. He points to himself, âIâm Sakura.â
For him, he wishes that Sakura Haruka had never shown up. That instead of standing around speechless, he had said something, anything in that moment. Not leaving you to fill in the blanks, fumbling out apologies over and over. Grasping at the flyer in his hand and promising to come to the game, to donate, to cheer. âIâll even make a sign!â
âHaâ? How are ya gonna cheer for âem if you donât know his name?â this Sakura guy half barks. When your eyes turn to his; hopeful, he finds it slipping, âIwaizumi Hajime.â
âIwaizumi...Hajime.â It feels right, his name on your lips. As if heâs been loaning his name out to everyone else in search of the melody your voice carries. It feels proper, almost as if heâs hearing his own name for the first time. Iwazumiâs eyes dart down to your lips for a long beat, you wish him well and that youâll see him soon. He waves you off, dazed.Â
Whatâs gotten into him?
đ·Falling for you đ·
Youâve never seen a match in person like this. Often content to view reels on your phone, with moves slowed down and strategy being explained simply. Here, youâre afraid youâll miss too much if you blink. Your sign is sparkly, but not too big. You spent all night looking up the stadium rules afterall, you promised Iwaizumi a sign and a sign he is getting!
Sparkly gold, and number 4 and IWA.  You hope itâs not too distracting, his teammates keep pointing over to it. Iwaizumi is wearing the same expression he wore on the street, a bit serious, but you gather thatâs expected. He has to maintain laser focus, the fans next to you explain heâs Vice Captain, and outside hitter, one of them pulls up previous shots of Iwazumi.Â
And then, jersey number 1 enters the court at some point, the screams are wild. As if the bias from a popular boyband entered the stage. Â While you suppose this number 1 is good, your eyes keep finding the solid, sturdy, presence.
How Iwaizumi anticipates what Oikawa, number 1, is going to do and suddenly appears in position to spike. With each hit of the ball, you forget to shake your sign and applaud for him, heâs magnificent.Â
For him, itâs a match in the legacy of matches heâs had. He stays non-emotional, well, as much as possible. This one matters for him and the team, they all tend to matter. His eyes are glued on the ball, heâs finessed processing multiple stimuli, honing in on where he needs to be, how he needs to hit. Spike after spike, the sets end, his teammates rejoice.
He finally sips water, toweling off the post-sweat, where the corner of his eye catches it. The square, sparkly, golden sign with 4IWA, and your stunned expression, thereâs a smile on his face, one he hides away with the towel. He canât help himself, not when you keep your word like that. Not when youâre adorable.
Oikawa forces his way to you, wanting to snap a photo of Iwa-chanâs personal fan. âFeel free to ignore him.â Iwaizumi pulls a sulking Oikawa away, to a bench and other teammates. Although Oikawa asks for your number because his photo came out blurry, earns himself a harsh slap to the back. âFine! Give Iwa-chan your number instead!â Â
đ·Canât quit it đ·
Itâs a fast fall into friendship after that. Youâre similar in age and temperament. Independent enough to not need calls or messages from him daily, but laser focused when you do receive them. To your friends it feels like a let down, that he only shares simple, day to day things. Pictures of a sunrise before his practice, a snack he thinks youâd like, follow up questions about photos youâve sent him.  A diary of the last year of highschool, is the best way to describe what gets communicated between you two. Â
Itâs nice building a friendship with him.Â
He communicates his schedule in a way that makes you wish you were better at it yourself. Thereâs never a question of when heâs busy or free, and if, like today, you need help carrying supplies, heâs here to help. Itâs just thatâŠâThat is not ice-cream, Iwaizumi.â
He looks at you, in that same serious way, only the left corner of his lip tugs up, âOh itâs not? Please explain o me why itâs not Expert Ice Cream Taste Master?â
You sigh, how do you even beginning, âMint and chocolate do not belong together. Mint alone is fine, Chocolate alone? Acceptable, the two togetherââ
âRefreshing, addicting, compellinââ
âI want to eat ice cream during our senior ditch day, not toothpaste.â
âWho said itâs toothpaste?â Grinning now, fully, heâs leaning closer, "Using your height does not make your point any less true.â You stand on your tip toes, faltering only for a second, his non-mint chocolate contaminated holds you steady.
Iwaizumi finds himself up on his tip-toes too, a full chuckle escaping him, âWhat? What was that? I canât hear anything from up here.â
Your fingers target the soft spot between his ribs and hips, poking. All that smug energy dissipates as he falls to his knees, âOkay okay, you win this one.â
Only this one? You think. Â
Youâll win every time, despite him being a competitive athlete, doesnât he realize his win streak against you is abysmal? When he looks up at you from kneeling, your breath hitches. A beautiful boy, with a softness reserved only for you. What if you kissed him?Â
Claim all he is for yourself, forever and ever?Â
Friends donât do that, he stands to full height, a flush across the tops of his own cheeks, restacking the snacks made askew in your surprise attack. Heâs glad, heartbeats arenât audible to others, least when thereâs an arms length of distance between humans.
Iwaizumi wonders if he made it up, the way your eyes dropped to his lips, the way your smile softened. The way your fingers almost traced his jawlineâŠheâd been speechless again. He gets like this often, especially when you look at him so fondly.
He exhales deeply, eyes looking down, where your hand rests. It looks awfully lonely, he thinks. What if he wer to hold it?
đ·Stuck on you đ·
You are his priority, heâs said as much.
Granted he may have said this in the scheme of helping you figure out what to do post-high school. He knows where heâs going, what heâs doing. His passion for volleyball has introduced him to sports science, itâs too perfect. The way Iwaizumi can catalog, retain, and apply knowledge. Â Heâs going to be an amazing sports scientist, or, whatever it is they do!
While you feel as if youâre faltering a bit, he reminds you that even the best blades of grass allow themselves to sway with the wind. âSo you think I shouldâve been a plant?â
Playful, whispery, as if you two havenât had the same light night standing phone call for four hundred plus days now. âArenât you supposed to ask me, would I still love you if you were a worm?â
A laugh from you, âIwa-chan, youâve been hanging out with Oikawa too many days in a row.â
âI have.â Gosh heâs so honest, âHeâs been trying to practice before he goes, Do you know what he kept saying over and over?â You really really like when heâs like this, when that punch of emotion slips through, voice a bit more animated, what expressions would he be making right now? How do his lips look? All things you want to see. Then he speaks,âWhat do you think âMe amarĂas todavĂa si fuera un gusano?â means?â
âHmmmâŠ.â heâs smiling, he often does when he has your voice so close like this, where youâre less nervous, âI think, Oikawa is going to miss you.â he scoffs. âWould you still love me if I was a worm?â
âOf course, Iâd make you a whole terrarium, full of good healthy soil and greens.â Oh, oh shit. Oh shit, youâre about to add in a joke when he slips in, âYouâd buy me anything right?â
âY-yeah, ha ha, anything you could communicate. Itâd take a while for you to write it out.â Â
âEven mint ice cream?â
âHajimeâŠâ you can fell his grin through the receiver, âLetâs be rational here.â
âWow, even as a worm youâd deny me the refreshmentâ"
âGo brush your teeth.â
He already has, he always does before calling. Your voice is one of the sweetest sounds to his ears, plus the sleepier you get, the more mumbly. âShouldâŠ.I call youâŠIwa-chan?â
âHmm?â His eyes are so heavy, he wonders if youâre about to fall asleep. What your face looks like, are you holding onto that ridiculously large plushie he won? âOikawaâŠ.leavingâŠIwaâŠâ
âYeah, heâs leaving.â
âYou wonât leave⊠right?â  His heart starts to beat faster, âNo, Iâm around.â
âGood.â
âYeah, Iâll stay until you find your way.â
âIwaâŠwhy?â You had mumbled the middle bit, he asks you repeat that, âWhy would I ever leave you?â Said with a sigh, the kind of fully guarded secret exhale sigh. The ways filling his own lungs to the brim. âI donât think Iâd ever leave you.â
More mumbling.
âEven if you like mint-chocolate.â
đ·Scared of telling you đ·
CollegeâŠisâŠhard. Itâs your first year and Iwaizumiâs second.
âYou donât need to be, you know, at your orientation?â Heâs hanging up a string of lights, per your very squiggly sketch. âOrientation is for freshmen, no one cares about sophomoreâs much.â
âOkay but, classes, books? Donât you have your own fridge to fill up with snacks?â He presses a button and the fairy lights glow soft. Satisfied with his work, he turns to you, âAfter youâre all settled.â  Youâd kiss him right then and there, except itâs a very loud crash and a omph! More body sounds and the dorm room finally opens, your roommate. She beams in, âOh you have a hot boyfriend, hi!â
UhhâŠUhhâŠâIwaizumi Hajime, hi!â Iwaizumi supplies your name to this stranger, coming back to your side, hand slipping in yours with a gentle squeeze. Whispering to your ear, âShe seems nice.â You pull at his hand, âYou canât know what, what if she likes absurd things, like pineapple on pizza?â
His eyeroll is legendary, your body turns to him like the earth rounds the sun, âIââ
Your new roommate crashes into the push not pull bathroom, an oopsie accompanied with a wave and she disappears behind the wood. âLetâs give her some privacy?â He tugs at your hand, he keeps it held all the way to the campus bookstore, and even then, he only lets go for the few seconds it takes to shuffle everything inside your newly purchased tote.
A very friendly looking boy invites you to a bonfire party, tomorrow. âWe love freshies!,â Iwaizumi mocks, âWhat does that even mean?â And all you could think about was the way he tugged your hand closer, this low voice offering a stern, âThanks.â
Your heart has been stammering nonstop since then it doesnât help that he's still here. In this random shop, wordlessly picking up each snack you like, dropping it into the bin youâre holding. Hands still clasped together, âYouâre gonna be alright.â he shares, eyes on the road, you turn to him, watching the red glow shift to green. âYouâll meet new people, learn new things, youâre going to be alright.â
âIt feels serious.â You look away, âItâs silly, Iâm growing up a year after everyone else.â
âItâs not silly, and youâre notâŠbehind.â
âCome with me to this bonfire thing?â Â His grip on the steering wheel tightens, jaw twitches in that way where, if Oikawa was around, heâd be smacked into a polite posture. âYou want me there?â
With you? Always. But you canât say that, friends donât say that, so you simply nod.
Anything, everything. If Iwaizumi Hajime is physically capable of doing so, heâll fulfil your every request. Youâve grown with him, he can only hope to keep growing by your side. College is hard, itâs a lot to navigate but he believes in you. You waited until a course of study felt right, you waited until you had saved enough to feel comfortable starting. You bravely step into new situations with that effortless charm and sensibility.
He sees it now too, at the bonfire. You compliment someoneâs outfit, they yours. A new face to look forward to in tomorrowâs class. Thereâs other interest too, clear as day, as if youâd not step into the world and inspire yearning.
Highschool was easy enough, you kept to your friends, your hobbies and him. College broadens that bubble and heâd like to make it easy for you. Enjoyable, new. But the thought, when you hand him his drink, and then whisper excitedly, âI think it's spiked punch.â The thought he has is; please, only be mine. Only be known to him.
Please.
Your eyes fall to his lips too, heâs found you two supplies to make sâmores, messy marshmallow and chocolate stuck on his chin. You seemed to be the only young adult with a napkin, dabbing at his chin gently. Squished together, talking about everything, nothing.  Â
You could kiss him, taste the smoke and sweetness. You could kiss him, in the glow of orange and starlight. You want to kiss him, name everything thatâs blossomed over the years.Â
Calloused hands, even though he hasnât played volleyball for a week, pushing your head onto his shoulder, âTired?â An arm wraps around you. You arenât but would that mean you need to move away from him? âYeah.â
As softly as possible, neither of you move to leave or mingle with others staring into the flames. You want to kiss him so badly, but not with others around, not when heâll be driving away after.
So you donât.
đ·Still, still falling for you đ·
Friends donât turn their nightly chats into morning wake up calls, the ones where Iwaizumi is already rushing to class and youâre fighting the extra soft comforter.Â
đ: UP!Â
đ:Â [Image Sent] (basic pancakes with butter, syrup on the side and scrambled eggs)
đ·: there wonât be any new pancakes
đ: The blueberry will come back
đ: I believe it
Friends donât call you for a virtual study date, especially not looking like a model fresh out of Vogue magazine. âIwaizumi you wear glasses?!â
You get shushed by your peers, funny how Iwaizumi is glaring at strangers he canât see, âYeah, helps with the eye strain.â
What eye strain? He watches your face crumple, a quick follow up, âNothing serious. I was up memorizing more muscles.â  He shuffles some things around and opens up a notebook, âReady?â
To be fair, you spend half the time studying and half sneaking glances at him, he looksâŠhe looks so much like himself and different. The glasses accentuate his focused face too; that same serious and analytical outside hitterâshit, he caught you.  Only to smile, one heartbeat, a second, a third. You both look away, flipping comically through your textbooks.
Friends donât skip parties to have virtual watch dates. Friends donât memorize each other's schedules and send each other treats. Friends also donât drive a ridiculous amount of hours to celebrate the end of exam season and the start of a new college year. Friends, surely, do not sleep on the floor of an empty apartment because they donât want you to assemble furniture alone. Â
Itâs been hard to ignore the boyfriend label. The way your roommate let it slip a few weeks back and everyone in the dorms just went Oohhhh, that tracks. It tracks what? Is it a moose? Â
Iwaizumi Hajime is a kind, caring, intentional friend!
This is what his friendship looks like!
âIwa-chan is my friend too, but heâs not aqui and helping me set up my studio.â More grumbling from Oikawa, who finally got your number to make sure Iwaizumi didnât spend a birthday alone, not that youâve ever let that happen.  âItâs expensive to fly across the world.â
âHmm, sure. Sure. Itâs also expensive to driveâŠ.whatâŠsix hours?â
You crumble a bubblegum wrapper at the mic of your phone, âSooo muchâmuch stati-static, IâIâm losing you Oikawa!â
âThatâs not how modern telephones work!âÂ
Friends also, absolutely, do not insist on cooking you a celebratory move-in dinner. Yes, itâs a simple pasta and veggies dish. Yes, heâs made sure everything heâs cooked aligns with your dietary restrictions and yes, it makes you want to kiss him!
Blame it on the gentle graze of skin while passing him dishes to dry, blame it on the way he looks realizing heâs still wearing your cooking apron (that he bought and uses almost exclusively)â blame it on the song playing in the background because you donât want to lose him.Â
You donât and yet, you blink and your lips have touched his. Softer, fuller, more than you had expected. âIâŠI was giving my compliments to the chef, Iââ Look away, look away.
Turn the faucet off, wipe down the kitchen counter and walk away!
Only, only, itâs a small place. Thereâs only so many steps you can go before turning around and there he is. That same, handsome, beautiful human, with eyes soft and an indiscernible look. WhatâsâŠwhatâs he feeling?
âCompliments to the chef?â He parrots, nodding slightly, one small step, another and his cologne is back in your sensory orbit. Tilting his head, âShould I have gone into food sciences?â
You tilt in the opposite direction, âBut you loveâŠmuscles and sports andâŠscience.â
He nods, âScienceâŠâ
Was his face, always, that close?
âYâŠyeah. Science.â
âDo you know what else I adore?â  You want to roll your eyes, joke about volleyball, say itâs not that serious, the kiss doesnât have to mean a thing. But your heart aches at that, why, why does it ache at that? A look into his eyes and all tension melts, you shake your head gently no, no you donât know. You need him to say it.Â
higuruma hiromi | infinity
Words: 1.5k, suggestive, smoking
Summary: Model Higuruma Hiromi has many eyes pointed at him but hisâwill alwaysâsearch for you. Inspired by x, written for @valleyofwater
Heâs worn many suits, especially given his early years as a naive, arrogant, bustling attorney. His attire nowadays is from name brands he mispronounces on the regular. A modeling career he doesnât take seriously because it wasnât meant to be serious.
You asked, he arrived.
You posed him, he moved.
Ever eager to be the center of your attention.
The one thing Higuruma covets, an itch under his skin. A touch he has yet to allow himself the mercy of.
âč
You launched his career many years ago, it pulled him into a world that dotes on the very features heâs gotten slack for in the past. His lightly tanned skin, slender build, deceptive height in photography makes him permissible to use across multiple concepts. He can be the tired and bored suits model or the too-cool and unserious high fashion model. His large nose and smaller brown eyes are suddenly unique, in style, captivating. The new praise means nothing, itâs a touch of your hand, tilting his chin, âHiromi, stay turned to the light.â
That giant lens blocking the stars of your eyes so, fine, he turns to the carefully placed studio light.
Itâs a darker concept, he notes.
His agent, that poor man, would panic seeing all this red and shadow.
Hiromi would ask, what client, what ad, what product, but thatâs shallow pleasantry isnât it? What he wants to do is thank you, for trusting him with this, for being utterly selfish and brash.
Lifting his head, moving his arm, kicking out his feet, treating him as exactly what he seeks to be, your most favorite model. The prop that springs to life whatever fantastical ideas swirl in that mind of yours.
Oh how heâd love to sneak in, take an elevator ride through all your neuronal synapses and still, still heâd find it hard to pinpoint what makes you, you. âThat expression is perfect.â
Itâs the face he makes when he thinks about you, when he drowns out the rest of the world and wonders how it would feel to lay his head across your chest⊠would you let him, if he asked?
âč
You're comfortable with him, the jaded ex-lawyer turned super model turned mystery. Higuruma Hiromi is a complicated man and not. Least, not to you, not in your studio, on your carefully crafted set, under your watchful eye.
He always sits in a way that would make the burden Atlas bears seem light.
You direct your studio hands, this is the last shot, they wonât be needed once the tub is placed and filled to your liking. The drops of red youâll add on your own, once youâve settled him in and explained the concept. What is it? What had you said to him? A commentary on justice?Â
What a brazen lie.
There is no external client, this is for you. Your portfolio, your need to touch his skin and have his presence wrap around your studio as it often clouds your mind. You donât hate that heâs famous, you hate that he doesnât care. Hiromi has asked for no compensation other than dinner and cigarettes.
You know better than to think of him as cheap anything. His mind doesn't shallow, hollow, meaningless contact. His brain doesnât allow him to run on top of the surface. No, Hiromi sinks his teeth in and deep, Hiromi bleeds dry the object of his fascination. Sometimes himself too in the process.
And you know better, better than to want himâŠand yetâŠ
âč
âThatâs a nice sweater.â He comments dryly, stepping into the tub, water rushing to accommodate his long limbs. âWonât it shrink if it gets wet?â
That tone, those eyes.  Youâd wave it off if there were a real set, a real campaign, a realâŠanything other than excuse to get close to him. Laughable, the concept âa commentary of justiceâ and youâre hereâŠabusing your power arenât you? No, no. This is a game you two have played over and over for years on end now.
Off your top goes and he hisses, âI think you should be on the other side of that lens.â
âI wonder who taught you all that charm?â As you step in, one of his hands comes to steady your calf, you add the other leg, standing tall, looking down at him and oh, he gives your muscles a squeeze.Â
âIs it working?â He canât tell, youâre such a good poker face with that camera. Those eyes slightly glossed over, assessing every centimeter of him, tugging him up by his tie. âCould you comb your hair back a bit more, with the waterâcareful, none on your face, remember?â
Funny how his limbs move at the mere suggestion of your words and halt at your discretion too. Your name spills from his lips, â...like this?â
âPerfect, youâre alwaysâŠâ the camera shields your emotions, âso perfect for me, Hiromi.â
âč
Itâs a game that could go on for hours, days, weeks, years. Hiromi will sit when you ask him to, speak when you address him, if only heâd build up the nerve to ask you to keep him. Let him throw away this unearned career, forget about the fashion weeks and runways and first class anything.
His hands belong here, on you, keeping you steady. His body belongs here, under your will, move him as you need. And you do, heavens above could not promise him the satisfaction that comes from your twisting and pulling and positioning of him.Â
And if you were to read into this, all his interviews and all his behind the scene clips, of how he flinches and pulls back from hands that approach his face⊠how he places boundaries around how and who and when he can be touched on set⊠none of that crosses his mind when its you, if you were to read into thatâŠ
âWhat would you like to eat tonight, Hiromi?â
Heâs half submerged, the red and gavel pooling into a tye-dye design. Eyes snap to your camera, then he tilts up, the water drips down and free. Thereâs a few that bead across his eyelashes, you reach out to brush them away. âAnywhere youâd want to take me.â
You hum.
You stand again, to hang your camera up and out of liquid danger, and sit at the foot of the tub. He leans back to the opposite side. âIâm not much of a cook myself, but I doâŠhave this as promised.â
Itâs magic, whenever you pull the dry cigarettes and lighter from. Itâs mystifying, how perfect that brown and white roll of toxins perches at your lips. How you light and take a drag, the longest seconds of Hiromiâs life and heâd still want this moment on loop. Over and over. The way the embers sparkle in your eyes, the way your lips part slightly, that crawl of yours that forces water to him, over and out the edges of the tub.
So close.
Heâs had you close like this before, a different set, a different photoshoot but now thereâs no camera to hide either of yourselves with. His hands find your waist, his mouth parts on itâs own as you slip the cigarette between his lips, his eyes never, ever leave yours, and he refuses to let your warmth part from his. He can keep you warm, heâs good enough for that, surely.
âIâd take anything.â Famished, he is. For you, one look, one touch, one breatheâŠwould it satiate him? The way your eyebrow quirks up, the way your hand finds chin again, always moving his face into the light, itâs an excuse, really.  Thereâs only one way to soothe the burn under your fingertips. âYouâd take anything, but what would you give me, Hiromi?â
Anything doubled, tripled. Heâs about to speak when you lean all the way in, chest to chest, his brain short circuits, âWould you give me a kiss?â
âTake twenty, thirty, an infinityââ and you know him, youâve always known him to talk himself out of any situation so you shut him up. Heâs given permission, infinity was it? A number you like, a number you can work with. The water sloshes in a rage known only to the dark storm seas, not fit for this studio, not fit for all this expensive equipment you have, within an arms reach or so.
But he kisses you as if starved, no restraint, nothing chaste. Tongue over tongue, moans so pretty for you, his hands keeping you pressed flush, not even a molecule of water given entry between you two. You have to bite at his bottom lip to pull away, to catch your breath, look at him.
The way the water drips down, hair askew, the way red drips from his lips and yours. The way his eyes have lidded heavy, the feel of his chestâŠrising and falling against your own. âWeâve gotâŠa long way to infinity, donât we?â
He nods. No other road heâd want to pursue, no other path worth entertaining. Keep him, keep him, wonât you?
Summary: A snippet of a softer morning with Bokuto. Please do not attempt Bokuto's jumping at home.
đŠ: [1 Image Sent] (Menu)
đŠ: Can I PLEAsE bring EVERY appetizer!!
đŠ: You would have lunch for days
đŠ: Thai tea here SUCKS
đŠ: Canceling that from my order
đŠ: Iwa is talking about taxes.
đŠ: I paid mine âŠI think
đŠ: Did you get home alright?
đŠ: So if I came home with no eyebrows
 đ„Ą
Itâs the same room, the same cool tile that greets you time after time when energy escapes you. Your phone is buzzing somewhere in the dark void of your apartment. You donât move, guilt summoning itself from the ground and restraining all your limbs.
It was a close call today. You didnât sleep well, you skipped that morning shower, you didnât take the detour to find another coffee shop when yours was closed. Your eyes had slipped close for a second, a second and that was enough to send the whole day spiraling.
The printer stopped working, the storage room key was lost, countless tiny moments that chipped away at your spirit.
Itâs probably selfish, what youâre doing now too. Turning away from the world.
Not a single light turned on, not a single attempt to change your work clothes and put on soft pajamas. You donât deserve it, your brain supplies. You donât deserve the softness of nice clothing, a bed or light.
Instantly, KĆtarĆâs voice breaks through the abyss, âHey hey hey, can you NOT be mean to my favorite person?â Is exactly what heâd say, to get you out of this funk.
You could call him, you should call him. Heâd run over in a heartbeat. And yet, you stifle that urge.
Bargain with yourself, itâs a mood, itâs temporary. Still, this sadness grows vines that wrap around you tight. Everything feels heavy, even the weight of your eyelids. So you let your eyes clothes, if thereâs dust mites burrowing into your hair so be it. You canât be bothered. Maybe enough of them will take over, claim your body as theirs and youâll escape the conundrum of a commute, work, cooking and cleaning and adulting.Â
All of it.Â
Later.
Tomorrow.
Whatever.
 đ„Ą
đŠ: [1 Image sent] (a grinning Bokuto & Hinata)
đŠ: eyebrows SAFE
đŠ: Speaking of
đŠ: Location says youâre home
đŠ: Whatcha doing?
đŠ: Are you watching John Tangerine without me?
đŠ: Thatâs OUR show
đŠ: Wait, do you ALWAYS watch it without me first?
đŠ: Is that how you know what happens?
đŠ: Sunshine?
4 missed calls
đ„Ą
You canât tell how long itâs been, of you spacing out or falling asleep. Is there a difference? Your bones donât ache as much as you thought, the floor suddenly shifted intoâŠ.soft padding? Wait a minute, this is your comforter. And that warmth on your back? That is the body of none other than Bokuto KĆtarĆ, that little wetness on your shoulder? His drool.
You move to turn away but his hands sense your conscious state and pull you flat against him, turning both of you so youâre now his personal heater. âKâŠKĆtarĆâŠ.weâreâŠthe floorâŠâ
âBut I donât wanna âŠfive more minutes⊠Sunshine donât make meââ a grumble and a turn, his arms tighten and he rolls again until your head smacks the non-pillowed floor. You yelp, he startles awake,a blink, then two, and his giant grin. âGood morninâwhy, why the frown?â thumbs at the pout youâve adorned.
âWhere do we normally sleep, KĆtarĆ?â
âOn the bed.â he nuzzles at your neck, the scent calming the previous adrenaline down.âWhy is that?â
âSo our backs donât hurt.â his hands slide up and down the side of your body, oh your clever boy, trying to distract you is he? âAnd are we on a bed?â
âItâs NOT my fault, you looked so cute, and I thought we could have a sleepoverââ
âWe do, every night.â
âI KNOW but, waitâŠâ He gets up abruptly, rearranges the blankets so youâre covered, a stern, âDo not move.â before his heavy steps pad into the kitchen.
Thereâs the familiar sound of take out being opened and plated, your microwave beeping and KĆtarĆ humming along. You can picture him wiggling his butt every so slightly at the 5 second countdown.  Greasy, heavy, deliciousness fills the room as he brings over the reheated plates and spoons.
âI need to wash my faceââ
âI did, I used the wipes, like you showed me, even did theââ he pats his face four times, âthat you do after cleaning.â
Sweet, your KĆtarĆ is so sweet. âSo this dish was the tastiest of the bunch. We should start our day with this, and thenâŠâ one would think KĆtarĆ is being bullish. Not pointing out the state of your being, still in work clothes, still a little sad, still a little dazed, defeat trying to pull you back down into a lullâbut heâs your KĆtarĆ. Treating you the same regardless of the heavy rain that pours in your heart.
âSunshine?â Graceful athlete, moves the plates up and away as you crowd into his form, surely, his chest has more than enough room for you. Burrow in, hide yourself in his ribs, Bokutoâs arms come to close around you. Spinning slightly, so heâs supported by the coffee table, hands rubbing up and down your back.
He knows, without you saying, yesterday sucked. And still, youâre his brave brave brave precious sun, who smiled bright, telling him to go to the reunion. That you were simply tired, nothing sleep wouldnât cure.
But nothing even comes close, does it? To the hugs he gives. A little too strong, the squeeze never letting up, the scent of his body wash mixed with your shampoo, the way his heart beats proudly in his chest. This s the place youâve gotten used to for relief, for ease, for soothing andâŠâIâm not hungryââ
âOne biteâŠâ your KĆtarĆ knows tender, softens his voice in a way that melts away any protest, you take the bite. He hums at the noise you let out, eyes going bright, another spoonful ready, raised at your lips. âYou said one.â
âAnd this is one tooââ Just like that, he makes sure youâre fed, held safe in his arms, watching the way your expression changes with each new dish. He really did bring back every appetizer and despite sleep lingering in his eyes, plated said appetizers carefully so they donât touch. Â
âHâŠhow was the reunion?â  He could talk about caterpillars and youâd listen, watch his face shift and the tone of his voice fluctuate as he parades over the chaotic events.  Enough so that you can slip free from his arms, but not from him. Bokuto follows, of course. Like an owl flies to the moon, he flies close to your light, eager to bask in your comments. Ever so protective of him after all, what does that Kuroo get by flustering your KĆtarĆ huh?Â
đ„Ą
You both make quick work of the morning hygiene routine, KĆtarĆ insisting today is a pajama day because he hasnât let go of the idea of a sleepover. Yes itâs the weekend and yes the weather may be nice but it doesnât compare to the half of you. He wants to indulge, give that playful side of you reason to come out and play.
Watches as you indulge in the tiny bit of skin care you have, immediately sitting on the counter, half hanging off, face right into yours, âMe too, Me too.â Â
His hair always clings to water, it drips down onto the floor, so you grab a towel, he leans further down, âYouâre going to hurt your neck pretty boy, donât do that.â
Itâs okay if you have to stand on your tiptoes to help dry his hair. Itâs a rare treat, KĆtarĆ with his hair down, soft, fluffy, malleable without the gels and hairspray. Your hand tangles a bit when you check for dryness, âWe both need haircutsâŠâ
Another thing youâve failed to do. Â
A sigh escapes as Bokuto KĆtarĆ puts his arms around your hips and pulls you forward, oh so serious, âWhy âŠ..â pulls you into a hug, shakes both of you from side to side a little, âno being mean to my favorite person.â
Â
Oh, you adore KĆtarĆ, the one who doesnât limit his love.
Moderation? What use is it when he knows how the sun shines in your eyes? How your laugh could light the night sky? Why should he hold back? In the home both of you have made, in the mischief you two share? Hands tracing infinity signs into your skin, maybe if he does this enough a spell will be cast and youâll stay with him forever and ever.
âHmm, not using the lotion then huh?â He lifts his head up, a pout already forming, âAKAASHI took it from me! Said his girlfriend would appreciate it more than I do!âÂ
âHow rude!â
âIsnât it!â
But heâs kinda secretly happy, because now your hands are tracing lotion over his, working it into the calloused palms and his long fingers. Ever so tender, his eyes watching your face full of adoration âYouâre so nice to me.â Â
âBecause youâre nice to me.âÂ
He tries, he really really tries. KĆtarĆ admits itâs taken him a while to slow down, ease out of his incessant drive to do and fix and achieve. Youâve softened him up in all the right ways, helped him learn more and more about social cues. And really, itâs a testament to your teaching and his learning, that he asks, âHowâŠare you doing?...you missed my calls.â
âBetter, sinceâŠyouâre here.â  Heâs so in love, four words and heâs left speechless, breathless. One hand of yours comes to close his mouth as you drift back to the delicious takeout.
đ„Ą
You do talk to him, about the heaviness, heâd package it all in a luggage and ship it to hell if he could. Takes it upon himself to look up cruise tickets because that's the legal way to ship a human to Antarctica, hell on Earth for someone who hates the cold. âYou cannot do that to the penguins, no one would be around my supervisor, KĆtarĆ.â
âREALLY? Because John Tangerine can ship his enemies there? And Iâm not allowed to send yours?â He huffs, crosses his arms, indignant.
âIs it because heâs mysterious?â  Why have you, and all your friends, fallen for this actor John Tangerine? Heâs heard the way you coo at your phone, the way your friends go to his fanmeets. Heâs âŠsome dude, some guy. Handsome, sure. Heck, KĆtarĆ will admit, John Tangerine has that charisma to him too butâŠbutâŠâTell ME. Whatâs so great about him anyways?âÂ
What does John Tangerine have that KĆtarĆ doesnât? âIs it his hair?â
âYou donât need to be John Tangerine. I like you as you are.â Yeah but itâs John Tangerine movies you watch repeatedly. But youâre giggling and slightly blushing at a cheesy joke John is making on screen. âOh, this is the best part, KĆtarĆ, did you know John practiced this jumpâŠâ KĆtarĆ does know, you only tell him every time you watch this movie.
But he listens anyways, eyes glued to your face, your lips, that happy smile and nose scrunch when John lands on the taxi roof, he has it all memorized already and still itâd never be enough. Itâs probably selfish, what heâs doing right now.
Rewinds the scene because you were âtalking too loudâŠâ when really, really he wants to see you make those faces again. Because you always, unconsciously, turn to KĆtarĆ â cling at his arm and squeeze, like youâre both in on the biggest secret, *gasp* John is the spy!
Thereâs a list of chores to be done, trash to be taken out, bills to be paid, adulting creeping around the bend and KĆtarĆ sweeps you into his arms, âI could probably land that jump too!â
âKĆtarĆ, no.â
âKĆtarĆ, yes.â
A giggle, moving of furniture, a badly mimicked scenario for Bokuto KĆtarĆ to recreate the famous John Tangerine jump.  Â
He does this jump, again and again, until your bellies hurt from laughing, until you fall to the floor clutching your stomachs and even he makes another attempt to jump.
Because your laugh is what blocks out the rest of the world, the daunting pressure of being a professional athlete, the fact his last tweet had a glaring typo, that he really wanted you to be greedy and tell him to come home last night. But thatâs okay, heâll keep doing this until all of that doubt clears.
Thatâs his in it for life, with you.Â
In the future, when you do eventually call, he wants you to know without a doubt; heâll drop everything and run right over. Sure, John Tangerine can cross fences like itâs nothing and woo the ladies and is a professional spy but does John Tangerine have the most precious sunshine holding him this close?
Tracing the softest hands over his face?
John Tangerine will never ever know.Â
Because you?Â
You are KĆtarĆâs later, tomorrow, whenever, always.Â
kusakabe atsuya | fiend
sfw. magical draken kusakabe, anyone?
Happy happy birthday lovely @jjk-eugie. My apologies for being late. Thank you for being a wonderful part of the light in fandom.
Kusakabe had no interest in humans, long gone were the days where leading a life side by side was possible for his kind. Heâs been hunted, pushed into the shadows. Gone was his desire for life outside his hoard of treasures and comfort. Content, resigned, to sleep peacefully until humans proved themselves worthy of his attention â but of course â there was you.
Day after day, making the climb. Day after day, removing the miscreant creatures that pretended to share his abode.  And day after day, heâs had to hear your voice, your thoughts, your claim for revenge.Â
When a griffin proved itself too close, too fast, too strong, he had emerged in a thick fog of black. âDo your broken bones not weep?"Â
You held no fear, grasped your dull blade tightly, âFiend, yield to me.â
No declaration of death, no claim on his treasure, none of those pompous airs knights have. Only eyes full of mirth, a mind desperate for revenge. âYou want me to yield?â
âLend me your powerâŠâ You paused with the smoke shifted to that of a human male. Fiends can come in many forms and this one, this one has a particularly handsome one. A face with history, hair that's deceptively soft chestnut and shoulders broad. Any other instance of seeing the Fiend, youâd think he was a Knight. âFiend, help me take down the King.â
It wouldnât be the first, it would not be the last. Royals are so predictable, but he did find it amusing, a Princess coming herself. Where were your Knights?Â
âWhy should I?â  Thereâs nothing of interest in the human lands, not a thing worth possessing. âWhat could you offer me, human?â
âYou are weakened, I willâŠ.I will have the healersââ
âBring the draken back to full power? Naive arenât we?â  He had planned to instill fear in you, spread his wings and drop you from a safe enough height, so youâd never make the climb again. That was the only reason he got so close, draped an arm around your form.
What did he know youâd held a dagger made of his scales, laced with a spell to bind him to you?Â
Never did he expect, you, Princess, would be the one to cage his anger and tame his heart.
đÂ
âAnd to what do we owe the Princessâ visit?â The man who sits on top of the throne has no glory to be bellowing a laugh so loud. When heâs taken and taken and taken from all the lands without remorse. The way his beloved advisors sit around the table, vipers concealed in human flesh. âWere you able to slay the fiend? Have you come to claim a reward?â
A round of laughters, disbelief, âThe girl? Truly, what match for a Fiend?â âWhat luck of yours!â âSuch an impossible task.â âSire, pity the girlââ
Your small envoy hoists forward a bag, drops it at the edge of the throne's steps. The hissing stops, disgusted faces and confusion follow. You hold tightly onto the small blade in your hands, eyes unsure if the blood dripping is from your wounds or the blade.
âYouâve done it then?â Â He stands.
âHow could she!â âWhat such a small entourage?â âTrickery!â âSorcery!â
Your grip tenses, eyes find the quiet one, who rolls his glass of wine idly in his hand. His eyes tired, sullen, and itâs ever so subtle, how he shakes his head no.
As a Princess, no matter how small your land, no matter how royal your blood, they call on you to kneel before the Ging. To drop your weapons and show proof the fiend has been defeated. âNow, now, I promised the Princess a reward.â
âSire!â âYour Grace!â âAllow me to confirmââ The King raises a hand, arrogance seeping through his robes, as he takes a few steps down, to circle your form. But why should the King worry? There is no man in this land to best him, no one dare take a dagger to such a daunting warrior. He ruled with fists of fire and burned to ash all those who have rebelled. Just you, pesky Princess, pitiful. âAnd pray tell, how did you slay the fiend?â
He notes your blade is barely that of common knights, wondering how youâve convinced anyone to spare you a weapon. The envoy with you is barely four people, even that, surprising. You? Venturing into the fiends cave? You bring justice over the darkened lands?
And itâs perfect, this man so arrogant, blinded by his own success to not dare see the banished Princess as a threat. Ignore the dirt under your nails, the dried blood on your face, the vengenous in your eyes.. Your life, once envied, turned to impoverishment. The Kingâs only grace? Complete the impossible task, defeat the fiend and you can return to the castle. The same fiend thatâs haunted the lands for generations. A mystic dark smoke that erupts and consumes.
Oh, one could be quick to say the King is a fiend himself but youâve learned, the fiend at least has mercy. This KingâŠthis foul manâŠhas no sincerity in his bones. âDid you injure your ears, Princess? Speak!â
Your eyes turn again to those of the wearied advisor. He shakes his head no. You wait. Closer still, you need the King. Your voice shakes, not of fear, but anger. The vipers buy the emotion as weakness, poison that draws the king into orbit, heâs used the jasmin your mother had grown in the gardens to perfume his skin. Heâs wearing robes your father had commissioned from seamstresses from afar. He wears the crown that belongs on your head.
Now.
The fiend, his voice, clearer than water, stronger than the surging sea.
In a blink, the blade in your hand darkens, your eyes turn red and the fiendâs shadow emerges at your back. Seen only to those who know the smell of drake fire and vengeance. You watch as Hiromi's eyes widen, he stands abruptly. Â
The other advisors watch, as the Princess takes three steps, a sudden smoke removing the crown from where itâs perchec. The Princess spins, the darkened blade raises through the air and the dead Kingâs head rolls. You stand tall, proud and your eyes roam the viperâs pit.  Â
Let me get them all.
One by one, all those who plundered and pillaged your family castle. One by one, all those that laughed at your screams for mercy, one by one, they all roll.  The fiend makes himself known, crown in seemingly hand, as he places it at the top of your head. âAll hail, my Queen.âÂ
đ
You donât run from the horror of it, you donât scale back your voice. You claim proudly, youâve bested the traitor and the Palace and Kingdom now falls back under your family lineage. Â And if they thought that would be enough, if they thought the fiend would be pleased with seeing you as Queen, no.
The fiend wants your reign to be supreme.
Where there is no turmoil, no suffering, to loss at the hands that hoard jewels for themselves.Â
So you let him out every now and then, let him use the bond between you two, he manifests in the flesh. Strikes fear in the heart of all that of weak principles, you rule not with an iron thumb but the drakenâs fire.
Kusakabe finds himself more and more invested in catching the poisonous rats. Â
He hasnât heard your laugh, he only knows it from memories that seep into his dreams.
He hasnât heard you sing, only learns about it through the hallway murals.
Thereâs a life youâve led before the stress of it all, and he vows to bring that back.
Itâs purely baseless, that one would think drakenâs donât have favorites.
They do, and his favorite after eons of no one, is you.
gojo satoru | from a dream
pg13, sad(?) fluff, 2.6k
summary: gojo satoru isekaiâd into your satoru
Itâs warm, his senses inform him. Warmer than usual for his afternoon solo nap on his luxury sofa. He twists, a heavy weight moves with him, on his chest. Alarm doesnât course through him, knowing his Infinity wouldnât allow a harmful presence to get this close to him. His hands have fallen victim to this presence, barely trapped underneath â whatever â it is.
Thereâs a shuffling, aâŠhumanoid shape on top of him? This person, he realizes, is snuggling closer, a cheek and nose nuzzles into his collarbones, a soft hum of âSatoru, cold.â  His fingers twitch, some part of his brain supplying blankets within reach, he pulls the fabric around you, unclear what is happening.
You lay in dreamland, sleeping so soundly on his chest. Not a threat, it would seem. He takes the moment to back track because what is this?
What kind of illusion?
Itâs impossible for him to be trapped in a Domain like this? But why would a curse want toâŠsnuggle him?
Itâs odd.
He canât even sense cursed energy from you, from the immediate space, from anything really. His hands tentatively fall to your form, fingers brushing fabric and exposed skin and you offer up even more softness. There doesnât seem to be a talisman or spell on you, hiding your energy, keeping him plastered into this sofa.
He pauses when you shuffle, pushing yourself further into him. Legs happily tangled, and even there, he notes, thereâs warmth.Â
How does he disarm a Domain like this?
Thereâs a ding! He tenses.
As if summoned, your head pops up, eyes big, bright, meeting his baby blues with a smile, âTheyâre ready!â He feels his hands clench, is it now? Whatever this sinister plan of yours is, hidden in the scent of chocolate and butter?
Itâs frustrating how the cold invades the space that was occupied by your form, itâs all adding up now, youâre going to do it. Use your energy and attack. He waits and waits, but it never comes.
Confused as he sits up, uncharacteristically silent, the floor feels real. The sofa feels too sunken in to be false, a curse canât create this as imitation. Thereâs a tv playing a show or movie, he canât tell, soft trinkets scattering the console itâs perched on. And photos . Homely, cozy, sâŠsafe? Where the hell is he?
âSatoru, whereâd you put the oven mit?â Using his first name, talking like you know him, what a minx of a curse you are.
Drawers are being open and closed, he waits for a sinister fog to overtake him, instead the melody of your humming, as you explore the kitchen. The timer gets another ding! He stands, his body feels softer, hands going to his abs, he has them but also, insulation? His arms arenât as defined, and what is he wearing?
An off brand tshirt and grey sweatpants? What the hell are these Cinnamoroll socks? And bangs in his eyes? His hair is soft and down? Wasnât he in his uniform, whereâs his bandana, his eyes canât be exposed to light like this for too long least he get a migraineâyou, youâve done something.Â
Pads into the kitchen cautiously, catches you removing the tray of cookies and placing them on top of the stove. âSoon as the timer goes off we can have oneâŠalthough the chocolate looks so meltyâŠâ your hand reaches for one, Satoru knows itâs terribly hot and not a good idea, but whatâs a curse coming up with such a domestic scene? Why with Satoru?
He was at the high school right? Napping on his sofaâ A gentle touch and tug at the top of his head, his eyes find you close. Too close, closer than Infinity should ever allow. His hands come to your hips, wanting to put distance between you two, instead steadying your form as you whisk away the cowlickâs in his hair, moving long bangs away from his eyes. âThere you are.â
No. Heâs notâŠthereâs no reason for you to be looking at him with such soft eyes.
This has to be a Domain, you have to be a curse. Why is your skin so human?
Half a very warm, perfectly melted chocolate chip cookie is brought to his lips, âI wonât tell anyone.âÂ
The gleam in your eyes a tad mischievous, a bit secretive, all too adoring. He takes a bite, too real to be fake, but what? Did you put poison in this? Itâs all too real to be just a dream. Maybe his unconscious has finally caught up to him, maybe sleeping only four hours a day has backfired, maybe â âSatoru?â
How do you say his name with such fondness? Like a delicacy.
"You feeling okay?â
"IâmâŠconfused." Honest, transparent, hopeful. Itâs stupid, to think a curse would be this docile and kind towards him, and yet, he doesnât wager his skepticism as reason enough to lie to you. "Naps do that Satoru, I told you.â
Youâre pouting, putting your arms around his waist, pulling him in. Like a wave crashing to shore, his form greets your warmth again. His hands around you, bodies sinking towards another, tender, natural. âItâs Saturday, weâre baking for Yujiâs recital, please tell me you charged the camcorder?â
Camcorder? Arenât smartphones enough? How old are you? â Kento insisted on it. You told me you kept one from your college days.â
College? âYouâre gonna show me your rugby games later, remember?âÂ
âRugby?â He sees you narrow your eyes, this is it, he expects the Domain to show itâs real form now, shift into darkness and danger instead, you pull his cheek.
You pull his cheek.
Gojo Satoru, The Strongest, getting his cheek pulled by someoneâŠshorter than him. âMr. Strongest Rugby Star, are you a liar Gojo Satoru?â
Probably, maybe, but, why is he finding himself blushing? Grinning? âThe Strongest doesnât need to lie.â
Itâs playful, that eye roll and huff, the crossing of your arms. He doesnât want to leave the feeling of your arms around him, pulls your hands back on his waist, hold him for a second closer. So that heâs close enough to disarm your Domain, afterall. Not like heâs succumbed to whatever this Domain is? Whatever, it feels good, domestic, nice. âWell The Strongest needs to find the camcorder so we can record our god-son Yuji in his first play.â
Our? God-Son? Yuji? Was Satoru fighting a curse with Yuji? Wasnât he napping in his office? His brows furrow, he notes your head tilt, âSatoru? Baby are you feeling okay?â Â
Your hand in his hair might certainly cure anything, wait, wait. Thatâs not true, you donât even have RCT! You donât have cursed energy, what the hell?!
Satoru snaps away, taking in the rest of the apartment. There has to be a loophole, an opening, a miss, no curse can be that human. There has to be a way out of this Domain.
"RyĆiki Tenkaiââ
"What?â
Nothing happens. Satoru looks at his fingers, he doesnât have cursed energy either? He pulls your hands into an odd symbol, your hands lost in the cave he makes for a second before your middle finger is wrapped behind your index finger, âSay RyĆiki Tenkai.â
âSatoru?....RyĆiki Tenkai?â
He shakes his head, âNo, with more confidence.â
âRyĆiki Tenkai.â You shake your hand a little, smiling up at him, itâsâŠcute. âOf course if this is already your DomainâŠand it depletes my cursed energy, there must be a seal I need to breakâŠâ mumbling to himself, you do that head tilt again, biting your lip, hand easily finding his cheek. âYou okay Satoru?â
At his grin your frown only deepens. Heâs off.
Maybe he got lost in one of his documentaries about physics and space, maybe it was something he read, youâre not too sure. Your Satoru tends to go all in once his attention is turned on. You sigh. âMmm⊠I donât buy it but we need to get going. Whereâd you put Yujiâs gift?â
He makes a face, âWhy would Yuji need a gift?â
You shake your head, âI think it was in the closet right? You hid it when you babysat him last time.â
âI donât babysit anymoreâŠâ Perhaps he can irritate you into loosening up your Domain. Youâre an odd curse, all life-like, all human. Itâs an interesting form youâve taken on, someone cute, someone Satoru would chicken out of talking to. He canât involve others in the life he leads. Is that your Domain? Showing him something heâs stuffed away into the bottom of his heart?
Meanwhile youâre taking his eccentricity for a conversation later. Lack of sleep? Lack of food? Lack of light, you turn on your heels that pauses his movements, he seems to brace himself â still with that odd grin. âWhen was the last time you showered?â
Satoru lifts his arm to smell himself, âI smell clean.â  Itâs not his usual cologne or deodorant combination but itâs nice, softer. You lean in to smell him too, âYou used my perfume again.â
He? Again? No, this is the first time heâs been trapped into your Domainâ heâs not your partner, boyfriend, anythingâstop! Heâs getting pulled further and further into this story. Damn, youâre a tricky curse arenât you? All that gentleness is a facade to hide the disdain and violence, âIâŠcanâŠâ
He looks up to find you dangerously tip-toeing on top of a very, very, not made to be stood on like that office chair, youâre gonnaâshit! Falling right into his arms, a carefully wrapped gift lands on your chest. âMy hero!â
DonâtâŠdonât âŠhe wants to tell himself, but a part of him does give into that expansion in the middle of his chest, spreading a soft hue of pink across his face. âI told you, Iâm The Strongest.â Â
Faster than he can plan for, your lips brush his cheek, âWhy thank you Mr. Strongest Satoru, can you please use this strength to pack up the cookies for Yuji? I gotta change.â He places you back onto the floor, you turn around quickly again, he tenses a little less this time, â You have to change too.â
âAlright, alright.â This feels nice. Heâs not sure what the motive of your Domain is but regardless, it feels nice. Maybe if he plays along itâll end. Whatever thisâŠperfect life seems to be. Your Domain is so good though, his eyes trace the photos framed on the walls. Moments of aâŠfake life? Between you and Satoru.
A graduation, a birthday, a trip to a lakeâŠbaby Yuji? Nanamiâs a dad ?  Thereâs even a photo of this baby Yuji with a baby Megumi and Nobara too. How intricate is this Domain? What kind of curse knows his students and Nanami?
His eyes search for more photos of you, only painting a picture of a totally normal human. Not a sorcerer, not a window, notâŠanything Jujutsu related. And his photos too, whyâs he wearing hoodies in all of these? Whyâs his hair soft and down, how is he smiling so brightly? Why the fuck is Suguru alive?
âHeâs coming too, heâs bringing the companion gift to go with ours. Hurry, go change.â You again, this canât beâŠthis canât be. Donât look at him like that, donât bring him a change of clothing, donât. He starts walking backwards, searching, trying to source where the fuck your cursed energy is but thereâs nothing for miles and miles just the sound of traffic and an ambulance. âWhere the fuck am I?â
âHomeâŠSatoru?â Your voice quiet, smaller, your eyes showing very human emotion, face riddled with concern. This canât be real, this canât be real. Gojo Satoru is The Strongest, heâs a sorcerer, he needs to be out exorcising curses not here in some domestic bliss watching television and baking cookies.
Heâs not some physics professor. He flinches away from your touch, your vixen softness, get away from him.
âYouâre notâŠSatoru this joke isnât funny please stop now.â
He walks backwards, and backwards, until he trips on a leftover lego car and lands with the biggest thud. His head feels heavy, he feels your soft hands on his face again, nails accidentally scratching his chin, voice full of emotion, concern, love? Why would a curse love him? âBaby, Satoru are you okay?â
Donât call him that.
Donât make his heart feel like that.
As his eyes close, âSatoru?â âSatoru? âSatoru?â
đ
Gojo Satoru wakes up in his office, the luxury sofa stiff under him. He sits up, eyes immediately searching for any curse energy, anything reminiscent of your shape, your form, your gentle smile. âFinally, you back to reality now?â
Principal Yaga, âI donât know what kind of joke that was, donât do it again.â
He sits awake, the air lacking any scent of joy. âWe got a lead on the cursed objectâŠâ
What the hell was that?
đ
He startles awake, hands over his head, pleading, âNo, no, stop coming near me!â Tumbles through the hodge podge of blankets toppled on top of him, bangs his knee into the coffee table, knocking his lesson notes and laptop to the ground. âIâmâŠ.Iâm backâŠ?â
A ding sounds through the apartment, he hearts footsteps, knows those footsteps, blocks your path to the oven as he encases you in a koala grip hug. âOh my god, youâreâŠyouâŠâ Kisses the top of your head, fighting all your protests to push away from him and get to the chocolate chip cookies, âSatoru, we are not eating burnt cookies. Move.â
âNo!â
âGojo Satoru off!â He only tightens his hold.
âNo, no, no!â He just woke up from a terrible dream, a ridiculous no good, no happy ending, lonely dream. He looked hot though. But when is he not hot?
âOkay, okay, Gojo Satoru The Strongest, please, let me get to the cookies?â Your hands on his waist as you squeeze his hips. The Strongest? How do you know about that?
He pulls you back, hands on your shoulders, leaning down, those beautiful baby blues searching your eyes, youâre really, you right? Youâre really hisââBaby, are you sure your head is okay?â That soft hand to his cheek, that familiar scent.
"I woke up from a bad dream.â You squeeze his cheek, âLetâs talk about it okay? But the cookies..â He narrates it, waking up in an empty office, a man, Principal Yana or something, forcing him into a car with a nervous businessman. Then a volcano head attacked him, âLike straight up, Mt. Fuji and all the fire just, fwoosh.â His fingers make waves above the tuft of his soft platinum locks.
"I called your number over and over and it didnât work.â ThatâŠwarms your heart. âYou woke up in a dream and looked for me?â
He looks at you funny, like youâve stated the sky is purple, that he stayed in the band with Suguru and theyâre touring Australia right now ââWhy wouldnât I look for you?âÂ
Satoru, pulling you into his lap, pushes his face into the crook of your neck, âThey wanted me to fight monsters and I wanted to be here with you. I had abs though.â
"You still have abs, Satoru.â Your hand pulls a cookie from the plate, bringing it to his lips, âyou know what I mean.â He mumbles while taking a bite. âI was like jacked. I wore this thing on my eyes but I could see everything, I could see like â like â energy particles, shit I shouldâve researched ifââ you grin. Heâs falling into his usual auditory processing habit.
Enthusiastic about anything physics, the universe, energy particles and atoms and just that look he gets. When he talks about his passions, the way his eyes light up, the way his mind is catching up to his speech, his whole body getting involved in the monologue, pulling you up, âWait, I gotta right this down.â
Refuses to put you down, takes you into the makeshift office and pulls out a dry erase, âThey kept calling it Infinity? The force field around me, and then there was thisâŠRyoâŠbankai, thingâbut babe, it doesnât make sense, how could one human concentrateââ There he is.
Your Satoru.
Your husband has been paying attention, whether you knew it or not. Psst @actuallysaiyan Merry Christmas. (sfw, another side installment, in the same verse as To Have & To Hold, whereâs the main story? Shh.)
Itâs been a long week of playing hostess. The winter season, the holiday associated as snow rushes to greet the ground is your favorite. This will be the first year you celebrate with your new husband, however. Youâve been told, by family, to reel it in. Donât go overboard, donât decorate extravagantly. That Toshinori Yagi is an important man, your job in this marriage is to keep him happy, make sure the contract behind the marriage is safe.
You were wed due to an arrangement between families. The youngest of your side with the head of his sideâhim. While technically true, this was an arranged marriage, over the many months of learning Toshinoriâno, heâs Toshi nowâ this union is anything but obligatory.
He had asked you, âWould you accept a man like me, by your side?â
He had asked you, âEven with all the blood on my hands?â
Toshi didnât want your acquiescence, he wanted your consent. âI will make you the happiest.â
But your darling is, off on business now. Youâll have hell freeze over before anyone declaring you as his weakness. So what, itâs the holidays, so what youâre apart. Youâre his wife, you know, heâll always come home to you.
â
Toshinori looks down at his watch.
His breath fogs in front of him, a deep exhale. âItâs easier on both of us if you simply, comply.â
The man tied to his chair throws more profanities his way, Toshinori has had more fun twiddling his own thumbs than listening to this mundane collection of words. Heâs all but ready to hand this fool over to Aizawa when the words, âAnd weâll take her too, your precious wifeââ
The man doesnât comprehend what happens to his face, silenced by an iron fist. His loyal underlings tense up, mumbling under their breaths âNow whyâd he have to go do that?â âIdiot deserves itâ âTalkinâ about bossesâ missus like thatâ
â
Toshi is late, itâs been two weeks of uncoordinated schedules, youâre asleep by the one Christmas inspired tree you put up. Toshi had insisted you place on in each room, the home (mansion) of his is big enough. A 20ft one for the entrance, a collection of trees for the gardens. But you remembered your families words, donât over do it.
But even sleep doesnât save you from hostess duties, being Mrs. Yagi. Youâre shaken awake and taken to the private jet. A last minute party, you donât remember where, too tired to ask details. Your personal assistant will handle it.
You need rest. In the morning, youâll do your part. Youâll stomp out any nasty rumors that Toshi ignores you. A facial and body massage to start your day, skin soft, clean, refreshed. Dolled up to the nines, hair done, nails done, make up on point. Dresses and outfits fresh from the runway straight into your hotel room to scrutinize.
The drive isâŠ.a familiar one.
To your family home.
You feel your stomach lurch. Not expecting this, absolutely not ready, not expecting this. But anything for Toshi. Anything to show off how well taken care of you are. Except itâs not the driver who opens your door, itâs Toshinori Yagi himself. âSorry Iâm late my love.â
âYouâre here.â
âIâm here.â
â
Itâs funny, your mother doesnât even last being on her best behavior, but it takes Toshiâs stern exhale and, âMy love, I forgot we have another engagement ot attend. My sincere apologiesâŠâ doesnât even let the usual dramatics occur, whisks you into the limousine waiting.
Door isnât even closed and he has you in his lap, head in your neck, âMy sweet sunshine, you smell divine.â
â
You spend a day going around your home townâŠnot sure youâd call it that. It hasnât really felt like home in years. Home now is a handsome blond man waiting for you with open arms.
He takes you out to lunch, his heart filling with warmth when you have the waiter repeat back the order exactly as you described it. âNo, we donât want spicy, please remove that. Does it come with black pepper? Please remove that as well. Yes I am sure. Repeat the order back please.â
He doesnât remember the last time his stomach has hurt, not from food, not since you realized his one weakness. âItâs not a weakness Toshi, itâs part of who you are right?â
Oh he wants to kiss you. So he does. Over and over.
â
Itâs late when you return home, Toshi isnât explaining why his knuckles are bruised and red, youâre rubbing your expensive lotion into his hands, soothing out the soreness. Thereâs nothing you can do about the old scars, but new ones? Not happening on your watch.
âThisâŠ.Toshi is thisâŠourâŠ?â
âHome? Yes, my love.â He asks the limo to stop at the gate.
Steps outside, rounds the vehicle to open your own door, your beautifully manicured hand in his. âMrs. Toshinori Yagi, please allow me to welcome you to Winter Wonderland.â
There are lights everywhere.
From the trees outside the gates, to the gates, covered in lights. The lawn has a scene of reindeer grazing, the beautiful soft glow of lights, ornaments adorn every tree around the outside of the home. Thereâs even floating lights â âHow?â
âMagic.â He says, eyes focused on watching your face light up, that soft glow of white, yellow, blue, red drawing different smiles from you. Everything, Toshi decides, anything you want. He will give to you.
Inside of the home is decorated too.
None of the large chandeliers are on, there soft glow comes from the sheer amount of pine trees, christmas trees, other green sprouts. Ornamented, with beautiful bells, stars, birds, bobbles, circles, pine cones in all colors, everywhere. Even giant ornaments on the spiraling cascading stairwell.
When you pad into the main living space, âMerry Christmas my love, although I may be a few days late.â
He holds you from behind as Christmas songs start to play from the recessed speakers. âWould you do the honors of dancing with me, my darling?â
Toshinori wishes he could take a photo and have it be living â like they do in that wizard movie you like â so he can look at the expression of wonder and awe on your face over and over. This is nothing, he hasnât even begun to celebrate Christmas with you yet. And already, already youâre thankful, grateful, speechless.
âThis is all wonderful, ToshiâIâŠI wish I could find the right words⊠thank you.â How did he know, what winter means to you? That you like these songs, that you adore the lights, that even the smell of pine brings a smile to your face. He couldâve made a plate of sugar cookies with you and easily this wouldâve been the best Christmas youâve had in years. Because home nowâŠ.is this, in his arms.
Eyes so sincere, heâs undeserving. Heâs had lovers before, but he hasnât loved until you. Unsuitable, inappropriate for a hear like yours â big gracious kind â to fill with love for him.
That sweet, softness, the emotion in your eyes, everything you do for him.
He knows, he knows, he knows.
And heâll show you, over and over, that he doesnât take this for granted. That you were willing, that you chose him. Heavens are missing an angel with the way your soft hands caress his cheek. The way your voice whispers above his lips and pulls him in for a kiss.
If Toshinori were to paint his life as a cloud, his silver lining is you. The path he has been pulled into, he never thought heâd chose it again, but if at the end of it it has you, heâll go through all the pain over and over, to make it back to you.
miya osamu | simple, honest
3.5k of second chance romance, chef!osamu, written for the hq x reader secret santa event hosted by the lovely @lale-txt. and written for lale ⥠divider by the lovely @nectardaddy
The second time you fall in love with Miya Osamu. And third.
Osamu can remember the moment he fell in love and his feelings shifted. Not love at first sight, like in the movies, but there were plenty of firsts to make up for that after.
Even after all these years he can remember the exact second you had turned around in class, something you had done many times, nothing out of the ordinary.  A last minute study group, a collection of stressed minds, Osamuâs body tired after practice, Atsumu complaining next to him, the endless drawl of equations and numbers. Useless, pointless things.
And it was your voice, eyes meeting his, âOsamu, can I borrow a pencil?â
Not pausing to assess which twin he was, not darting your eyes up to look at his hair, none of that.
The confidence in which you knew it was him.
That moment.
Lit a flame and launched fireworks in his heart. What followed is a collection of moments he remembered with you by his side. And suddenly, that collection stopped. Whyâd it stop?
When he sees you across the street, he wonders, did he ever stop feeling that way? Because if feelings can be turned off like that, Osamu is sure heâs broken. Not that heâd fix it, not that heâd change the way his heart eases a bit seeing you.
And when your eyes meet his, that same confidence all those years ago, causes your hand to wave at him.
Before you even realize it, before you even register what youâre doing. Osamu had lifted his hand back, praying you take his smile is as soft, disarming. That you havenât done anything wrong, itâs been months since youâve last crossed paths. Itâs genuine, that excitement you have to see him, and heâs pleased to see you too.
A man that blocks you from his path, Osamuâs eyes filter to the group around you.
Ages mixed, state of dress a bit formal, a work dinner, he assesses. He feels his chest fill with pride, youâre being social. These things stress you out, but there you are. You even arrived early it seems; as more and more people join and suddenly youâre tucked into the restaurant. That smile doesnât fade from Osamu, delighted to know, you keep trying, challenging yourself.
âŠ
It canât be him.
As much as you plead with your mind, your colleagues start up about the menu, about holiday plans. Easy banter, youâve practice a few non-answers to reply with. This isnât a comfortable setting, perhaps itâs okay that you saw Osamu outside. Your mind is more occupied with him than overthinking social interactions with people who seem to like you.
Youâre seated next to a âŠgroup date? It seems like it, the girl seated next to you gives a soft smile seems when she slides in. Maybe a bit nervous, the way sheâs adjusting her bangs, checking her reflection in a handheld mirror.  Your eyes looks at her dainty nails, her pretty dress shirt, back at your own attire. And your colleagues. It seems they dressed up too and your apparel is a bit plain in comparison.Â
Well, that started early. The comparison gremlin.
Drown it.
You sip a glass of water, the empty seat in front of being taken by handsome, tallâOsamu!? You choke and the water youâre drinking exits your nose, it gets everywhere.Â
It burns.Â
âŠ
He didnât mean to, he assumed the table reserved for his staff would take up the whole row. So lost in thoughts of you, he hadnât bothered to look where he was sitting. Missed his own table by one seat; had you coughing and spitting and spiraling towards something he knows you donât want anyone to see. âExcuse us.â
Hands on your shoulders, lifting you up, steering you steady and strong.
Ushers you into the single bathroom, harsh paper towels in his hands that dab gently at your face, âHey, youâre okay. No one saw that.â
âEveryâŠâ a cough, âsaw that.â What a terrible liar heâs always been.
He bites his tongue, âI know, but it wasnât thatâŠhey, eyes on me please, keep breathing, in an out, good.â You mimic his breathing pattern. If you close your eyes and focus on his voice, itâd feel like old times, the multiple occasions Osamu has walked you through a frenzy. âEasy, there you areâŠâ
He wipes at your nose, itâs embarrassing, it should be, but he doesnât bat an eye. âIâm okay you canâŠgo back.â
âMy staff seen my mug ânough.â
So not a group date.
Small talk.
Come on.
You have it in you, say something to him, anything, get him to stop looking at you with those eyes, âOh.â
He grins anyways, âWe hit 200k ticket this year.â
âOsamu thatâs amazing.â
He shrugs, you werenât there for 75,000 of them.
âStop, itâs amazing and you know that.â There he goes again, acting mature and responsible, warding off the praise for long nights and early mornings. You still remember his furrowed gaze, no one has looked at rice with such scrutiny at four in the morning. But, no.
Abort that thought.
You go to wash your hands because youâre in a bathroom.
Osamu watches, he has so many questions.
Are you sleeping better? Â He still has that pillow you had ordered, you never came to grab it.
Are you eating enough these days? He has so many reels to send to you, so many recipes he wants to feed you.
Are you happy?
He catches you scrunch your nose in the mirror, knows the unconscious gesture, that water mustâve gotten deep, youâre gonna get sick. Or at least, irritated nasal passages leading to congestion and given that winter has come, chances of an illness are high. But he doesnât say anything, lets you leave the bathroom first, follows after five minutes.
His staff doesnât ask him about you, and your colleagues look at him but donât ask you a thing. He feels himself exhale in relief. When colleagues go outside to wait for your ride home with you. That when they return, your incident never crosses their lips. Good, this is a better work place for you. Even if they made you socialize on a Friday night.
âŠ
Thereâs a box with soup outside your door the following morning. A text message from a number your new phone hasnât ported over but itâs hard to erase those digits from memory.
đ: Your food has been delivered. For the best experience, we recommend eating immediately.
We? You think to yourself, curious if this is a new service Osamu has started. You should say thanks, text him back like a normal person. But a sneeze has you dropping your phone. After, you bargain, youâll text him back after.
The next Saturday, itâs a box of your favorite noodles and experimental onigiri, his hand writing is as messy as ever, you give up trying to figure out what ingredient it is. The text also comes in.
đ: Your food has been delivered. For the best experience, we recommend eating immediately. Rate our new Onigiri flavor on a scale of Delicious to Scrumptious.
That boyâŠ
đŒ: Where does delectable fall on this scale?
âŠ
It feels easy, texting Osamu again. You were friends before your gaze had lingered a bit too long on his lips and turned your relationship sweeter. You were friends before he became the person youâd turn to first person, you were friends. You were friends.
You were friends and then you were more.
You were more and then you werenât.
And now, where does this fall?
âŠ
đ: Your food has been delivered, if you like please thumbs up, comment, and subscribe.
đŒ: đđŒ
âŠ
đ: Your food has been delivered, we recommend placing in the freezer asap. Like yesterday.
đŒ: There are ants everywhere Osamu.
âŠ
đ: Weâre running a contest for the best meal. Vote here.
đ: If you vote for option B, Iâll name it after you.
đŒ: None of these are desserts.
âŠ
đŒ: I will need to pause my food delivery, I will be out of town this weekend.
đ: Your food go unfulfilled, left to waste on forgotten countertops.
đŒ: Iâll stop by when I get back, still open til 7?
đ: Yup, see you then.
He wanted to say, âFor you, always.â But Osamuâs happy to be allowed into your world again, even if itâs just about the meals heâs been sending or what the restaurant is up to. Heâll take anything you feel safe giving him. Even itâs more than acquaintances and less then friends. Even if it means dancing around everything heâs been feeling.
Why did it stop?
When he scrolls up the message history he doesnât see a clear reason. His messages became less and less frequent, then yours, and then things faded. Â A plethora of good memories and Osamu canât find where things got to the point where you not being in his life felt like a sane and rational decision.
What kind of idiot was the him months ago? Well, he isnât going to be that same kind of idiot now.  Despite knowing better, he risks sending another message.
đ: Good luck on your trip, and I still remember snickerdoodle, so any time, okay?
đŒ: Thanks, Osamu.
Snickerdoodle was your shared code word with Osamu for âeverything is overwhelming please come find me.â Youâre not surprised he remembered. You were friends with Osamu before the relationship started, whether you wanted to or not, youâve shared your ugly sides with each other, that included knowing when the other was overwhelmed.Â
Osamu was always a little better at reading you than you could read him though.  Ah, whatever right? Heâs always been a stand up kind of guy. This isâŠpart of the course for being friends with him.
âŠ
đ: [1 Image Sent]
đ: Thanks again, I will protect this charm with my life.
đŒ: Itâs supposed to protect you, ward off the negative vibes
âŠ
đ: Donât forget an umbrella, its supposed to rain.
đŒ: Thanks, Osamu.
âŠ
đ: Hypothetically, if we added a dessert to our menu, what would complement our offerings. There is 1 wrong answer here.
đŒ: Hypothetically
đŒ: Cinnamon rolls
âŠ
đ: [1 Image Sent]
đ: Dine-in Special, if you snag this seat, the Chef will dance for you.
đŒ: Howâs Friday?
đ: The Chef will use all week to practice.
âŠ
đ: [Link Sent]
đ: Is this the cinnamon roll recipe of your dreams?
đŒ: It uses Stevia? Osamu, this cannotâŠbe anybodies dream
đŒ: Donât you dare put this in my box
âŠ
đ: On a scale from scrumptious to sensational, ânever bake againâ is not a valid response.
đŒ: Send me something with Stevia again and see what happens
đŒ: Donât you dare say âbetâ
âŠ
đŒ: Hypothetically, if I promised you a crepe, and if you were on the corner of 3rd and 8th, your arms free, would you carry a really heavy box for me?
đ: Hypothetically
đŒ: Hypothetically
đ: Do I get to pick the flavor?
đŒ: Maybe
He smiles at everyone he texts, you tell yourself as you watch him read your message.
Osamu looks up from where he was had stopped at the corner, eyes darting around, that relaxed look on his face when his eyes finally land on you? That look isnât for everyone, thatâs just for you.
Your hand going up automatically, a soft wave, the smile accompanying it makes sense. Â
He doesnât look winded at all, lifting the extra large, extra heavy, flour bags on his shoulders. âWhere to?â He doesnât look winded taking them up four flights of stairs either.Â
âŠ
đ: [1 Image Sent]
đ: hey, whereâs my batch?
đ: unfair âsamu getâs all the goods
đ: i was ur friend first
đ: he ate all of them
âŠ
đ: âsamu said he wants chocolate chip cookies
đŒ: [1 Image Sent]
đ: đ±
đŒ: [1 Image Sent]
đ: [1 Image Sent]
đ: think ya broke my brother
đ: his face is stuck like that
âŠ
đŒ: [1 Image Sent]
đ: Oh my god.
đŒ: You have a minute to tell me which one you want.
đ: Pistachio, no, almond. Wait, Cherry?
đ: Any.
đ: You pick.
And heâs only slightly baffled that you show up at Onigiri Miya, uninvited, unannounced but equally greeted with roaring cheer. Two lovely boxes in your hands, âI got all of them.â His staff secretly rejoicing at the less intense version of their boss and additional treat, when said boss shares.
âŠ
This soupâŠdoes not taste right. Scratch that, it tastes outright bad. Thereâs tangy and thereâs whatever this salty mishap is. Thereâs no text asking you to rate the delivery, you debate sending him a message first but opt to ignore it.
Itâs Sunday and thereâs another box of food.  This âŠis odd. You pull out the container, cautiously taking a bite of the interestingly shaped onigiri andâŠokay, something is wrong.
đŒ: The scrumpt factor is missing.
đŒ: Iâd like to speak to the manager.
But you get nothing, not after the usual lunch rush, not after the last dinner ticket should be filled.
đŒ: Checking in, busy?
đŒ: Are you okay?
đŒ: Osamu?
You figure youâd go into the restaurant, remind Osamu to charge his damn phone, and walk back to the office. It should all be possible in the hour-ish window you have. However, itâs like they were expecting you, his staff is busy with the lunch rush and instantly youâre ushered upstairs, âWe finally got him to leave the kitchen butâŠâ
âIâm fine.â The door opens, Osamu appears with a mask and unfocused eyes. âYou look terrible.â His staff watches as you get no glare, no retort, just a mild shrug. âThis is my face.â His voice sounds so congested.
Stubborn as ever. You turn to his staff, âI got this.â
Heâs only wobbly because he hasnât had water. He hasnât had water because he forgot to fill the cup. He didnât fill the cup because his arms felt heavy. âAnd youâre arms feel heavy because youâve got a fever. Osamu youâre sick.â
âShh, Iâm not.â An ill timed sniffle, âjust a cold.â
Theyâre the same thing but you bite your tongue, continue chopping carrots, itâs a stew youâve made with Osamu many times before, somehow his fridge is always stocked with exactly the right ingredients for this recipe. âThe pots inââ
Third cabinet next to the sink, the one without shelves because neither one of you got around to adding them. âSit down.â You threaten him with a laddle, his laughter turns into a coughing fit and your glare deepens.  That tiny voice that tells you, this is overstepping, this isnât normal for friends, gets louder and louder as the meal progresses.Â
Youâll leave once heâs fed and back in bed.
If you stay to make him supper, itâs only because Osamu had the good onions and you canât have those going bad.
If you go back the next day, itâs only because Osamu finished everything you made, you couldnât let your fever-ish friend cook for themselves.
If you go back the day after that, well, itâs simply to make sure Osamu doesnât over do it.
Thatâs all.
âŠ
âIs this seat taken?â Osamu has just put down an order when he turns to find a teenager and their friend trying to sit in your seat. He looks at his watch, youâre coming in for lunch today, stepping through the restaurant doors any minute, âYes, it is.â Osamu puts down an Onigiri Miya hat to keep your seat safe.
It gets harder and harder as the lunch rush picks up but he successfully glares everyone away.
âOsamu!â Your voice breaks through all the chaos, his eyes find yours. Youâre walking into the restaurant, rushing past all the noise and people and finding your usual seat. He walks over holding two bowls of food that you havenât ordered and need to be delivered to table 9. Youâre giving him an update about a colleague when you pause to take in the scene. Itâs packed, and Osamuâs missing a staff member.
âJust a secâ okay?â He goes to drop off food, a mere thirty seconds and that darn teenager and their friend sit down at your seat. Osamu clicks his tongue, ready to remind these patrons the seat they so comfortable have sat down on, is in fact, taken.
Except itâs you, in an Onigiri Miya hat and apron, taking down their order and writing up a ticket to hand off.
Youâve done this before, in the early days, when it wasnât as busy. Youâre not the best with the hectic rush hour pace, but youâre effective. Youâre helping move food along, taking down orders, refilling cups, getting utensils. Mostly, mostly that look is gone from Osamuâs face. His shoulders are relaxed, his voice is back to itâs usual tone, not rushed.
Towards the end of the rush, youâre pulled into his office, a plate of your usual on the desk as he stuffs a spoon into your mouth. Any chance you try to protest, that you need to get back to your own job, he silences with food. You hate how delicious things taste, youâd be here all the time if you could. Â He goes out to make some extra boxes for you, âAs thanks for today, you didnât have to.â
âI wanted to.â
Simple, honest.
âŠ
âHmmâŠ.is it a littleâŠâ
âToo sweet?â
Osamu and you nod. This is your third batch of triple berry cinnamon rolls. Thereâs flour and batter and frosting everywhere. Your tiny kitchen has seen worse. (Specifically, that time MSYB decided to build gingerbread houses. They all but popped into your place the second you told them they needed royal icing to make the walls stick together.)
It feels nice. Having Osamu in your space.
His movements compliment yours, heâs already brewed a lovely, warm, complimentary drink to ease away the sugar youâve consumed. âOh, you didnât go?â
Two entry tickets to the museum you wanted to take Osamu to, a get away to celebrate the start of your new job. You two hadnât finalized the date andâŠstopped talking before you could.
He watches your eyes fall to the fridge handle, to the kitchen counter top and around the room. Lips taking a downward turn, hands fidgeting. âI can remember the day you told me about this museum.â
Osamu takes an experimental step toward you, cautious but secure. Places his mug on the counter beside him, âYou were wearingâŠ.that hoodie, the soft one with that character you like. You were in that lottery queue for hours and scared the crap outta meââ
âI couldnât believe I got in.â He nods, a soft smile remembering your disbelief, âYou got in, told me about all the things you wanted to eat andâŠI remember all of that. But I donât remember why we didnât go.â
Your eyes meet his, you take a deep in hale, are you really going toâŠdo this? Now?
âOsamu itâŠâ
He shakes his head, âThatâs the thing, I keep replaying the past few months over and over, and it doesnât make sense to me. Why arenât I in your life? Why are you not next to me?â
You open and close your mouth. Wanting to choose your words carefully.
if you self depreciate, heâll switch into caretaker Osamu and not really hear you. If you give into emotions, youâll switch into a nasty version of yourself and push Osamu away. You donât want that. Of all the options, you donât want a life where he is a stranger to you.
âI donât thinkâŠthere's a big dramatic bad thing here. You were there one day and then you werenât. I donât know really how it happened either.â The loneliness had come after. When suddenly texting Osamu turned into mental gymnastics because the two swipes it takes to open the messaging app and find his name.
Heâs close now, steps soft and slow, his fingers trace down your arm before settling into your hand. You intertwine the fingers, give his hand a squeeze, dare to look at his face because even now you think of him as extra special. The ease his lazy but always soft smile provides you.
âIâm really sorryâŠI donât know how I let go of usâŠâ Closer still, leaning to have his forehead touch yours, a pause from all the noise in both of your heads. You missed him, miss him. Having him this close just proves part of you will never get over him. Part of him will never fill that ache for you either.
âWould it be okay, if we, could try again?â
âOsamuâŠâ
The oven timer beeps, startling you out of his orbit, his hand clings to yours before urging an oven mit onto it. This is the forth and final batch, now or never. You let the rolls cool before plucking and plopping one onto the new bowl Osamu has waiting, two forks in hand. The frosting already remixed and he adds a fat dollop on top.
You take a bite and your eyes meet his and itâs the simplest moment.
And maybe, years later, youâll tell him. The second time you fell in love with him was when his face crinkled into disbelief and blossomed into the biggest grin. âWeâŠdid it? We did it!â
You watched him take another forkful, âAww, letâs gooooo! We did it.â Heâs whipping out his phone to take photos, ready to make this everyoneâs business.
All you can do, is watch this tall guy brag about your baking skills. It doesnât even take a few months, the third moment happens right there, Osamu leaning on the countertop, perched on his elbows as he steals more and more of the triple berry cinnamon roll, âYou might not get rid of me now.â
And you let the words fill the air, âI wouldnât want to.â
sfw. vague healing quirk. mafia!au (that will get written one day). mentions of: violence, feelings. reader is female & has long hair, also psst @actuallysaiyan
His first instinct is to keep his breathing steady. Thereâs an unfamiliar weight on his chest, not too heavy but light either. Itâs warm, radiating, like a cat if he owned one. But he doesnât.
As Toshinori Yagi opens his eyes, he first spots an unfamiliar spring green tuft of hair on his chest, it smells familiar. Like candies and apples, then the sparkle of his diamond ring on your hand that seems to be emiting a sense of calm throughout his upper body.
Arenât you quirkless?Â
Perhaps this is Heaven and despite all his bad deeds heâs blessed with one of his many dreams of you coming true. Gosh, why hasnât he held you like this when he was living, why did he spend so much of his time pushing you away?
He knows why, he knows the danger his status brings.
He knows only peril awaits those that stand at his side.
His heart aches still though, if heâs here then, where are you?
It comes back to him like a rush, what Toshinori remembers is the start to a beautiful dinner spoiled and then tables being over turned, fire and guns and your face caked in something awful and red. He had held you into him, kept you from harm right? But what is he doing here? In this dream land? He has to get up, speak to the ruler of Heavens and get back to you.
This must be a mistake, fuck. Please, he urges his body to move, to lift up. Please he has to get back to you, to that restaurant, to that chaos. He has to get you out of that hellscape, thatâs his job, he promised you didnât he? Heâd never leave you alone, heâd never fail to protect you.
Fuck.
âToshinori?â oh your sweet voice, eyes darting to the spring green hair that moves, revealing your much more paled and blanched eyes. They fill with tears anyway though, the beeping of a heart monitor, the sharpness of hospital lights, the cold air hit him all at once.
So itâs not Heaven, but still close enough since youâre really here with him.
His breathe eases, a hand to the top of your head, your deep emerald hair has faded from that earlier spring green to chartreuse. Is this why he feels peaceful, painless? Is it your hand on his heart causing this? âMyâŠdear wife, I am here, Iâm fine.â
This must be awfully uncomfortable for you, hunched over his hospital bed, but one of your hands stays firm on his heart as the other goes to touch his face, it still radiates peace and warmth and your fade fades still, into sea foam. âWhatâŠwhat are you doing?â
âIâm sorry, I know Iâm not supposed to use it but yâyou and the bullet âthe doctors said it they removed it but it was still touch and go and I couldnâtâŠI couldnâtâŠrisk it if you didn't wake up.â
To think you had a way out, to think you still chose to save him, why would you do such a thing? Why do you cling to such a deceptive and vile man like him? Marriage to him has brought you nothing but loneliness, pain, endangerment. You had no say in this, he promised to keep you safe and today he has failed it. He doesn't deserve any of your warmth or affections.Â
Toshinori holds at your wrists, lifting your hands off, the shock evident on your face. He can always tell what youâre thinking and heâs so sorry he keeps choosing to push you away. Â
He canât keep risking your life along with his, you werenât asked to marry him, you pushed into it.  You arenât meant for pain and tears and it seems thatâs all thatâs come to you since the wedding. Thatâs all heâs able to give you. (In his eyes, from his skewed view of himself and the world he's trapped you in. Had he known the depth of your kindness, the fullness of your heart, had he known....)
âIâm fine.â But you know he means to say, please donât strain yourself.
âGo home.â Because he knows you've been here for two days fretting over him, and he won't say you need to rest.
âHave the driver take youââ
âYou stubborn man!â Your hair color returning, the energy flowing in your veins increasing, he smiles at that. So your quirk is related to your hair, so heâll always know if you push yourself too hard, âYou took a bullet for me when you couldâve just flung it away.â
He could have, but to risking miscalculating and have the bullet graze you in any way? Never. Not worth it.
âI canât die, my wife.â
âYes, you can, my husband.â He can, he can if he keeps stupidly taking risks like this. Stupidly keeps rushing into help his men, his friends, his fraction. If he keeps this strong front up twenty four seven heâs going toâ
âYouâre upset again, I promise I'm okay.â A soothing hand to your face, youâre conflicted, you want to push away from him, to yell at him some more but also to be in his embrace, because here in this tiny room heâs not Toshinori Yagi, heâs not part of the MHA fraction. Heâs not providing protecting and shielding others from big bad men.
Your hair is darker now, a woodland fern he thinks, itâs almost back to the shade that captivated him, that stark dark emerald against your white wedding dress. He thinks this is a good sign, he hopes it is. Your face is less pale, your eyes returning to their original color too. Except, âYouâre shaking.â
âIâm cold.â And angry and frustrated and sad. What if you didn't get the chance to tell him how you really feel? What if things didn't turn out okay? And yes, what you are wearing is meant for a romantic dinner. (For the confession you so need to make.)
You wanted tonight to go so differently, itâs tumbled into such a big mess. You shiver at the low hum of the hospital AC. Suppose you could go buy a warmer attire from the hospital gift shop but that would mean leaving Toshinori and that would mean not being able to use your quirk to make sure he heals.
âCome here, let me hold you.â It will never stop bringing you joy when he offers moments like this, when you allow yourself to feel the depth of your emotions and move closer to him.
As you crawl onto him, the too small bed, the wires, and mattress protest but Toshinori stubbornly wraps his arms around you, he has to keep you warm too, protect you from the cold. Ensnare you with affection he wants to pour over until all your tears dry. He knows he shouldn't covet your skin against his but he does. âMy stupid, dumb, lovable husband.â
His beautiful, adoring, precious wife.
He ignores the last word, âI am, I know. I make you worry.â
For all the violence his hands know, for all the cruelty his arms have dished out, he holds you gentler than a flower, letâs you plant your chest on his, letâs burrow your face in the crook of his collarbones, root your arms around his neck. He breathes deep, candies and apples and your hair returning to itâs pretty pretty pretty green.
He can tell youâre fighting sleep, can feel your body relaxing and tensing, âRest, itâs been a long day hasnât it?â
âItâs late Saturday," so two days have passed, "âŠand another eight hour surgeryâŠyou made me worry so much.â
âIâm sorry, you must be so tired, here let me-â As he tries to shuffle you off his form and onto the bed, you protest, hold him tighter, channeling all your inner koala and hold on. âNot leaving you, not until the doctor gives the all clear.â
You forget his strength, his own power, his own quirk.
But it feels nice, being fussed over, and in the privacy of this room, in the haze of painkillers and fleeting adrenaline, he lets himself indulge in it. Keeps you on his form, holds you close. âThen you need to rest too. Promise me.â
âYouâll be here? When I wake up, you wonât goâŠâ Ah, he has a terrible track record of doing that right?
âRest, Iâll be here when you wake up.â
Later, youâll explain your quirk and why you donât tell a soul you have it.
Later, youâll yell at him more about needing him safe.
Later, youâll confess the words that were so eager to slip from your tongue at dinner.
Later, right now, all you need is rest. All you need is your husbandâs heartbeat.
kusakabe atsuya | gentleman
suggestive. regency!au , psst @jjk-eugie i owe you a part 2 with spice
heavily inpsired by the lovely art by @jjk-eugie
Kusakabe Atsuya has little need for pride. Heâs worked hard enough to establish his shipment company, is considered successful in all matters of the world that matter â to him. You see, the ton would tell you a different version on the gentleman Kusakabeâs success.
Heâs a businessman first and foremost. Practical, doesnât use his masculine charm to strong arm anyone into a bad deal, yet commands presence as soon as he enters a room. Heâs not one for small talk, couldnât tell you how to butter anyone up. Perhaps this too adds to his charm.
Being a man of not many words is ideal for many afterall, and frankly a line of suitors that would exist for the gentleman Atsuya if; well⊠if the gentleman were friendly. Nay, thatâs too vague, if the gentleman were approachable. Not only is it impossible to get Sir Kusakabe to attend affairs of the society, it seems when he does show face; heâs akin to that of a ship adrift in a stormy sea.
His aura isâŠ.intimidating.
He stands tall, proud, strong.Â
Eyes lost.
Provides society members little to gossip about and yet, somehow, has attracted the attention of a cousin of the Crown Prince. Probably a Princess or almost a Princess from a far away land who has yet to learn that the gentleman Atusya is not someone you approach for a favor. And yet, âYour..Lady.⊠youâd want me to what?â
Perhaps he heard wrong, perhaps the almost Princess is looking for a decorative item. âGood Sir, Iâd like you to teach me the sport of Fencing. It seems youâre quite an expert.â The way you bat your lashes, this is, this is flirting is it not?
Why would an almost Princess approach a stern man like himself? âPlease, I do not wish to make a fool during the Autumnal play. It would ruin my chances at a proper debut.â
Debut? Youâre not too young looking but then again Atsuya couldnât care less. Youâre either a fool or have more guts than most of the ton, and guts are something he can respect.
âPlease Sir Kusakabe, I promise Iâll have the Crown Prince reward you handsomely, something for your travels a farâŠâ Oh, arenât you a businesswoman? As you walk around him, if his eyes linger at the sway of your hips, itâs only to assess your gait. Nothing more, if heâs to teach you, he must discern if you can maintain proper form. It has nothing to do with how beautifully intricate the lace on your dress is nor the curve of yourââA new ship?â
A few days of his time is not worth an entire ship, he sighs. It seems you may just be a splendid fool.
If he thinks of your smile, the way your eyes light up upon his affirmative nod, it means nothing. He thinks not of your pretty hair as it sways opposite your hips. Nor is he intrigued by the many tows of ribbons lining the back of your tight dress, corset isnât is it?
All those curves are simply an illusion.
But still, his mind supplies that you are;
A beautiful, splendid, fool.
 â
 This has to work.
The Sir Kusakabe Atsuya is a perfect gentleman. Doesnât encroach in your space despite being tasked to teach you how to move. Always asks if he can touch, always announces where he is going to touch, and yet his touch doesnât linger, heâs clear and precise in his instruction. Youâve already adapted to his style of attack and defense, making strides. You have yet to best him in a duel, but truly, is it a duel if heâs not taking it seriously?
âYou are distracted today Princess.â Tch, that nickname.
Youâve told Sir Kusakabe as a cousin of the Crown Prince you donât bear any real royal title. Youâre simply provided the comforts and privileges. Things that you have used to your advantage many a times, whether it be indulging your hobbies or proving others wrong. Your royalty adjacent status has helped you many times. Folks consider you innocent, harmless, stupid.
You wonder if the Sir Kusakabe also considers you as such. You hope so.
It will work in your favor. Because eventually, he will loosen up. Let you wander his home without an escort, let you roam the expansive gardens and satisfy your curiosity with his esteemed weapon room. That will allow you to accomplish your real mission.
Why yes, you will be in a play and will have a sword duel in it. However, your Fathers have had you learn the art from French professors every single Friday since you were seven. You donât need Sir Kusakabeâs help at all. What you need is to charm and disarm the man.
Sir Kusakabe is in possession of your custom Bavarian sword. An angry cousin and suddenly your precious metal was cold heartedly sold off to the stoic, handsome man in far away lands. You had just gotten your hands on the sword by trading a very beautiful jade hilted saber. How you acquired the jade hilted saber is a story for another day.
Currently, the Bavarian blue decorated gliding blade is somewhere in Sir Kusakabeâs manor. Â Youâve gather it sits somewhere in the weapon room, and with his vast collection, there is no reason heâd notice one beautiful blade go missing.
Wait, itâs not going missing, itâs returning home, back to your side.
But nothing is working, he does not respond to your flirtatious remarks nor lingering looks nor looks of distress. It angers you, forces you to hold your foil closer, tighten your stance, lunge at him with force.
When you concentrate a little too hard in the duel and knock his foil from his hands he stands stunned. Eyes discerning and expression neutral. âYouâve made progress.â
Is that the way to his heart?
Not that you need to know. You simply want...to distract the man.Â
That's all.
â
 Progress that is beyond potential, Atsuya notes. Thereâs far more grace and tactical strategy in your movement that cannot be considered beginners luck.  Had it not be for societal rules, Atsuya is sure youâd best the current champion. Youâre up to something bigger perhaps; using the play as a ruse for something, or a natural genius.
Whatever, itâs likely harmless.
He discredits his growing doubt because receiving your smile across ball rooms is much more merciful than the dreaded gossip what wallflowers make about him. A womanizer, a salacious brute and his favorite â rude. He follows society rules just fine, thank you very much. So what he doesnât send thank you cards or get well flowers or dance at these things.
He eats when heâs supposed to, greets the hosts upon arrival and before leaving, and is gone by 7pm â a decent time! His business is international, he spares what he can to attend these silly society functions.
âYouâre glaring into Lady Fushiguroâs vase. Why?â Â Sneaky, sneaky, thing you.
Walking right up to him, without an escort, dance card full of names that Sir Kusakabe has no interest in knowing. âWas I?â
He shouldnât look at you, not the new shade of berry gracing your lips, nor that even tighter corset providing you the perfect posture and dip. And absolutely not your exposed neck, heâs used to your hair being up in a ponytail as you spare. The high necks of your sparing jacket keep you fully clothed and concealed after all.
Besides, what use is the visual knowledge of what your neck looks like to Kusakabe? Itâs not like he would trace his fingers across it, not like heâd paint his lips up the column towards your ears that dangle with sparkly rocks, itâs not anything, itâs simply nothing. Heâs a gentleman, your teacher. Nothing more.
 â
 The fact that Sir Kusakabe has finally started cancelling your sparring sessions last minute is perfect. You wish heâd only let you take drink tea alone in his home instead of rushing you out back to the carriage. All you need is a good ten minutes, youâre sure your sword is in the back room, where he keeps the expensive books.
You donât have long left on your trip to see your cousin the Crown Prince, Suguru is busy climbing a mountain to impress his Lady friend after all. So, despite not wanting to, you take a spoon full of black pepper. Let yourself down a whole glass of water and then enter the Kusakabe manor.
Heâs ready to rush you out, on premise of working, but stops as soon as he sees the reddened eyes and tears that threaten to spill. A well timed, organic, coughing fit and he has you seated in a guest room, personally taken a carriage to call a doctor over, making sure to bring one he trusts.
This is it.Â
Ten minutes.
 â
 He does not attend the museum gala for any other reason than making friends with the artist. He can export these paintings and make a fortune, nothing else.
If you happen to be around and wander in front of him, itâs only natural his eyes follow that seductive swish of your hair and the shift of weight by your hips.  If you happen to be within earshot, discussing the nuance of capturing a persons soul in portraiture, it has nothing to do with his own desire to hear your voice. Itâs not his fault your voice is honey sweet.
But it is his fault for smoking in the garden, for causing that coughing fit and compelling you out from hiding. Itâs his fault for not stopping you when you ask, âDoes this taste good?â  And take his lit cigar and pull it to your very berry lips. Â
Itâs the gentlemanly thing to do, patting your back, tucking you into his side away from any potential pedestrians or your lady maids or your escorts. Itâs the gentlemanly thing to do, wipe at your lips and offer you whatever candied goods he has in his pockets. Itâs the gentlemanly thing to do, unwrapping the butterscotch sweet and pushing it past your lips.
The tensing of his jaw?
The extra swipe across your bottom lip?
The way his eyes bore into you?
 â
 You should put it back.
Even though your cousin stole and sold the sword from you, Sir Atsuya paid a fair price. If you had simply told him the ordeal, as a gentleman, he wouldâve sold the sword back to you, nay, he wouldâve handed the thing over. The once coveted blade now prickles at your heart because you lied to such an handsome, honorable. infuriating man.
He has to be doing it on purpose right?
Waiting for all the other men to fill up your dance card, never approaching you for a dance, leaving at 7pm on the dot. Pray tell, why bother showing up to these balls at all? He speaks to the host and no one else, sometimes older gentlemen but never a woman.
Perhaps, youâve misread him?
No, no, no.
The swipe of his thumb at your lips still burns, causes your face to flush and your thoughts to wander. All this from one, singular swipeâŠimagine if his hands dared toâ no, no, no.
Heâs a gentleman.
Honorable.
Heâs likely sworn himself away from society and pursuit of a wife and yetâŠyet your mind supplies that doesnât mean heâs sworn himself away from sex.
Heâs a healthy, strong, broad man.
Thereâs no reason he doesnât have a Lady friendâŠ.or twoâŠ.or threeâŠorâŠ.oh no, no, no.
Do not think of him without his shirt, do not think of him with loosened slacks and his head lolled back in pleasure, do not think of the sounds he makes.
Do not let your duels with him supply the grunts, and groans, and praise.
Do not.
 â
Madness, pure madness.
Youâve snuck out of your chambers and the Royal Palace, no less with the help of the Crown Prince Suguru who was also breaking curfew. You agree to never having seen one another and part ways. Itâs nice to borrow a royal carriage and driver who will keep his mouth shut.
You stop a bit away from the Kusakabe Manor, absolutely certain at this time, Sir Atsuya is likely barricading himself inside the office wing. Which leaves the weapon room open and free. You can return the sword without him ever knowing it was gone.
Only, only.
Itâs not madness that drove Sir Kusakabe Atsuya to the saloon, no. Itâs simply, the need of a distraction, the need to forget how soft your lips felt under his skin and the way your eyes darted to his in no, no. He wonât let himself add labels where they should not exist.
And perhaps, it was also trouble Sir Atsuya sought, especially when scoundrels dare state that you make no Princess? That you have no grace or elegance ? The buffoons had to be dealt with, and perhaps he had drunk too much and fought too many dishonorable men, that results in him staggering about his manner.
Itâs a small wound, but a wound nonetheless.
âSir Atsuya!â A ghost, a vision, a dream.
The scent of rose and amber, soft perfumed skin invading his space. Heâs floating before heâs miraculously tossed into his study. Small deft hands pulling at his cravat, then his vest jacket and opening his white red stained dress shirt. âPrincessâŠthis is but a scratch.â
âA scratch does not bleed Sir Atsuya.â You look around the room, notice bowl that can be used as a water basin. He keeps clean towels on in the second floor lavatory, and you ask his staff to boil some water and go to inspect his medicinal cabinets.
Youâre too familiar with his manor, a grin on his face, commanding it as the Lady of the House.
He must still be drunk to imagine such a visual, a Princess in his home as his wife?
A very warm, very wet rag is applied to his abdomen, your hands work as quickly as possible to clean the wound, inspecting the depth, trying to discern if a doctor is needed. At his grumbling you compromise and instruct his staff to call one tomorrow morning. You clean his skin as best you can, pulling his slacks down just a tad, making it easier to bandage his skin but, âPrincess, you mustnât do this with others.â
What? âBeing kind is not a crime, Sir Atsuya.â
Oh but it is, it is when itâs the form of you, on your knees, concern etched in your eyebrows, touching him so dangerously with innocenceâdo you, do you even realize what this looks like? Anyone other than his staff would be quick to label this as a compromising position and yet ââMy Fathers taught me how to handle wounds, it game in handy when I would fall fromâŠmy horse.â
What a lie, youâve never ridden a horse, and falling from a horse would not result in a blood wound. You had almost slipped about your fencing training, fuck. Stop, bandage this man up and go home, hide in the safety of the Royal Palace. But itâs so distracting. This⊠man.
Well, you know that, youâve always known that butâŠitâs different. He has defined abdominal muscles, the broad chest you expected but the way it tapers into a V towards his hips isâŠwellâŠconcerning.  You want to touch more, you want to confirm just how different he isâ
âPrincessâŠâ why does his voice sound like that, âWhat are you doing?â Your hand grazing and pushing softly against exposed skin.
âItâsâŠyouâreâŠso different.â
 Sin after sin runs through his mind before he can finally address a proper reply, âDifferent?â
 âWell I donât have these,â fuck your hand shouldnât feel that good against his burning skin, you shouldnât take his own rough hand to your soft, delectable belly, âSee, itâs like a loaf of bread compared to yourâŠwashboard.â
It, has to be on purpose, yes?
The way you look up at him, the way you display curiosity so openly, this must be what you consider seduction or charm or whatever Princessesâ need to do to get all favors they want.
But, what possibly could you want from a gentleman like Atsuya?
And you donât know what it is, the mood shifts, his hand leaves your belly to rest at your hip, you like the weight of it there, the grip. Why? Why does the intensity of his gaze cause your body to feel feverish? What does he do that causes embers to flame inside your chest?
âSir Atsuya?âÂ
Perhaps, itâs only proper, for you to lean forward, his hand supporting your movement. It slips to your lower back and then snakes itself to the push at the nape of your neck as your lips inch closer to his.
Perhaps, a proper, honorable man would make a better effort not to compromise a Princess in secret as such.
However, as a gentleman, Sir Kusakabe Atsuya places the honor of guarding your heart above some silly notion of society. As a proper gentleman, he will not reject your advances, especially for a kiss so feathery soft and sweet. Â
You havenât done this before, and yet you want more, thereâs a hunger in your eyes. And you hope, you hope he can see it, you home the grip in your hair doesnât loosen, that his wound is truly just a scratch as he adjusts to seat himself higher, pulling you into his lap.
After all, isnât it the gentlemanly thing to do, keep you in his arms and teach you how to kiss?
