Pairing: Akaashi Keiji (pre-timeskip) x Female Reader
Word Count: 2.3k
Summary: You’ve been Akaashi’s childhood friend for as long as you can remember—homeschooled, off the grid, and constantly teased by his teammates for being “imaginary.” When they dare him to prove you’re real, he invites you to the school festival. But it’s the sleepover before, tangled in quiet moments and unspoken tension, that makes you realize maybe he’s always felt something more. And maybe… so have you.
You and Keiji had never known life without each other.
Your mothers were inseparable. College roommates who became partners-in-crime, confidantes, and co-parents. When you both came along, they secretly delighted that you could be each other’s built-in best friend. From the moment you were born, two babies in bassinets side by side, the pattern was set.
You took your first steps toward each other, first words to match each other’s, first timid school hesitations—but always together. His hand guided yours through the shaky motions of tying shoelaces; your voice chimed with his in duets during nursery rhyme recitals. At elementary school festivals, you and Keiji were “the duo,” always spotted laughing together near paint sets or picture books.
He was the quiet kid with glasses and perfect posture; you were the energetic homeschooled girl who read encyclopedias for fun. Opposites, yes… but somehow perfectly attuned. When he needed someone to decode complicated kanji or calm down from sensory overload, you jabbered about oceans and octopuses until he laughed. When you stumbled through math or got lost in science frustration, he broke it down with patience and logic.
The connection ran in the fabric of your lives…until around the end of middle school, when things began shifting.
ꫂ❁
It was an unusually warm summer night, the kind where moonlight spills golden across classrooms and the floor feels comfortably cool beneath bare socks. Akaashi’s bedroom had become your unofficial art studio.
He sat on the tatami floor, legs crossed, sketchbook open across his lap. Shaded pencils were aligned neatly in cans behind him; a half‑finished manga lay open beside him. You flitted about, rummaging through his shelves.
“Did you remember the graphite pencils this time?” Keiji asked without looking up, flipping a page carefully.
You held up your canvas pouch triumphantly. “Every single one. Sharpened, too.”
He allowed a small smirk. “You’re my hero.” He returned to his drawing—a stylized portrait of a girl reading by a window, hair gently over one cheek.
You peered at the page. “You drew me again.”
He froze mid‑stroke. “It’s not me.”
You nudged his shoulder. “That’s what you say. But I see the bracelets on the wrist, the eyes, the exact pose. You’ve got a thing for that.”
His cheeks rose faintly. “Observational studies.”
You grinned. “Your fiction face is getting better.”
He didn’t glare. He looked almost pleased as he glanced down at his phone, and the texts Bokuto sent to him that he had been trying to ignore lit up with enthusiasm:
Bokuto‑san:
6:48 pm - “KA I SAH SHIIII!!!”
6:49 pm - “You knowwww I’ve been thinking, and this girl who apparently exists from how much talk about her but never shows?!?!”
7:10 pm- “You thought I was done, didn’t you!! Bring her to the school festival or I’ll draw mustaches on your face!”
Keiji’s jaw tightened.
You peeked over and quirked an eyebrow. “Imaginary girlfriend?”
He cleared his throat. “They’re just teasing because… they haven’t met you.”
You sat up straighter. “You talk about me?”
“In passing.”
Your fingers toyed with a pencil. “What…what’d you say?”
He sighed. “That you know weird facts about octopus hearts and you recite them at random hours.”
Your smile flickered. “I did tell you octopuses have three hearts—and that two pump blood to the gills while one pumps the rest. The body stops when they swim, so they tire quickly.”
He studied you. “This is what I meant.”
Something tightened inside his chest—something tender, guarded, uncertain.
“They think I made you up.”
You sat quietly for a moment. Then, softly
“We can fix that.”
He looked at you.
Your heart hammered.
“Would you… Come to the festival with me?” he asked finally.
You winced. “As… your friend?”
He didn’t immediately nod. His expression was unreadable. “I didn’t say not a friend either.”
You laughed, small and nervous, yet loudly you said. “Okay fine. I’ll go!!! I’ve been tempted.”
He laid his pencil down, eyes scanning the texture on the page. “Stop shouting.”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart soared.
ꫂ❁
That evening, you decided to have a sleepover, and soon you had to choose a movie.
The movie you’d chosen—a slice-of-life romance—played quietly on his laptop. You’d sprawled across an old futon, oversized shirt borrowed from him, knees tucked up. The screen glowed. You had flopped hair across your face and hummed the background music under your breath.
He sat beside you, journaling in a soft‑lined notebook. The brush of his pen was rhythmic. The room smelled of tatami straw, ink, detergent—his presence.
You noticed his fingers picking at the edge of his notebook cover.
“Keiji…”
He spoke without looking. “Mm?”
“Do you think they’ll tease you if I show up?”
He paused. Then: “Probably.”
Your breath caught. “Why… are you even… nervous?”
“Because…” His pen hovered mid‑line before he shook his head. He closed the journal gently. “Because I like you. And I might be… worried you don’t feel the same.”
You turned to face him. Pulled back the blanket. He raised his eyebrows.
“Because I think I might… like you too.”
His expression flickered at the admission. The words hung there in the midnight hush, raw and unexpected.
He said nothing for a long moment.
Then softly: “Okay.”
ꫂ❁
You woke early the next morning, well before your alarm could even dare to chirp. Your room was still wrapped in the soft hush of morning, pale gold sunlight seeping in through the sheer curtains and gently warming the floorboards. The warmth didn’t quite reach your nerves, though—they were already buzzing like a swarm of bees, restless and anxious and excited all at once.
Today was the day of the festival.
You lay there for a moment, your blanket pulled up to your chin, heart fluttering at the thought of finally stepping out into his world—the world that belonged to Akaashi Keiji. It had always been your quiet orbit, the texts, the late-night phone calls, the shared snacks, the childhood summer days sprawled on the floor of his room. But today you were stepping in with him, beside him, in front of everyone.
And that felt so much bigger.
You slid out of bed, moving carefully so your sleepy limbs wouldn’t betray you. Your closet had never seemed more intimidating than it did this morning. You stared at the outfit you’d picked out last night, laid neatly on a chair like it was waiting for a spotlight to shine on it. An outfit that you didn’t wear often, but when you did, Keiji said it was “very you” when you wore it.
You ran a hand over your outfit, trying to smooth it out, and then paused in front of the mirror. The light caught the edge of your eyes, still a little puffy from barely sleeping the night before, and your fingers twitched with hesitation. What if they didn’t like you? What if they actually thought you were imaginary, just a creation of Akaashi’s good manners and strange sense of humor?
You tried to shake the thoughts off, tugging the blouse on and smoothing it out with more care than usual. Then your fingers hovered over your phone.
You bit your lip.
Y/N:
“I’m ready. I think I look okay.”
The text bubble sat there, glowing on your screen like a confession, your thumb hesitating before hitting send.
And then, just seconds later, his reply popped up—fast, immediate, as if he’d been waiting for it.
Keiji:
“You’ll look better than okay.”
You stared at the screen for a second longer than necessary, heat blooming in your chest and blooming up into your cheeks. He always had a way of saying things that made it impossible to tell if he meant them that way. But somehow, this time, you didn’t feel awkward. You felt warm. Anchored. Like he saw you.
You breathed in, exhaled slowly, and smiled.
Hair. You needed to do your hair.
You sat at your vanity and started to style it. Natural, definitely not effortless, but intentional. You remembered once, at twelve, Keiji had offhandedly said he liked it when your hair was like that, “a storybook princess.” You didn’t know if he even remembered saying it, but you did. And today felt like the kind of day to bring it back.
ꫂ❁
After checking everything twice, phone, keys, lip balm, you reached under your bed and pulled out a tiny bag you’d hidden from yourself the night before. Inside were several small sachets, tied neatly with ribbon and warm from your hands, homemade cookies. Your specialty. Sweet, soft, with a hint of almond and cinnamon. You’d made them just in case. A peace offering. A nervous habit. A piece of you.
You tucked them into your satchel like lucky charms.
As you walked toward the front door, you caught your reflection once more in the hallway mirror. For a second, you paused. You didn’t look like the girl who stayed up late reading and forgot to water her plants and got nervous ordering food over the phone. You looked like someone… different. Maybe not braver, but bolder. Like someone who was about to step into a different version of her life.
The version where Akaashi Keiji wasn’t just her childhood friend.
Your phone buzzed again, just as you reached for the handle.
Keiji:
“I’ll be by the east gate. Don’t rush. I’ll wait.”
And somehow, that single line, simple, quiet, dependable, steadied every breath you didn’t know was shaking.
You opened the door, stepped out into the sunlight, and walked toward him.
ꫂ❁
When you entered the school courtyard, Bokuto nearly tackled Keiji with a hug. “She’s real! And—wow—cute real!”
Keiji winced. “Don’t scare her.”
You blushed but laughed. “Hi.”
“Visiting festival?” he asked warmly.
You nodded, then pulled a cookie sachet out. “Want one?”
He took it gently. “Thank you.”
Keiji breathed out beside you. “So they believe you exist now.”
You squeezed his arm. “Mission accomplished.”
The festival buzzed—colorful stalls, clatter of plates, students cheering in booths. You wandered side by side, crepe stand, carnival games, cotton‑candy floss. Bokuto insisted on you doing goldfish scooping; you tried but failed to catch one and ended up petting it gently before returning it.
“Next time,” he teased.
Your cheeks warmed, especially when Akaashi guided you away from the crowded path, offering his jacket when a breeze picked up behind the haunted house stall.
ꫂ❁
Later, away from the crowd behind the track field, cicadas buzzing under the fading sun, music a distant hum—you sat on a low wall next to Akaashi.
There was sugar dust on your cheek (from the crepe), eyes shiny from all the laughter, energy unspent.
He paused, voice gentle, “Can I ask… truthfully?”
Heart skipping. “Yeah.”
“Why haven’t you dated anyone before?”
1000 thoughts rushed. You swallowed. “I… never felt safe enough. No one made me feel… comfortable.”
Silence. Then....
“What about me?”
Your breath stopped.
He looked down, hands twisting together.
“I like you,” he said, “more than as a friend.”
You blinked, jaw softening, tears threatening.
“Does that mean…” You whispered, small.
“…I kiss you now?” he asked quietly.
Your answer was a breathless nod.
He cupped your face, hands warm, steady and leaned in. Lips brushed; the kiss was soft at first, tentative, then deepened with both hesitation and longing. You curled into him, hands in his uniform top, breathing in his scent. Years of feeling hidden unraveled here.
When he pulled away, eyes still closed, he murmured, “You’re real.”
You smiled with the weight lifted off your chest. “Yeah. And I… like you too.”
The festival lights flickered golden as dusk deepened. You walked back through the stalls hand-in-hand, hearts light. Bokuto high‑fived Keiji from across a crepe stall; “Finally did it, huh!”
Keiji offered you a quiet smile that felt wider than you’d ever seen.
ꫂ❁
You both ended the night in his room—silence held close like a secret shared. The hum of the old heater, the occasional chirp of the cicadas outside.
You curled up beside him on the futon, legs drawn close. He tracked aches and twitches along your shoulders, brushing errant hair away. You hummed faintly, content. He scribbled again in his journal.
After a long pause, you spoke... “I’m glad I came.”
“Me too.”
Your head dropped toward his shoulder. “Promise to write about me?”
He flipped the journal open. On a fresh page, in neat cursive.
She is not imaginary.
You laughed.
He added; She’s wonderful.
And underneath, small capsule sketches: a cookie, eyes that read the soul, and a soft smile.
ꫂ❁
As night grew darker, he shifted enough for you to sit upright. You tucked your legs to the side, facing him.
“What’s next?” you asked.
He considered. Then held your hand. “I don’t know everything. All I know is… I want to try not overthinking this. See you soon. Talk more. Maybe… be more.”
You nodded, gripping his hand tighter.
He exhaled. “I made a stupid mistake letting you go… once.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere without you now,” you replied softly.
His thumb stroked over your knuckles. “I never want to lose what we’re rediscovering.”
And in the hush of his room—ink dry, pencils stilled—two people who once were everything to each other found themselves again, not as children, but as something more.
The night held its breath.
ꫂ❁
You awoke to soft sunlight and the smell of green tea drifting in. He was smiling already, journaling again.
“Good morning.”
“Morning.” You reached for the tea he’d placed beside you.
“You’re staying… right?” he asked, quietly.
You looked at him and smiled without hesitation. “Yes.”
He put down his pen, offering his hand.
“Then come downstairs and eat breakfast with me. My mom made your favorite, and she wants to hear all about what happened last night.”
And as you took his hand and walked into the warm light of his kitchen, you realized.
This was just the beginning, despite your years of friendship…
Hey Siri, play author's note.
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||| 0:10 : Hiiii I’m Dolly!! This is my first post, I'm terrified, BUT this man needs more people writing for him, and I had an idea, so I decided to suck it up, write, and post it!!! 😭🙏
Warning: bad grammar, prob won’t make any sense, lowercase on purpose
I wanted to post this on Wednesday but couldn’t when my friends surprised me with a birthday party, sorry guys😭😭
˖*°࿐ •*⁀➷ ˖*°࿐ •*⁀➷ ˖*°࿐ •*⁀➷ ˖*°࿐
it starts with max at the window like a five year old. he’s in a hoodie, messy hair, looking outside like the world just ended. “we’re snowed in,” he announces the second he sees you. dramatic. “it’s bad out there.” you rub your eyes, still half asleep. “it’s just snow.” he points, “just snow? that’s at least… six inches. nature’s basically begging us to build a fort.” …you should’ve said no.
instead, ten minutes later, you’re both in the yard, bundled up, hands freezing. max is already shoving snow into uneven piles.
“don’t copy my design,” he says. “i’ve got a whole plan. structural integrity. aesthetics. functionality.”
“it’s literally a pile of snow.” “ah, spoken like someone who’s about to lose.”
twenty minutes later, both forts look like trash. yours is lopsided. his is taller, but crumbling. he steps back, admiring it proudly.
“sturdy. basically the taj mahal of snow forts.” you poke the wall with one finger. the whole thing collapses.
he freezes. “…that was a stress test.”
you’re crying laughing. he tries to keep a straight face, fails, and suddenly there’s a snowball war. he chases you around the ruins of your forts until you nail him in the chest.
“truce!” he wheezes, collapsing into the snow. hoodie dusted white, cheeks pink, still grinning. “i call truce.” you flop down next to him. snowflakes stick to his lashes. for a second, everything’s quiet, in that muffled snow way.
he turns his head toward you. “okay, yours was better.” “it was falling over, max.”
inside, he makes hot chocolate. you watch him dump like half a bag of marshmallows in his mug.
“that’s disgusting,” you say. “that’s perfect.” he says, immediately eating one before it even melts.
then it’s both of you on the couch, under a blanket, mugs in hand. he flips on the tv but doesn’t really look at it, just leans into you. “snow days are elite,” he mumbles. “you’re not allowed to be productive. world’s closed. you just… stay.” “stay?”
“yeah.” he looks at you, softer now. “with you.”
…cheesy. but your chest does this little ache anyway. “guess being snowed in isn’t so bad,” you admit. he tugs you closer. “best fort i ever built is this right here.” you groan. “you’re disgusting.”
stormborns
areudirty
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