i constantly need an outlet amidst my school, work, and chaos called life, hence, this is the fruition of my insanity.
i appreciate you being here :)
⋆ divider: @cafekitsune
table of contents 𐙚
haikyuu series ✧ multi-chapter, daydream a little longer!
[under construction]
haikyuu oneshots ✧ have some snacks!
golden duo 「bokuto koutaro」
✧ what happens when you put a youngest son and an eldest daughter together? chaos. and yet, bokuto can not get enough of you and your cute little siblings.
@koushazelnut, 2026. Do not modify, plagiarize, translate, repost, or use AI in any way on any platforms.
osamu notices you're having an off day and wants nothing more than to comfort you. the only problem? you're both chaperoning the kindergarten field trip.
part eight of the after school series, a friends-to-lovers AU featuring you, osamu, and the relationship you build solo-parenting two girls in the same kindergarten class.
Her name was Itoga Kohana. Twenty-six. Creative strategist at a Top Five advertising agency. (You didn't even know what creative strategists did.) Her Instagram was flooded with vacation photos of your ex-fiancé and her perfect, well-styled family, and she was gorgeous.
It had only been a week since Jun invited you to his wedding. Asked you — no, insisted — that Misa be his flower girl for the ceremony. Since then, you'd carefully placed his save-the-date in a kitchen drawer. Created a Google calendar notification for May the ninth of next year. Not that you'd made your decision just yet.
"Think on it," Jun said, plopping his platinum card onto the leather check presenter after the waiter had taken your plates. "Hana and I couldn't think of anyone better to do it, but she insists on having your blessing first."
As if you could ever give your blessing to a person you'd never met. To your infuriating ex-fiancé, who would probably make a LinkedIn post about this later that week. I had a tough conversation with a person from my past. Here's what it taught me about B2B sales...
If you had the luxury of being selfish, you would put your foot down and say no. After all, the entire idea of Misa as Jun's flower girl was rich. Performative. A complete ruse that painted Jun as the present, loving father he never cared to be.
But this was Misa you were talking about. The girl whose eyes lit up whenever her father entered the room. The girl who still included him in family drawings, albeit on an airplane beside her butter yellow sun. She didn't know Jun's absence wasn't right. If anything, she saw him as a superhero, squeezing in time to see her whenever he wasn't out saving the world.
It was sweet at times. Heart-breaking at others. You wanted nothing more than to preserve Misa's reality for as long as possible. Or at least until she was old enough to hold the truth about her father without completely crumbling beneath it.
But that was a problem for later you.
“Mornin’, sleepyhead,” Osamu murmured. He pressed a warm thermos of coffee to your cheek, startling you from your thoughts. “Ya ready for today?”
“Hm?” You blinked back at his concerned expression. Felt your eyes wander to the plaid flannel that stretched across his forearms, his chest. “Oh, yeah.”
He frowned. “Ya look like ya haven’t slept a wink.”
“Yeah, well…” You scratched your scalp. Awkwardly accepted the thermos. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Yeah? Wanna talk about it?”
“What? Here?” You gestured to the chilly parking lot. The eighteen squirmy kindergarteners waiting to be let on the school bus. “Miss Yuki will be back any second.”
“Miss Yuki is currently hunting down the custodian to unclog the toilet in her classroom,” Osamu chuckled. “I think we got time.”
You folded your arms across your chest. Took a sip of the coffee Osamu had prepared. Two creamers and one Stevia, just how you liked it.
"Fine," you grumbled, lowering your voice so no one else could hear. "It's Misa's father."
"Oh?" Osamu nodded, feigning ignorance as best he could.
You frowned. “Please don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you didn’t already meet him!” you hissed. You averted your gaze, a blush rising into your cheeks. "Go ahead, judge all you want."
"No, no! He looked...smart. Accomplished."
"He's fake and conniving, is what he is," you sighed. "Anyway, he just asked me something super insensitive, but I don't think I'm entirely in a position to say no."
“Why are you sorry? You’re not the one who asked me."
You squirmed beneath Osamu's gaze, then — that grey, glassy-eyed stare he'd give you whenever you confessed to skipping lunch or working late nights. He looked at you like one might an elderly person. Or a malnourished cat.
Either way, you were relieved to hear the sound of Miss Yuki's orthopedic shoes smacking against the loose gravel not a moment later.
"Alright!" your daughter's teacher chirped — hair frazzled. Sweater slightly askew. "Fortunately for us, an entire roll of toilet paper is no match for me and Mr. Watanabe. Unfortunately for us, we're running about twenty minutes behind."
She smacked a stack of name tags, Sharpie pens, and a seating chart into your and Osamu's hands.
"I need to grab the first aid bag from the front office before we go," she said. "You know what to do!"
You and Osamu busied yourself for the next half hour — wrangling girls into seats, sticking name tags onto polo shirts. (You had to peel Kina's off her forehead at least twice.) By the time Miss Yuki had returned, you both had resigned yourselves to your own assigned seating. You in the front. Osamu in the very back.
You okay? he mouthed when you spared a glance over your shoulder.
You gave him a bleak thumbs up before collapsing into your seat, the sound of high-pitched laughter reverberating in your ears as the bus lurched into motion.
As childish as it was, you almost wished you were sitting next to him.
Osamu had never been to the sculpture garden before. Just thirty minutes outside the city, the fourteen-acre property was home to twenty outdoor art installations, a two-story villa for rotating exhibits, and a koi pond teeming with peacocks. (Misa nearly ripped his arm off when one approached her in the parking lot.)
It was quaint. Quirky. The perfect outdoor wedding venue, according to their tour guide. Not like he was paying much attention, anyway.
The class had split up thirty minutes ago for a guided tour of the premises — and while he'd more or less expected to be separated from you, he couldn't help the uneasiness now seeping into his stomach. Just what exactly had Jun asked of you? And why weren’t you in a position to say no?
He knew he had no right to ask. Knew you, of all people, were capable of handling conniving men on your own. But that didn't mean you had to.
"Osamu-san," Misa murmured, trailing behind the rest of their assigned group.
She tugged on his flannel with a bunched fist and pointed at an art installation just beyond the trees. "Can you take a picture of me and Miffy-san?"
He trained his phone camera on your daughter's sun-warmed face, felt a chuckle rumble from his chest as she stood beside the ten-foot-tall bunny sculpture like a soldier recruited for battle.
"Don't worry," Misa said when she caught him staring at the photo a little too wistfully. "We'll be back with mommy soon."
At that, Osamu’s face turned beet red.
"Yeah?" he chuckled, pocketing his phone. Playing it off. "I just hope Kina ain't givin' her a hard time."
Misa merely hummed. As if she couldn’t reassure him on that one.
The entire class reunited for lunch outside the villa — picnic blankets sprawled across the grass, the smell of katsu sandwiches, ketchup, and cold milk thick in the air. He spotted you handing out bagged lunches from a soft cooler hung over your shoulder, and something in his chest shifted when your eyes caught his across the lawn.
“How’d it go?” he asked as you approached.
“Good! Nobody got lost, and Kina only serenaded the group twice." You frowned. "She knows a surprising amount of Kendrick Lamar, though."
"Are ya serious?"
"Don't worry. I don't think she actually knows any of the words."
"I told Atsumu to stop listenin' to his game day playlist in front of her..."
You smiled at him for a half-second. "Well, if you're not sitting with anyone for lunch..."
"Daddy!" Kina interjected, voice barreling across the lawn. She waved him over from the picnic blanket she was sharing with another girl from her group. Yuta. Or was it Yui? "We saved you a spot!”
"Go," you reassured Osamu with a laugh, sweeping your gaze across the lawn. "I’m gonna find my own spawn. I'll...I'll catch up with you later?"
At a ripe twenty-eight years-old, Osamu had never felt more childish as he accepted a bagged lunch from you, stalked across the grass, and plopped himself down on the blanket next to Kina.
He was halfway through his pork katsu sandwich when Yui (he'd read her name tag) asked, "So is Y/N-san, like, your girlfriend or something?"
"What?" he balked around a mouthful of food. He reached for a paper napkin and swiped the corner of his mouth. "What makes ya think that?"
The child shrugged. "You look at her like my dad looks at wagyu beef."
"You're so silly, Yui," Kina giggled into her sandwich. "My daddy doesn't have a girlfriend."
She met her father's eyes, then. Noticed the way they drifted to your and Misa's picnic blanket across the lawn.
"See? There it is again!" Yui cried.
"Oh my gosh," Kina said, wide-eyed. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
"No!"
"Oh." She sagged her shoulders. Took another bite of her sandwich. "Well, maybe you should."
They continued to giggle about his lack of a love life for what felt like ages. Osamu's face didn't return to its normal color until lunch was well over.
The field trip concluded with a free-draw period by the koi pond. Students were given a sketchbook and pencil and told to recreate whatever they wanted, provided they didn't disturb any of the animals. ("We do not touch the peacocks. Okay? We respect the peacocks' boundaries.") The energy of the group had since taken a dip — some girls crouched protectively over their drawings, others still circled the pond in search of inspiration. It was nice. Tranquil, even.
"Why don't you two take a break?" Miss Yuki suggested. "There's a walking trail not too far from here. I hear it's beautiful this time of year."
"Are you sure?" you asked, eyes flitting toward the pond. You half-expected a child to tumble in at any second.
"I'm sure," your daughter's teacher reassured you with a smile, practically ushering you and Osamu in the direction of the trailhead. "Just don't wander too far!"
The warm buzz of cicadas now filled your ears as you walked side-by-side with Osamu — the sun hitting you sporadically through the trees, the crunch of gravel sharp beneath your feet. You'd subconsciously hoped for a moment alone with him the entire day, but now that you had it, you didn't quite know what to say.
"You know, I never got the chance to — "
"So how was the rest of yer — ?"
You both clamped your mouths shut. Exchanged shy, sheepish smiles flanked by matching pink expressions.
"You first," Osamu insisted.
"I was just going to thank you for making me coffee this morning," you said. "I got pretty crap sleep last night, so..."
"Yeah?"
You nodded. "What with work and Misa's father coming into town, it's just...it's been hard to fall asleep."
You began to feel it, then. The dull circles pooling beneath your eyes, your unwashed hair clinging to your face. Even your usual button-up shirt seemed a little more wrinkled than usual.
"Ya can always call me, ya know," Osamu murmured. "If yer goin' through somethin'. Ya don't need to wait until ya see me."
"I know." You nodded, painfully aware of how guarded you were and how wonderful he was. You just couldn't find the right words to tell him. Didn't know if they existed anywhere beyond the deep, gaping void in your chest. "I will."
Farther along the trail, a bridal party stood taking photographs amid the trees. It was a small group — you could count on one hand the amount of bridesmaids and groomsmen, and they were all dressed in the same sage-green satin.
"Did I ever tell you that Jun and I were engaged?"
Osamu blinked back at the question. The sudden force in which you'd asked it.
"No."
"It wasn't for very long," you added quickly. "I actually think it lasted about nineteen days."
Your eyes drifted to the happy couple. The untouched joy in their expressions, the way their shoulders shook in nervous, pre-ceremony jitters.
"He came into town to tell me he was engaged to someone else," you said suddenly. "And to ask if Misa would be his flower girl."
Osamu stopped walking. You followed suit. His eyes — sharper than you'd expected — bore into yours.
"Ya serious?"
You nodded. His shoulders sank.
"Shit, Y/N." He ran a hand down his face. "How long have ya been holdin' that in?"
"I dunno." You shrugged. It didn't stop your expression from crumbling. The tears from prickling the corners of your eyes. "About a week?"
Osamu didn't hesitate. Simply grabbed your wrist, pulled you flush against his chest, and held you. You squeezed your eyes shut as an onslaught of tears threatened to ruin your mascara, and your whole body tensed as the scent of Osamu's detergent fried your every nerve.
"I don't know why I'm crying," you scoffed, clenching your jaw in protest. "I'm over him."
"I know."
"For fuck's sake, I don't even like him. He just..." You shuddered, hot tears dribbling down your face and onto Osamu's shirt. "He shows up whenever he wants. Leaves at a moment’s notice. He gets to decide that now's a good time to get his act together, and I..."
"...don't?" Osamu guessed after a while.
A weak laugh slipped past your lips.
"I don't regret having Misa." You buried your face into his shoulder. Relaxed ever-so-slightly into him. "And I love the life we've built together. I just...I wish I wasn't the only one who had to take responsibility for it, you know?"
"Yeah," Osamu exhaled. He pressed his cheek against the top of your head and frowned. "Yeah. I understand ya completely."
You stayed like that for a while. Osamu's arms holding you firmly in place. The sounds of laughter and camera shutters lifting your spirits slightly.
He was warmer than you expected. Like a patch of sun on a cloudy day.
"Have ya told Misa yet?" Osamu asked once you'd stopped crying.
"No," you muttered. "I'm afraid her excitement might blind me."
"Yeah..." Osamu's chuckle rumbled through your whole body. "She was so happy to see him the other day. I'll give him that."
"I know," you groaned. "God, what am I going to do?"
"Well, whatever you decide," he murmured, hands rubbing gentle circles into your back. "I'll be here for ya."
"...thank you," you breathed. You pulled away from Osamu's arms. Gestured miserably toward your swollen face. "Does my mascara look bad?"
You tried not to squirm as his calloused hands cupped either side of your face, thumbs swiping firmly beneath your eyes.
"Crap," he admitted after a moment. "I think I'm makin' it worse."
"Forget about it," you told him, a shaky laugh working its way out of your chest. "Just walk with me."
You continued hiking side-by-side toward the end of the trail. Congratulated the newlyweds as you overtook them. When a lone peacock wobbled onto the path beside you, you nearly ripped Osamu's arm off in terror.
The whole situation was absurd. Hilarious, too, if you weren't so goddamn petrified. Distracting enough to make you forget about fiancés and flower girls and seemingly incurable fatigue. If only for a moment.
And right now? You'd take any of those moments you could get.
"Do you think she likes being with me?" Zuko asks Iroh one warm evening, both of them sheltered under the tall tree's green leaves. They cast patterns across the grass and the small table their tray of tea sits. "Do you think that...she minds all of this?"
"Why the sudden question?" Iroh asks in return, settling down his cup. "Did something happen between you two? It's normal, you know. To have the occasional argument."
Zuko shakes his head. "No, nothing happened." His face softens, the corners of his mouth lifting up slightly. "Everything's been so great, it all feels like a fantasy sometimes. I just..." He trails off for a moment, hesitant. "Before we met, she was so free and spontaneous. She traveled around without a second thought because no obligations held her down. It remained the same when our relationship started until we got married and..."
"Became the Fire Lady," Iroh finishes, understanding. "You fear that she may be resentful towards you."
The words make Zuko flinch inwardly, his hands curling into fists in his lap.
"I sometimes wonder if I wasn't the Fire Lord," he confesses quietly. "If I refused to take the throne and chose to roam the world with her. If I had been born a regular person who was able to indulge in my whims and then met her." He stares at the deep reds of his robes that lay messily over his knees and finds he despises the colour. "I just...want her to be happy and I fear I'm not making her that."
Iroh doesn't reply at first, his face showcasing deep thought as he looks up at the vibrant leaves. Then he looks back at his nephew and smiles.
"You love her so much that if she asked to be free of you, you'd let her go without a second thought."
Zuko stares at him, wide-eyed and mouth slightly agape.
"How did you—?"
"I'm your uncle, Zuko," Iroh reminds him. "We've also spent over the last decade in each other's pockets. I can read you and you can probably read me."
"Probably?"
"I'm also wiser than you," Iroh teases. "And my poker face is far better than yours."
Zuko scoffs but he's amused, Iroh can tell.
"I know her too, Zuko," Iroh continues. "I know that she would not stay if she were not comfortable or happy. Do you know why?"
Zuko shakes his head.
"Because you've nutured your relationship into something beautiful and trusting. You have not trapped her in a cage like your father did your mother. You let her speak her mind and feel her feelings. You value her opinions and take them to heart, using them in your decisions everyday. You show her that she is the most important person in your life in every little thing that you do. I don't know about you but I think that's a relationship worth staying for."
A moment of silence follows allowing Iroh's words to sink in heavily. Zuko swallows thickly, blinking his eyes suspiciously fast as he clear his throat.
"Y–you really think that—?" He starts slowly but is interrupted by your arrival. You're running into the gardens, robes hitched up so the hem doesn't trip you. You collide into Zuko's back, laughing when you almost topple both of you over.
"Zuko!" You exclaim happily, clinging to him and Iroh watches, fond, as his nephew immediately adjusts himself to hold you in his lap. His arms are firm around your waist and his expression, despite shocked, melts into pure affection.
"My Lady," he says smoothly, playful enough that it has you giggling. "What has you running around this evening? Did something happen?"
You shake your head, grinning. "Nope. I just thought about how I haven't seen you since morning and I missed you." You place a soft kiss against his cheek, rendering him speechless, before turning to Iroh.
"You owe me a rematch in Pai Sho," you declare, eyes glimmering and Iroh laughs, belly deep.
"Bring it out now and we'll see if you've learned enough to almost beat me."
"I'll go get the board." You place another kiss on Zuko's cheek, closer to his lips this time, before running out to grab the board.
"Still think she minds all of this? Still think she resents you?" Iroh asks but he already knows the answer.
The deeply in love smile Zuko gives in your direction is the biggest answer he can get.
osamu comforts your daughter before her first music recital of the school year.
part six of the after school series, a friends-to-lovers AU featuring you, osamu, and the relationship you build solo-parenting two girls in the same kindergarten class.
"What on earth are you wearing?"
Osamu stopped short in the middle of the courtyard. Looked down at the baby blue button-up he'd thrown on in the rush to get here.
"Why?" he asked, inspecting the slightly wrinkled linen with a frown. "Did I stain it or somethin'?"
"No, I just..." Your brain short-circuited at the sleeves rolled past his muscled forearms, the fabric stretched across his broad chest. He'd even put a little product into his hair, from what you could tell. "I didn't realize you had other clothes in your closet."
A snort escaped him. "Trust me. I'd much rather be wearin' a t-shirt than this stuffy thing. Pretty sure it's Atsumu’s, actually."
"Well, you clean up nicely," you murmured, squeezing the supermarket bouquet you'd picked up on the way here. "Maybe you should steal from him more often."
“Yeah?” An amused, if not bashful smile ticked onto his lips. “He’s a lil’ slimmer, but I’ll see what I can do.”
You walked side-by-side toward the small gymnasium tucked into the heart of campus, where a throng of parents, grandparents, and family friends stood waiting to be let inside.
"For what it's worth, ya spruce up nicely yerself," Osamu added, gesturing his own bouquet to the patterned dress that hugged your curves, the dainty pearl necklace you'd worn to match. "Is that new?"
"What, this old thing?" You ran your palm down the red chiffon fabric and laughed. "Honestly, I feel a little silly. I haven't dressed up like this since before Misa was born."
His grey eyes scanned the sheepishness on your face. The slight tenderness there.
"Well, silly's the last word I'd use to describe ya right now."
"Okay," you snorted, although it didn't stop the heat from rising into your cheeks. "Did that shirt come with your brother's pick-up lines, too?"
Osamu chuckled as the crowd shuffled into the gymnasium, the scent of floor wax, air conditioning, and expensive bouquets rushing to greet you.
As part of Kimori's dedication to the performing arts, all students were required to participate in a semesterly strings recital as directed by the school's music instructor. The man himself, a composer by the name of Jules Bonneau, had been touted as Kimori's best-of-the-best, having sent multiple students to both national and international-level competitions. He was a prodigy, you'd heard from the mothers at the PTA. A modern-day Niccolò Paganini.
Osamu crinkled his nose. "Who the hell is that?"
"I have no idea," you said with a shrug. "Sounds impressive, though."
"I dunno," he drawled, filing into a vacant row toward the front of the room. "I don't doubt the guy's talented, but Misa and Kina just started school. What good's a couple months of lessons gonna do?"
"Who knows?" You plucked the program from your seat and eased in beside him. "Maybe one of our daughters will surprise us. Maybe we have a future prodigy on our hands."
"Well, I'd bet all my money that it's yours. I love Kina to death, but she can't sit still for five seconds without burstin' into flames."
"Yeah, well, I'm about to burst into flames if these people don't move their bouquets." You glared at the forty pounds of azaleas currently blocking your view of the stage. "Can a five-year-old even lift that thing?"
Before Osamu could open his mouth to respond, someone cleared their throat beside you.
"Excuse me, madame?" The elderly man greeted you with a bow. "Pleasure to meet you. I am Monsieur Bonneau, Misa's music instructor. You are her mother, yes?"
"I am!" You scanned his tense expression — the kind all teachers used when they were about to deliver bad news. "Is everything okay?"
“Yes! Just wanted to pop in and say what a joy it has been to have Misa in my class. She is wonderfully attentive, and I am excited for you to see all the hard work she’s put into the class performance.”
He kept that same, cheerful smile plastered to his face as he crouched down and looked you dead in the eye.
“That said, she’s currently undergoing a case of…how you say? Stage fright?”
You set your bouquet and program on the chair beneath you, flung your purse over a shoulder with all the determination you could muster. Meanwhile, Osamu stared at you with those steely eyes of his and asked, "Want me to go with ya?"
You blinked back at the question, the half-kind, half-blasé way in which he'd said it.
"I've got it."
"I know." He frowned. "That's not why I asked."
It wasn't often people accompanied you in situations like this. And if it were anyone else, you'd probably tell them not to worry. You'd spent the past five years of your life calming your daughter's storms, no father, grandparents, or hired help in sight.
But as you sank into Osamu's words — pictured him standing outside the classroom doing virtually nothing except being there — you felt your posture relax for a fraction of a second.
"...okay." You nodded, beckoning him out of his chair before you could think about it too deeply. "Come on, then."
It was all Osamu needed to hear before he set his own bouquet down and followed you out.
"Hey, kiddo." You crouched beneath your daughter's desk in the middle of her empty classroom, the scent of crayon shavings and Lysol already clinging to your clothes. "Mind if I join you?”
Misa reminded you of an armadillo when she was nervous — knees tucked against her chest, chin pressed into her sternum. You found her like this whenever thunderstorms rolled through your neighborhood, or dentists called for her biannual cleaning. Stage fright, however, was new territory for the both of you.
"There isn't enough room," she murmured.
"That's okay! I'll just stay here, then." You kicked off your glossy black pumps, laid belly-down beside her desk, and tried not to think about all the norovirus that lived on these floors. "I met Monsieur Bonneau this afternoon.”
"You did?"
You nodded. “Apparently, he’s a modern-day Niccolò Paganini.”
Your daughter frowned. “Who’s that?”
"Couldn't tell you."
She remained silent for a moment. Pensive.
"Is he mad at me?"
"Not at all. He just wants to know if you're okay. He said you put a lot of hard work into today's performance. Is that true?"
Nodding, she said, "Monsieur Bonneau lets me play violin in the music room at recess. When it’s quiet."
"Really? That’s kind of him." Your heart swelled at this newfound piece of information — this small glimpse into Misa's world that grew more colorful by the day. "Going from a quiet classroom to a big stage must feel pretty scary, then, huh?"
She buried her face between her knees.
"I don't wanna go up there, mommy. I wanna stay here with you."
"Oh, love." You reached out and gently tucked her hair behind her ears. "I get it. If you decide you don't want to do this, I won't force you. We can chill, take a half day. Go get ice cream sandwiches at the konbini."
A small smile worked its way onto your face as you nudged her under the chin.
"I think you've got what it takes to get up there, though,” you told her honestly. “Scaries and all."
Misa merely rolled her eyes, as if that was the biggest lie she'd ever been told.
Outside the classroom, Osamu sat on the wooden bench closest to the door. Eyes closed. Head laid back against the wall. He'd poured you and Misa two cups of water from the nurse's office, and he tried not to think about how presumptuous he looked, hovering like a member of the secret service.
He hoped you didn't take offense to him being here. After all, you were plenty capable of handling Misa on your own, and the last thing he wanted was to suggest otherwise. He just found himself...clinging to you these days. Wanting to stay in your orbit, even if he wasn't explicitly needed.
He told himself it was because you were his friend. Because he'd rather sit here in silence than engage in small talk with other parents about where he vacationed. (Which was nowhere.)
But when he pictured you — what with your patterned dress and dainty jewelry and the way your lipstick smudged when you laughed — another part of his brain wholeheartedly disagreed.
Osamu squashed the dispute like a bug as you pushed open the door to the classroom.
"How's she doin'?" he asked as you stepped outside and eased onto the bench.
You blew a raspberry. "She's stubborn, that's for sure."
Osamu handed you your water, eyes tracing the curve of your neck as you gulped it down. He averted his gaze once he realized what he was doing.
"She's convinced that I don't understand her." You hiccuped. "That I don't know what it feels like to be scared."
"I thought only teenagers thought that way," he chuckled. "Makes sense, though. Yer practically a superhero in her eyes."
"Doesn't make situations like this any easier. I’m this close to shaking a box of Cheez-Its in her face."
Osamu snorted. "She ain't a cat.”
You winced. "Wouldn't be the first time."
"Well, maybe she'd respond to someone more neutral," he suggested, taking your paper cup and folding it into his palm. "Someone she doesn't have all these preconceived notions about."
You pushed your bottom lip out.
"Wanna try talking to her?"
He blinked. "Oh, no. I didn’t mean — "
"It's okay," you reassured him, the warmth of your smile easing the worry etched onto Osamu’s face. "I trust you."
He tried not to react to those words, the easy conviction in which you'd said them. But as he nodded in your direction and lifted himself off the bench, he couldn't help the emotion that flickered in his chest. Like he'd just been handed something fragile and was determined not to drop it.
"Misa?" He knocked on the door frame before stepping inside. "It's Osamu-san. I got ya some water."
A second passed. Two. Then, a small voice piped up from under a desk in the far corner.
"Did my mommy tell you to come get me?"
"No." He frowned. "Not directly, anyway."
At that, Misa sighed. "I am thirsty."
"Well, we can't have that now, can we?" Osamu drawled, propping open the door. "Just sit tight. I'll come to ya."
His joints crackled and popped the moment he crouched onto the floor beside her desk. Misa's eyes — the same color as yours — widened to saucers at the noise.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Yeah," Osamu grunted, forcing himself into a criss-cross position. When was the last time he worked out? "My pride's a lil' wounded, but I'll survive."
She took the cup with both hands and drank in several, hearty gulps.
"Nice place ya got here," Osamu mused, admiring her tiny desk like one might a home in Architectural Digest. "Ya always hide under tables when yer nervous?"
"Yeah," Misa confessed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I hide in my pantry at home, too."
"Yer pantry? I like the way ya think," Osamu chuckled. "Ya might not believe this, but I also hid in my pantry once upon a time."
"You did?"
"Yes, ma'am. It was the openin' night of my restaurant, and I was so scared that I would mess up someone's order — or worse — no one would show. So I locked myself in the pantry of the kitchen and yakked into a mop bucket."
"Ew!" Misa giggled, the gleam in her eyes making Osamu's heart swell. "What did you do next?"
"Well." He rubbed the back of his neck. "My brother gave me a water, we talked, and then...I decided to do it scared."
Your daughter softened at his words. Stared into her own cup of water for a long while.
"I'm not sayin' ya have to do it exactly like me," he said. "I'm just sayin' that if I can do it scared, ya sure as hell can, too."
Misa pursed her lips to one side. "Isn't that a bad word?"
Osamu's ears turned bright pink before he burst out laughing.
You watched silently from the doorway as they spoke — Misa's cheeks tinged pink from laughter, Osamu's eyes saturated in amusement. You had no doubt he was incredible at being a parent. But seeing him here, handling the literal extension of your heart with more gentleness than you ever thought possible...
It filled your chest with a feeling so old you didn't recognize it.
And when Misa crawled out from under her desk, prompting Osamu to waggle his eyebrows at you from across the classroom, you knew that feeling wasn't going anywhere.
"Good afternoon!" Monsieur Bonneau said into the mic just as you and Osamu slid back into your seats. "I am Monsieur Jules Bonneau, and it is my utmost pleasure to welcome you to Kimori's first music recital of the school year."
An enthusiastic applause ricocheted through the gymnasium.
"These students have been working incredibly hard at their craft this semester, and it warms me to see so many parents here in support." The lines on his face deepened as he smiled. "Now, without further ado, please welcome our kindergarten class to the stage!"
You watched as Miss Yuki corralled her kindergarten class onto the stage — violins knocking into one another, footsteps clamoring onto the carpeted plywood. Kina's face broke out into a wide grin when she spotted Osamu, and she nearly smacked Misa in the face with her bow when she waved.
"Jesus Christ," Osamu muttered through his smile as he waved back. "She's a walkin' hazard."
"At least she didn't hold up the entire show," you huffed back, sliding your phone out of your purse to record.
Now, you didn't know what you'd expected. A simple rendition of Hot Crossed Buns. Something you could at least show Kuroo once you got back to the office.
But as Monsieur Bonneau lifted his conductor's baton and cued everyone in, you quickly realized two things: (1) the man was a prodigy, not a miracle worker, and (2) you actually hated the sound of the violin.
"Dear lord," Osamu breathed, staring at the stage in horror. "What are they even playin'? Wheels on the Bus?"
You struggled to think straight as the sound of eighteen screeching violins pierced the inside of your skull. "No, no I think it's Twinkle Twinkle Little Star..."
Squinting, he said, "Kina ain't even holdin' the bow right."
"At least she's making noise!" you hissed back. "Misa's bow isn't even touching her violin."
Osamu choked on his laughter, which only made you choke in response.
"Jesus." He hid his face in his hands. "I feel like an asshole."
Your shoulders shook as you sputtered out, "First one to break buys lunch?"
"Oh, yer on," he drawled, immediately schooling his expression. "I'll have a pork katsu curry from that new place down the street. Extra pickled veggies."
It was hard to glare at someone while actively trying not to laugh. "What makes you think you'll lose, asshole?"
In that moment, Kina actually did manage to smack Misa in the face with her bow.
You ended up paying for each other's meals that afternoon.
pairing: ঔঌ firelord! zuko x fem! fiancé! reader
જ⁀➴ sypnosis: You forgot that you didn’t just say yes to Zuko—you said yes to the Firelord. Now you’re stuck in wedding planning chaos, palace politics, and expectations you never asked for, all while trying to hold onto the pieces of your old life before they slip away completely (this is the sypnosis of the first part, this one is the wedding now).
mentions: established relationship, engagement, wedding, fluff,
part 1 —> here
The wedding was set.
After weeks of planning, arguing, reorganizing, and nearly losing your mind more than once—the date had been chosen, the ceremony finalized, and every last detail rehearsed down to the smallest movement.
You knew where to stand.
When to speak.
How to move, how to bow, how to exist under the weight of a hundred watching eyes.
Everything was ready. That was the problem. Because now there was nothing left to prepare. Nothing left to delay. Just the day itself.
And apparently—
getting ready for that day takes an entire lifetime.
Or at least it feels like it.
You’ve been standing—no, posed—for what must be hours, while an army of attendants moves around you with terrifying precision.
Layers.
There are so many layers.
Fabric draped, adjusted, pinned. Jewelry placed, removed, replaced again because “the symmetry must be exact.” Your hair has been redone at least three times already, each version somehow more intricate than the last.
You don’t dare move unless instructed.
Which is difficult, because your legs are starting to question your life choices.
“Don’t move.”
“I’m not moving.”
“You moved.”
“I breathed.”
“That counts.”
You stare straight ahead. This is your life now. Somewhere behind you, you hear familiar footsteps. “Can we come in?” Katara’s voice calls gently. Before anyone answers, the door opens anyway. Toph walks in first. “Wow,” she says immediately, arms crossed. “This room is tense.”
Katara follows, offering the attendants an apologetic smile. “We won’t interrupt for long.”
“You already have,” one of them mutters under her breath.
Toph grins. “Good.”
You let out a quiet, relieved breath when you see them. “Hi,” you say weakly.
Katara’s eyes land on you—and she stops. Completely. For a second, she just stares. Then her expression softens into something warm. “Wow…”
That alone makes your stomach flip. “What?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“You look…” she trails off, smiling a little wider. “You look amazing.”
You blink. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
Toph tilts her head slightly, listening. “…Well, I’ve got nothing,” she says. “I’m sure it’s great though.”
You huff out a small laugh. “Thanks, Toph. Very helpful.”
“I could describe your heartbeat?” she offers.
“No.”
Katara laughs quietly, stepping closer. She carefully avoids the chaos of fabric pooling around you, crouching just slightly to adjust one of the outer layers. “Seriously,” she says softer, “you look beautiful.”
You glance down at yourself.
The dress—no, robes—are… a lot.
White, rich crimson and gold, layered like something out of history itself. The sleeves are long and flowing, embroidered with patterns that catch the light with every tiny movement. The collar sits high and elegant, the detailing intricate enough to make your head spin if you look too long.
And the skirt—
is absolutely ridiculous. It spreads out around you like a small territory of its own, layers upon layers cascading outward in heavy, ornate folds.
You shift your foot slightly. Immediately regret it. “I can’t walk in this,” you say.
One of the attendants gasps like you’ve committed a crime. “You will glide.”
“I will trip,” you correct.
“You will not trip.”
“I will absolutely trip.”
Toph snorts. “If you fall, I’m not catching you.”
“Traitor.”
“I’m blind, not a miracle worker.”
Katara covers a laugh with her hand.
You try to take a careful step forward. The dress does not cooperate. It resists. You freeze. “…This is bigger than me,” you say slowly.
“It is meant to reflect your status,” an attendant replies.
“I have too much status.”
Toph grins. “Yeah, you do.”
Katara shakes her head, still smiling, then gently fixes a small detail near your shoulder. “You’ll get used to it.”
“I don’t have time to get used to it.”
“You have… today,” she offers.
“That’s not reassuring.”
Another attendant steps in, adjusting the final pieces—hair ornaments, delicate chains, everything placed with almost ceremonial care.
“Done,” she finally says.
The room stills. You don’t move. You’re almost afraid to.
Katara takes a small step back to look at you properly again. Her expression softens even more. “Okay,” she says quietly. “Now you really look like a Firelady.” That word again Firelady. It doesn’t hit as sharply this time. Still heavy. But not crushing.
Toph tilts her head slightly again. “…So are we done or are we still decorating her like a palace?”
“We’re done,” one attendant says with a sigh of relief.
“Good,” Toph replies. “Because if I have to stand here any longer, I’m rearranging something.”
You laugh—soft, a little nervous, but real. Your hands smooth over the fabric again, slower this time. Heavier. But not unbearable.
Katara reaches for your hand briefly, squeezing it. “You’re ready,” she says gently.
You inhale. Slow. Steady. “…I hope so.”
From somewhere outside, distant but unmistakable—voices. Movement.
The palace shifting into place. It’s time.
And suddenly walking in the dress is not the biggest problem anymore.
Sokka is pacing again. He has not stopped pacing. Aang is trying to breathe in a very intentional spiritual pattern. Iroh is winning at life by doing absolutely nothing except tea.
Zuko is standing. Very still. Very focused. Very obviously about to leave. “I’m going to see her,” he says simply.
Sokka immediately whirls around. “NO.”
Zuko pauses. “No?”
Sokka points at him like this is the most obvious thing in the world. “You can’t see the bride before the ceremony!”
Zuko stares at him. “…Why.”
Aang raises a hand gently. “It’s a tradition thing.” Zuko blinks once. “That’s not a reason.”
Sokka looks personally offended. “It’s BAD LUCK.”
Zuko does not look impressed. “I don’t believe in that.”
Toph’s voice comes from somewhere nearby. “I don’t believe in most things and even I think that’s a thing.”
Zuko ignores her. He turns again toward the door.
Sokka physically steps in front of him. “Nope. Absolutely not. You are the Firelord AND groom. You cannot break the rules AND the structure AND the cosmic balance of this wedding.”
Zuko deadpans. “Move.”
Sokka does not move.
Aang awkwardly smiles. “Maybe… we could compromise spiritually?”
Iroh hums softly from his seat. “Tradition exists to comfort people, not restrict love.”
Sokka points at Iroh immediately. “NOT HELPING.”
Iroh takes a sip. “I am helping myself.”
Zuko exhales slowly through his nose. “I’m not doing anything ceremonial,” he says. “I just want to see her.”
Sokka crosses his arms. “That’s exactly what the curse wants you to do.”
Zuko pauses. “…What curse?"
Sokka gestures vaguely. “The wedding curse.”
Zuko looks at Aang.
Aang slowly lowers his hand. “I think that’s more cultural metaphor than literal curse.”
Zuko looks back at Sokka. “So there is no curse.”
Sokka hesitates. “…There is emotional consequence.”
Zuko stares at him for a long moment. Then turns again.
Sokka immediately blocks him again. “NOPE. Not happening. I will physically stand here if I have to. I am the planner. I am the strategist. I am the only thing holding this entire ceremony together.”
From the side, Toph comments: “That’s depressing.”
Sokka: “THANK YOU, TOPH.”
Zuko closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, he is very calm (or atleast pretends to be). “I’m going,” he says.
Sokka gasps. “You wouldn’t.”
Zuko walks forward. Sokka does NOT move. Zuko keeps walking.
Sokka panics. “AANG—DO SOMETHING—”
Aang blinks. Then slowly floats a little higher, hands raised in front of him like he’s about to mediate world peace. “Alright,” he says carefully, “I think everyone needs to—”
Zuko keeps walking. Sokka lunges again.
Aang moves. Just… between them. And somehow it works. Zuko stops immediately. Not because he’s forced, but because it‘s Aang after all.
“Zuko,” Aang says softly, “I understand you want to see her.”
Zuko exhales. “Good.”
Aang nods. “But… I also understand tradition.”
Zuko deadpans. “I don’t.”
Aang smiles politely.
Then—
he lifts both hands slightly. And a soft gust of air gently pushes Zuko one step back. Not violently though. Zuko pauses. Looks at him. “…Did you just airbend me away from my own wedding.”
Aang looks mildly guilty. “Technically… yes.”
Sokka is still staring at Zuko like he’s trying to mentally calculate how to out-strategize airbending. Then he snaps his fingers. “Okay—new plan.”
Toph groans immediately. “Oh no.”
Sokka turns to her like he’s just had a genius idea handed down by the spirits themselves. “Toph. Describe her.”
Silence.
Toph slowly turns her head toward him. “…What?”
Sokka points toward the hallway dramatically. “Describe her! Zuko wants to know what she looks like right now!”
Zuko immediately: “That’s not what I said.”
Aang lowers his hands slightly, confused. “I think he said he just wants to see her.”
Sokka waves him off. “Same thing emotionally.”
Toph stares at Sokka. Dead still. “…Are you serious.”
Sokka nods eagerly. “Yes! Just tell us how she looks!”
Toph squints. “…I’m blind.”
Sokka pauses. Then very quietly: “…My bad.”
Toph exhales through her nose like she is rethinking every life choice that led her here. “I hate all of you,” she says calmly.
Zuko pinches the bridge of his nose. Aang looks like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. Zuko exhales. Then, quieter—but firmer: “I don’t need to know what she looks like right now.”
A pause. Aang tilts his head slightly. “Oh?”
Zuko’s expression shifts just a little. Less annoyed. More worried. “I just want to know she’s okay,” he says.
Silence. That one lands differently. Even Sokka pauses for once.
“…Aww,” Aang says softly.
Zuko immediately: “Don’t ‘aww’ me.”
Toph suddenly perks up. “Ohhh,” she says slowly. “So you’re doing the whole ‘concerned fiancé’ thing.”
Zuko: “I’m not—”
Toph interrupts instantly, grinning. “She’s awful, by the way.”
Zuko stiffens. “What?”
Aang straightens. “Toph, don’t—”
But Toph is already fully committed to chaos. “She’s so anxious,” she says dramatically. “Like, really bad. Heart racing. Hands shaking. She’s convinced she’s going to trip on her dress, fall down the stairs, and break both legs before she even reaches the aisle.”
Toph continues, completely unfazed. “Yeah, and then she said if she breaks her legs she’ll have to be carried and it’ll be humiliating and you’ll probably leave her at the altar out of pity.”
Zuko stops. Completely still. “…She said that?"
Toph nods immediately. “Yep.”
Sokka looks horrified. “That’s horrible! Why would she think that?!”
Toph doesn’t even blink. “Oh, it gets worse,” she says casually.
Aang: “Toph—”
“She also thinks the sleeves are too long,” Toph continues, counting on her fingers now. “Like, dangerously long. She’s convinced she’s going to get tangled, panic, accidentally set something on fire, and then the whole ceremony goes up in flames.”
Zuko freezes again. “…What?”
Sokka gasps louder. “FIRE? At a FIRE NATION WEDDING? That’s….actually, that’s kind of on theme but still—”
Aang just looks stressed hearing what Toph was telling about your wellbeing.
Toph keeps going, fully committed now. “Oh, and she said something about the jewelry being so heavy it’s pulling her whole posture down and she might just slowly collapse mid-vow.”
You are, in fact—
completely fine.
Sitting like royalty. Literally. Back straight, chin slightly lifted, hands resting elegantly in your lap while attendants move around you with careful, almost reverent precision.
If anyone saw you right now, they’d think you were born for this. (You were not. But fake it till you make it.) Katara stands beside you, watching everything with quiet admiration.
“…Okay,” she says softly, “you actually look like you belong on a throne.”
You glance at her. “Don’t tell me that, it’ll go to my head.”
“It already has.”
“That’s fair.”
An attendant gently lifts a final piece of jewelry—something delicate but unmistakably important—and settles it carefully against your collar. Another adjusts the layers at your shoulders.
Everything is precise. Measured. Perfect. You barely move. Honestly? You’re kind of vibing now. Maybe it’s the acceptance. Maybe it’s the fact that there’s nothing left to panic about. Maybe it’s just exhaustion. Either way, you’re calm.
Then—
“—achoo!”
The sneeze hits out of nowhere. Sharp. Sudden. Echoing slightly in the room. Everything stops. Every attendant freezes like time itself just paused. You blink. “…Oh.”
Katara looks at you. “Bless you?”
Before you can respond, one of the attendants steps forward immediately, bowing her head with absolute seriousness. “May the ancestral flames recognize this as a purification of breath, and may no illness dare approach you on this sacred day, my lady.”
Silence. You stare at her. Katara stares at her. Then Katara and you stare at eachother with raised eyebrows, impressed.
It happens almost instantly—the kind of silence that only exists when everyone is paying attention.
At the center, beneath banners of crimson and gold, stands Zuko. Attempting to appear still and composed. Every inch of him looks exactly like what the nation expects.
But he hasn’t stopped looking at the doors. Not once. Aang stands nearby, hands folded, calm in that quiet, grounded way of his—but even he glances at Zuko for a second. “…You’re nervous,” Aang murmurs under his breath.
Zuko doesn’t look at him. “…No,” he replies.
Aang smiles faintly. “You haven’t blinked in a while.”
Zuko ignores that. His focus doesn’t waver. Because he hasn’t seen you all day. Not once. Every time he tried someone stopped him. (He’s still mildly annoyed about that.)
And now there’s nothing between him and this moment except a pair of slowly opening doors. He exhales.
But there’s something under it.
Something that wasn’t there before all of this—anticipation.
The doors open wider. Light shifts across the stone. The crowd goes completely still.
And Zuko, for just a fraction of a second, forgets how to breathe.
Because there you are. At the top of the steps. Framed in gold and firelight, draped in layers that should overwhelm you—but don’t. Not even close.
You don’t look unsure. You don’t look overwhelmed. You don’t look like the person who thought she might not be ready. You look like you belong here.
Aang notices it immediately—the way Zuko’s posture shifts just slightly, the tension easing in a way no one else would catch. “…Oh,” Aang murmurs softly.
Zuko doesn’t respond. He can’t.
Because you start walking. And suddenly nothing else matters.
The distance between you closes slowly.
Step by step. Measured. Controlled. Perfect. And Zuko is gone. Not physically. He’s still standing exactly where he’s supposed to be, posture straight, shoulders set, every inch of him composed the way a Fire Lord should be in front of his entire nation.
But none of that is what he’s aware of anymore.
Because you’re walking toward him.
And for a moment his mind doesn’t quite catch up with what he’s seeing. It doesn’t register as real. You look like something out of history. Out of paintings. Out of the stories people tell about moments that only happen once in a lifetime and never quite feel real even when they are.
The gold, the white, the red, the movement of the fabric as it follows you—it all blends together into something almost unreal.
But it’s not the dress. It’s not the ceremony. It’s you. And that’s what gets him. Because he knows you.
He knows the way you laugh, the way you complain, the way you definitely said earlier that you were going to trip in this exact outfit.
And now you’re here walking like you were born for this. Like you’ve always belonged in this place beside him. And his chest tightens. Not painfully. Just… suddenly. Unexpectedly.
His breath catches for a second—and he doesn’t even notice that he hasn’t taken the next one yet.
There’s a faint shift in his expression.
Barely there. The smallest softening around his eyes. A flicker of something warmer, something quieter than anything he shows the world.
Aang notices it from the side. No one else does. Because Zuko doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. Doesn’t break composure.
But his gaze..his gaze doesn’t leave you for even a second. And somewhere in that stillness—something in him falters. Just a little. His eyes sting. It takes him a second to even understand why.
And when he does, it almost startles him. Because he doesn’t cry. Not here. Not like this. Not in front of a hundred watching eyes. But the feeling is there anyway—sudden, overwhelming, impossible to push down fast enough. Not sadness. Not even nerves. Just… too much.
Too much of the moment. Too much of you.
Too much of the fact that this is real. That you’re here. That you’re walking toward him. That you chose this. Chose him.
He blinks. Once. A little sharper than necessary. And the feeling pulls back just enough for him to breathe again. Controlled. Steady. Contained.
No one notices. No one except maybe Aang— and even he looks away like he didn’t see anything.
Zuko straightens just slightly, grounding himself again, pulling that familiar control back into place. But something’s changed. It’s still there. That softness.
That quiet, overwhelming something he can’t quite name. And when you get closer, close enough that he can actually see you, not just look at you. It hits again. Softer this time. But deeper.
His voice, when he finally speaks, is low. Careful.
Like if he doesn’t hold it steady, it might give him away. “…You look—” He stops. Because nothing he says feels like enough. Not for this. Not for you. So instead, he exhales quietly, the smallest hint of a smile pulling at his expression. “…You’re here,” he finishes instead. And somehow that says everything he meant to say.
The distance between you disappears completely.
You’re standing in front of him now.
Close enough to see the way his composure is holding—barely. Close enough to notice the softness still lingering in his expression, even as he straightens again, even as the weight of the moment settles back into place around both of you.
For a second, it’s just quiet. Not the crowd.
Not the ceremony. Just… you and him.
Then—
voice breaks through.
A calm, steady and practiced one. A Fire Sage steps forward, robes shifting softly with the movement, presence grounding the entire space in something older than both of you.
“Fire Lord Zuko,” he begins, voice carrying clearly across the courtyard, “you stand before the people of the Fire Nation, before your ancestors, and before the one you have chosen.”
The words settle into the air. Heavy and intentional. Zuko doesn’t look away from you.
Not once.
“Do you take Y/N,” the Sage continues, “to stand beside you as your partner, your equal, and your Fire Lady—”
A slight pause.
“—to share in both the burden and the honor of the nation, and to walk with you in all things, as long as you both shall live?”
Silence. Not empty but waiting.
Zuko doesn’t hesitate. “I do.”
And somehow, that feels bigger than anything else he could have said.
The Sage inclines his head slightly, then turns to you.
“Y/N.” Your name sounds different like this.
“Do you take Fire Lord Zuko,” he continues, “to stand beside you as your partner, your equal, and your husband—”
Another pause.
“—to share in both the burden and the honor of the nation, and to walk with him in all things, as long as you both shall live?”
Your breath steadies. Your thoughts don’t spiral this time. You don’t overthink.
Because standing here, looking at him, everything feels… clear. “I do.” Your voice doesn’t shake. Not even a little. The Sage nods once.
Then steps back.
And for a fraction of a second, nothing happens.
Like the world itself is holding its breath.
Then—
“You may step forward.”
You already are. Just slightly. Close enough that there’s barely space between you now.
Zuko’s hand finds yours—not part of the ceremony, not instructed, just instinct—and his grip is warm, steady, grounding. His other hand lifts slowly and carefully. Like he’s still half-aware of the world watching—and half completely gone from it. His fingers brush lightly along your cheek.
And for a moment, everything fades again.
No crowd. No expectations. No titles. Just this. Just him. He leans in. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Certain. And when his lips meet yours, it’s soft. At first.
Like he’s still grounding himself in the reality of it. Like he’s making sure you’re really there.
Then it deepens, just slightly, warm and steady and full of everything he didn’t say out loud.
The world comes rushing back in all at once.
The sound of the crowd rising. Applause, cheers, something louder than either of you expected—but distant, like it’s happening somewhere far away.
Because you’re still there. Still close.
Still holding onto him like none of that matters as much as this does. And when he pulls back just enough to look at you again, there’s that softness. That same quiet, overwhelmed look he had when he first saw you.
The silence after the kiss doesn’t last long.
It never could. Because this isn’t just a private moment between two people—it is a declaration, witnessed by an entire nation held in breathless attention.
Zuko lingers only for a second longer, forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s reluctant to fully step back into the world again.
Then he does. Slowly and reluctantly. But he does. His hand remains in yours.
The Fire Sage steps forward again, voice steady as he turns toward the crowd. “Behold,” he announces, and his words carry like flame across stone, “the union of Fire Lord Zuko and Y/N, Fire Lady of the Fire Nation.”
A pause.
Then—
“May their rule bring balance. May their bond bring strength. May the Fire Nation stand renewed in their joined flame.”
The courtyard responds immediately.
A synchronized movement ripples through the gathered crowd as nobles, officials, and attendants begin to lower themselves.
One by one. Then all at once. A wave of bows. Heads lowered. Bodies bent in respect. Acknowledgment.
Not just of a marriage—but of a future.
Zuko turns slightly with you still beside him.
And together you both bow. Not deep enough to diminish either of you.
Not performative. But equal. Side by side.
Firelord and Firelady.
When you rise again, the sound returns fully—cheers now, filling the courtyard with something closer to celebration than silence.
But Zuko doesn’t look at them. Not for long.
His gaze finds you immediately again, like it never left. And for a moment, everything else fades back into distance.
Aang is somewhere off to the side, smiling softly like he’s relieved the universe didn’t collapse.
Sokka looks like he’s arguing with reality itself about whether that went “correctly enough.”
Katara is watching you with a small, proud smile.
Toph looks mildly offended that she can’t “see” the ceremony but still declares, “Yeah, that felt dramatic enough.”
But Zuko. Zuko only sees you. He leans slightly closer, voice low so only you can hear. “…You didn’t fall.”
You let out a quiet breath, almost laughing. “I was very close,” you admit.
His thumb brushes your hand once, subtle, grounding. “I would’ve caught you,” he says.
You glance at him. “…That’s reassuringly confident for someone who also almost cried earlier.”
His expression flickers—just slightly. “…I did not almost cry.”
You raise an eyebrow. A pause.
Then, quieter: “…I blinked.”
You smile. “Sure you did.” And for the first time all day, he actually lets himself smile back.
Not for the nation. Not for the ceremony.
Zuko doesn’t let go of your hand. Not even when the formal part of the ceremony finally loosens its grip on the courtyard. Instead, he simply shifts—slightly closer to you, closer in a way that feels less like protocol and more like instinct—and offers his arm. You take it with no hesitation, because of course you do. And just like that, you’re linked.
The weight of your dress makes the movement feel almost ridiculous at first, layers of fabric shifting and trailing behind you like a slow-moving flame. It should be hard to walk in. It should be overwhelming.
But Zuko adjusts without thinking, slowing his pace just enough to match yours.
Like he’s done it a thousand times already.
The doors open again. Not the ceremonial ones this time. The larger ones. The ones that lead out toward the terraces overlooking the capital.
And the sound changes immediately.
The controlled silence of nobles and officials is gone. Replaced by something louder.
Living.
The Fire Nation capital stretches out beneath you—rooftops, streets, gathering crowds already forming in anticipation. People are looking up before they even see you, sensing something is happening.
Then you step into view. And everything erupts. Cheering floods the air. Not formal applause.
Not polite acknowledgment. Real sound.
Real people.
You pause for just a moment at the top of the steps, taking it in—thousands of citizens gathered below, faces turned upward, banners hanging between buildings, sunlight reflecting off fire-lit architecture.
Zuko doesn’t stop beside you. He just stays with you. Then, together, you begin to walk down.
Step by step. Arm in arm.
The dress moves like molten gold and flame with every motion, heavy but flowing, commanding attention whether you want it or not.
Zuko leans slightly closer as you walk. “…You’re doing fine,” he murmurs.
You glance at him. “I feel like I’m being slowly swallowed by fabric.”
“That’s normal,” he replies.
“That is not reassuring.”
“It’s accurate.”
You huff a quiet laugh despite yourself.
Above you, small bursts of firelight begin to rise.
Like floating lanterns made of flame itself—soft glowing fireballs lifting into the sky one after another, drifting upward above the city like stars being returned to the air. The crowd reacts immediately, louder now, cheers echoing off stone and rooftops.
You tilt your head slightly. “Did they plan that?”
Zuko watches the firelights for a second. “…Yes,” he says. A pause.
“…Probably uncle.”
That earns a soft laugh from you. Of course it’s Iroh‘s idea (and a good one).
As you walk further along the terrace path, the people below shift, waving, calling out, celebrating. Zuko raises his free hand slightly in acknowledgment—not grand, not distant. Just enough.
And you follow his lead. A little slower. A little uncertain. But you do it, because they’re looking at you too now. Zuko leans closer again, just enough that his voice disappears into the noise of the crowd. “I didn’t think I’d ever have something like this,” he says quietly.
You glance at him. The firelight reflects in his eyes. “…Me neither,” you admit.
A beat. Then softer—
“I’m glad it’s you.” That makes him pause.
Just slightly. Like it lands deeper than expected. He doesn’t look away from the crowd when he answers. “…Good,” he says quietly. “Because I’m not letting go of you now.”
You smile a little, squeezing his arm gently. “Good,” you echo. “Because I don’t think I’d let you.”
For a moment, just a moment, the noise fades again. And as the firelights rise higher into the sky above the cheering city, Zuko leans just slightly closer to you. Just for you.
“…I love you,” he says quietly but certainly.
Like it was always meant to be said here.
You don’t hesitate. “I love you too.”, you whisper back, smiling.
It‘s finally done. And very long. Oops. Hope y‘all liked it. As always hit the request box and thank you all for the appreciation for my fics.💗
the firelight in the throne room was low, casting long, flickering shadows against the tapestries that hung from the walls. zuko was sitting at his desk, his shoulders hunched over a stack of scrolls that never seemed to get any smaller. you watched him from the doorway for a moment, noticing the way his brow was furrowed in that familiar, stressed expression he always wore when he thought he was alone. he looked every bit the fire lord—regal, tired, and carrying the weight of the world—but to you, he was just zuko.
you walked over quietly, your footsteps muffled by the thick rugs, and stood behind his chair. you placed your hands on his shoulders, feeling the tension there like coiled springs. he let out a long, weary sigh and leaned his head back against you, closing his eyes.
"you should be asleep," he murmured, his voice raspy from a day of endless meetings.
"so should you," you replied softly, your fingers kneading the knots in his muscles. "the earth kingdom trade agreements will still be there in the morning, zuko. come to bed."
he turned in his seat to look at you, and the golden light hit the left side of his face. your eyes drifted, as they often did, to the heavy, red scar tissue that bloomed across his eye and temple. it was a part of him, as much as his golden eyes or his stubborn heart. instinctively, you reached out, your thumb grazing the edge of the damaged skin.
zuko flinched. it wasn't a violent movement, but a quick, self-conscious jerk away from your hand. he looked down at the desk, his hand rising to cover the scar as if to hide it from you.
"don't," he whispered, his voice tinged with a sudden, sharp vulnerability. "it’s... it is not something you should want to touch. i know how it looks."
you didn't pull away. instead, you stepped closer, gently taking his wrist and pulling his hand down so you could see him clearly. "i know exactly how it looks, zuko. i’m looking at it right now. why do you still hide from me?"
"because it’s a mark of shame," he said, and you could hear the old bitterness creeping back into his tone, the ghost of the boy he used to be. "it's a reminder of everything i lost and the cruelty that made me. it isn't something beautiful. it’s a deformity."
you felt a pang of sadness in your chest, hearing him speak about himself that way after all these years. you leaned in, cupping his face with both hands, forcing him to meet your gaze. your fingers traced the uneven texture of the scar with a feather-light touch, lingering on the ridges of skin.
"you are so wrong," you told him firmly. "to me, this isn't a mark of shame. it’s a mark of your strength. it shows everything you survived and the man you chose to become despite it. you’re beautiful, zuko. inside and out."
he let out a dry, disbelieving laugh, though his eyes were softening. "you're just saying that because you love me. no one looks at a burn like this and thinks it's beautiful. i see the way people look at me in the streets when they think i'm not watching. they see a monster, or a victim."
"well, i'm not 'people,'" you countered, moving your hand to brush a stray lock of dark hair behind his ear. "i’m the person who knows you best. and i think you’re the handsomest man in the four nations. scar and all. especially with the scar, because it’s part of your face, and i love your face."
you leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his right cheek, the unscarred side. he let out a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering shut. then, you shifted, pressing a second kiss directly onto the center of his scarred temple. he stiffened for a second, his breath hitching in his throat, but he didn't pull away this time.
"stop," he breathed, though his hands had found your waist, pulling you closer. "you don't have to do this."
"i want to," you whispered against his skin. you kissed the bridge of his nose, then moved back to the scar, kissing the corner of his eye where the skin was tightest. "i love you. i love every single inch of you. i love your stubbornness, i love your dorky jokes, and i love this scar because it belongs to the man who holds my heart."
zuko finally broke. the wall of royal composure he kept up during the day crumbled, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his arms tightening around you until there was no space left between you. you could feel the heat radiating off him, the steady thrum of his inner fire calming down.
"i don't understand how you can look at me like that," he admitted, his voice muffled against your shoulder. "after everything... i still feel like that boy waiting for his father's approval sometimes. and then you look at me, and it's like i'm actually someone worth loving."
you ran your fingers through his hair, holding him tight. "you’ve always been worth loving. you were just the last one to find out. do you believe me yet? or do i have to keep kissing you until you get the point?"
he pulled back just enough to look at you, a small, genuine smile finally tugging at the corners of his mouth. his eyes were bright, shimmering with a mix of relief and affection.
"maybe a few more kisses wouldn't hurt," he said softly, his voice finally losing that heavy edge of doubt.
you smiled back, leaning in to press your lips to his. "good. because i have all night."
The Gaang was having a rare and much needed meetup; dinner in the Fire Nation on the Fire Lord's tab. There was good drink and good conversation in spades, everyone glad for the break and the company.
Toph got on the topic of her students, moaning about one in particular. "I mean, it makes no sense! She's one of the best metalbenders I've ever trained. Maybe even THE best, after me of course. Not only has she forced me to use my hands in a spar, she's actually made me sweat! A generational talent, and what does she want to do? Hole up in a workshop all day making jewelry."
Zuko perked up, eyes drawn to the shiny new golden bands wrapped snugly against Toph's biceps. "Did she make the cuffs you're wearing?" Aang asked, beating him to the punch.
Despite her apparent irritation with her protégé's choice of career, Toph immediately jumped on the opportunity to brag about your skill. "Yeah, aren't they amazing? Naturally, any student of mine worth a damn would be the best at anything they chose to do." She slid off one band, using her own bending to slowly rotate it above her palm for the group to marvel at. Zuko leaned in for a better look and was instantly speechless.
The detail was insane. What he had thought were simply decorative engravings from afar were actually intricate, lifelike carvings. The band was decorated with a chain of badgermoles, each chasing the one in front of it in an endless loop, so realistic they seemed to breathe as light and shadow played across the gold surface.
Sokka gave a low whistle. "Damn, she's good." Zuko almost felt irritated at the word choice. "Good" didn't even begin to describe it. He doubted that any of the pieces in his vast royal wardrobe, painstakingly crafted by the finest of Fire Nation artisans, could even hold a candle to the work of art in front of them.
"Does she take commissions?" He tried to come off casual but, if the wicked grin that grew on Toph's face was any indication, failed miserably.
"I don't know, princess, I'll have to ask her. She runs a little smithy in the Earth Kingdom with her folks and trains with me in her free time, but maybe she'll spare a request from the Fire Lord the time of day."
The group laughed good-naturedly at Toph's ribbing as Zuko tried to mask his reddening cheeks with his drink. Mercifully the topic changed quickly, Katara and Sokka getting into a heated debate on if the grilled cranefish on the table tasted more like arctic hen or salmon jerky, but Zuko found his mind still wandering back to you. By the time the night wound down and everyone prepared to go their separate ways for the evening (none of them ever took him up on his offer to host them in the palace, which, he figured, was understandable), Zuko had unconsciously began to daydream. Toph had generously told him your shop's address as she was leaving, and he turned it around constantly in his mind on the walk back to the imperial grounds. By the time he sat down to pen the message, his head was full of nothing but you.
What did you look like? Were you tall, short, average? Did you have Toph's muscled build or were you softer? Details like the sound of your voice, the shape of your hands, the color of your hair, all of them tumbled and tangled in Zuko's mind until they formed a faceless outline, vague and evershifting but with an alluring dreamlike quality.
The sound of a rogue drop of ink hitting the paper jerked Zuko from his reverie, and he groaned as he crumpled the ruined sheet and tossed it aside. How pathetic. Bewitched by...what, a fancy bangle? He was no better than a bird, getting distracted by shiny things. But as he thought back on your work, on the way the animals had genuinely seemed animated when Toph rotated the band, he picked up a fresh sheet of paper and began to write.
He received your response a week and a half after his letter went out. The container was cheap and the delivery bird was plain, and his attendants might have thrown it out had Zuko not told them to keep an eye out for missives from the Earth Kingdom. He sat alone in the council room, turning the wooden tube in his hands. Over the last week he'd more or less been able to get himself under control, but having your letter physically in front of him filled him with a sense of childish giddiness. A manicured nail broke the seal, and he fished out the leaf of paper inside.
Your handwriting was neat and blocky, and the faint scent of sword oil wafted to his nose. The letter began with an earnest apology for the lateness of your reply, citing that you'd initially thought his message to be a prank from someone until Toph had asked about it. You gushed about the honor of his attention, which made his stomach to a funny flip. You lamented that you wouldn't be able to come to the Fire Nation to fulfill his request, but if he sent a description of what he was looking for as well as the necessary measurements, you'd be overjoyed to make him something, free of charge.
The way you wrote was genuine and earnest, the rise and fall of your emotions laid bare on the page in a way Zuko found incredibly endearing. At the end, you mentioned the sample included with your letter and how you hoped it was to his liking; he could almost picture the bashful wobble of your smile. He immediately dropped the paper on the table and picked up your message container, noting the weight and faint clinking of the piece inside. Upending the little tube, he was greeted by the most gorgeous kanzashi pin he'd ever seen. A snake with glittering ruby eyes and scales rendered so well he could count each one wrapped around half the silver needle, the other half flat and pointed like a sword's blade. He was tempted to slide it into his hair that very second but refrained, instead slipping it and your letter back into the wooden envelope and setting it aside.
His mind was whirling with ideas for what to ask of you, each more elaborate than the last, but he finally settled on a relatively simple one. He wrote the request hastily (before his nerve could desert him), marked it with the imperial seal, and sent it off with enough money to pay for the commission and the sample pin twice over.
Two weeks later, the package from you arrived. This time Zuko opened it in his bedchambers, a reward after a long day of being Fire Lord. He marveled at the ring sat in the palm of his hand, above and beyond his specifications, but what really drew his attention was the second half of his order: a photograph of you.
It was grainy the way most photographs available to the working class were, but your beauty shone through regardless. You were both everything and nothing like he'd imagined. He stared at the image, burning the shapes and colors that made you up into his memory, and Zuko knew in that moment he was truly and utterly screwed.
thinking about firelord zuko who very quickly discards tradition as soon as you’re married.
he never walks ahead of you, always a few paces behind like he has a better view or he’s appreciating a sight only to be seen once in a life time. your fingers stay interlaced beneath heavy cloaks that bare the emblem of his home nation, but nowadays yours is stitched into the fabric with threads imported from your own. right above his. right above his heart.
zuko who’s shadow takes shape in the darkness, allowing your light to filter through a room full of opinionated others. he knows the extent of your capability extends beyond the wildest dreams, far greater than those who stand around you waiting for the crack in your visage. you’re strong, even if you stand a few heads shorter than him, your voice is loud and oftentimes the most correct in a room full of static and noise. he’d never let you feel less than, he never speaks for you, lips only parting to clear the buzz in the air and to allow attention to fall to you.
fire lord zuko who insists on being your right hand at every table — leaving you to take a seat at his head. he can’t stand the thought of eating meals at opposite ends — where the distance makes him feel lost, too far from home. he eats to your right where he can listen to the mundane up close, watch the way your lips curl around bites of food or a the words that make up tale from your tribe. he listens like the world has stopped for the two of you, like a nation in need of rule can wait another day for its lord and his princess.
in a similar fashion, he tends to you like a devout follower. even if there are handmaids and tailors and people to help. every door you’ve ever walked through is held open by him. for you. he lifts the straying edge of your train with a certain reverence, treating extra fabric like it’s an extension of you. zuko twirls the braids into your hair in the fashion that you like, undoes the lacing strings of your attire with fumbling fingers that only know the roughness of flames after a late night — because even though his mess of your garments is embarrassing, it makes you laugh in a way that warms him like honey notes in milk before bed.
zuko preps the water that laps at the tension in your shoulders and eases it away with hands that move like molten lava. rose petals bob along the surface, perform twizzles in the ripples of water that ebb around the lines of your body. worn down by work, diplomatic duties but tended to by unspoken love and adoration. zuko sinks into the tub behind you, bare and warm — his chin on your shoulder and face in your neck because that’s the only place he’s found safe enough to call home.
when you’re married to zuko, life is not instantly easier and the traditions of others still find their way into your relationship as performative duty… but he carries part of the load. he makes it simpler for you, because loving you, is simple too.
— a/n: i was writing something for shouto yesterday then this idea hit me and i had to try something. i want to gnaw on his biceps.
it's 3 a.m. Your eyes blink open to find the bed empty—your lover's side still pristinely made and unbearably cold. That just wouldn't do.
It doesn't take you long to figure out where he could possibly be at this hour, and despite your sleep-sluggish movements, you're off the massive four-poster bed and into your slippers in no time, grabbing your satin robe to slip on over your nightgown.
As you slip into the winding hall, the first guard you spot is quick to flick his eyes toward Zuko's whereabouts. His name is Luke, and he's been devoted to you both ever since Zuko decided to invite him to dinner instead of punishing him for stealing from the kitchen. Your chin dips in gratitude before you beckon him to your side, where he falls into step without hesitation.
“How long?” You keep your eyes trained ahead, tamping down a yawn as you're led to the throne room.
“He hasn't moved since the coastal meeting, m’lady,” Luke divulges. His voice is devoid of emotion, but his hazel eyes swim with worry for his lord-turned-close friend.
“I knew it was bothering him more than he let on.” You tut as you approach the double doors leading to the throne room.
“Zuko,” you call as you step further in, and his spine straightens, his haggard features smoothing into something blank and unbothered.
“Dearest.” He responds almost immediately, his gaze tracking you from the door until you're standing in front of him, his greedy hands pulling you to straddle him once you're in reach.
“You're still awake.”
“Yes, I noticed.” He blinks once before his ever-warm hands find their favorite spot on your hips.
You bump your forehead against his. “You think you're so funny.” Gripping his chin, you make him look up at you. “Sleep on it, Zuko. You've been at it for hours.”
He sighs, head falling to your chest. “Father made it look so easy. He made it seem like the entirety of the Fire Nation was aligned, but after today, I see it's much different.” He nuzzles your cleavage, pulling you even closer as your hands find his hair.
“How so?” You pet at the nape of his neck, fingers looping through thick brunette strands and tugging occasionally—a move that makes your husband sink even further into the chair.
“It seems as if they respected him more, and I'm just a joke.” He huffs, a dejected sound that unsettles you.
“You are anything but.” You kiss his cheek, then his other, and his body sags, face tilting to make sure he catches each pucker of your lips fluttering along his skin.
“You're supposed to say that—we're married,” Zuko grumbles, bottom lip jutting into a pout you can't resist nipping at.
You scooch even closer and he welcomes it, exhaling a ragged breath as he tucks his face into the crook of your neck. “Point taken,” you quip, and he leaves his hiding place at the junction of your neck to level you with a withering look.
“Don't give me that look.” You laugh, a quiet sound befitting the late hour, and the rigid lines of tension in those powerful shoulders smooth out a tad. “It's stupid and, quite frankly, childish in my opinion—but I'd wager they're acting like this to see if you can manage the weight.”
“Even after all this time?” Zuko's look is incredulous. “Seems long-winded, and if I say anything, I fear it would make matters worse.”
You shrug. “Hey, I’m just speculating, dearest. My next guess is testosterone.”
Zuko chuckles—a tired little thing that makes your face pinch in sympathy.
“Do you feel disrespected? If so, off with their heads or something.”
“Legally, I can't do that.”
“And here I thought being Fire Lord came with some perks.” You kiss his nose before standing and pulling him up as well. His hand squeezes yours three times before you let it drift to slot into the crook of his left elbow. “Now then—bedtime. You do have an early morning.”
Zuko sighs, leading you from the throne and out the chamber doors. His head bumps yours in gratitude. “Thanks for coming to get me, though I'm not sure how you figured out where I was.” He gives Luke a stern look, but the mischief is easy to see in his tired amber eyes.
The guard keeps his head forward, face impassive except for the tiny smirk at the corner of his mouth. As per Zuko's rule, the Royal Procession on night watch need not wear a mask inside the palace. “I took measures I saw fit, m’lord.”
“Telling my wife?” Zuko scoffs primly as Luke falls into step behind you both.
“You leave him alone.” You snicker before sliding your hand down to hold Zuko’s, then stepping ahead to lead him the rest of the way to your bedroom.
Bidding Luke goodnight, the double doors close behind you, and that's when Zuko falls onto the bed like a marionette with its strings cut. His sigh is deep and weighted as he lifts his arms toward you in a wordless gesture.
Slipping your shoes off, you immediately press into his side, sliding a leg across his body where he drops a warm hand on your thigh. “I know we said no outside dress on the bed. I'll get up soon,” he murmurs into your hair, and you just kiss his shoulder.
zuko with you on top, his mouth latched onto your nipple, sucking greedily while his breath comes out scorching hot against your skin. the room is freezing, but he’s burning—almost breathing fire as he whimpers and moans into your chest, tongue curling lazily over your sensitive peaks.
his face is flushed and warm, buried between your breasts, heated palms sliding up your back to press you even closer to his open mouth. every exhale feels like steam, almost too hot, almost enough to burn… and it feels so fucking good.
he moans low and desperate against you, voice muffled as he murmurs, “you’re so beautiful…”
you gasp, hips twitching, “zuko—please—”
and he just pulls you tighter, breath stuttering as he whispers hotly against your wet skin, “i got you, my darling… i got you.”
content warningsﾉtags: NSFWﾉ18+ (MDNI), explicit smut, fem!reader, firelord!zuko, angry sex, hair pulling, size difference, biting, overstimulation, p in v, arguing, derogatory pet names, risk of discovery, not proofread, lowercase intended
author's note: based on this request!! they have me in atla jail. send help. (i don't wanna be saved unless it's zuko doing the saving.)
"you are impossible, zuko. genuinely, utterly impossible. did you think i was just going to sit there like a gilded doll while pakku insulted our lineage? i was helping you!"
your voice is a burst of fire, amplifying the heavy air of the imperial bedchamber. the room smells of burnt agarwood, expensive charcoal, and the metallic tang of unshed rage. you're pinned against the cold stone of the wall, the tapestries rustling behind your head as he drives into you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. his skin is fever-hot, a living furnace pressing against your cooler flesh, and the contrast is a shock that travels straight to your marrow.
he doesn't answer with words at first, only a guttural sound in his throat that isn't quite a snarl and isn't quite a plea. his face is a mask of tension, that familiar scar—rough and textured like dried parchment—twisting as he grits his teeth. his eyes are amber fire, narrowed and tracking the way your lips curl in defiance. he’s beautiful even when he’s being a stubborn, spoiled brat, his long dark hair falling out of its topknot in messy, silken strands that brush against your collarbone.
you wrap your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him in even as you glare. your heels dig into the small of his back, feeling the ripple of lean muscle beneath his silk robes. "don't you dare shut me out now. look at me. you know i was right about the trade routes. you know it, and you're just too proud to admit your wife has a better head for diplomacy than your entire council of ancient, dusty men."
"it's about... protocol," he pants, the word breaking in the middle as you shift your hips, catching him just right. he mouths the words against the curve of your jaw, his breath smelling of cinnamon and smoke. "you can't just... ungh... you can't just speak over the firelord in front of a foreign delegation. it makes us look fractured. it makes me look weak."
you let out a harsh, mocking laugh, the sound echoing off the high ceilings where the shadows of flickering candles dance like spirits. reach up, you fist your hands into his hair, tugging downward with a sharp, uncompromising jerk. his head snaps back, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat, and a broken, high-pitched moan spills from his lips—a sound so fragile it almost makes you want to soften. but you don't. you squeeze him, your walls clenching around his thick, veiny length, feeling the way he pulses inside you, a frantic heartbeat in a place that shouldn't have one.
"weak? you think i make you look weak?" you tease, your voice dropping to a low murmur.. "you’re the one currently trembling because i pulled your hair, zuko. you’re the one who can’t even finish a sentence because you’re so desperate to stay inside me. is this what a powerful firelord looks like? panting like a stray in the dirt because his wife talked back to him?"
he nips at your neck, a sharp, stinging bite that will definitely leave a mark—a dark purple bruise for the maids to whisper about tomorrow. his teeth are blunt and hot, scraping over your skin until you shiver. "shut up," he hisses, his voice cracking. "just... shut your mouth."
"make me," you challenge, and the air between you literally ignites.
zuko inhales sharply, and you see the orange glow behind his teeth, the heat radiating off him in a sudden, violent wave that makes the sweat on your skin evaporate instantly. he doesn't let go of you; instead, he shifts his grip, his large hands hooking under your thighs to hold you steady as he lunges away from the wall,, carrying your weight with a desperate, clumsy grace. he stumbles into a low table, sending a ceramic basin of water crashing to the floor—the scent of wet stone and copper rising up to join the scent of smokel—before he slams you down onto the sprawling silk mattress of his bed.
the impact jars you, but he’s already hovering over you, his knees pinning your arms down, his chest heaving. this position allows him to sink deeper, bottoming out against your cervix with a blunt force that draws a loud, unbidden moan from your throat. you try to keep scolding him, try to find the words to tell him he’s a fool, but the way he’s filling you makes your brain feel like it’s melting into honey.
"you... you're still... a stubborn... idiot," you choke out, even as your back arches off the sheets.
he leans down, his hand sliding from your shoulder to your neck, his thumb pressing against your windpipe just enough to make you gasp. his other hand finds your tit, squeezing the soft tissue with a proprietary heat that feels like it’s branding you. he kisses you then—not a sweet kiss, but a frantic, unforgiving hunger, tasting of fury. his cock is thick, the head of it rubbing against your sensitive walls with every frantic, shallow thrust, the texture smooth but the pressure immense.
outside the heavy oak doors, the muffled sound of the palace at night continues—the distant clank of a guard’s spear, the soft chirping of turtleducks in the gardens—but inside the circle of his arms, the world is reduced to the friction of your intoxicating skin.
"my lord?" a voice calls out from the hallway, shrill and intrusive. it’s high sage ukano, his tone brimming with that self-importance zuko usually hates.
"my lord, i apologize for the late hour, but we have received an urgent scroll from the earth kingdom regarding the borders. we must discuss the response before the morning bells."
zuko freezes, his body still buried deep inside yours, his heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. he breaks the kiss, looking down at you with wide, dark eyes. you start to open your mouth, a smirk forming—ready to call out, ready to ruin his dignity—but his hand is there in an instant, slapping over your lips. his palm is dry and smells of old scrolls and fire, muffling your indignant yelp.
he doesn't pull out. instead, he stays perfectly still, his cock twitching inside you, the sensation so intense it makes your toes curl into the silk. he looks toward the door, his expression shifting from frantic lover to arrogant monarch in a heartbeat, though the flush on his cheeks betrays him.
"not now, ukano," zuko calls out, his voice surprisingly steady, though there’s a smug, sharp edge to it that makes your blood simmer. he looks back down at you, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face as he begins to move again, slow and agonizingly deep, watching your eyes blow out as you struggle against his hand.
"the firelord is currently... occupied with matters of state. leave the scroll with the guard. i will deal with you in the morning."
he doesn't look away from you as the advisor’s footsteps fade. he just keeps moving, his eyes burning with a gold that’s finally, finally steady.
"don't you have something else to say?" he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "i'm listening."
whoever that 1st zuko anon was... look what you started.
“You’re late,” you told him, slapping a dough ball onto the floured board. “I was starting to think you’d actually learned to sleep like a normal person.”
Zuko’s footsteps were almost silent, but you had spent seven years learning to read the spaces between sounds. He stopped at your prep station, just inside your peripheral vision, and you could feel the weight of his gaze on the back of your neck.
“I had a thing,” he said.
“A thing.”
“A diplomatic thing. With Ambassador Kuei. It went long.”
You snorted. “Let me guess. He wanted to renegotiate the trade agreement for the seventeenth time, and you wanted to set his mustache on fire.”
A pause. Then, very quietly: “…his mustache is very flammable-looking.”
You finally looked up. Zuko smiled at you. That should’ve told you he was up to no good.
Because he was holding a radish.
Not just a radish. Your radish. The one you’d been saving for the garnish on tomorrow’s soup, because these particular radishes came from a specific farm in the northwestern province, and they had exactly three of them left, and they tasted good without being boiled and—
“Put it down,” you said icily.
Zuko took a bite. Loudly. Crunchily. Maintaining eye contact the entire time. What an idiot.
“You glutton,” you hissed, grabbing for it. He danced back a step—lithe and quick, because of course he was; years of being banished and he still moved like a flame—and took another bite, chewing with deliberate slowness.
“It’s good,” he said, around a mouthful of radish. “Crisp. Tell the royal kitchen to buy more of these.”
“It was for the soup.”
“What soup?”
“Oh, you know. The soup I’m making tomorrow for the council luncheon, which you insisted had to be ‘impressive’ and ‘diplomatically neutral’ and ‘not the same thing we served last time,’ and now I have to figure out what to do with two radishes instead of three, so I hope you’re happy.”
Zuko thought about what you’ve said. Then he held out the remaining half of the radish. “Do you want it back?”
“Of course not,” you replied, scoffing. “That’s disgusting. I want you to leave.”
“You don’t mean that.”
He said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that you felt stunned by the sheer audacity that he was absolutely right. You turned back to your dough, attacking the next ball with more force than strictly necessary. “I absolutely mean it. Go away. Be the Firelord somewhere else. I have work to do.”
You heard him move closer. He stopped right behind you, close enough that you could smell the faint smoke-and-ember scent that always clung to him, like a hearthfire banked for the night.
“You’re doing the rolls wrong,” he murmured.
You had to suck in a deep breath to keep yourself from rolling your eyes to the back of your head.
“I am not.”
“You are. You’re making them too small. The one on the end is going to burn.”
You looked down at your perfectly shaped, uniformly sized rolls. They were fine. They were perfect. You had been making these exact rolls for seven years, and he had never once—not once—thanked you for making them, and now he wanted to criticize?
You picked up no more than a palm of flour and threw it at him.
Zuko could’ve dodged. He knew what was coming. He’d dodged worse things than flying flour—fire, knives, and the occasional well-aimed shoe from his friends. But he didn’t dodge. He stood there and let the flour hit him square in the chest, a puff of white dust blooming across the dark silk of his formal robe.
He looked down at himself. Then back at you.
“That,” he started, “was a three-hundred-year-old ceremonial robe. And perfectly good flour went to waste.”
“Good,” you huffed. “Maybe it’ll teach you not to critique my baking.”
He brushed at the flour, succeeding only in smearing it around.
“You’re so childish.”
“Childish? I’m not the one who sneaks into the kitchen at midnight to steal vegetables and complain about portion sizes.”
“I wasn’t complaining. I was merely stating my opinion.”
“Opinion that I did not ask for, Firelord.”
Zuko frowned at the title. You knew just how to get him to sulk and pout.
“I was being helpful.”
You made a sound of pure, undiluted exasperation. “You don’t know the first thing about cooking besides the basics, Zuko.”
“I also know how to make tea.”
“That doesn’t count.”
Zuko’s mouth pressed into a thin line—the one that meant he was trying not to smile and failing miserably. He looked ridiculous, standing there in his flour-dusted ceremonial robes with a half-eaten radish in one hand, hair loose that pooled behind his back, his cheeks flushed with something that might have been embarrassment or might have been the warmth of the kitchen.
You ignored the incessant feeling that clawed at your chest. Maybe it was the exhaustion getting to you.
“Sit down,” you sighed. “If you’re going to be in my way, at least be in my way sitting down.”
Zuko sat. He always sat, eventually. That was the thing about these midnight visits—he, for all the power he had as Firelord, was utterly compliant when it came to you.
You finished shaping the rolls in silence, your hands moving automatically, your mind somewhere else entirely. You could feel him watching you with something that you knew all too well. Something that had been there for so long you’d stopped questioning it.
“You look tired,” he said, finally.
“I look like I’ve been cooking for fourteen hours,” you replied. “Which I have.”
“You should sleep more.”
“I could, but the prep wouldn’t finish all of this, now would it?”
“I hired a lot of people in the royal kitchen for you not to do all of this.”
“Well, I like doing all of this my way,” you hummed. “It helps when I’m alone. Have you eaten?”
He didn’t answer. That was answer enough.
You sighed, reaching for a covered dish by the pantry. You set the dish in front of him with a spoon.
“It’s still warm.”
Zuko looked at the noodles. “You saved these for me?”
“I saved them for the compost,” you noted flatly. “You just happened to be here.”
He ate them. All of them.
“(Name),” he said once he finished.
“Don’t,” you said, because you knew that tone. You’d heard it a hundred times, in a hundred different ways, and you weren’t ready for whatever was coming next.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say something that’s going to make this weird.”
Zuko huffed. “I’m not going to make it weird.”
“You’re always going to make it weird. You have a gift.”
He frowned—not his angry frown, but the one that crinkled the unscarred side of his face and made him look softer. “I was just going to say thank you.”
“For the noodles?”
Oh. That was new.
“For… everything. For being here. For putting up with me.” He gestured vaguely at the kitchen, at the flour on his robes, at the half-eaten radish now on a clean tray.
“For all of this.”
You felt your throat tighten. You turned back to the dough, even though the rolls were already finished and covered and ready to just set. “You don’t have to thank me. It’s my job.”
“It’s not your job to throw flour at me.”
“That part’s a bonus,” you told him smugly. “Perks of being employed by the Firelord, I guess.”
There was something in the air; you were sure of it. It could be the dust motes or the warmth of the fire burning until it reaches its last embers.
Something that you were scared to address because you didn’t want to ruin what you already had.
“You’ve got flour on your face,” Zuko said.
“So do you.”
“No, I mean—” He stood up, crossed the few steps between you, and before you could react, his hand was cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing gently across your cheekbone, wiping away the streak of flour you’d forgotten about.
His hand was warm. They were always warm, firebenders—Zuko especially, like a banked coal that never quite went out. But this warmth was different. This warmth was certain. His thumb lingered for a moment longer than necessary, and his eyes—those impossible, burning gold eyes—were fixed on yours, and you swore you forgot how to breathe.
“There,” he murmured. “Got it.”
You should have stepped back. You should’ve deflected and went back to familiar territory. That was the dance you and him had been doing for seven years—push and pull, bicker and banter, never quite crossing the line into whatever lay beyond.
But you didn’t step back. And he didn’t let go.
“Zuko,” you said, and his name came out wrong—too breathless—like the longing you tried so hard to bury had finally resurfaced.
“(Name),” he replied, and there was something in his voice you’d never heard before. Something that sounded like fear, like hope, like the moment before a flame catches.
It’s something. And that something was both terrifying and something that you now wanted to name. To acknowledge and finally be honest.
“You should go,” you whispered, but you didn’t mean it, and he knew it.
“I know,” he said, and didn’t move.
His hand was still on your face. His thumb was still tracing slow, absent patterns on your cheekbone. You could feel the calluses on his fingers—sword calluses, firebending calluses, the hard-won scars of a boy who’d had to fight for everything he’d ever gotten.
“If you’re going to kiss me,” you started, because you had gotten tired of waiting and because you’d never been good at keeping your mouth shut, “you should probably do it before I change my mind.”
Zuko’s breath caught. You thought you’d misread everything—thought you’d finally pushed too far, broken the fragile thing between you with your bluntness and your sharp tongue and your inability to just let things be.
Then he kissed you. Soft and chaste. You swore that feeling in your chest had never been happier.
You broke apart eventually, foreheads resting together, breathing the same warm kitchen air. Zuko’s hands had moved to your waist, his fingers curled into the fabric of your apron like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
“That was—” he started.
“Seven years overdue,” you finished, smiling.
He laughed. “I was going to say ‘nice.’”
“It was nice,” you agreed. “But you can do better.”
His eyes widened, settling upon the realization. “Is that a challenge?”
“It’s an observation.”
“You and your observations.”
“You and your—mmph!”
He kissed you again, rude to not have let you finish, and this time it wasn’t shy at all. The dough lay forgotten for a while, but that’s okay; you’ll have the Firelord’s help to help you remake another batch.
» You play a game of 'marco polo' with him for fifteen years. Call and response, you and him, always. «
----------------------------------------
TAGS: childhood best friends to lovers, streamer!kenma x mod!reader, CONSTANT flirting over stream, first meetings, falling in love with your online best friend? more likely than you think, youtube filming of 'boyfriend does my makeup' trend, it's all just one big excuse for them to finally meet they honestly dont care about anything else, insanely desperate 'obsessed with each other' type sex, mutual pining but millions of people are watching it happen live
a/n: this singlehandedly made me a kenma girl. ive fallen down a hole of "kenma is a confident introvert who knows how to run his mouth" feelings. thank you so very much to the person who commissioned this <33
[commission honee here!]
------------------------------------
Ba-bum!
"Testing, testing, mic check."
You scroll on your phone, curled up on your oversized gaming chair. "You don't need to mic check every time," you mumble into your headset.
"Discord's shit these days," is all he says. His voice is gentle as ever, even if his words cut. "I pay up the ass in internet and it still lags."
"Add me to your family plan," you say, just like you do every time. You don't know his exact expenses, but you do know that Kozume Kenma doesn't spare when it comes to his gaming setup.
"I'll add you if you promise not to use it for League."
You scoff, reaching for your coffee. You won't hear his usual admonishments about taking care of yourself — if he wants to do overnight stream challenges, he gets to deal with a malnourished moderator.
"My ping would thank you greatly, Koz."
"Your ping can suck my dick."
You grin, tossing your phone on the desk and glancing at the time. "On that note-"
"Yep. See ya."
You both end the call, only thirty-two seconds long. Your phone immediately buzzes.
[10:00 PM]
kozuken is live!
You're the first in the chat, your monitor split between his video feed and the chat box.
"Hello, hello," he says. "Mic check, testing, testing."
You roll your eyes.
"Marco's rolling her eyes. I can feel it."
You grin, leaning in to type a response.
[10:02 PM]
Marco: eat my ass
He grins, eyes dragging over the chat before looking away so he can set up his game. "Time and place, baby."
The chat goes crazy, the way it always does, when you two talk to each other like this. Purposely walking the line between platonic and flirtatious — once just a joke, made a regular dynamic. Once you'd noticed that his fans loved it, it was easy enough to continue, especially since Kenma's so fond of egging you on in his streams.
"Roll call, moderators," he mumbles into his mic, his eyes flitting back and forth between monitors while he loads in his screen recorder and audio buff.
[10:04 PM]
Marco: marco
"Polo," he responds, an afterthought. "Looks like everyone's here, so we can get started."
The comments filter in, your eyes trained to skim quickly. The brand new fans are easy to pick out, questions coming in about why he does roll call if you're his only mod. The old fans are busy spamming the word 'marco' over and over again in the chat, a joke long turned habit.
At one point, he'd considered having more than one moderator. It's just so much work for you. But you know — he'd told you — that he can't trust anyone else. That he wouldn't be able to keep track of anyone else in is DMs, not when you take up so much of his time.
"You're always yapping," he'd jokingly complained once, when the two of you were in college. "You're a full-time job."
You wouldn't let him have another moderator, anyway. This is yours. You made this place for yourself without meaning to, and both of you know — unacknowledged, unconscious — that no one else can have it.
Things had always been that way for you and Kozume Kenma. Unspoken, inexplicable.
—
He's ten when you meet him. You're ten, too. Way too young to be playing games online with strangers, but internet safety isn't really on your mind at that age.
And he doesn't try to chat you up, doesn't try to get any personal information out of you. You happen to play a single round of a game together, and you happen to add him as a friend afterward, because he's good. He happens to accept it.
He also sounds ten. He types in short, clipped phrases, simple DMs that say 'party?' when you're both online. After a few months, that single word turns into adding each other on Discord, which you're both still too young to have but do anyway. It turns into near-silent phone calls, where you both make simple requests of each other in-game and nothing else.
It isn't until months later — almost a year since meeting him — that you're brave enough to send a meme. He responds with a reaction. You think that'll be it, and then you're surprised the next morning to find he'd sent one, too.
He turns eleven, and you send a quick 'hap birth', which he responds to with a cake emoji. You turn eleven a few weeks later, and he just sends the emoji again.
And then, one night, he texts a quick 'party?' and you respond with 'tired :/', expecting that to be it. Expecting, at most, a thumbs up.
He calls. You answer, thinking maybe he hadn't gotten your text.
"Hello?"
"Hi."
He says nothing else. You just get the notification that he's streaming his screen. He's playing a cozy game, something low-stakes with gentle background music.
You fall asleep like that, watching his stream on your phone, no words shared between you.
It becomes a habit — first, only when one of you is too tired to play, and then scheduled. Every Wednesday night, when you're both most tired from school, and then Fridays, too.
Friday streams turn into Friday movie nights, and those turn into Friday 'play something in the background and talk over it' nights.
You turn twelve on one of those nights. He spends two hours building you a house-sized cake in Minecraft, telling you in that deadpan voice to shut up when you start making insane requests.
"I just think if we put a river through it-"
"No."
"But it could be like one of those molten lava cake things-"
"Stop it."
"I'm just imagining-"
"No imagining. Less imagination from you."
You fall asleep before he's done, your face sore from laughing. You wake up to a picture of the finished block-cake, a stupid little river running through it.
You grow up like that, middle school passing with your closest friend only accessible behind a screen. He tells you about his friend Kuroo, and you tell him about your school friends, too. He starts playing volleyball, and you spend some Friday nights watching pro-volleyball matches with him so he can learn.
And then one day, when you're both fourteen, Kuroo logs on while Kenma's in the shower and calls you. You answer, of course, but you're completely unprepared for the video feed to be turned on.
"Oh," you say. "That's not what I thought you'd look like."
The boy on the other end furrows his brow, a scoff leaving him. "You guys haven't video called before?"
It's not hard to figure out that this is not Kenma.
It's even easier when Kenma does come into view, a blur of dark hair and Kuroo tackled to the floor, out of sight.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
You listen as they wrestle, watch as the real Kozume Kenma appears in the video, wide-eyed and panicked.
"Holy shit," he says, frantically trying to turn his camera off. "I'm so sorry."
You just laugh, watching him mute-unmute-mute-unmute himself instead of pressing on the camera icon. He swears again, beet-red, so you just turn your camera on, too, your nerves fluttering.
He freezes, stares. Opens his mouth, closes it, blinks.
"Hi," he says, voice quiet.
You swallow, feeling your face burn and hoping it doesn't show in the camera. "Hi."
The moment is interrupted by Kuroo, who starts to laugh in the background. "This story is going in my best-man speech at your wedding."
Kenma turns an insane shade of red within milliseconds, and then he hangs up. You have to sit for a long time staring at the dark screen just to catch your breath.
One good thing comes out of Kuroo Tetsurou's intervention — video calling.
High school marks the era of sending exhausted morning selfies and late afternoon study calls, your cameras on and your mics muted. He calls after practice every day, only half his face showing as he walks home, and you bring him with you for post-midnight snack searches of the kitchen, all the lights off around you.
He's there when you move into your college dorm, his voice echoing from your back pocket as he complains about the view. You're there when he decides to start streaming professionally, your smile knowing and silly when you offer to be his moderator. Both your grins full of mischief when he actually considers it.
He starts out slow, quiet, but he's good at what he does — what you both do — and his fan base grows quickly. He hits 100,000 followers within a year, and he's at a million by the time you graduate. You run his chat with a firm hand, banning viewers after one warning and spending your free time accepting and denying requests to be unbanned. He spends his time editing VODs and posting them to Youtube, and he brings on a friend — Lev Haiba — to run his accounts. The guy's a model, apparently, and knows the ins and outs of social media better than anyone.
And then Kenma starts his own company — Bouncing Ball Corp. — and suddenly, his face and name are everywhere. You see him on bus ads and in storefronts, sports outlets marketing him and his sponsored players — Hinata Shouyou the most famous of all — until you can spot a cutout of him at least once a day on your way to work.
You always send him a picture. He always responds with a middle finger emoji.
Your days are spent working your boring office job, Discord open on one monitor as you speed through your work on the other. Your lunch breaks are spent on the phone with him, complaints sent in spam texts on the few days your coworkers actually invite you to join them.
It passes through your mind a few times — the fact that you haven't met him. You're 25 years old and have yet to meet your best friend of 15 years.
You wonder sometimes if he thinks about it, too.
—
[10:00 PM]
kozuken is live!
"Mic check, testing testing. Roll call, mods?"
Marco: marco
"Polo." Kenma scrolls through his Steam library for the viewers, humming contemplatively. "Not sure what I wanna play today. I want something lowkey. It was a rough day."
You grin evilly, typing out something quick without thinking.
Marco: i can make you feel better :')
His smile is immediate, his tongue poking out as he shakes his head. "Got enough space for you under my desk, Marco."
Marco: i pray for days like these <333
Marco: god is real <333
Marco: lemme get a hair tie real quick
He purses his lips, his laugh escaping anyway. "That'll take too long, just borrow one of mine."
The chat is responding at a rate that even you can't follow, but you do catch one comment.
'BE SO HONEST WITH US, HAVE YOU GUYS FUCKED???'
You know Kenma's seen it because he starts choking, fist beating down on his chest. You fire off a response, ignoring the flaming heat in your cheeks and that the swirl of nerves in your gut.
Marco: omw as we speak
He barks out a laugh, nodding. "Yeah, she's got a key to my place. That's how this whole mod thing happened in the first place."
Marco: aftercare is just stream ideas
"We talk about hiring VOD editors while I'm rearranging her guts."
You gasp, face searing hot as you switch to your DMs and message him.
You: YOU CANNOT SAY THAT ON STREAM!!!!!!!!!!
His eyes flick to the next screen, and then he beams, his grin a little too pleased. "Uh oh, I'm in the doghouse. Do you guys think she'll still let me hit?"
You text again.
You: NO I WILL NOT!!!!!!!!!!
His brow furrows for a moment, and you realize that you should have said that in the stream chat, not in his DMs. You groan aloud, burying your face in your hands in humilation. You only lift your eyes when you hear the ping of his text.
Koz: what if im not in the doghouse?
You freeze, staring. Eyes flicking to the video feed, watching him closely. Watching those little mannerisms that only you can see, the ones that make it clear he's nervous about that text. When you don't answer fast enough, he starts to chew on his bottom lip and his eyes take on a distracted glaze as he pretends to read the stream chat.
You watch him type again quickly.
Koz: joke
You exhale shakily, typing with trembling fingers in the stream chat.
Marco: chat, tell koz to stop begging for nudes in my dms
He finds it immediately in the sea of messages, eyes going wide and then flicking away. His laugh is full of relief, and he just shakes his head.
"One day," he says. "One day, Marco." You ignore the heat building in your gut and watch as he switches topics, scrolling through Steam again. "Alright," he eventually sighs. "Let's play Stardew."
You pin a chat that catches your eye, your fingers still shaking.
'co-op farm with marco???'
Kenma smiles, small and sweet this time, and shakes his head. "Marco's too busy running this shit like the Navy. She won't be able to focus."
You pin another chat.
'what if you guys play off stream and upload to yt???'
He nods, shrugging. "I don't see why not. We basically just play games in our free time, anyway."
One more pin, your nerves at an all-time high.
'film irl??? even if it's not games???'
His smile takes on a curious quality, brows furrowed as he hums and launches the game. It's obvious that you're interested in the idea, because you wouldn't be pinning the messages if you weren't. Everyone watching can see it, too, an influx of support crashing through the chat.
"What'do you wanna see us do, then?" he asks, attention turned to his Stardew file. A message flies by that says 'WE WANNA SEE YOU FUCK!!!', and he laughs, but his voice is tight. You understand why, your skin breaking out in a cold sweat. You type fast, trying to play it off.
Marco: lets do plushy tour
"What're you gonna do, haul your shit all the way to my place?" he jokes. "I've seen your plushy collection. It's semi-truck-requiring."
The chat continues to be spammed with ideas, and he pauses every few minutes to glance at them. You put out a few polls here and there, most having to do with his gameplay, but one of them is titled 'MarKoz Youtube Collab Ideas'. It stays up for a while, votes flooding in. He examines it for a moment, and then you watch him type.
Koz: you wanna meet up?
Your nerves peak and crash, your skin covered in goosebumps at the thought of meeting Kenma.
You: could be fun
He swallows, takes a sip of his drink. Types again.
Koz: could be
Koz: soon? or
It strikes you then that you have no idea where he lives. It can't be far, but…
You: depends
You: train tickets can get pricey
Koz: stfu
Koz: you know i'll pay
A few minutes go by with you distracted by the chat and him playing his game.
Koz: send me your address
You flush, realizing this is actually happening.
You: [location attached]
He chokes on his drink, in the middle of his livestream. You watch the chat react, a range of concern and 'Marco finally sent the nudes' jokes.
Koz: wtf
Koz: what the fuck yn
You: ????
Koz: thats ten fucking minutes from here
Your whole world comes crashing down.
—
You exhale in disbelief, staring up at the high-rise with a small grin tugging at your lips.
"Of course," you whisper, shaking your head and hauling your tote bag higher up on your shoulder. You push your way through the revolving door, glancing around as you approach the front desk. "Hi… I'm… I guess I'm here to see a resident?"
The girl behind the counter smiles up at you, humor lacing her voice. "Okay. Can I get a name?"
"She's with me."
His voice feels like a cord was wrapped tight around your spine when you weren't looking. Like he was baked into your DNA, his life intertwined with yours.
Your eyes fly to his. He's staring back at you like he feels the same way.
Disoriented. Shocked. Unsteady.
You clear your throat, smiling briefly at the girl as you drift away, your grip on the strap of the tote bag almost painful.
You meet him at the elevator bay, your legs shaking. "Hi."
He inhales, eyes flicking between yours rapidly. "Hey."
You're not sure how to greet him. If you should hug him — you've known him most of your life — or if it would be weird — this is your first time ever meeting him. He steps away to call the elevator, so you take it as a sign not to hug him and just wait beside him.
"Was the walk okay?" he tries, voice quiet and hesitant. You shift awkwardly, just shrugging.
"Yeah. It was alright."
God, this is uncomfortable. What is it? What's making this so weird?
You follow him into the elevator, taking stock of the situation. What you know about him and what's new.
His voice is familiar, but it's different in person. It affects you more. His stance — lazy with a slight slouch — is comfortable to you, but his height is new. His hair and face are the same, but now you can see his skin, his eyes. You can smell his shampoo. His cologne. You can feel his warmth, gentle and washing over you.
Your eyes dart over his form once, twice, and then they return to his face.
He's doing the same to you. His face is tinged pink with embarrassment, and you realize that your cheeks are warm, too.
His eyes catch yours, widening slightly. "Uh," he starts, gaze flying away. You see the spread of warmth across his ears and down his neck. "I was thinking we could eat first and then film… Maybe play a game or something?"
You nod quickly, following him out of the elevator. "That sounds good to me." You wince internally, imagining how awkward the video would be if you started filming right away. You can only hope that some buffer time before then would ease the tension.
When you enter his apartment, your jaw drops, eyes scanning the luxurious space. "Damn," you whisper. "You sure I can't join your internet family plan?"
He smiles, shooting a glance back at you as he leads you to the kitchen. There are bags of takeout already there, the smell of food wafting wonderfully over you. "You gonna use it for League?"
Your grin is comfortable, and there's a wave of relief crashing over you. You can feel the tension fading just a little bit, which means there's still hope.
"What're you gonna do if I do?" you joke, leaving your bag by his couch.
Golden eyes find you, and there's a flash of something there — something that warms the knot underneath your navel — before he looks away, his smile tighter than before.
"Guess you gotta find out."
You flush with warmth, all the way down to your toes. Had that transferred over as well? The jokes that lean a little too far away from platonic? The one-liners that hold more than they should?
You don't hate the idea. Not at all.
You help him unpack the food – he’d gotten your favorite, despite only ever seeing you eat over a discord call – and join him on the sofa, his massive TV and multiple game consoles collected on his TV stand. He untangles two controllers, passing one to you as he crouches by the stand and plugs one of the consoles in.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. You watch him tilt his head, watch his hair cascade down like a waterfall, feel the urge to tangle your fingers in it. “The only people who come over are Kuroo and Hinata. I can never get them to game with me.”
You cross your ankles, uncross them, look around his place some more. “I can come over more, if that’s what you’re asking.”
You hear him laugh through his nose, and then he nods. That urge to tangle your fingers in his hair grows stronger.
"Yeah, that's what I'm asking," he jokes. "Want you here every day."
"Get me a key, then."
He turns, eyes finding you. He doesn't say anything, just rises and hits the power button on the console. Then he joins you on the couch. You try not to notice that he sits close enough that his thigh touches yours.
The Mario Kart soundtrack fills his living room, so you force down the thought of his body heat. Of his cologne, washing over you. Of the hyper-sensitivity on the right side of your body, the side that's pressed to his.
You manage to fake your way through the nerves, the game relaxing you and the food delicious. Jokes fly easily, the bump of his elbow on yours easy and the shove of your shoulder into his when he's winning all too comfortable.
You don't even realize that several hours have passed, not until you glance out his floor-to-ceiling windows — he's way too rich, you think — and see that it's completely dark out.
"Oh," you breathe, looking around. The food is long-finished, and you've gotten completely comfortable in Kenma's home. Legs kicked up on the coffee table, hoodie removed from the warmth of pushing and shoving and yelling about the game for hours on end, your weight slumped heavily against his.
He shifts, moving you in the process, and stares out the window. "Damn," he says, slightly out of breath from screaming his head off at you hitting him with a blue shell. "We should film, huh?"
You laugh. "Yeah, probably." You set the controller down and rise, stretching your arms high above your head and groaning quietly. When you open your eyes, you find Kenma's gaze latched onto the slip of skin you're showing, just above your jeans. He looks away quickly, but you'd still caught it, the same way you're catching the pink tinge in his ears.
You swallow, warm, and clear your throat. "Shall we?"
"Yeah."
You follow him down the hall, your tote bag weighing you down. It's full of your makeup, the consensus on the last stream that everyone wants to see him do the "boyfriend does my makeup" trend.
You stop at the door he steps through, staring.
It's his bedroom.
"Oh-" you start, eyes wide. "I thought we would be in your office."
His eyes fly to yours, panic seeping into his expression. "Oh. I thought it would be more comfortable on the bed." He blinks, and you see his brain working overtime. "We can-"
"No!" you laugh, entering and setting your bag on the floor by the foot of his bed. "It's okay, you're probably right."
He's silent while you unpack all your makeup onto his bed, and then he sighs quietly. "Okay," he breathes. "I'll get the tripod." He scurries from the room with the pace of someone incredibly nervous, and you can't blame him. You feel the same.
He returns after a moment, tripod and camera in hand, and sets up next to the foot of his bed. When he's done, he looks to you expectantly. "Ready?"
You climb onto the mattress, nodding. "Let's do it."
He settles down next to you and presses record. "Okay," he says, examining the view in the little side panel. "We're good."
You grin, waving at the camera. "Howdy."
You see his brows furrow, watch the grin slide across his face as he looks at you. "'Howdy'? That's what we're doing?"
"Just start the damn video."
"It's started!" he laughs. "Be normal!"
"This is normal!"
"Oh, my god," he sighs, addressing the camera. "Hi. Kozuken here," he starts. He gestures to you. "Marco, as you probably guessed."
You wave again. "Howdy."
"I'm gonna kill you."
You shove him. He shoves back. When you try again, he catches you by the wrists with one hand, dragging them down into his lap. You gawk at him, flushing, and then remember that the camera is on.
You turn to it, one eyebrow raised and a smirk tugging at your lips.
"And that, ladies-" you say. "-is how you get a man to do what you want."
You can't help it — falling back into what's comfortable. It's unfortunate that this is what's comfortable.
Kenma leans into it, too. He can't help it, either, then.
"She thinks I don't know what she wants," he jokes, shaking his head. "I'm always ten steps ahead." And then he lets you go with a quiet exhale. "Let's get to the point of the video, please." His voice is light, but you can see the warmth in his cheeks.
You can feel the warmth in yours, too, but you push on. "Okay, so by popular demand, we're doing the 'boyfriend does my makeup' trend!"
He smiles, giving you a purposely pointed look. "You gonna clarify for the masses, or are you just gonna let them think I'm your boyfriend?"
You grin, shrug. "I'm gonna let the masses think what they want."
"Whatever you say," he gives in easily. He turns so that one leg is hanging off the bed, the other ankle crossed under his knee as he faces you. You mirror him, getting as close as you can and leaving your leg overlapped with his.
"Shall we?" you say, gesturing to your mountain of different products. "I brought everything I own, just because I want to make your life harder."
"You certainly do like to do that," he says, shaking his head at the pile. "Fuck, this is a whole store." He glances around and then up at you. "Alright," he sighs. "Let's see what I can fuck up in the next hour."
And then he pulls a hair tie off of his wrist and cups your face with both hands. You gasp quietly, eyes trained on his in confusion. He smothers a smile and slides his hands into your hair, looping his arms around your neck and gathering it all up in one hand. He ties your hair up like that, your breath mingling in the minimal space between you and his eyes locked tight on yours. His eyes flick down to your lips quickly and then come back, and you know he sees how you warm because his smile grows before he bites down on his bottom lip to cover it.
He leans away, examining your makeup. You turn to the camera while he does, staring hard. "You guys saw that, right?"
"I'm sure they're rewinding over and over again as we speak," he jokes, yanking a bottle from the depths. "'Foundation'," he reads. "Well, that seems promising. Buildings start with the foundation, don't they?"
You grin, staring up at him while he reads the back of the vial. "Good boy," you tease. "Using your wittle bwain."
He glares at you through his lashes. "Say it again. Go ahead."
You shrink away, just beaming at him while he uncaps the bottle and starts to smear foundation all over your face. He uses far too much, enough that you feel a whine build in your throat.
"You're wasting it. That was expensive-"
"Shh," he whispers, drawing on your forehead. "I'll buy you more later."
"You better."
"You know I'm good for it," he mumbles, focusing hard. You try not to flush, but you can feel his voice — deep, low, close — dripping down your spine like honey. "Now be quiet. I'm making art."
Now that you notice, you realize he actually is drawing. He's writing something on your face with the wand. You start to pull back, but he catches your chin with his other hand.
"Where you goin'?" he breathes, still focusing. "I'm not done."
You grimace. "You're writing weird shit on my face, Koz." You hear it, the bratty whine that trickles out with your words. But you can't help it, not when he's gripping your face like that and talking to you like that. Like you're his.
He just chews on his lip, that grin still threatening to spill out. "Just be patient."
"I'm not good at that."
His teeth flash briefly when he snickers. "I can teach you, if you'd like."
You push him away, huffing petulantly. He just laughs, the sound bright. You use the opportunity to lean into the camera, examining the side panel.
Property of Kozuken
Your tongue pushes against the inside of your cheek, nostrils flaring. You know the camera catches it all, that it catches the look you shoot him over your shoulder.
He's still smiling, all too pleased and not nearly embarrassed enough.
You find your spot again, glaring up at him. "Fix it." When he just coos, cupping your face teasingly, you lean forward, pressing your hands into his thighs and filling his space with your presence. "Fix it, Koz," you breathe, your pout poking out for him.
You're close enough that you hear his breath stutter. You feel his body twitch in response to you. You watch his eyes flick between yours and down to your lips, lingering too long to be accidental.
"Okay, okay," he mumbles. His thumbs spread over your cheeks, wiping away the Kozu and ken in two gentle swipes. "Don't get mad. I was joking."
You don't know what to do with the fact that he'd said it quietly enough that there's no way the camera caught it. That he'd said it for you, just for you.
"Not mad," you whisper, still leaning on his thighs, still pressing your face up toward his. "Definitely not mad."
His eyes widen, and then his eyelashes flutter, his lips parted and his breath shaky as it leaves him. He glances at the camera, laughing nervously.
"Chat, she's whispering nasty shit in my ear."
You push off of him with a roll of your eyes, ignoring the fingers that snag on your wrist, the thumb that swipes over your pulse once, twice, before leaving your hand in his lap. He shuffles through the rest of your makeup, starting to organize the bottles by type.
You talk to the camera while he works. "I think next time, we should do something that doesn't involve wasting all my makeup. Like a plushy reveal!"
"I told you no," he says right away, still sorting. "You have a storage unit's worth of plushies in that bed."
"Okay, then you come to my place. We can rank them together." You lean over, off camera, and snag your fingers on the single plush he has on the armchair. It's a cat, orange and squishy and totally messed up from years of tugging and kneading at it. "But bring this with you."
He snatches it, smacking you on the head with the squishy butt of it before tossing it up to the head of his bed. "You're biased. You bought it."
You nod, contemplative as you tell the story. "He had a bit of an anger issue with games when we were kids. But he would just punch the air and scream, so I sent him a little stress toy." You reach for it again, showing the camera how disfigured it is. "Look what he did, guys! He's a monster."
"I have a lot of cute aggression to get out of my system."
You turn over your shoulder, meeting his eyes. "Oh, yeah? About what?"
His gaze is steady, even when a single eyebrow lifts.
You look back at the camera, your face noticeably warmer. You look away, the sight of yourself in that camera tugging at the fluttering nerves in your stomach.
Kenma moves on without comment. "These all say concealer," he says, turning a few over and reading them. He glances at you when you stay quiet. You know he can see the burn of your cheeks, that your gaze is distant. That you're clearly still embarrassed about how things are falling into place between you.
"Too much?" he finally says, eyes still reading labels and hands still separating vials into different sections. You get the sense that he plans to cut this part out of the video.
You shake your head. His knee is starting to bounce anxiously. You let your fingers dance over his jeans, pressing down on his knee to calm him. "Not too much," you say, chewing on your lip and staring down at the spot where your leg overlaps with his. "Just nervous."
He stalls, fingers hovering a tube of lipstick. You hear him swallow.
"Yeah," he eventually breathes. "Me, too."
You both move on.
He clears his throat and raises his voice for the camera again. "I'm gonna try one of these concealer things."
"Okay."
"Where do I put it?"
You just smile. He rolls his eyes.
He ends up slathering it in random spots. The only one he gets right is the spot under your eyes, where he ends up putting way too much.
"Wow, this is ass," he jokes, trying to rub it in with his thumbs. You make choked noises, leaning away in fear that he's going to stab you in the eyes. He ends up bent over in laughter, hands still cupping your face, and you end up straining to look at the camera, the panic in your eyes obvious.
He moves on, leaving you caked in foundation and concealer as he picks up a pile of pencils. All lip liner.
"These look like they go on your eyes." When you stare at him in horror, he smiles innocently. "Eyeliner, right?"
You just smile, full of fear, and turn to the camera again. "Yeah."
"Close your eyes, then."
You keep smiling at the camera. "Don't wanna."
"C'mon," he laughs, nudging you. He's wielding a red pencil. You just stare. "Close your eyes."
You whimper dramatically, letting your eyes fall shut.
He's gentle, but that was never a concern, really. The real concern — the one that sits at the back of your throat as your eyes are sliding shut — is how close he's going to choose to get.
It's close. Really close.
You feel his breath on your lips, feel his hair tickle your face, feel his fingers holding gently to your chin, keeping you steady.
"While he fucks this up," you start, voice light but slightly shaky. "Let me talk about the games I wanna play that we can record off stream and upload later."
"Mhm," he hums. You wonder if he's nervous about your breath on his lips, too.
"Well, I wanna play Stardew. I also think people would have fun watching me try games I suck at."
"Like League?" he jokes quietly. You gasp, ignoring the fact that you can feel when he speaks, feel the bass in his voice and the slide of honey that comes with it.
"Take that back right now."
"No."
"Koz," you whine. "Be nice to me. I'm letting you mess up my face."
There's a long pause, one where you feel him start to laugh, the bed shaking slightly. Your skin warms dramatically under his touch.
"Shut up," you bite. "You have such a dirty mind."
"I didn't even have to say anything for you to get there, too."
"You just wanna see me under your desk."
He chokes, leaning away from you quickly. "Shit," he coughs. "Warn a man."
Your eyes are still closed. "You never warn me!"
He comes back after a moment, drawing lightly on your eyelids for just a little longer. And then he sighs.
"Fuck," he jokes. "I don't think I should have picked a red one."
You smile, trying not to shiver when he cups your jaw with his free hand, fingertips pressing softly into your cheeks. "I think," you start, breathing deep when his fingers twitch in response. "That you should have picked an eyeliner."
He pauses, and you just know he's staring at the pencil in confusion. "What are you?" he whispers, loud enough for the camera.
You keep smiling, your whisper just as loud. "Lip liner."
"Ah, shit," he laughs. "Well — Since I'm here." His fingers push at your cheeks, forcing your lips to pucker for him.
You stop breathing, and your eyes snap open in surprise. He meets your gaze evenly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and then he refocuses his attention on drawing the outline of your lips.
"You look ridiculous," he comments while he works.
You just roll your eyes. "I wonder why," you mutter, your voice muffled by his grip.
He leans away when he's done, humming pleasantly. "I think I'm done."
"What?" you laugh, turning to examine yourself in the camera. "Koz, I look so stupid."
"I'm too scared to try anything else."
"You didn't even do lipstick," you complain. "Or mascara. I look like a fool."
"I think it suits you." He just laughs when you smack him, his hand rubbing at the spot on his chest that you'd hit. "Say bye to the masses."
"Koz," you complain, lamenting your appearance in the camera. "You've got to be fucking with me-"
"Bye!" he calls, his hands coming down on the camera and shutting it off.
You just stare. "Do you see me?"
He laughs, squeezing your cheeks together with one hand. "You look like a dumbass."
"Yeah!" you laugh back. "My foundation's splotchy, there's concealer caked under my eyes, and you used lip liner all over the place!"
He just stands, tugging a box of tissues over and wiping his hands diligently. You swipe one, too, scrubbing at your skin. He gasps.
"My art!"
"I'm not going outside like this," you say, standing at the full-length mirror in the corner and working at your face until, though red and splotchy from scrubbing, it's clear of makeup. You don't say anything about the fact that Kenma's just been watching from the bed, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle while he leans back on his hands.
"You wanna stick around a little?" he asks quietly. You glance at him in the reflection, smiling shyly.
"Next time? It's late."
He looks reluctant to nod, but he does anyway. "Yeah. Next time." He turns, packing your makeup away while you wash your hands in his en suite bathroom.
He walks you to the door quietly, hauling your tote bag for you and waiting while you put your shoes on. "Want me to walk you?"
You smile at him, taking the bag. "I'll be okay."
"I don't like that you're walking in the dark. Let me call an uber at least."
"I'll be fine," you say. "Want me to call you while I walk?"
He flushes. "No."
"Would it make you feel better?"
"… Yes."
You laugh. "Okay. I'm gonna go."
He looks like he's searching for any reason to keep you here. You purse your lips, the nerves coming back. But you set the bag against the door for just a moment, anyway.
When you hug him, it surprises him. You feel his inhale, sharp and quiet, as you wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face in the crook. His hands find your waist easily, gentle and trembling slightly. He slips his arms around you after a moment, pulling you flush to his body.
You let your urge from earlier win, fingers finally tangling into his hair.
He shivers. It flies down his spine almost violently, shaking you in the process. The breath he lets out is mixed with a sound that you desperately want to call a moan.
"Fuck," he whispers, laughing nervously. "Sorry."
Warmth floods your skin, seeping low into the spot under your navel. You cling to him, feeling when his hold on you tightens.
"'s okay," you whisper back.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You feel him swallow, the sound dragging past your ear.
And then he presses his lips to your shoulder. Quietly. Gently.
You inhale harshly, your exhale just as hard.
He does it again, against your pulse. His fingers dig into your skin when a whine flies past your lips.
"Kenma," you breathe.
His chest is rising and falling unevenly. "You should go," is all he says.
It takes all your strength to pull away from him. He looks as unsteady on his feet as you feel. His pupils are blown wide and his face is burning red and he's carding his fingers through his hair and letting out a sigh that speaks of distress and feelings he doesn't want to voice.
"Bye, Koz," you say, wanting him to look at you again.
He does. You wonder if he can even help it anymore.
"Call me," he says, his voice rough, thick with emotion. "Soon as you leave."
"I will," you promise.
You do, the moment you step foot in the lobby.
He doesn't sound any less overwhelmed. You know you don't, either.
—
"Oh, my god," you laugh, scrolling through the comments. "This is nuts."
"It's only been up 12 hours," he says, equally amazed. He's watching your shared screen so that you can react to the same comments at the same time.
'you cannot physically convince me that these two arent secretly in a relationship and are just gaslighting us.'
You laugh. "Should I like it, just so people crash out?"
"You know my answer."
You leave a little heart on the comment and scroll.
'WHY DO THEY LOOK AT EACH OTHER LIKE THAT. SOME OF US ARE SINGLE.'
Another like.
'property of kozuken??? are you joking??? are you kidding?? are you playing??? you think this is a damn joke, markoz??????'
Another like, and you add a heart in a comment, too, just because it's that funny.
'the way she whines his name whenever he does anything stupid?? you just KNOW he loves it.'
You stare at the comment, your mouse hovering over it. Kenma says nothing. You scroll without liking it.
"Go back."
You jump, a shock running through you. "What?"
"Go back," he says again, his voice soft as ever but his words tugging on that cord he has wrapped around your spine. "And like it."
You want to tease him. You want to make some stupid joke. You want this to be part of the running bit between the two of you.
But you can't do it.
So you just scroll back up and like the comment.
You rush to scroll down again, your face burning and your ears starting to ring.
'every time she sasses him he looks like he cant decide if he wants to kiss her or do so much worse'
You scroll quickly.
"Go back."
You go back and like it.
'if you look hard enough you can see the moment koz pops a boner'
"Oh, my god," you mutter, your face burning. You scroll, praying he doesn't say those two words again. Praying you can move past it, because you're not sure you can handle it if he doesn't.
"Y/n."
That's worse than telling you to go back.
You sigh, the sound stuttering. "Koz," you whisper. "C'mon."
"Go back. And like it."
"You have to be joking."
"I'm not," he says, his voice still soft, even though he's saying something truly terrible. "If you don't do it, I'm gonna go in there and write a response."
"What could you possibly say?" you joke, your laugh desperate.
"That they're right."
Your skin breaks out in goosebumps.
"And then I'm gonna leave the timestamp."
You bury your face in your hands. "Kenma," you whisper.
"4:52."
You're shaking. You can't deal with the fact that he has an answer. That he's telling you to go look.
"Y/n."
You shudder, hand clamped over your mouth and the warmth under your navel burning hot, dangerously so.
You find the timestamp.
'Fix it,' you're saying. You're leaning onto his thighs, your eyes big and your pout petulant as you push your face into his. 'Fix it, Koz.' The words property of kozuzen are half-visible on your face. He's looking down at you like he's losing his mind. You hadn't realized it at the time, but the pained expression is plastered on his face.
You swallow. "That was super early on."
"I know. It was torture."
You hang your head, breathing hard. "I regret meeting you in person, Koz."
He's silent, completely silent.
"What?" he finally says. His voice is thick. You can hear the fear in that single word. "Why?"
You laugh pitifully. "I knew I wasn't going to be able to handle it. That I wouldn't be able to be normal about you afterward."
His breath is heavy in the mic of his headset. "Normal about me?"
"I like you so much," you whisper, almost hoping he doesn't hear it. "It's so much worse now." You dig the heel of your hand into your eye. "I want you so bad, Kenma."
You hear when his breath stutters, when he whispers 'oh, fuck' to himself.
"You mean that?"
You haven't ever meant something this strongly in your whole life. It's been three days, and you haven't stopped thinking about him for even a second.
"Kenma," you whine, tears pricking behind your eyes. "Please."
You hope he gets what you're saying.
He hangs up.
Your heart jumps. He got it.
—
He makes it to your door in under ten minutes. You don't say anything about the messy hair or the way his chest is heaving or the wild look in his eye.
You don't say anything at all. You just grab him by the collar of his hoodie and drag him into your apartment.
He crowds you against the wall immediately, barely managing to kick his shoes off in the process. His eyes are flying across your face, checking your gaze and the flush in your cheeks and the way you're chewing on your lip.
"Please don't take it back," he breathes, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. "Please."
You just shove your fingers into his hair, tangling tight and pulling him to you. A moan rips out of his throat and his hands slam down on the wall on either side of you as you push your lips against his.
He kisses you like he's been thinking about it for years. You let yourself admit that you've been thinking about it, too.
His lips burn on yours, the push and pull full of desperation, urgency. He pushes his body against yours, and you feel so clearly that he's shaking. That he's leaning on you like he's worried you'll disappear. You cup his face, kissing him deep and then whispering into his mouth.
"I'm not goin' anywhere, Kenma."
He shudders, drops his hands to your waist and pulls you impossibly closer. "I know. It's just been so long." You don't have to ask what he means. You just wrap your arms around his neck, letting him haul you up, letting your legs wrap tight around his waist. Feeling when he presses you into the wall and pins you there with his hips. "I've known you my whole life," he breathes. "Had you my whole life."
"Wasn't enough," you mumble, a little distracted by the way his lips get rougher, the way his grip on you gets possessive.
"Yeah," he mutters, teeth tugging your bottom lip into your mouth. His tongue presses to it hard, tasting you. "Wasn't enough."
"Always kinda hoped you weren't joking," you admit, clinging tight when he starts to walk you through the room. He pauses every few feet, pushing you against the nearest surface so he can kiss you, like he can't help it. "When we started messing around on stream."
He laughs into your mouth. "The first few times, I was sure you could see how red I was." You couldn't, but you remember your own reactions so clearly, back in college when you and Kenma were just starting to realize you were both adults.
"Why did this take so long?" you breathe, shuddering when his lips trail down the line of your throat, his tongue searing into your skin. "We could've been doing this the whole time."
He nibbles on your pulse, passes his tongue over it. Starts to suck on that spot. "I dunno," he mumbles. "We were socially stunted kids on the internet?"
You giggle, carding your fingers through his hair and tugging. He grunts, marking you in another spot now. You tug again, and he pushes his hips against yours, a warning. You sigh, your eyes shut and a smile on your lips when you feel how hard he is.
"I think I like pulling your hair," you admit, tugging again. He uses his grip on your waist to pull you into him harder.
"I think you think you're in charge."
"Am I not?" you sigh. "You're so soft. You let me do whatever I want. You always have."
He lifts his head away, golden eyes locked tight on yours. His gaze glints with the edge of something sharp.
"You just said it," he breathes, smiling. "I let you do what you want." He tilts his head when you start to shrink under his gaze, his smile stretching wide. "You didn't notice?" he coos.
You purse your lips, staring up at him. "Shut up, Koz," you grumble, tugging on his locks again.
He sets you on your feet before you can blink, and you realize in that moment that playing volleyball regularly since high school wouldn't have left him without something to show for it.
Your hands are ripped from his hair and pinned above your head without a single word from him. He just holds you there, trapped against the living room wall, his smile entirely too smug.
"Wanna take it back?" he teases, eyes passing over your embarrassed flush with glee.
You pout at him. "C'mon, Koz."
"Say 'please'."
You sigh. "Please, Kenma."
He lifts his brows. "Now say 'pretty please'."
You glare. "Fuck you."
You can't decide if that look in his eye — pleased, smug, victorious — makes you want to kick or kiss him.
"Not 'til you say 'pretty please'," he says, starting to laugh.
You groan, laughing because he is, and put on your best pout.
"Pretty please, Kenma?"
You watch his brain stop working. It's a beautiful sight.
You use the chance to rip out of his grasp. He blinks, surprised, but it's smothered by you throwing your arms around him and dragging him into another searing kiss. He moans, relenting and just pulling you close.
You stumble down the hall like that, half-blind and knocking things over without care. He slams his hand down on the wall multiple times to keep you from falling over and dragging you down with him. You just keep doing it, too busy kissing him to care if you end up on the floor. It's a dance — a clumsy, stupid dance — but you eventually make it to your room, shoving your back against the door and pulling him in with you.
You collapse on the bed together, the desperation taking over again now that you're here. Now that this is real.
His hoodie hits the floor first. Your shorts go next.
Nothing else makes it off of you.
He starts to moan openly, and you start to whimper into his mouth, his hips rocking you into the mattress again and again. You fist his t-shirt in your hands, keeping him close. He slips his fingertips under the band of your panties, tugging while he rubs his tongue against yours.
"Can I…" he whispers, his breath warm against your lips and his mouth falling back on yours right away. You nod, expecting him to pull them down.
He doesn't. He doesn't have the patience for it. He just slides his fingers between your legs and presses them against your clit. Your back arches, and you whine loudly into his mouth. His breathing grows more ragged while he touches you, and his moans fall out in time with yours, like he gets as much pleasure from touching you as you do from being touched by him.
Your high approaches too soon. "Kenma," you breathe, high-pitched and full of warning.
He stops immediately, shaking his head. "Not yet," he mumbles, still kissing you. You don't understand how it's possible that you haven't gotten tired of kissing him yet. "Wanna feel you around me when it happens."
You whimper, nodding. "Please? Now?"
He smiles against you, nodding along. "Yeah. Now."
He shoves his pants down blindly, barely letting them hit his thighs before he's reaching between your thighs again. A wave of chills crashes down over the crown of your head, flooding your body when you feel him pull your panties to the side and slide the head of his cock through your folds.
"Oh, my-" You shiver, moans falling past your lips without your permission.
He's no better, his breath shaky and quiet groans building in his throat. He shoves his lips against yours again, moaning down your throat when he nudges against your entrance. You hear yourself begging, hear yourself mumbling his name over and over again while you beg him to do it.
When he pushes into you, it comes with a moan that gets caught in his throat, his voice cutting off and his breath going with it. Your vision goes white, and you just cling to him, knowing he's going to have nail marks in his skin and holes in his shirt later.
"Please," you breathe, almost inaudible. "Yes, please, fuck-"
He isn't patient enough to bottom out. He just starts to thrust, bullying his cock into you little by little with each push of his hips. "Oh, fuck," he moans. "Fuck, fuck, fuck-"
His pace isn't steady or even or anything remotely controlled. His hips stutter and twitch, and his moans get louder every time you clench around him. It's messy and desperate and neither of you cares nearly enough about making this perfect. You're too lost in each other, too lost in the fact that this moment was built over years of loving each other, of learning each other.
When he comes, it's with a trapped whine and your name, his forehead pressed to yours and the words 'I love you' slipping out as he pushes his lips against yours. When you come, it's much the same, his name on your lips like a mantra, your love washing over him in time with the flutter of your walls around him.
It takes several minutes — maybe even hours — for you to move, your body trapped under his and your mind completely content, warm.
You both fall asleep, sweaty and messy and completely at peace.
As you're drifting off, curled up in his arms, you mumble a question.
you meet osamu's twin in the pick-up line of your daughter's school.
part five of the after school series, a friends-to-lovers AU featuring you, osamu, and the relationship you build solo-parenting two girls in the same kindergarten class.
"You're not Osamu."
You blinked back at the blonde, six-foot-one athlete leaning against the gate to your daughter's school. Cell phone in one hand. Green smoothie in the other. He raised his eyebrows at your blunt, borderline accusatory tone before offering you a hint of a smile.
"No, I ain't," he concurred, wrapping his lips around the straw of his beverage before taking a long sip. "Sorry to disappoint."
"No! Sorry, I just — " You stupidly whipped your head around the parking lot, grip tightening around the strap of your work bag. "Is he here today? I was hoping to give him something."
His twin brother pursed his lips to one side and shook his head.
"Afraid not. He's workin' a caterin' gig for my volleyball team tonight, so I'm drivin' Kina to her Mimi's before headin' over."
"Ah. Right. That's...that's today."
At your disappointed expression, Miya Atsumu pocketed his phone and shot you a humored grin.
"Don't worry. He'll be back tomorrow."
Your face grew warm at the words — at this stranger whose face you knew but otherwise couldn't recognize. You knew Osamu had a twin, had filed it away with all the other arbitrary facts you'd collected about him. You just never considered the fact that you might actually meet the guy, what with his tapered joggers and MSBY t-shirt and brand-deal athletic shoes.
Amused by the fact that you were very evidently weirded out, Atsumu asked, "This yer first time meetin' twins, or what?”
Frowning, you said, "Feels like I'm staring at an optical illusion."
His laugh was louder than Osamu's. More garish.
"That's a new one," he told you, shucking his empty cup into the nearest trash can before extending his hand out. "The name's Atsumu."
"Y/N. My daughter is in Kina's class," you supplied, taking his hand and shaking it firmly. "Osamu's told me a lot about you."
"Yeah?" The corner of his lips tilted into an easy smile you'd only ever seen on Disney princes. "Hopefully all good things?"
"Eh." You shrugged. "He may have mentioned wanting to eat you in the womb once or twice."
"Ha!" Atsumu's brown eyes glinted as he laughed. "Ya know, when Osamu told me he'd made a new friend at Kina's school, yer not exactly what I had in mind."
"Oh, yeah?" you asked, folding your arms across your chest. "And what did you have in mind?"
"I dunno. Someone borin'. Pushin' fifty."
"Well." You gestured down to your business casual, the glossy work heels that hurt like hell to walk in. "Sorry to disappoint."
The sound of antsy parents and their electric cars filled the silence between you.
"So how does all this work?" Atsumu asked, gesturing toward the school gates like they might fly open at any second. "Do I need to sign her out or somethin'?"
"Osamu should have put you on Kina's pickup form. Though I'm sure your face is confirmation enough," you joked. "Their teacher will bring them out here once the bell rings. You can check in with her then."
"Got it."
You studied his expression — the slight concentration there.
"Trust me, you've done way more complicated things as a D1 athlete. I'm sure you'll be just fine."
"Oh?" He looked pleased. "Ya know who I am, then?"
You hummed. "I work with Kuroo Tetsurō at the JVA. So I've watched a couple of your games."
"Well, would ya look at that." Atsumu folded his hands behind his neck and smirked. "Always a pleasure, meetin' a fan."
You shrugged. "I root for the Adlers, personally."
Before Atsumu could open his mouth to retort, the bell rang.
"UNCLE TSUM TSUM!" Kina bellowed, having escaped the single-file line now teetering from Miss Yuki's classroom. She ran up to the gate and pushed her face through the bars. "Ya remembered to pick me up!”
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling as another parent shot Atsumu a disapproving glare.
“I — of course I did, ya spawn!” He palmed her face back through the gate so she wouldn't get stuck. “And what is that on yer shirt — is that blood?”
“It’s ketchup."
“Of course it is,” Atsumu breathed. You reached into your work bag, retrieved a packet of baby wipes, and held it out to him.
"Ya know," he began, fishing out a handful with his fingers. "If you've got any free time tonight, ya should stop by this charity thing we're hostin' at the stadium."
You shucked the packet of baby wipes back into your purse and watched it disappear into the abyss of receipts, hair ties, and Chipotle napkins.
"I would! But then I wouldn't have anyone to watch my daughter."
"Right. Right," Atsumu chuckled, shaking his head. "Kinda a full-time job, huh?"
You smiled at him politely. "Afraid so.”
"Well." Atsumu lifted the wipes in thanks and glanced at the teacher now beckoning Kina to get back in line, please. "Suppose I'll have to convince ya to root for MSBY some other time, then.”
Between the bars, Kina shot her uncle a suspicious frown as you chuckled.
"I'll see you around, Atsumu."
"Oh, I'm countin' on it."
You watched Atsumu jog toward the entrance to the gate, surname and jersey number flexing across his back like a badge of honor. Meanwhile, you made a mental note to text Osamu good luck on the catering gig. You hoped he wasn't too stressed about it.
"Mommy, who was that?" Misa asked, brow scrunched in confusion as you crossed the parking lot hand-in-hand.
You fished for your car keys in your bag but were only met with another handful of Chipotle napkins. "That was Osamu-san's twin brother."
"Twin brother?"
You nodded. "Their mommy gave birth to them at the same time. Can you believe that?"
Misa's face twisted in thought as you unlocked the car, flung her backpack into the trunk, and hoisted her into her carseat.
"Is that why they're the same?"
You carefully considered your daughter's question as you buckled her in, the clicks and zips of her carseat filling the otherwise quiet vehicle.
"That's why they look the same, yes," you told her, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear. "But as for their personalities, they couldn't be more different."
Misa's expression bloomed with fascination as you kissed her forehead, closed her car door, and climbed into the driver's seat.
"Ya didn't tell me she was hot!"
Osamu rolled his eyes from the industrial-sized refrigerator he'd been organizing for the past hour. "Could ya not resort to callin' women hot? Pick another adjective."
"Yer friend, dumbass." The stadium’s kitchen door swung closed as Atsumu stormed inside, leaned against the stainless steel worktable, and grinned. "The one from Kina's school? I tried invitin' her here tonight, but she looked at me like I was stupid."
"Yeah, probably because she has a child."
"You have a child!”
"Yeah, and I've got dumbasses like you who can pick her up when I get busy!” Osamu snapped. "Not everyone gets that privilege."
He shut the refrigerator door and began flipping through his inventory lists for that evening's event, agitation etched into every crease on his face. Atsumu merely frowned at him from across the kitchen, fingers working at the bow tie his publicist had forced him to wear.
"Someone's prickly today."
Osamu dragged a hand down his face. "Yeah, well, I didn't get much sleep last night, I've got staff comin' in thirty, and I’m pretty sure I’m down five pounds of onions. So sorry if I’m not in a more chipper mood.”
"Ya know what ya need?"
"Five pounds of onions?”
"Someone to calm ya the fuck down," Atsumu answered. He adjusted the knot of his bow tie and huffed. "When's the last time you've been on a date?"
“I dunno,” Osamu grumbled, the question alone making his ears turn red. “Since before Kina was born, maybe?”
“Seriously?” Atsumu’s eyes bulged out of his head. “Ya mean to tell me the last time ya got laid, it resulted in Satan’s spawn?”
“Would ya quit referrin’ to my daughter as Satan’s spawn?”
“No wonder yer so wound up!” Atsumu cackled. He rounded the worktable and clapped his hands on his brother’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, Samu. After tonight, I won’t spring any more last-minute gigs on ya.”
“Is that so?” Osamu winced as his brother shook him back and forth like a vending machine.
“I’ll even set ya up with one of my friends.” Atsumu waggled his eyebrows. “Or better yet, ya can ask out yer pretty friend over at Kina’s school!”
“Okay,” Osamu drawled, writhing out of his brother’s grip. “Relax. She’s just a friend.”
“I dunno. She seemed pretty disappointed when I showed up today.”
Osamu shot his brother a flat stare. “I think that’s just yer effect on people.”
Atsumu’s face split into a cheeky grin — the same, scheming kind he wore when they were kids.
“Lemme call Kita and tell him about the missin’ produce. In the meantime…just think about it, okay?” Atsumu poked his twin brother in the ribs. “Ya deserve to be happy, too.”
Osamu could write a laundry list of reasons as to why he couldn't do that. His five-year-old daughter. This catering gig from hell. The way his skin crawled whenever he thought about meeting someone new.
Hi, I'm Osamu. Business school dropout. Twin brother to Miya Atsumu. Oh, and did I mention I have a kid?
He loved being Kina's dad. Loved learning her humor, what fruits she liked and didn't like. He loved showing her things she'd never seen before and watching her grow into herself, little-by-little.
But he also didn't expect anyone else to understand that — much less sign up for an entire lifetime of it. Why choose him when there was an easier, blonder, childless version of himself walking around?
Ya deserve to be happy, Atsumu had said.
But as Osamu watched him pace outside the door to the kitchen — phone pressed to his ear, tux glinting beneath the stadium lights — he figured this could be his version of happy. Seeing his daughter grow up, his brother succeed. It was enough. It had to be.
His phone pinged in his pocket before he could think about it too deeply.
Good luck on the catering gig today! you'd texted. Manifesting for you the biggest donations and the best sleep of your life. Lmk if you need anything.
Osamu blinked back at the messages. The series of motivational gifs you'd sent along with them. Some of them were so absurd, he found himself laughing at his phone like an idiot.
"Yer in a better mood," Atsumu drawled when he returned from the hallway.
"Am I?" Osamu hummed, pocketing his cell phone. A hint of a smile grazed his lips. "Just saw somethin' funny, is all."
The first of his catering staff walked into the kitchen before Atsumu could question him further.
"You're back." You smiled at Osamu as you approached the school gate the following day.
"Yes, ma'am," Osamu drawled, holding out a plastic bag of leftovers he'd prepared for you the previous night. "Who else did ya expect?"
"Honestly, I was half-expecting a secret third triplet to appear," you joked, taking the bag into your hands without objection. "How was the event last night? Did you raise a trillion yen?"
"Maybe not a trillion, but enough to make the lack of sleep worth it," he chuckled. "I, uh...I packed some extra short rib as a thank ya for wishin’ me well last night. Really boosted my morale."
"Well, I know how much you wanted to do right by Atsumu.” You hugged the bag close to your chest, the scent of caramelized vegetables and freshly made rice filling your nose. "It was the least I could do."
You tilted your neck toward the sky as a gentle breeze swept across the parking lot, the afternoon sun on your skin only amplifying the warmth in your chest.
"...he didn't bother ya too much yesterday, did he?"
You paused at Osamu's expression. The slight unease there.
"Who? Atsumu?"
"Yeah." Osamu shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know he can be kinda a flirt. Unless yer into that, I mean — "
You laughed as a blush rose into Osamu's cheeks.
"Don't worry. I've met athletes like him before, so they don't faze me." You nudged him in the side with your elbow. "Besides, I'm glad to have you back."
He raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Yeah?"
"Of course! I can't gossip about the kinder group chat with your doppelgänger. It's not the same."
Osamu's shoulders shook with laughter. "I guess not."
The sound of the bell cleaved your conversation in half as students flooded into the courtyard.
"Oh! I almost forgot," you blurted, reaching into your work bag. "I meant to give this to you yesterday."
You shoved a manila folder into his hands and hoped to God it wasn't too wrinkled.
"Misa has an eye doctor's appointment at four, so I gotta run to beat traffic. But take a look and let me know what you think!"
Before Osamu could open his mouth to respond, you were already jogging toward the school gate in your high heels. How you managed to do that, he had no idea.
"We'll catch up more tomorrow!” you promised him, waving the plastic bag. “And thank you for the food!"
Blinking back in confusion, Osamu peeled back the flap to the envelope and slid out the papers you'd tucked safely inside. His jaw slackened once he realized what they were.
Several mockups you'd designed of a new sign for Onigiri Miya — plus contact information for a signage company you worked with at the JVA.
He thought you were kidding when you'd offered to make one several weeks back.
A small gift for all the hard work you've put in, you'd written into the margins with a felt-tip pen. And a thank you for feeding me and Misa.
Osamu had long since accepted his version of happy. Had drawn a neat circle around all he permitted himself to feel, to want.
But as he stood there in the courtyard of Kina’s school — holding this kind, thoughtful gift you'd spent hours working on — he felt that circle widen, if only for a moment.
The feeling was enough to make his head spin as he tucked the envelope beneath his arm and went looking for his daughter.
what happens when you put a youngest son and an eldest daughter together? chaos. at least that's the assumption. and yet, bokuto can not get enough of you and your cute little siblings.
tags: tooth-rotting fluff, y/n's family loves bokuto, age gap siblings!
a/n: omg lmk if you guys catch any references, and it's my first fic the night before finals lol!
"Shit, shit, shi—," your frantic hand grabbed the sipping cups as your brother settled at your hips, his tiny little arms gripping your blouse. The house was a mess, in your eyes at least; little Lego bricks on the floor, the kitchen island filled with clutter, and your parents out of sight, on errands longer than expected.
"I'm gonna be late, oh my— I'm so sorry, baby, I'm gonna have to put you down." Your brother, doe-eyed with drool spilling over, glanced at you as you set him down on the sofa and rummaged between the pillows for your phone. The little bugger fell and was under the sofa as it continued to ring through a notification.
"Now, where the heck did it go? Aha!" your hair slipping through your clips as you quickly typed out a reply. The screen reflects your bright smile.
Bokuto-kun: HEY! im omw and be there in 15 mins!
Bokuto-kun: SO EXCITED TO SEE U
Y/N: sounds good! take ur time and drive safe :)
With an exasperated sigh, you settled into the couch before coming to a realization. The kids are not ready for their nap, they haven't had any midday snacks, and they're still high on energy. Well shit. You got up almost immediately, knocking over your sister as you ran to your room.
"Aki-chan, can you look over Ryo-kun real quick? I just have to finish getting ready! Mom and Dad should be coming home soon!" You grimaced as the clock ticked on your wall. It would take at least ten minutes for you to finish your makeup, another five for your hair, and a few more to get the kids settled.
At this point, you're at your wits' end, and you haven't even left the house. Sweat lines your furrowed brows. You try to remind yourself that finally, you can hang out with the boy you like. It has been a good week since you last saw him, and you could gnaw through the bars in anticipation at this point.
The music hummed in the background, cool air blowing from the AC, attempting to soothe your nerves. You can't help but reminisce about the way Bokuto asked you out only a few weeks back. You strutted out from class on the way to your part-time work, before a blur of a man could barely stop himself from toppling you.
His ears tinged pink, bouqeut quivering in his hands as he bowed, "CAN I PLEASE TAKE YOU OUT AFTER CLASS AND BE YOUR BOYFRIEND?" That definitely was not what Akaashi told him to do.
A little stunned, yet you offered him a smile and agreed almost immediately, sharing the same feelings. What's not to love about a man who yearns loudly?
With class in session, your hangouts were exclusive to spots around the school, the library, and your local coffee shop for its convenience. As a part-time worker and a full-time student, dating a student athlete just had to fit into your calendar, and a little bit of fate drew you closer.
But now, you can both relax for a week or two due to the holidays. No exams. No classes. No volleyball practices. He planned the date, refused to give you any details aside from a pick up time so the two of you could be in peace—, "ONEE-CHAN! Ryo-kun had an explosion!" Or maybe not.
You almost stubbed your toe as you speed walk towards the living room, where you find your sister grimacing her nose and pointing at your brother mid-action, "See— explosion!"
The explosion in question was your brother's diaper being full, and the copious amounts of wipes pulled out of the container, now scattered on the floor. Ryotaro merely glanced and gave you a toothy grin, and babbles of explanation poured out.
The age gap between you all often is a privilege for the kids, as they can do no wrong until they actually do something wrong. Their usual boisterous laughs echoing through the halls are replaced by a stillness with your upcoming reprimand.
Yet another event stacked against you today, your patience tethering the line to insanity. With squinted eyes and a drop in your tone, "Ryotaro, that wasn't a very good thing to do."
As if sensing your change in demeanor, your brother's grin was replaced by the quiver of his lips, big blobs of tears lined his eyes as he sniffled and put his hands up. You merely shook your head as you picked him up, settling him on your hips once again.
"Aki-chan, could you get the wipes while I get ready to change him?" you huffed out as you walked towards the kitchen and grabbed some milk for both kids and snacks for your sister so they can release that energy elsewhere. You scurried back to the living room, handing the snack bowl to your sister as she placed it on the coffee table.
A sharp ding rang from the front door as your phone buzzed with a new notification.
Bokuto-kun: IM HERE <3
Bokuto Koutaro stood outside patting away the nonexistent dust from his coat as he fumbled with the flowers in his hand. His hair was down, straying from his usual look, but out of his face. His fringe framed his golden eyes, currently staring at the door.
In between the quick, hurried footsteps, the door swung open with you finally in his sights. Your hair still in clips as your brother clung to you even more, with your sister gripping your leg as Bokuto towered over all of you. He took you in as if it were the last time, his grin taking over his face. "Hi, YN-chan!"
"Oh my— Bokkun, I hope you didn't wait too long. Please come in!" You shimmied your brother up as Bokuto stepped into the foyer, removing his outer coat to reveal a light blue quarter-zip matching the cardigan you had planned to wear.
"I'm so sorry! I've been running around, and I didn't see the time—" You grabbed the flowers he gave and scampered to the living room, Bokuto trailing you as his eyes wandered around the house, until it landed on you. His chest clenched.
Bokuto turned and leaned forward. The proximity allowed you to catch a whiff of his rich, warm scent, delighted at the red tint creeping your cheeks, "Don't worry about it! I'm happy to be here with you."
"And who might you guys be?" Bokuto mused as he looked over the two kids and grinned. He knelt down in front of your sister, who was tugging on her two low braids, "I'm thinking you're Aki-chan—"
Before he can finish, Akiko's eyes widened and shimmered with wonder as she reached out for him, "Wahh— how did you know? Are you a mind reader? Do you also know his name!" as she points to her brother at your hips.
"Oh well, yes of course! That's Ryo-kun, isn't that right?" Bokuto let out a series of rapid, enthusiastic nods, complemented by gentle pats on her head. Your sister just changed her favorite person of the day.
"WAHHH! You're cool! Do you have superpowers?" Akiko tugged on Bokuto as he lifted her up in the air with a laugh, before mirroring you effortlessly with your sister on his hip, her arms wrapped snuggly around his neck.
"Akiko, that's enough— let him settle in first." You give Bokuto a smile, offset by the tense set of your jaw and a worried flicker in your eyes, "Sorry about that, my sister gets really excited about new people."
"No, don't apologize! I was worried they wouldn't like me. But that's not the case, right Aki-chan?" Bokuto moved closer, and you could feel a wave of calm wash over you. Your sister chattered, bouncing with glee as Bokuto continued to carry her.
Akiko squeezed him tighter in adoration, "Mmhmm! I like Bo-nii! Can I call you that, too?"
"AHA— of course you can!" Bokuto hugged her back as he gently lowered her to the floor. His gaze lifted and scanned the space, "Are your parents home? I wanted to greet them before we headed out."
"Oh no, they're on errands right now, but they're running late. I'm sorry—" You eased yourself on the couch, your brother on your lap with Bokuto on your side. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you closer.
You pulled at your blouse, as Bokuto caught the hitch of your voice, "I was supposed to be getting ready, but the kids weren't sleeping, and my brother still has to get changed and—"
"Hey, hey, we got time. I'm here on your schedule, okay?" Bokuto drew you to him. His palm was warm as he rubbed repetitive circles just above your hips. He focused on you as your brother fiddled with your hair.
You leaned into Bokuto's embrace, letting your head fall on his shoulder. You tipped your head back as you caught golden hues peering into you, "Are you sure? I feel so bad since you made the plans, and I wouldn't want to ruin anything."
"Any time I have with you is the best. It doesn't have to be anything grand, so long as I'm with you," he shook his head, bemused by your statement. "So don't worry! Haven't you heard? I have superpowers!"
Bokuto grabbed Ryotaro as he threw a funny face at him, causing a fit of giggling chuckles, "But seriously, I got this. I have two older sisters with their own kids; your siblings are going to be fine."
Your eyes lingered on Bokuto, still hesitant, not with uncertainty about him, but simply guilt gnawing in your gut. "Okay, but I'll be quick, I don't wanna take up more time than necessary—," He squished your cheeks, stopping you with your words.
"Baby, you're doing great, so go finish and get dolled up for me."
He scooched you off the couch, before you proceeded to leave him with a kiss on the cheek. You briskly walked around the corner, missing Bokuto's very own sudden flush creeping from his neck as he ran his hands through his hair. "Your sister is quite something now, isn't she, Ryo-kun? Now, I believe it's time for your nappy—"
By the time you finished setting your face, small knocks vibrated from your ajared door. You spot Bokuto out of the corner of your eye, leaning against your door frame. You look back at your mirror in an attempt not to draw a crooked line with your eyeliner. "What are you staring at?"
Bokuto pushed himself off as he sauntered right behind you, fighting the urge to give you a bear hug, "Could you blame me! My girlfriend's too pretty not to be admired!"
"Are you almost done? Can I help you with anything?" He beamed, loving the red hues spreading on your cheeks once again. One could say he does it on purpose. You shook your head from side to side as you stood up and faced him.
"I'm ready now—, how do I look?"
Bokuto doesn't give you an answer; instead, he cupped your cheeks and brought you closer to him. You felt his breath tickle your face before he pressed his lips ever so softly on yours. Time stood still, and it was as if the world was silenced. You relished his sweet taste as you sighed into the kiss.
He pulled away, his forehead resting against yours as his hands found their spot on your waist. Bokuto was enamored as if you were the world. His world. "Perfect, like always."
"Thank you for everything. I know our date hasn't even started and—" He pressed a finger to your lips, stopping your doubts right before they can even become coherent. That was what he was good at. He soared in the courts, but with you, he let himself be grounded. Only for you.
"Hey, you're always there for me, your parents, and the kids. Let me take off this load for you. I love being able to do this."
An audible click from the front door was accompanied by your mom calling out for you. Bokuto slipped his fingers and intertwined them with yours as he pulled you towards your parents. "Hello, Auntie and Uncle! It's nice to finally meet you!"
Your mom squealed and yanked him out of your grasp. You stopped yourself from hanging your jaw open, appalled at the scene in front of you. Your mom had enveloped him in a hug, "Oh my! I was wondering why Y/N was taking so long in bringing you home!"
"Mom— stop, this is why I don't bring him around," you huffed out as you knew where this conversation was going, begging her not to start with the whole grandkids scenario. You looked at your dad, signaling him to pry his wife out.
"Okay, that's enough. They have plans they need to get to," your dad gently redirected your mom to the kitchen as he trailed over Bokuto's form. Your dad pursed his lips in a tight line as Bokuto extended his hand, waiting.
Your dad reached out to his before grabbing Bokuto and locking him into another hug, patting his back, "I've heard good things! I appreciate your help with my daughter. Come by for dinner later, okay?"
"Better yet, would you like to stay forever?!" Your mom hollered from the kitchen, and your sister clung onto her leg as she waved goodbye with droopy eyes.
A groan escaped your mouth as you pushed your dad further into the house, "Thank you for that, I'm going to go bury myself now—," meanwhile, Bokuto sheepishly smiled at your parents. He can't tell you yet, but it was in his plans to ask you to be a part of his future. To be a part of yours. But this is a little secret he'd keep for a little longer.
Sakusa Kiyoomi who’s not so subtly obsessed with his girlfriend.
It all started lowkey, back when he just went pro and questions about the life of a promising player piled on to him, the clip of one of his first ever interview that happened off-court, and not in a conference room when they were all still covered in sweat and trying to breathe evenly, is still circling social media, the interviewer went with the anticipated question, “fans wish to know if there’s someone special outside the gyms, perhaps a partner?” to which Kiyoomi only nodded with the same level of sternness he carried during a match point.
Overtime it seemed to become much easier to let others in, he still appreciated privacy, but to know that people loved seeing him break out a grin whenever mentioning you after a good game was priceless. It was one time after an away game in Malaysia that they’d won in just two sets, he was approached by local reporters, swarming him with questions but one in particular stood out for him. So when he was asked “what do you miss about Japan?” he didn’t hold back the smile, instead leaning closer to the microphone and bluntly saying “my partner”.
Kiyoomi had already prepared for the worst when faced with the fame that’d come alongside success, he’d seen it happen before, the gossip and tabloids, people breaking up or even getting a divorce over others’ opinion, but seeing the feedback from his supporters each time a new photo of both of you walking around Osaka or visiting his family in Tokyo popped out only encouraged him to share you with the world further.
Eventually he had a whole highlight dedicated to photos of you in his instagram profile, stories piled up each year, sometimes domestic, candid ones where you’d be making cocoa or simply rearranging and cleaning his memorabilia that Sakusa had earned throughout his career, or less private moments of you walking around the streets of Rome when he took you with him to the training camp, moments from all across the world with you beside him.
It’s all gotten to the point where people recognise you in the stands when the Black Jackals are playing, some of Kiyoomi’s fans had even asked for a photo whenever you were wearing the jersey or jacket with his number.
One time on Valentine’s Day Kiyoomi had posted a photo of you sprawled out on your shared bed, hand on your heart and phone almost up your nose with a caption saying “sleeping through the special day”. He deleted it not even ten minutes later, but of course people had already screenshot it plenty of times, to this day remembering the random exposure that was gone in record time.
Safe to say one thing Sakusa was always good at was hard launching, brand deals, important events, friendships with players people wouldn’t even expect him to know, but one particular time outshined the rest of his shenanigans. It was nearing evening after a tough home game where they walked out with another win that Kiyoomi was stopped by a fan with camera angled at him, filming a video when they suddenly asked “what are you looking forward to after today?” when he simply lifted his hand, showing off the simple golden band on his finger, “seeing my wife”.
>>You struggle with your weight and body image, but Suna extensively and thoroughly undoes all the damage done by other guys.
or
You haven't gotten laid in over a year, and your best friend takes it upon himself to fix that for you.<<
series status: complete. ✓
spotify playlist ⇝
tags: chubby!reader, smut, fluff, body insecurity, discussion of body image, friends to lovers, friends with benefits, tattoo shop owner!suna, besties atsumu and osamu (the golden trio of best friends), suna is the president of Thicc Girlie Nation
a/n: back again with more suna rintarou x chubby!reader aka my favorite suna rintarou characterization
