rintaro doesn’t look up from his phone as kaiya bothers him, tugging on his shirt and prodding his arm to try and stir him from his comfort in bed next to you. you snicker and watch fondly at your 10 year old’s attempts to rouse her father, to seemingly no avail.
“dad, i need you to come see,” she whines. “it’s really important-“
“no,” rintaro is quick to answer. “no. no no.”
“why not!” she huffs.
“because-“ he finally spares kaiya a glance, “every time one of you rat children come in here to get me up to kill a spider, or see the moon, or check for monsters, you sneak into my bed and take my spot next to mom. i deserve some mom time too, yanno.”
kaiya groans as she tugs his wrist, “daaaaaad, its serious!”
“what is it?”
she pouts at him, flashing him a lethal set of puppy eyes akin to yours. he sighs and scrubs his face with his hands, “if i entertain this, and you steal my spot, so help me god-“
“i won’t,” she says softly. “please?”
rintaro sighs.
he swings his legs out of bed and ushers kaiya to lead the way, “go on then. let’s go.” he follows her closer to the doorway, and you raise your brows in surprise as she actually brings her dad to the doorway.
only to then cackle when she darts to your bed, trying to get under the covers.
“YOU LITTLE-“
“i want to cuddle with mommmmm!”
“SO DO I!”
kaiya squeals as rintaro grabs her ankle and drags her to the edge of the bed, picking her up into his arms while she flails and screams in protest. you hear him ranting in the hallway over kaiya’s whines and giggles to be put down, “you damn kids, you’re lucky i don’t call uncle shinsuke to straighten your asses out. you wake up your sisters i swear to all the unholy gods-“
you shake your head and turn back to the tv-
only to smile fondly as a familiar face pokes his head from the doorway.
akito is quick to rush into rintaro’s warm spot, smiling in content as you open your arm for him to cuddle into your side. you kiss his head and scratch his scalp, letting him melt against you.
“you know he’s gonna have a conniption,” you hum.
“he should know better than to leave his spot unattended.”
you snort and let him cuddle closer, “my baby boy, what am i gonna do with you?”
“uhm, give me all your attention?”
“you always have my attention-“
“you’re joking.” rintaro stands in the doorway in disbelief, and you hear akito snicker in satisfaction. “you little freak.”
“it’s mom-akito time, back off,” your son says, clinging to you closer.
“you know, there was a time when you liked me the best,” your husband hisses.
“i don’t miss those days,” you titter. rintaro glares playfully.
“those days are gone, father. mom is mom.”
once again, rintaro scrubs his face with his hands, “i’m not dealing with this, i’m sleeping on the couch.” he turns on his heel to stalk down the hallway; you hear akito sigh and stir slightly.
“dad, wait,” he says. rintaro pauses and turns back to his bedroom, blinking unamused at his son. “don’t forget your pillow,” he reminds, tossing the fluffed pillow at his father.
Hello! I really enjoy your works, and if you don't mind could I request a Mitch x reader?
The scenario could be where they both like eachother but are too nervous to admit it so the rest of the people at Ericson's act as their wingman, and in the end the two get together
EEEEE I hope it's not too much, if you do get to write it then thank you very much! (First time I ever wrote a request hahaha)
⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔ˋ•*⁀➷♡⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔
No Weeks to Yearn
Mitch twdg x gn!reader
Summary: Your friend at Ericson's arranges a fishing trip between you and your crush, Mitch, and all the other students heavily support it. While out on that trip, he ends up surprisingly confessing to you—leading to a warm moment.
W/C: 1.8k
A/N: I have no idea what possessed me while writing this. I hope you like it!
Today was nice; the sky was only partly cloudy and there were no cold winds like yesterday. You were sat outside in the front yard of Ericson's, somewhat comfortable on the picnic table. Ruby was sat beside you. Everyone else was out too, just running around, chatting, and overall enjoying their time. You glared at Mitch out in the distance as he playfully quarreled with Willy—per usual.
“You crushin’ on Mitch again?” Ruby teased, and you just rolled your eyes.
“Are you ever gonna talk to him?” She went on.
You sighed, “I want to—but I'm just nervous.”
“It's been weeks! Probably longer! I promise you, Mitch ain't that scary.” Ruby chuckled.
You tapped on the wooden surface of the table with your fingers. You truly did want to speak to Mitch; your heart longed for him, but anxiety held you on a leash.
“It's been too long for you just sittin’ around… You ain't gonna get him like that!” She paused for a moment, appearing to go deep into thought. Then, her face lit up.
“You what, I'm gonna get you set up with him! Just you wait!” She squealed, obviously getting more excited than you.
You blushed, “no—”
“You can count on me!” Ruby giggled as she got up hurriedly, quickly running off back into the main building.
You sighed. She didn't listen but at least her intentions were good. You were worried about the fact that word may make way to Mitch himself… Because knowing Ruby, she's probably going to be informing and involving everyone in her little plan.
You sat at the table for another while, just allowing your mind to pass time for you as you had nothing else to do. That was until Marlon barged out of the main building, with Ruby trailing behind—Please tell me she didn't tell Marlon!
“Everyone!” Marlon called out. “We need to discuss everyone's role in today's tasks!”
Everyone immediately dropped what they were doing to circle him, and so you got up and joined.
Once everyone was gathered together, Marlon continued. “You all know today's the day we scheduled for checking the traps, fishing, and hunting—and I've just concluded everyone's part. With that,” he pointed towards Louis and Aasim, “you two are on the hunting grounds.” He then turned towards Violet and Brody, “you both will be checking the traps.” Lastly he turned towards you, and then to Mitch who stood a bit away from you. “Lastly, you two will be fishing,” you noticed Marlon's slight nod towards you; no way he was in on it!
“And everyone else is on lookout. Everyone understand?” He added.
The group simultaneously responded positively—but you were with Mitch? Your heart already began to pound with profound nervousness. It wasn't that you didn't want to be with him—of course you did! The fact was it was the guy you'd been crushing on for weeks! The guy who, for the life of you, you cannot speak to without breaking out in hives for goodness sake!
“Hey,” you heard a voice speak to you. You turned your head to see who it was and there you saw Mitch! He raked a hand through his straight, brunette hair.
“Oh, uhm, hey,” you muttered, feeling a tingly and warm sensation arise within you—just from him speaking to you.
“Just give me a second, alright?” He said before walking off to oddly huddle with Louis and Willy in the distance.
Soon, he returned. “Let's get going before Marlon beats our asses,” Mitch chuckled.
“Yeah—yeah,” your voice cracked. You tried to play it cool.
The both of you made your way towards the front gates to exit. As you did, you passed by Ruby flashing you a wide smirk.
Before you could open the gates yourself, Mitch hastily did it for you. He grinned slightly at you, and you hesitantly did so in return.
The two other pairs who were to be leaving as well followed behind you and Mitch before going along on their separate trails. Violet and Brody both gave you a thumbs up while smirking beforehand, though. Now, it was you both alone again, walking side by side. The air was quiet between you two; you didn't know what to say without making yourself seem foolish, which was the last thing you wanted to be around him.
Oh, you definitely were going to give Ruby a little, but not unkind, lecture when you returned. Looking back, she's known about your crush since it was just a small thought; so did all the other girls… You never minded only them knowing, but Ruby just had to inform Marlon… You wouldn't be surprised if everyone knew at this point—even Mitch himself, but definitely, you prayed not.
“So… How's your day going?” Mitch broke you from your thoughts.
“Oh—good, good. Thanks… You?” To yourself, you sounded like a mess.
“I'm okay, thanks…” He looked to the ground as he walked, “we should be there soon.”
The remainder of the walk there was spent in silence; you didn't want to take the risk of embarrassing yourself by speaking. Mitch didn't say another word, either. You did notice him fiddling with his fingers at some point. You deemed it odd, but brushed it aside as him being bored.
The old shack became distinct within the vast trees after not long. It rested right next to the designated fishing area, and was where all the equipment was stored.
“You can just go take a seat by the river. I'll get everything ready.” Mitch said as you both got closer to the shack.
“Okay—you sure?”
He nodded, and so you obeyed. You sat on the light grass of the hill, which the shack rested on. It overlooked the stream where you both would be fishing. Usually, it had decent catches, but today's would probably be pretty good since the weather was nice.
You heard Mitch rummaging in the shack behind you, and soon after he appeared with two rods, and a medium-sized bucket stuffed into his hands.
“Do you need some help with that?” You asked.
“Nope, I got it.”
He set everything down on the ground gently before passing to you your rod. You secured your bait onto it before going ahead and casting it out. Mitch then sat next to you and did the same.
“We better catch something good…” He murmured.
“Yeah, I hope so.”
After that, the two of you just went along fishing; quietness yet again. You managed to catch a rather small fish and reel it in, then placing it inside of the bucket which rested in-between you and Mitch. So far, he seemed to have better luck as he had caught two larger ones.
Your heart rate had calmed down by now as you began getting used to his presence nearby. Nonetheless, you were still quite nervous—just as anyone would be, of course. You occasionally caught your gaze drifting towards the side at him; you admired his sharp jawline, soft lips, pastel green eyes, just everything… It pulled you away from the task you were to focus on—pulled you away from existence entirely.
You thought about it all; part of you wanted to confess your love for him now, at this very moment, but the other part resigned against it heavily. You were suffering with internal conflict, and had been since the day you began loving him.
“You alright?” Mitch asked, turning his head to look at you.
You didn't realize it, but apparently your gaze was rather obvious. You shook your head as you snapped out of your daze, “yeah, I'm okay.” You blushed, now embarrassed.
As you regained focus, you quickly returned to your task of fishing, but then Mitch spoke out once more.
“Y/N, I—uh… wanted to say something, actually.”
You turned your gaze back towards him, curious of what sentence would come out of his mouth next.
“God… this is so embarrassing…” He murmured, “but, uhm—I… think you're… cool, I guess…” His voice was so gentle, you could barely hear his words; with ease, they caressed your ears.
That, you were not expecting to hear; Mitch was the kind who'd usually keep to himself and strictly himself. Though, it immediately made your heart flutter. No way Mitch thought you were "cool." You didn't know how exactly to respond, so unknowingly you just sat there, frozen. You saw Mitch twiddling his fingers shakily as he now looked away in shame, almost. It was then a few seconds after when he suddenly turned and leaned in swiftly, pressing his lips against yours.
It caught your breath and warmth spread throughout your body in an instant as if it were melting. Your body felt like it was becoming goo. Your eyes widened in surprise and your heart began to beat at that same accelerated pace—this time, maybe even quicker. After a couple of seconds, however, you found your eyes closing and your body leaning back into him. You had never felt any sensation like the one you did now; it felt like love—like those weeks of yearning you had been doing, but now it was visible that they'd be gone, and transformed into something better. A moment like this, you could've only ever prayed for. It felt like a dream; the best dream imagineable.
The kiss went on for a long moment until you pulled away. Your face remained close to his as you both glared at each other. As you looked into his eyes, something deep stared back; something that rested upon your own gaze. His lips slowly curved into a smile, and yours did the same in response without even attempting.
“I take it you like me back?” He asked, hesitance lingering on his voice.
“Mitch, I've liked you, for what's felt like forever.” You grinned wider, “I'm so glad you feel the same way.”
“I've liked you awhile, too. Louis and Willy were practically forcing me to admit it, so… They went crazy once Marlon paired us up.”
“Ruby too!” You both shared laughter.
The moment seemed to fly by. You and Mitch just continued with small talk as you both managed to catch a few more fish—thankfully, enough to feed everyone. Once you were finished, you supplied the rods back into the shack before heading in the direction towards Ericson's, bringing along the bucket full of your combined catches.
Mitch even held your hand, his palm soft against yours. You now can never forget that kiss you shared; the kiss that confirmed your love and secured it. Your heart now glows as you walk, and you never knew you had so much affection stored inside. For that fact, even the sun seemed to beam brighter.
Once you got back to the school, of course everyone gawked when they saw your and Mitch's hands intertwined. At this point, you couldn't even be mad at Ruby; now, you wanted to thank her with every bone in your body.
The rest of the day went well; today had to have been the best of all without a doubt. You somehow even managed to find your way into Mitch's bed by nightfall. There, he held and gently caressed you, showing you a side of himself you thought you'd never see. And thankfully, no more weeks would have to be spent yearning—now only loving.
“HEAR ME OUT childhood friends reader and megumi where he's like a year or 2 younger than her and so she just kinda never takes him seriously even when they're both a lot older now and also despite megumi's crush on her and wanting to be seen not as the baby boy next door but as a proper man now,, read this somewhere on Tumbir and it's got me insane maybe a bit spicy if you don't mind 👀👀”
boy next door
a/n: bro i’m so mad i accidentally posted the unfinished fic then couldn’t edit it so i had to delete it but that was the request from an anon. +++ i’m so sorry for my decrease in quality of my work i’ve noticed it too and i’m currently flopping so hard but this past month has actually been hell for me please bear with me i’m really trying here
you had known megumi for years, since you were children actually. he lived next door to you, along with his older sister tsumiki. you were never particularly close with megumi, you spoke with tsumiki often despite you being the year above her in school.
megumi was two years younger than you, you often saw him as more of a baby rather than a friend. he never directly spoke with you unless he had to—hell he barely even spoke to tsumiki.
but you would always catch his sideways glances whenever the three of you would walk to and from school, how he hid behind his father and just stared at you whenever your mother sent you to drop off some food.
it was obvious that he had a puppy crush on you, he was always asking tsumiki about you, begging his parents to bring him over to your house just to say hi. however, for the most part megumi barely crossed your mind, he was still a baby to you.
as you two grew megumi’s puppy crush faded into something more passionate. he began to almost beg for your attention, constantly getting into fights in an attempt to impress you, or trying to catch your eye while walking past you in the hallways.
throughout middle and high school megumi seemed to just become more determined to get you to notice him, albeit still making sure to keep his nonchalant composure. he’d scoff whenever you teased him, yet the tips of his ears turning pink would often give away him flustered interior.
you continued to stay oblivious to his feelings, ruffling his hair and cooing at him whenever he’d try to involve himself in your self proclaimed ‘big kid talk’ with your classmates at lunch.
however, as the years went on you and tsumiki grew apart, you began to focus more on college rather than hanging out at her place which meant that megumi got to see less and less of you by the day.
eventually you moved out, leaving behind everything, leaving behind megumi.
he pretended not to care, he’d scoff whenever tsumiki teased him about you, but at night when he was alone—megumi only thought of you.
you slowly started to fade from his mind, exams and college taking your place in his brain. though, occasionally on holidays he’d catch a glimpse of you from his window, your bright smile, the way your body shook as you laughed. everything would come flooding back in those moments.
when megumi finally moved out for college the last thing he expected to see was you, right in the middle of the corridor to his dorm. when you saw him your face lit up, “megumi! oh my gosh, how are you already at college? you were just a baby yesterday.”
you began to ruffle his hair in that familiar way he pretended to hate, your voice light, joyful as you greeted him. your friends trailed behind you, giggling amongst themselves as they watched you fawn over megumi.
“quit it, i’m not a kid anymore.” he nudged you off of him, hand coming up to fix his hair while you apologised under your breath. it was awkward for a moment before you spoke up again, “so uh, what’re you here for?”
he blinked at you, temporarily losing himself in your eyes before blinking back into reality. “oh right um business and economics.” you beamed at his words, clapping your hands together before replying, “great! i’m doing that too, i can help you with it, just like how i used to tutor you.”
you grinned at him, smile so tender he almost melted. megumi nodded at your words, bowing his head as to not let you see the blush creeping up his cheeks.
before he could speak up again you were waving him goodbye, your friends dragging you along to some bar for a last drink before classes start.
megumi sighed to himself, would you ever see him as someone other than the little boy next door.
weeks had passed since the semester started and unfortunately megumi was already behind on classes. he had to muster up every ounce of courage to ask you to help him out, and it took every bit of strength in him not to snap at you when you cooed about how you’d always be happy to help your underclassman.
now he was sat at his desk, you were leaning over him—which in his opinion was very provocative, or maybe he was just way too whipped. you were hunched over his shoulder, tits practically in his face as you pointed at the laptop screen.
“do you get it now?” your voice cut through his thoughts, snapping back to the tutoring session. “uh sure…” he voice was unsteady, eyes uncontrollably flickering between your tits and the laptop. you cocked a brow at his unsure tone, leaning in closer as if to intimidate him.
you leaned back, plopping yourself down on his bed. “megs, what’s up with you lately? you seem… weirder than you were before.” he only groans in response, annoyance evident in his tone. “maybe you’ll find out when you quit treating me like a child.” he spits back before he could stop himself.
time seems to freeze for a split second, both of you just stare at each other as megumi’s outburst sinks in. he speaks up first, “i’ve liked you since we were kids and all you’ve ever done is treat me like some baby! i’m an adult now for gods sake, treat me like one!”
the confession tumbles from his mouth without him even realising. you blink at him, mouth slightly agape as it dawns in your. “that’s why you were so weird…” you mumble almost to yourself. megumi groans again, leaning back against the chair.
an awkward silence falls over the two of you before megumi abruptly stands up and strides over to you. suddenly he’s leaning over you, breath ghosting your cheek. “please tell me you want me too.” his voice is barely above a whisper, he’s desperate, pleading with you.
your breath stutters, eyes flickering over his face, suddenly he’s leaning doesn’t look like the younger boy he used to be. megumi’s facial structure has changed, he’s more mature, his hair frames his face beautifully, jaw sharp and eyes dark with something you don’t recognise.
as if moving on their own your hands reach forward to grip onto his shoulders before pulling him down to kiss you. his mouth moves messily against your own, taller body hunched over your own as he climbs onto the bed and on top of you.
he breaks away first, breathing heavy as he stares down at you. you catch a faint smile grace his lips, “is this your wet dream or something?” you joke, a playful slap landing on his chest. he rolls his eyes at your comment, eyes softening a fraction.
he mumbles a small ‘shut up’ before pressing his lips against yours once again. his body pressed against your own, legs moving to bracket your own as he lost himself in you. “wait, megs hold on.” you lightly pushed him off of you, sitting up on your elbows to look at him.
“have you done anything before?” your question was genuine, worry flashing behind your eyes as you stared up at him. sheepishly he shook his head, a faint pink hue dusting his cheeks. you smiled at him, hand reaching up to brush hair from his forehead.
“we don’t have to do anything, i don’t want to rush you.” your voice was tender, knuckles stroking his cheek as he nibbled in his bottom lip. “just let me taste you.” his voice was horse with need, hands coming down to hold you by your waist. you let out a shaky breath at his words, your own sentence catching in your throat as he leaned down to nip at your neck.
“please, i’ve been waiting for so long.” his words were muffled by your skin, his hands squeezing your hips as if to persuade you. “megs i—” he cut you off with a small bite to your shoulder, “it’s all i ask.” his voice was even smaller now, almost as if it was painful.
you sighed, giving into his begs. you felt him smile against yours once again skin, hands already working to remove your bottoms. you squeaked as he swiftly pulled them down your legs along with your underwear.
megumi moved himself onto the floor, your legs now positioned on his shoulders as he pulled you by your hips, lower body dangling off the bed. “megumi!” you squeaked into the air as he wraooed his hands around your thighs.
he grinned up at you, tongue poking out to wet his lips before diving in. without warning his tongue licked a broad stripe up your cunt, an embarrassingly loud moan escaping you at the contact. he moved his tongue against you messily, unpractised yet delicate.
megumi’s lips hesitantly closed around you clit, a low whimper leaving your lips at the contact. “keep going, right there.” you reached down, fingers lacing into his hair causing him to groan against you. the vibrations went right up your core, sparking yo your spine.
you arched off of the bed as megumi started to suck on your clit, tongue flicking messily at the bud. you writhed on the sheets, body convulsing as he pushed you towards your peak. his grip on your thighs tightened, tongue moving back to flick at your slick, gathering it up before spitting it back into you.
a lewd moan echoed off the walls at his action, your hands pushing his face further into your pussy. his nose bumped against your clit, tongue moving to push inside of you. you pulled megumi’s hair harder, moans spilling from your lips as his tongue worked you open.
“megs—shit—you sure this i-is your first time?”
he hummed against you, taking your clit into his mouth again before nodding his head earning another mewl form you. your legs locked around his head, keeping him right where you needed him most.
you shook beneath him, body shaking as you neared your orgasm. megumi had started to rut his hips into the side of your bed, body searching for some form of relief as he sucked at your clit. “oh shit, i’m cumming.”
your words egged him on, mouth even lore determined now as he hollowed out his cheeks, eyes locked on the way your face contorted as you came into his mouth, slick dripping from your entrance as he greedily lapped it all up. chin soaked in your slick when he finally came up for air.
you laughed at the sight, his disheveled look foreign to you. “well shit—now i have to return the favour, don’t i?” you sat up, motioning for him to come join you on the bed. megumi sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck before replying. “uh i think i’m good, i got my fill.”
summary: they see someone else give you flowers, pre-relationship
pairing: karasuno boys x implied fem!reader (separate)
note from sunnie: this has been sitting in my drafts for a literal year. yikes. and it's like. really long. but each secton is relatively short? also I think it's really easy to guess who my favorites are whoops.
Daichi Sawamura considers himself a chivalrous guy. He holds open doors, walks on the half of the sidewalk closest to the road, and always, always carries your bag for you whenever he walks you home from school.
He's a gentleman.
So he's more than a little confused when he sees someone else giving you flowers during the short break between fifth and sixth period.
Okay. So maybe he hadn't yet gotten around to finally asking you out. But can you blame a guy? You make him so nervous, and he's already got an entire volleyball team worth of morons to watch out for. But even if they keep him busy, he had been planning on asking you to be his, officially.
And now some guy he'd never even seen before was giving you flowers.
Daichi is a gentleman, captain of the Karasuno boys volleyball team, and—if you were to ask Asahi—downright terrifying when he was annoyed with someone. He's crossed halfway down the hallway towards you before the guy (seriously, how had Daichi never seen him before?) turns bright red, glances at Daichi over your shoulder, and takes off down the corridor with his tail between his legs.
Daichi is starting to think that maybe Asahi was right about how scary he looks, but he's got other things to worry about as his feet finally carry him to you. He's nervous, he realizes, that maybe the flowers came with the offer of a date.
He's scared shitless over the possibility that you might have said yes.
"What was that about?" He tries to sound casual, hands buried deep in his pockets so you can't see how they're clenched into clammy fists. You turn to face him, finally, when he makes his presence known.
He watches as your pretty face twists into a wince, glancing between the bouquet of flowers held in your hand, the direction your suitor took off in, and then towards himself.
The flowers aren't even that nice, he thinks bitterly. Though he doesn't know enough about flowers to say it with confidence.
"You know that second year I tutor on Thursdays?" You ask, and he feels a swift sense of relief at two things. First being that your tone isn't the dreamy one of a girl who had been just swept off her feet by a grand romantic gesture of flowers, rather one on the verge of a wince. And second, he was older than the guy.
He didn't feel the most mature after having satisfaction in that, but it helped soothe his ego.
"Yeah, of course," He realizes he needs to give you an answer. It's hard for him to stop frowning at the flowers in your hand and smile like alarms hadn't been blaring in his mind ever since he stumbled upon you.
"Well, I think he might have gotten the wrong idea." You're not even holding the flowers like you want them, and Daichi's frown morphs into a grin. He's still a little annoyed that he hadn't thought to get you flowers first, but at least no one had come in to swoop you off your feet.
"Are you going to keep the flowers?" Daichi asks, doing a horrible job at keeping his relief and hopefulness from his voice. You shoot him a glance, having no doubt caught onto his weird tone, and he's hurrying to cover his mistake. "I mean, he still might think you're interested if he sees you carrying them around all day."
He's smiling, but it's his nervous one, and he can read it in your face that you have him completely figured out.
"You're right," You say, and it's all Daichi can do to keep from sighing audibly in relief. His heart is racing a mile a minute, and he still has to survive after school practice, somehow. "Do you think I could sell them to Tanaka and Nishinoya to give to Kiyoko?"
There's a beat of silence between your question and Daichi's response where he realizes you're being serious.
His nervous smile is replaced by a genuine one as he shakes his head with a chuckle. He manages to find some of his bravery and boldly swings an arm over your shoulder to lead you towards the second year classes.
"Let's see if we can find them quick. Kiyoko'll kill us if she finds out what we're doing."
He'll bring you flowers tomorrow. Ones you won't pawn off to his teammates for vending machine money.
Koshi Sugawara is only minding his business, walking to practice after school, when suddenly you're latched onto his arm.
Not that he's complaining. He'd just been thinking about you, and what you were doing, and if he could come up with a reason to see you on the day off from school tomorrow. He's a little flustered by your sudden arrival, by your hand curled around his bicep, but he's certainly not going to pass on the opportunity to have you close.
He's mid-greeting when he finally sees it. Clutched in your hand is a bouquet of flowers, wrapped in plastic and even still with the price sticker on the outside. His face twists in confusion, especially as he finally spots the flustered look on your face and the embarrassed way you glance over your shoulder behind you. He wants to check and see what you're so clearly running from, but his mind stalls as it snags on one tiny detail.
Someone gave you flowers. A really shitty bouquet, too, but that's not exactly the point. Someone—that's not him—gave you flowers.
He hasn't asked you to be his girlfriend yet, but he did take you out to dinner last week. He's not so much worried about someone coming to steal you away from him, but he is panicking that he didn't bring you flowers when he picked you up at your house and held your hand all the way to your favorite ramen place.
Isn't that Romance 101? He should have brought you flowers.
"I don't want to seem rude," Your pretty voice snaps him from his thoughts, and he swears he could almost sigh in relief when he sees you frown down at the poorly selected bouquet someone had presented you. "But I don't want these. Some second year just asked me out and gave them to me. I don't even know his name."
Sugawara could die he's so relieved that you want nothing to do with someone else asking you out. In fact, with the way you're clutching his arm tighter than you're holding the flowers, he feels like he could take on the world.
"I can get rid of them for you, if you want." He tries to sound casual, and not like he's overeager about the idea of dumping the flowers you got from some random in the trash. You nod, handing the offending gift off, and he feels his face warm as your fingers brush his. It makes him think of your date, of how your knuckles brushed together a few times before he was bold enough to thread your fingers through his. His face is surely bright red, but there's another question he can't seem to shake. "What did you tell him? When he asked you out?"
It's not an accusatory question. Not when you didn't even try to keep the flowers, or mention the guys name. No, he has no doubt that you turned him down. But he is incredibly interested in what reason you gave him, though.
"I told him that I'm already seeing someone," Your words are far from a grand, bold statement, but they're all he needs to hear. A grin takes over his features and he feels just a little dorky about the way he stands up taller and subconsciously puffs out his chest.
He likes your answer. A lot.
He likes it so much, that he's at your house a few hours later after practice. He'd spent most of it distracted, thinking about you and your smile and why you turned down the second year.
Mostly, he was thinking about the flowers he wanted to buy you.
The bouquet is clutched in his clammy hands when you open your front door, and though it was only a couple short hours since he had seen you last, the wind is still knocked from his lungs at the sight of your smile.
The fact that you're smiling and not trying to run off is a sign that he's doing good. Much better than the second year had done.
"I, uh, should've gotten you these when we went out last week." He can't help the way he stumbles over his words. You just make him so nervous. But you're smiling, and soon so is he, as you tug both him and the flowers inside.
He's pretty sure he hears you call him a dork, but he'll take the insult as long as you say yes to being his girlfriend.
Asahi Azumane feels his chest seize the moment you walk into the gym at the start of practice.
It's not his usual panic, though. The sight of you alone is typically enough to send his weak heart into cardiac arrest, let alone if you go so far as to smile at him. The first time you spoke to him, he's pretty sure he died for a few seconds.
No. When you finally race into the gym, moments before practice is supposed to start, shouting apologies to Takeda and Kiyoko about not being there earlier to help set up the net and ball baskets, Asahi's attention snares on something you set carefully by the pile of your belongings.
Flowers.
He knows he's staring, and he knows he won't have an answer that he could choke out if you catch him and ask what his deal is, but he can't change the course of his focus. Not when you came stumbling into practice with flowers, acting so casual about it, like you got them all the time.
Oh god, did you? Sure, he made it a point to talk to you before, during, and after practice as much as he could without wussing out. He probably knew more about you than anybody else on the team, your fellow co-manager Kiyoko included.
But what about outside of practice? Really, he couldn't blame anyone for getting you flowers. You're just too pretty and too nice, and he would have gotten you dozens of bouquets—if the thought wasn't more nerve-wracking than the idea of sending a serve into the back of Daichi's head.
Speaking of his captain, he swears he hears him and Sugawara struggling to stifle their laughter. No doubt they're laughing at him, still staring wide-eyed and gaping at the flowers you had brought into practice. It takes Nishinoya yelling his name—and consequently drawing everyone's attention to him—for him to snap back to focus.
Just his luck, he catches your eye, and he feels like dying on the spot when he glimpses the grin on your face you're trying to suppress.
"Is something wrong, Asahi?" You ask so sweetly, and his face burns so red he knows there's no getting out of it. Daichi and Sugawara burst into a fit of laughter, no longer trying to hide their amusement. Even you have to turn your cheek to hide your wobbly smile, but it's no use, because he sees it anyways.
He's so embarrassed, he feels it down to his toes, and he's so relieved when Coach sends them on some warm up laps to distract himself.
Except, he can't stop thinking about who gave you the flowers. Were they a third year? Were they in your class? Did he know who they were? Did they ask you on a date?
He wanted to run laps to avoid thinking about the flowers, but for the next two hours, all he can consider is the goddamn bouquet settled against your bag on the sidelines. At one point, a stray spike from Tanaka nearly takes them out, and Daichi tells him to be careful of your stuff.
Flowers are delicate and special, Sugawara had chastised. Asahi thinks he might be sick.
By the time the gym is cleaned, cleared, and Coach dismisses everyone, Asahi feels like his heart is going to beat straight out of his chest. He's not sure he's entirely in control as his feet carry him across the gym and to you.
"Hi," He starts lamely, but he's already off to a better start than he thought he would get.
"Hi, Asahi," You smile up at him, bag over your shoulder and flowers clutched in your hands. He watches as you try and stifle a giggle, doing a horrible job of it, and gesture to the flowers as if he hadn't seen them yet. "Aren't they pretty?"
"Yeah, uh." He continues just as witty as he started. "Who—who got them for you?"
Your eyes give you away, and he watches as your stare darts to the side, lip caught punishingly between your teeth to bite back a grin. With a frown, he follows the direction your attention had been previously been pulled in.
He finds that he's looking at Daichi and Sugawara, both doing a horrible job of acting like they were busy packing their bags to leave and not watching the interaction before them unfold like it was a spectator sport.
"Daichi? Or Suga?" He asks despite the way his heart has plummeted to his feet. He knows his face is probably pale, and you can read every emotion on his face.
He's a little confused, because it looks like you're struggling to contain a laugh. One more glance to the side, and he realizes his friends are having no such qualms.
"Guys," You turn and face Daichi and Suga, frustrated sigh falling past your lips despite the way they were just twisted up in a grin. "This is so mean. Can I just tell him?"
"Tell me what?" Asahi asks despite the way his two friends boo and complain about you ruining their fun. You hold up the flowers once more, as if he had forgotten their presence.
"Those idiots got me these, but they told me not to tell you. For a prank, apparently."
For not the first time that evening, Asahi is left gaping like a fish. Daichi and Suga are laughing so hard they caught the attention of the rest of the team. He's certain his face is bright red, but he can't think past the swell of relief he's feeling. He thought he had come so close to missing his chance with you.
Really, he can only think to do one thing.
"Please go on a date with me?"
Yuu Nishinoya wants to be able to brag that he's early to practice for once. He's got fifteen minutes until he's supposed to be on the court, and he's leisurely strolling up to gym.
Oh, he's going to rub it in Tanaka's face that he was early.
Except, twenty feet from the gym doors he stops completely in his tracks. His jaw is nearly on the ground, and any relaxed composure he had managed to scrounge together flies out the window.
Because there you were. And usually, your presence amps up his outrageous energy to level eleven just to hear you giggle at his nonsense, but you're holding something that makes his thoughts tumble over the edge.
You have flowers.
You're talking to your friends, waiting after school for your study group to start. He knows your schedule like the back of his own hand, because he adores the ground you walk on.
Even if you're not actually his girlfriend. Yet, he swears. But maybe he's losing his chance, because you're holding a bouquet of flowers that he knows for a fact you didn't have an hour earlier when he saw you between classes and begged you to wait for him to be done with practice so he could walk you home.
He's got fifteen minutes until he needs to be in the gym, and now he's scrambling to find something to one-up the flowers someone got you.
He checks the front of the school first, trying to desperately remember if there were flowerbeds he could borrow (read: steal) from and give you better flowers. Surely, you'd forget all about the bouquet some loser gave you when he presented the prettiest flowers in all of the Miyagi to you.
Except, there's no flowerbeds.
He's not the least bit embarrassed when he lets out a groan so loud a few of the students lingering by the front of the school flinch. He's borderline frantic, and he's never been the best at regulating his emotions in the first place.
You don't mind when he gets worked up. You just giggle all pretty and tell him the obvious solution to his problems. You have the patience of a saint, especially when it comes to his nonsense—Daichi and Sugawara had told him as much—and genuinely seem to enjoy being around him.
You deserve flowers, from him, but he can't find a single petal anywhere.
Practice starts in seven minutes. He's considering just drawing a picture of flowers, maybe giving you an IOU one bouquet. (Is bouquet spelled with one 'k' or two?)
He's sprinting down the hallway when he finally sees the answer to his prayers.
The vending machines.
He skids to a stop in front of the drink machine, palms pressed against the chilled glass and wide eyes frantically scanning through the options available to him. He's trying to remember which drinks he's seen you order for yourself, when the spots a juice brand he's never even heard of, tucked away in the bottom left corner.
It has flowers on the packaging.
His heart is racing and he knows he's running out of time, but he thinks he might just make practice on time if buys the juice and runs, maybe he'll even have to toss it to you in a sprinting drive-by.
That's when he realizes the fatal flaw to his plan.
He's flat broke.
A very undignified scream tears past his lips before he's sprinting off again, but this time he knows what he's looking for. He takes the stairs to the clubhouse three at a time—a miracle with his shorter than average legs—and throws open the volleyball club room door so fast and loud that it bangs against the wall.
Asahi screams. Daichi shouts for him to knock it off! Yamaguchi drops the uniform he was in the process of changing into.
"I need vending machine money!" Nishinoya yells, and nobody makes any attempt to move and give him some change. But then, through panting breaths, he gets out a few words to explain himself.
Mostly, your name and flowers and need juice.
Somehow, Tanaka understands what he's saying and translates for the group. Nishinoya promises to invite everyone to the wedding when, with only a few grumbles of complaints, his beautiful, beautiful teammates did in their bags for enough change to buy the flower-juice.
He's gone the second Sugawara drops the last coin from his pocket into his waiting hand and he barely hears Daichi shouting that he has five minutes to get to the gym as he takes the the stairs three at a time down.
The rest of his journey goes without much incident—though he did get yelled at by a teacher for running in the halls, it wasn't the Vice Principal so he's not too worried.
Juice in hand, he shouts your name the second he has you in his sights. You're not far from where he saw you last, talking with your friends and still holding that ugly bouquet. And okay, maybe the flowers weren't hideous, but they weren't from him, so he'd rather choke than compliment them.
He calls your name three more times before he finally skids to a halt in front of you, bent at the waist and offering the juice like it was made of gold. He's panting, and he's a little embarrassed about that.
He's an athlete, after all. Did he really panic so much he's out of breath?
But he decides it's all worth it when you grin at him and take the juice.
"Is this why you've been running around yelling for the past fifteen minutes?" You smile, and he swears it's like the heavens opened up around him to bless him with the sight. He opens his mouth to tell you just that, but Hinata calls his name from the gym door.
It's then that he realizes his entire team his standing in the doorway of the gym, watching the entire interaction. Tanaka is giving him two thumbs up while Ennoshita tells him off for being so obvious. Kageyama is arguing with Hinata about blowing their cover.
Your friends laugh, but you're still smiling, so he can't mind too much.
"There's flowers on the package!" He shouts while running backwards towards the gym, ensuring to bring your attention to the juice.
You laugh and promise to wait for him after, and he thinks he did pretty good.
Even if he was late to practice in the end.
Ryuunosuke Tanaka thinks that if he's devoted enough, you'll just have to fall in love with him. It can't possibly be flawed logic, because it's his logic.
Which is why he makes sure to always make it to your matches on time and cheering loud. It's as if you can't get anymore perfect—you just have to play volleyball, too.
He's already planned your wedding, six different ways, during the course of the match. Your team takes it in two sets, and if Ennoshita hadn't accompanied him to come watch you play, he probably would've taken his shirt off and swung it around.
Somehow, Tanaka is riding the high of your win—for all of eight and a half minutes.
That's how long it takes for him to watch, helpless and stuck in the stands, as some guy he's never seen before—someone totally unworthy of you—steps up to give you flowers.
He's practically raging in the stands, almost ready to tear the place apart. Ennoshita tells him to knock it off, and if the crowd wasn't separating him from the loser who brought you flowers, he probably would've done something about the smug look on the face of the guy encroaching on you. With a pout so childish he probably should be embarrassed, Tanaka can only watch you show off your flowers from the stranger to your teammates.
Oh, he can so do better.
If you want flowers, he'll get you flowers. He'll get you so many flowers you'll be sick of them, and the ugly bouquet from some random will be nothing more than a nightmare to you.
And he does it, too.
For two weeks, every day, he's bringing you flowers. In the morning before classes, or after school in that sweet twenty minutes where neither of your practices have started and he's able to talk to you all smooth-like.
Meaning he can barely get a word out to you after practically shoving the flowers into your hands.
Everyday.
For two weeks.
Ennoshita tells him he's being lame, but Nishinoya is all for it, and your smile is like a shot through his heart every time he hands you flowers. It's enough to sustain him, though he has to admit his wallet is taking a beating from his show of affection.
Everything changes when they're finally able to lure Nekoma to a practice match on their home turf. Old rivalries and new egos competing in Karasuno's gym, and minutes before the match is about to start Tanaka spots something holy from the corner of his eye.
It's you. Flanked by a few of your teammates and sizing up Nekoma within seconds, but it's you. Tanaka is distracted immediately, nearly taking a set to the face instead practicing a spike like he was ordered by Ukai. Daichi shouts something about staying focused, but Noya fires back at him a plea to not interrupt true love.
Tanaka hears maybe a third of what's said, because you're standing in his gym like you're going stay and watch—and you're holding flowers.
Ennoshita shoves him in the direction of you, claiming that it's obvious he won't be able focus on the match until he talks to you. As Tanaka approaches, your friends give encouraging smiles and slip away to talk to Kiyoko.
He means to ask what you're doing here, but the words don't come out. All he does is make fish out of water faces while glancing between you and the flowers, silently asking for an explanation.
"These are for you, after you win the practice match." You tell him simply, and with the way your pretty, pretty voice hits his ears, he knows it's true. He will win, because you said he will.
"Okay," He nods, eyes wide and face flushed. He knows he sounds breathless, but he's barely warmed up enough to use it as an excuse.
"And stop giving me so many flowers. I appreciate them," You hurry to assure, though he's ready to agree to anything you say. Anything. "but I've run out of vases to put them in. I've given the last four to my neighbors."
"Okay," He nods, again. Breathless, again. He's honestly not even sure this conversation is happening, but the grin that curves your lips upwards is too heavenly to just be a dream.
"Now, go kick some Nekoma ass, Ryuu."
"Okay,"
Tanaka turns around, and finds his whole team watching for his reaction. All he can think to do—to function, really—is raise his fists in the air and yell in victory.
You giggle at his excitement. Nekoma's Yamamoto can be heard wailing. Tsukishima comments about it being a creative way to mentally break the opposing team.
Tanaka hopes you stay watching him, because he feels ready to outplay Ushiwaka.
Tobio Kageyama hates studying. It's not as fun as volleyball, and takes up too much time and brainpower. He's not good at it either, which adds another level of frustration to an already unenjoyable experience.
But he gets to see you, which makes his Ukai-mandated tutoring sessions just a little bit more bearable.
You're quiet, which he likes, but you're not a pushover. You keep him in check—which Daichi says should earn you a Nobel Peace Prize, whatever that means—and on task, for the most part.
Though, he does spend the first ten and last fifteen minutes of each study session focusing more on you rather than his notes. He watches you with the same focused precision he uses to analyze volleyball plays. Tobio feels the same way, too; like he wants to know every part of you with absolute perfection.
It's why he doesn't notice the no-named scrub approaching in the final minutes of the study session. You're packing up, chatting with him about something he can't actually hear over his internal dialogue trying to figure out a way to ask you to come to Karasuno's next tournament.
It's too late by the time he realizes that someone else has come to steal your attention away. You, as always, are polite to the interrupter. Tobio is, predictably, not.
He keeps his mouth shut, teeth practically cracking together, and glares as the nobody hands you a bouquet of flowers. Tobio doesn't expect to get so worked up as he does, but the sight of you clutching flowers someone else got you is both a shot to his pride and has something tightening in his chest.
He doesn't understand it, and he doesn't like it.
The scrub leaves, followed out by nothing less than Tobio's harshest glare. You clear your throat, and his attention is snapped back to you, still sitting across the table from him. Your pretty brows are tugged into a pout of concern, and Tobio nearly melts at the sight.
"Everything alright, Kageyama?" You ask him, carefully quiet and mindful of the fact you're still seated in the library. He nods, stiffly, ears burning and unable to meet your gaze.
"Do you..." He trails off, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck while he tries to find his non-volleyball confidence. He winces at his awkward tone, but you remain still, attentive. The tight thing in his chest twists a little at your care. "Do you like flowers?"
You glance at the bouquet you were just given, like it's the first time you've seen it, despite it just being handed to you. Tobio watches as you fail to hide the grimace at the flowers, and he feels his ears burn even further when he realizes relief floods through him.
"I do," You explain, but you don't sound convinced. "I'm just... not into him."
Tobio leaves the conversation there, but he's still thinking about it a week later. That uncomfortable feeling in his chest when you were first given the flowers. By someone other than him.
He comes prepared for your next study session, albeit a bit stiff.
You're waiting at your usual table in the library, and it's on awkward feet that he approaches. You glance up from your textbooks when he gets close, eyes widening in shock when you see what he's holding.
A dozen roses.
Tobio can't look at you when he shoves the flowers in your direction, arm jutting out like he's handing you a loaded weapon and not a symbol of his affection.
But you're smiling. Warm and bright and wholly unlike last week's flowers from the scrub. There's another burning feeling in Tobio's chest when you accept the bouquet.
Pride.
Shoyo Hinata doesn't really believe his eyes when he sees you walk out to meet him in front of the school at the end of the day.
He's waiting by the front of the building, where he always is on days when your clubs end at the same times and he's able to walk you to the station. It's his favorite part of the week, and the only time he's willing to leave the gym before Kageyama.
Half the team still doesn't actually believe that you let him walk you.
He's grinning like always when he first sees you come into frame, nearly vibrating in place and calling your name as if you can't see him. Your smile is so pretty it catches him off guard, distracts him from his worst nightmare cradled in your arms.
You're ten feet away from him when finally notices, and his cheering stops immediately.
"Hey! Who gave you those flowers!" It should be a question, Shoyo realizes after the words fly out of his mouth, though it sounds more like a demand to tell him. You, sweet as always, don't scold him for his outburst.
"Hi, Shoyo," You greet him first, voice kind as you come to stand at his side. He's visibly pouting at the bouquet in your arms, but he can't find it in him care. "They're from this guy in my club. He asked me on a date, but I turned him down."
He tries not to let his joy show too obviously on his face, but he knows he's too easy to read. With his nerves calmed—at least for the moment—with the knowledge that you turned down the random guy from club, he's able to act at least a little bit normal on your trek to the station.
But now? Now he's on a mission.
He tries to hold normal conversations with you, really, but he's too focused on his secret task. He still carries your bag for you, even the flowers, begrudgingly, and nods along to everything you're saying. Even if he's not paying the most attention.
And, okay, he does feel a little guilty about not giving you his full attention when he waits the week for this very limited alone time with you, but it all pays off when he spots his target.
A flower bed.
Abandoning the bouquet in the basket of his bike he'd been pushing alongside you, Shoyo takes off into the yard of some random house on the way to the station.
You're calling his name in a hiss, but he's too focused on accomplishing his task. He is slightly aware he's technically trespassing, so he's careful to only take a few. Barely enough to be missed and definitely far less than what you deserve, but at least it's something.
He dashes out of the yard just as fast as he ran in, both your and his backpacks crashing with his quick movements. He stops in front of you, all wide eyes and hopeful grins while extending his bounty to you.
Flowers. Stolen from a garden, yes, but he hopes the fact that they're coming from him might account for the fact that they're a little limp from his manhandling.
"These are for you!" Shoyo declares, running on adrenaline and determination. Where he thrives best. "Please don't turn me down too!"
For a moment, Shoyo is frozen. He thinks he might've messed things up, or been too much, like Tsukishima always tells him.
But then you're smiling, and you take the stolen flowers from him.
"They're perfect, Sho," You're always so patient with him; he thinks he might be falling in love.
Shoyo finds just enough self control to not blurt that out, yet.
Kei Tsukishima likes to pretend that he doesn't watch you.
He thinks he's pretty good at it, too, when he's spent half a term watching you from afar without being confronted about it once. If anyone where to ask him, he'd deny it anyways, but there's a smug satisfaction he gets at not being caught.
He's lingering the hallway between classes, listening to Tadashi complain about some problem or another he's running into while practicing his jump float serves. Kei doesn't really hear him, because his attention is solely focused on you.
You're a little ways down the hallway, minding your own business while selecting from the vending machine. You're not in any type of danger that would require him to watch you so intently, but his attention has barely strayed from you since the moment you walked off with a muttered be right back, guys.
Tadashi is still talking, so he misses the way Kei's focus narrows on a second year approaching you, flowers in hand like he's living in some shoujo manga. He tells himself he doesn't care, but he stands straighter and narrows his eyes while watching the exchange.
The guy says something to you, looking like he's never talked to a girl in his life. You smile back—which Kei nearly rolls his eyes at—and take the flowers offered to you with a grin. As a final nail in the coffin, the second year hands you a folded piece of paper.
As soon as the guy walks off, Kei is closing the distance between the two of you. He doesn't even care that he might be blowing his whole I don't care persona, or his I'm not always watching you like a lovesick fool bit, either.
"What was that about?" Kei tries for nonchalance but it comes out more strained that he would've liked. You don't seem to notice the difference in his tone, thankfully, but he doesn't like the way you're smiling at the flowers so wistfully.
"He asked me out." You shrugged, fighting a grin that makes him scowl even more than usual. You hold up the paper he gave you, and now that he's not watching you from across the hallways, he can see the numbers scrawled across it. "Gave me his number and everything."
"Don't tell me you're actually going to entertain him." He keeps his voice purposefully flat, devoid of emotion. You shrug again, cheeks burning, and though he keeps his face neutral, Kei memorizes the way you look all pouty and flushed.
"I don't you," You sigh. "This is the first time anyone's ever given me flowers. Why not give him a chance?"
Kei does not like this answer. But he can't voice it even if he knew how, because it's then that Tadashi has finally made his way through the crowd, complaining about how he was abandoned.
Kei drops the conversation, but he doesn't forget it.
He beats you to class the next day, like usual. His seat is next to yours in homeroom, and he's already set up for the day with notes out and headphones on by the time you enter the classroom.
He tries to act like he's not watching your every movement, but he thinks he might be a little obvious with the way he takes one headphone off his ear when you get close—the one on the same side as you.
"Tsukki, what's this?" You ask, voice delicately soft in the otherwise quiet classroom. You're not drawing attention to yourself, or him, or the bouquet of flowers he left on your desk before you arrived. It makes him a little bolder, a little more willing to be honest with you.
"Flowers." He supplies, rather unhelpfully in his typical bored tone. Your intelligent eyes snap to him, and he has to fight his own urge to look away from your stare. He's crumbling and Kei Tsukishima doesn't crumble. "So you don't have to go out with that lame second year. You're welcome."
He sees you connect the dots, then. That the flowers are from him, and that he'd rather swallow his pride and admit you being asked out bothered him enough to do something about it than watch you go on a date with someone else.
Now he has to look away. The tips of his ears are starting to get too warm for his own comfort. Hence the headphones this morning.
"Thank you, Tsukki." You cheer, settling slowly into your seat as if you'd never seen anything so pretty as the flowers he bought you. Kei shrugs, tugging his headphones back securely over his ears.
"Don't think too much about it."
Tadashi Yamaguchi considers himself lucky to just be in your presence, always.
He's watching you with a focused look on his face while you explain one of the homework problems that really tricked you up the night before. He's walking with you and Tsukki to the club room before practice, where you're go your separate way and head home for the evening, and he's hooked on your every word.
It's why he doesn't notice the newcomer until he's standing in front of you, flowers held in shaking hands.
You're wedged between Tadashi and Tsukishima, so this newcomer has reason enough to be intimated. Tadashi can only watch—in horror—as this stranger holding out flowers to you babbles through some speech about admiring you from afar and wanting to get to know you better.
Before he knows you, you're holding the flowers and the guy takes off. Tadashi doesn't know what to do, not when he sees his chance with you slipping through his fingers. It's not like he's ever made it obvious that he likes you—god, he hopes not—but you are the walking embodiment of perfect.
And someone else just asked you out. In front of him.
"That was..." You laugh nervously, looking between the flowers and the two boys flanking you. Tadashi can only stare, face burning, while he struggles to string together a sentence that doesn't sound completely lame.
"Spare me," Tsukki huffs, rolls his eyes. It snaps Tadashi from his stupor, but just before he can tell his friend off for being rude, the blond shoves his shoulder in the direction of you. "Get it over with now, Tadashi."
And that was probably the worst thing Tsukki could've said before walking off.
He's left standing still, gaping like a fish at you. It doesn't help that you're looking to him for answers, still holding the flowers from another guy.
This is the worst way this could happen.
"Get what over with?" You ask sweetly, not sparing a retreating Tsukishima a second glance and instead putting all your focus on him.
Tadashi is certain his face is red. He's probably sweating, too. There's no stopping his nervous laugh, or the uncomfortable tell that something is up by the way he rubs the back of his neck while being unable to make eye contact with you.
"I-I don't want to sound lame." Tadashi stammers, backed into a corner by his best friend. You don't waver, pretty face twisted into concern the longer he drags this out. Now or never. "But, uh, I maybe had a plan to... to get the courage to ask you... out?"
It takes a moment for his roundabout answer to process in your mind, and every millisecond that ticks by in silence only deepens the wince on his face. He's finally going to do it. He's going kill Tsukishima.
You don't say anything. Not even when you turn, walking away from him. Tadashi feels his whole world fall apart around him for the time it takes you to walk ten feet to the nearest garbage can.
You drop the flowers in the trash, and walk back to him. Now it's his turn for his brain to catch up.
"Okay," You nod, determined, standing in front of him with no flowers and every expectation. "Do it."
"Do... what?"
"Ask me out."
You're so certain in your words, tiny grin cracking your soft lips. You want him to ask you out. He's still reeling from the devastation of watching you walk away from him seconds ago, and now he's suffering the whiplash of you telling him to ask you out.
This is going way better than he could've expected.
— kiyoomi would rather perish via hygiene-related incident than leave the house without at least seventeen of your lipstick marks.
MSBY!sakusa kiyoomi x f!reader
c: fluff!!
a little self-indulgent cs why not? i just remembered that i’m the author.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
sakusa kiyoomi had a system.
it was a disturbingly efficient, clinically precise, and heartbreakingly domestic system that started with you—still half-asleep, wrapped in the sheets like a burrito of warmth and affection—and ended with him strutting out of your shared apartment looking like the world’s most germaphobic, love-drunk fashion disaster.
step three: line up three different tubes of your favorite lipstick shades on the bathroom counter like evidence in a crime scene.
step four: tilt your sleepy face up and murmur, “baby, if you don’t kiss me goodbye, then you might as well throw dirt at me.”
you’d groan into your pillow, muffling a laugh.
“that’s so dramatic,” you’d mumble.
“and yet,” he’d whisper, leaning down, “you’re still gonna kiss me.”
you always did.
the result was predictable: sakusa kiyoomi, outside your building, mask now covered in soft, imperfect lipstick stains—smudges of affection layered over disinfected fabric—looking like the physical embodiment of domestic insanity.
to him, it was devotion. to everyone else? chaos.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
by the time he reached the gym, the other four were already there—bokuto doing handstands, hinata bouncing like a golden retriever, atsumu making tiktoks, and meian trying very hard to pretend he didn’t see any of it.
sakusa strolled in, gym bag slung over his shoulder, mask still secured over the lower half of his face like some divine relic of romance.
bokuto froze mid-handstand.
“BRO,” he yelled, flipping over and nearly face-planting, “ARE THOSE—ARE THOSE KISSES ON YOUR MASK???”
sakusa, deadpan: “yes.”
hinata blinked. “like… actual lipstick kisses??”
atsumu dropped his phone. “nah, this has gotta be a prank. no way you let anyone near your face, omi-omi. no way.”
sakusa narrowed his eyes, exhaling through his nose. “you’re all idiots.”
bokuto gasped dramatically. “oh my god, he admitted it. he’s in love.”
hinata grinned. “with who though?? a disinfectant bottle? LYSOL?!”
sakusa turned his head so slowly it was almost threatening. “it’s from my fiancé.”
the gym went silent.
bokuto blinked. “your what now?”
“my fiancé.” his voice was calm. too calm. “the person i’m marrying. the love of my life. the one who kisses me goodbye every morning. that fiancé.”
hinata’s jaw dropped. “you have a fiancé?”
“i do.”
“like a real one?” atsumu squinted. “not like… a limited edition mask you named?”
sakusa stared at him. “do you want to die, miya?”
meian sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “kiyoomi, you can’t blame them. you’ve never mentioned her.”
“because she’s mine,” sakusa said flatly, crossing his arms. “and i don’t like sharing what’s mine with people who sneeze into their palms.”
bokuto wheezed. “YOU’RE GATEKEEPING YOUR FIANCÉ???”
“absolutely.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
later that day, the team met for lunch, and sakusa was still wearing the lipstick-covered mask like a knight guarding his sacred relic.
bokuto kept leaning across the table. “okay but like… she’s real real?”
“she exists,” sakusa said, stabbing at his salad with unnecessary aggression. “she cooks, she laughs, she has hands that fit mine perfectly, and she—” he paused, glancing at them. “she disinfects her phone regularly.”
hinata raised a brow. “that’s the detail you lead with?”
atsumu grinned. “bro’s in love with a hygiene fairy.”
“she’s not a fairy,” sakusa muttered, “she’s divine retribution with a skincare routine.”
meian was quietly texting on his phone, probably updating the group chat with ‘sakusa’s finally cracked. send help.’
bokuto leaned in again. “so what’s she like? what’s her name? do we get to meet her?”
sakusa’s jaw flexed. “you’ll meet her when i feel you deserve to be in the same room as her.”
“translation,” atsumu said, smirking, “never.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
but the thing about sakusa kiyoomi was—he didn’t lie.
so when he showed up to practice the next morning, hair still damp from a shower, mask freshly pressed with brand-new lipstick marks in your favorite shade that none of them had seen before, they couldn’t help staring.
bokuto gasped. “BRO—THEY’RE DIFFERENT TODAY.”
hinata leaned closer, eyes wide. “he changes colors every day! it’s like a lipstick advent calendar!”
atsumu crossed his arms. “nah, this has gone too far. either yer makin’ this up, or yer payin’ someone to stamp their lips on that thing every morning.”
sakusa calmly tilted his head. “you think i’m paying for affection?”
“no, no, that came out wrong—”
“because i could buy the entire lipstick factory if i wanted to, but i don’t need to. i get kissed for free.”
the smugness in his tone made atsumu physically recoil. “that’s disgusting, man.”
atsumu interrupted, “—risk mask contamination? can’t be me.”
sakusa, voice dripping with disdain: “no one asked you.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the final straw came during a press conference.
sakusa sat beside bokuto, mask still smudged with faint lip prints despite being cleaned (meian begged him to try and wipe them before a conference). journalists whispered among themselves like a flock of gossiping pigeons.
one reporter cleared her throat. “sakusa-san, if we may ask… those markings on your mask—are they… intentional?”
sakusa didn’t even flinch. “yes,” he said plainly, tone dead serious. “they’re from my fiancé. she kisses me goodbye before every game.”
the room went silent, cameras clicking.
another reporter asked cautiously, “would you say it’s a sort of… pre-game ritual?”
“i’d say it’s a matter of survival,” sakusa said, eyes softening. “if she doesn’t kiss me goodbye, my day feels cursed. if she does, the world makes sense.”
bokuto made a strangled noise that was halfway between a gasp and a sob. “HE’S SO IN LOVE—”
atsumu was shaking his head violently in the background. “i still don’t believe it.”
“believe what you want,” sakusa said, standing up once the conference ended. “she exists whether you do or not.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
a few hours later, you showed up at the gym with a lunchbox in your hands and a soft smile on your lips.
the entire team froze.
you waved shyly. “hi! kiyoomi forgot his lunch.”
bokuto blinked. “wait. you’re real?”
“i… hope so?” you laughed, confused but polite.
atsumu stared at you, at the lipstick tube poking out of your pocket, at sakusa’s smug face, and groaned. “no way. no way. he was telling the truth?!”
you smiled, handing sakusa his lunch. “baby, i didn’t forget to give you your kisses this morning, right?”
sakusa’s tone melted instantly. “never, my love.”
he leaned down, mask off now, and let you press another kiss to the corner of his mouth in full view of the team.
hinata squeaked. bokuto shrieked. atsumu covered his eyes. meian muttered something about needing a sabbatical.
and sakusa kiyoomi, stoic and sterile and sickeningly in love, just adjusted his mask—now freshly decorated in lipstick—and said, completely serious,
“told you. she’s real. now disinfect your hands before i set the gym on fire.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
and from that day on, no one questioned the lipstick marks again.
(bokuto did, however, ask where to buy the same lipstick.
sakusa told him hell.
bokuto searched for that shop until meian felt bad and told him that sakusa had meant literal hell.)
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! no nsfw
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, as he settled 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.
That was the lie you told yourself as you sat on the bleachers, legs crossed, phone forgotten in your hand while the echo of sneakers squeaked across the gym floor. You’d only come to drop off Bokuto’s water bottle — the one he always forgot — and maybe say hi before leaving.
That “maybe” turned into twenty minutes.
Bokuto was impossible not to watch.
He was loud, dramatic, unapologetically himself — shouting encouragement, laughing when he messed up, slamming spikes with enough force that the air itself seemed to snap. Sweat clung to his temples, his jersey riding up just slightly when he jumped, and every time he landed, the sound echoed straight through your chest.
You caught yourself smiling.
Then you caught other people watching you.
A couple of first-years sat a few rows down, whispering to each other. One of them glanced at you, nudged the other, and murmured something you couldn’t hear. Their eyes flicked between you and Bokuto — lingering, curious.
You ignored it.
At least, you tried to.
Bokuto didn’t.
He noticed everything.
Mid-drill, his eyes flicked up toward the stands — toward you — and his grin appeared instantly, bright and boyish. He waved exaggeratedly, almost missing the toss sent his way.
“HEY! YOU’RE HERE!”
The gym collectively groaned.
You laughed, lifting the water bottle in response. “You forgot this. Again.”
“I KNEW you’d save me!” he declared, chest puffed out like this was proof of destiny.
But then his smile faltered — just a fraction — when he noticed where you were sitting.
Who you were sitting near.
The first-years weren’t subtle anymore. One leaned back, openly staring. The other whispered again, eyes flicking over your legs, your face, the way you leaned forward when Bokuto jumped.
Something in Bokuto’s expression changed.
The drill ended. Coach blew the whistle.
Bokuto didn’t wait.
He jogged straight toward you, towel slung over his shoulder, jaw tight in a way that didn’t match his usual easy confidence. He stopped at the base of the bleachers and looked up at you.
“You staying long?” he asked.
“Wasn’t planning to,” you said honestly. “Didn’t mean to distract—”
“You’re not distracting,” he interrupted quickly. Too quickly. “I just—”
His eyes flicked past you.
The first-years went quiet immediately.
Bokuto straightened, shoulders squaring in a way you’d only seen before matches.
“…I don’t like when they look at you like that.”
The words were blunt. No joke. No grin.
Your heart stuttered.
“Like what?” you asked softly.
“Like they think they can,” he muttered. “Like you’re something they can comment on.”
You swallowed. “Bokuto… they’re just kids.”
“They’re staring,” he shot back. “And I hate it.”
There was a beat of silence between you — thick, charged.
Then he exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”
“No,” you said gently. “It didn’t.”
He looked up at you again, eyes softer now, uncertain. “It’s just… when you’re here, I notice stuff more. And when other people notice you, I—”
He stopped himself, jaw clenching.
You slid down a step, closer to him.
“You what?”
He laughed nervously. “I get stupid.”
That made you smile. “You’re already stupid.”
“HEY.”
You both laughed — but the tension didn’t disappear.
He stepped closer, voice dropping. “I like knowing you’re watching me. But I don’t like sharing that feeling.”
Your breath caught.
“Bokuto…”
He leaned in just slightly. Not touching. Giving you space.
“I’m not saying you’re mine,” he said quietly. “I just— I want to be the one you look at. The way you look at me.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
“I do,” you whispered.
He froze.
“…You do?”
You nodded. “I always have.”
For once, Bokuto Koutarou didn’t shout.
He smiled — slow, stunned, like he’d just won something he didn’t know he was allowed to want — and gently took your hand.
“Then,” he said softly, “I’ll work harder. So I deserve it.”
Coach yelled for him.
Bokuto groaned. “I gotta go before I get benched forever.”
He squeezed your hand once, then leaned in and pressed a quick, warm kiss to your temple.
“For the record,” he added, grinning again, “I still don’t like when they look at you like that.”
You watched him jog back onto the court, heart full, knowing one thing for sure:
A/N: Thanks for the request dear, Now I gotta write something spicy >:)).
• Bokuto Kōtarō*°.
Bokuto is already riding the high of the century—wedding tux, adrenaline, everyone hyping him up—so when you slide the Polaroid into his palm, he doesn’t even process it at first.
Then he looks down.
His smile freezes.
His ears go bright red.
“—WAIT.”
He looks at you. Back at the photo. Back at you again. His grip tightens like he’s afraid someone might steal it.
“YOU— YOU CAN’T JUST—” his voice drops, reverent, almost shaky, “I’M SUPPOSED TO GO STAND AT THE ALTAR LIKE THIS?”
He laughs, breathless and helpless, pulling you in by the waist with zero shame.
“That’s my wife,” he says proudly, even though his brain is clearly gone.
He keeps the Polaroid in his inner pocket.
Absolutely refuses to give it back.
• Akaashi Keiji*°.
Akaashi accepts the Polaroid calmly. Too calmly.
He studies it in silence, eyes scanning with the same focus he uses in volleyball—except his ears slowly turn pink. Then red. Then dangerously red.
“…You did this on purpose,” he says quietly.
When he finally looks up, there’s something dark and affectionate in his eyes. Controlled. Devastating.
“You realize,” he murmurs, folding the photo carefully and slipping it into his jacket, “that I still have to give a speech.”
He leans in just enough for only you to hear.
“I won’t forget this.”
He absolutely does not.
• Kuroo Tetsurō*°.
Kuroo grins the second you hand it to him. He’s already expecting trouble.
“Wow, bold choice for a wedding gift—”
Then he sees it.
The grin turns slow. Dangerous. His thumb brushes the edge of the photo like he’s savoring it.
“…You’re evil,” he says fondly.
He lifts a brow at you. “Trying to make sure I can’t focus on anything else today?”
He tucks the Polaroid into his vest, right over his heart.
“Congratulations,” he whispers, leaning close, “you succeeded.”
The smirk never leaves his face for the rest of the ceremony.
• Atsumu Miya*°.
Atsumu makes a sound.
Not a word. Just a sharp inhale and a stunned, “—WHAT?”
He stares. Blinks. Stares harder.
“Yer kiddin’ me,” he mutters, then looks up at you like he’s been personally attacked. “On OUR wedding day??”
His ears are flaming. His grin is feral.
He immediately tries to hide the Polaroid—then panics when Osamu walks by and shoves it into his pocket like it’s contraband.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispers, dragging you closer by the fingers.
“An’ you’re gonna pay for this later.”
• Sakusa Kiyoomi*°.
Sakusa hesitates before touching it. Of course he does.
He takes it carefully, eyes narrowing in suspicion… then widening just slightly.
His shoulders stiffen.
He swallows.
“…This was unnecessary,” he says flatly.
A pause.
“…Extremely unnecessary.”
He folds it with surgical precision and places it in his jacket, posture rigid, cheeks faintly pink. He refuses to look at you for a full minute.
When he finally does, his voice is low and very serious.
“You’ve compromised my composure.”
There is no complaint in his tone. Only promise.
• Sugawara Kōshi*°.
Sugawara gasps like he’s been handed a scandal.
“Oh my—” he laughs, covering his mouth, eyes sparkling as he looks between the Polaroid and you. “On our wedding day? You’re bold.”
He softens immediately, though—thumb brushing the photo lovingly.
“You look beautiful,” he says quietly, voice warm and sincere. “I’m the luckiest man alive.”
Then he leans in, smiling sweetly.
“But I’m absolutely farming this for our bedroom.”
Hope you liked it.LIKES AND REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED!
Don't steal,copy,edit or use my works in any form without my permission.
Summary: When Noritoshi comes back from a specially tough mission he can’t hold it in anymore but you’re there to pick up the pieces.
CW (content warning): aged up Noritoshi Kamo, this is slightly angsty, mentions of sex, p in v sex, MDNI (+18), mentions of an injury and blood, allusions to family neglect.
AN (author’s note): Did someone ask for this? No. Did I make this and still go a bit overboard anyways? Yes. There just needs to be more Noritoshi works out there, my boy deserves more appreciation. As always a reminder that English is not my first language and I’m typing this on my phone so I’m sorry if there are any typos/mistakes. Anyways hope you like it! :)
Requests are open so feel free to send them! (you can check the list of characters I write for on my pinned post)
Masterlist
The door slams behind him harder than he meant it to.
Noritoshi doesn’t speak. He’s soaked from rain and spattered with blood not all of it his. His jaw is locked so tightly you can see the muscle twitch beneath his skin. He’s not looking at you, not really. Just standing there, chest heaving, like if he moves too fast he might break something he can't fix.
You know that look.
“Nori…” You call his name softly. No answer.
He moves to shrug off his coat, but his hands are shaking just a little, barely noticeable but you catch it. He pauses. Still won't look at you. You take a step forward.
“You’re hurt.” You say, it’s not accusatory but you say it firmly.
“I’m fine.” He dismissed immediately.
“Don’t lie.” You shot back, voice a bit louder than before, as you look at him a few frown forming on your face.
“I said I’m fine” He snaps, eyes sharp, voice cutting through the air like a blade. And then he flinches. Immediately. Like he regrets it before the sound has even faded.
You reach out, slowly as if you were trying to approach a wounded wild animal, not to stop him, not to fix him, just to touch. And that’s when he finally cracks.
His hand wraps around your wrist and pulls. Not hard. Not rough. But with a kind of quiet desperation that burns hotter than rage. His forehead drops to your shoulder. His breath is unsteady against your neck.
“I almost- ” He chokes, voice rough and low. “I couldn't control it. I let my anger win. And I- ” An that’s when you knew what had happened.
You thread your fingers into his hair. “You’re not him.”
That stops him.
He stiffens against you then collapses inward, pressing closer, mouth brushing your jaw, your throat. “But I’m trying to become someone he would’ve approved of.”
You tilt his face toward yours. There’s no mask left in him. No noble pride, no perfect posture just a man who’s been unraveling for years and finally let someone see the seams.
“You don’t need his approval.” You whisper. “You need to feel something that’s yours.”
And then you kiss him.
Not soft. Not sweet. But with urgency a shared ache, a wordless plea. He kisses back like he’s drowning, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth so he doesn’t forget who he is. His hands grip your waist, then your face, then your back like he can’t decide which part of you he needs most until he finally lifts you, hands on the back of your knees, making you hook your legs around his waist before he walks you backwards to the bed, and lowers you onto the sheets like you’re the last safe place left in the world.
Your clothes mow off before you can even realise it, scattering all over the bedroom’s floor. When he enters you, it’s slow but not gentle. It’s heavy. Intentional. Raw. His forehead presses to yours, eyes locked to yours, and he doesn't look away not once. Like he’s confessing things he can’t bear to say aloud through every roll of his hips, every whispered breath, every desperate "Stay with me."
You cup his face as he moves inside you, and for the first time, he lets out a sound broken and breathless.
“I don't know who I am without all of this,” He confesses into your mouth.
You pull him closer, wrap your legs around his waist, and breathe, “Then start with this. With me. Just feel.”
And he does.
He thrusts deeper, harder not to dominate, but to lose himself. To feel. And when you moan for him, when you whimper his name like it’s the only one that matters, he shudders so hard you think he might fall apart right there inside you.
Afterward, his body covers yours completely, hands still trembling slightly as he strokes your skin like he’s not sure you’re real. You hold him through it through the shaking, the silence, the pieces coming back together.
And when he finally whispers, “Thank you,” voice hoarse against your collarbone…
You don’t say anything. You just hold him tighter, your hand on his back as you lazily trace patterns on his skin with your fingertips soothingly.
Because you understand It was never just about sex. It was about being seen. And still being held. He needed someone to see him, not the head of the Kamo clan, not the man that his father wanted him to be but just Noritoshi Kamo, a man than was more broken that he let on, a man that needed someone to stay by his side.
The next morning, light filters in through thin curtains, soft and pale the kind of morning where nothing has to be said right away.
Noritoshi wakes before you. He doesn’t move for a long time. Just lays there, eyes open, one arm slung low around your waist, your head resting on his chest. Your breath is slow and even. Peaceful. He watches your lashes flutter faintly, the soft indent of your cheek against his skin, the bare curve of your thigh over his.
You're real. You’re still here. And that terrifies him more than anything.
Last night plays behind his eyes like a film he isn’t sure he deserves to keep. The way you held him not just physically, but emotionally, like you were willing to carry pieces of him he never let anyone see. It was more than sex. Far more than he intended to give.
And yet… he doesn’t regret a second of it. It’s completely against all that he had believe up until now, un familiar and terrifying like nothing else and yet it felt right.
When you stir, it’s with a soft sound in your throat a sleepy exhale against his ribs. Your fingers curl slightly against his stomach. You shift, eyes blinking open, and find him already watching.
You smile and he swallows hard. That smile feels like sunlight through ice, a warm feeling spreading through his chest at the mere sight.
“Did you sleep?” You murmur, voice still heavy with sleep but not lacking any warmth.
“A little,” He admits.
You trace a lazy circle on his chest. “You stayed.”
“I did.” He murmurs, eyes not leaving your face.
He says it like it’s a fact. But the weight behind it like he’s surprised he could like he’s even more surprised you let him speaks louder than anything.
Your smile fades into something softer. More serious. “Do you regret it?” You’re scared of the answer but you needed to know where you stood now.
He doesn’t answer right away. But he tightens his arm around you.
“No.” He says finally. Quiet. Honest. “But I’m… not used to this.”
“Being wanted?” You ask him, your voice is quiet but he can hear it resonating somewhere deep inside of him.
He exhales, eyes flicking up to the ceiling. “Being allowed to want back.”
The silence that follows isn't heavy. It’s full. Like it holds everything neither of you can quite say yet.
You lift yourself up onto your elbows, half over his chest, and tilt his face toward you. Your lips are gentle when they meet his not asking for anything. Just reaffirming. Still here. Still his. Still real. And he melts into it.
For the first time in a long time, Noritoshi Kamo doesn’t feel like a weapon. Or a legacy. Or a curse waiting to happen.
He just feels like a man being loved. Quietly. Without condition.
And he holds your hands firmly, his eyes closed, breath steady like if he can just stay in this moment a little longer, maybe he can learn how to want something for himself.
Maybe he can learn how to stay if it’s by your side.
taglist is open so let me know in case you want to be added for future works! :)
The soft chime of the boutique door barely has time to fade before you’re surrounded by the scent of expensive perfume and the rustle of delicate fabrics. You’re here for one reason, the event tomorrow and you’re determined not to leave without a dress that makes you feel dangerous.
Your plan derails almost instantly.
Because he’s standing there.
Tall with short, neat hair that makes his sharp cheekbones even more noticeable. Sleek black shirt tucked into matching slacks, not a wrinkle in sight. His posture is relaxed but controlled, like he knows exactly how he looks in this lighting.
And then he’s walking toward you.
“Hey,” he says, smooth and unhurried, voice low enough that you almost have to lean in to catch it. “I’m Noritoshi. Can I help you with something?”
You blink at him, heat blooming at the back of your neck. “Uh—” You never get shy. Not with strangers. But the way his eyes linger just long enough to make it feel intentional, “I’m looking for a dress. Something for an event. Tight, maybe.”
One corner of his mouth tips upward. “Fitted. I can work with that.” He leads you through the racks, fingertips brushing hangers as if he’s thinking about more than just fabric. “Color preference?”
You shrug, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “Something that’ll make people look twice.”
He actually laughs, quiet, rich. “Dangerous request. You might cause trouble.”
“I’ll risk it,” you murmur.
When he pulls a dress from the rack, sleek, deep wine-red, the kind of thing that promises scandal, he holds it up to you without breaking eye contact. “Try this. It’ll fit your body just right.”
Inside the fitting room, you slip into it, and the effect is immediate. He’s waiting outside, leaning casually against the wall.
“Ready?” he asks.
You open the curtain, and his gaze sweeps over you slowly, like he’s cataloging every detail. His calm expression barely changes, but the faintest spark hits his eyes.
“Well?” you tease.
He straightens, stepping closer than necessary to adjust the strap on your shoulder. “It’s perfect,” he says simply, his voice a little lower than before. “But I think it’s the way you wear it that does the damage.”
Your pulse jumps. “Are you still talking about the dress?”
His smile is small, but it reaches his eyes this time. “Not entirely.”
He tilts his head slightly. “Would you like to try others?”
You glance at your reflection in the mirror, then at him through the glass. “Yes.”
He doesn’t rush. He disappears into the racks with unhurried steps, the soft swish of fabric marking his search. When he returns, he has four dresses draped neatly over his arm, each in a different cut and color, chosen with almost suspicious precision.
“You might like these,” he says, holding them out. His eyes are calm, but there’s a quiet note of satisfaction in his expression.
You take them with a small smile. “Thank you.”
The first is refined, elegant but when you step out in the second, you feel the shift immediately. It’s black, backless, with a slit that makes every movement deliberate.
He looks at you for a moment without speaking, then takes a slow step closer. His gaze isn’t hurried, it lingers as though he’s checking the fit of every seam. “Walk toward the mirror,” he says gently.
You do, the reflection capturing both of you. You catch the faintest curve of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
“It sits well on you,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “The line at the waist is exactly where it should be.”
You glance at him in the mirror, a touch amused. “You talk like you’ve done this before.”
“I haven’t,” he replies easily, his eyes still on you. “But some things are easy to recognise.”
Something warm slips into your chest at the way he says it, as if it’s a fact, not a compliment.
The next dress is a deep emerald green, the kind of shade that makes your skin glow. You’re halfway through pulling the zipper when it catches halfway up your back.
“Problem?” His voice is still calm, but he’s already setting the dresses aside and stepping toward you.
You turn slightly, holding the fabric at your chest. “It’s stuck.”
“May I?”
The words are polite, but they land with weight. You nod once, and he steps behind you. His fingers brush your hair over one shoulder, the movement unhurried. Then you feel it — the faint slide of his knuckles along your spine as he takes the zipper between his fingers.
It glides upward smoothly this time, and yet he doesn’t step away. His hand lingers, just lightly, at your waist. Warm. Steady. His eyes meet yours in the mirror, his expression unreadable but undeniably focused.
“I should take your measurements,” he says quietly, almost like it’s an afterthought. “I design clothes in my free time.”
You hold his gaze in the glass, heartbeat picking up despite yourself. “You do?”
His thumb shifts slightly against the fabric at your waist, not enough to be obvious, but enough that you feel it. “Mm. It would be useful to have the numbers exactly right.”
You arch a brow at him through the mirror. “And you’re offering to do that here?”
His mouth tips into the faintest smile. “If you have the time.”
The air between you feels warmer than it should for a boutique in the middle of the afternoon. “You can take them after I decide which dress I’ll take for the event next week,” you say with a smug little lift of your chin.
But the second his eyes meet yours in the mirror, the confidence wavers just enough to make your cheeks warm.
“I would love to,” he says simply, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. His hand leaves your waist, and he steps back, leaning against the wall with his arms loosely crossed, watching you like he has all the time in the world.
You turn back toward the mirror, smoothing the green fabric over your hips. “Hmm—I don’t like this one on me.”
“It isn’t bad,” he says, his tone soft, thoughtful. “But the first two did more for you.” A pause, then, “The colour suits you, though.”
You glance at him in the glass, and there’s something almost too observant about the way his gaze lingers. “Try the last one, then?” he suggests.
“Yeah,” you murmur, gathering the skirt to step back toward the fitting room.
His voice follows you, unhurried. “What event is it, if I may ask?”
You peek around the curtain as you unzip the dress. “A formal dinner. Black tie.”
He nods once, as if filing the detail away. “Then the last one might be the right choice.”
There’s something about the way he says it makes you suddenly aware you’re about to step out and have him look at you again.
You slip into the final dress, the black fabric clinging in all the right places, glitter catching the light with every shift. The V cutout is bold. Enough that you pause halfway to the mirror, wondering if you can even walk out there without feeling too exposed. From outside the cabin, his voice is low but clear. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just…uh… much?” you call back, smoothing your hands down the front as if that’ll change anything.
There’s a short pause, then, “Let me see.” Not a question, more of a quiet instruction. You take a breath and push the curtain aside.
His gaze lifts instantly. And then it just stays there. No sharp inhale, no obvious smile, just that steady, unreadable look that somehow makes you more aware of yourself than if he’d blurted out a compliment.
You shift your weight slightly. “Well?”
His eyes travel from the hem up to your face, his expression calm but focused, like he’s studying the dress as much as he’s studying you. “Turn,” he says softly.
You do, and the train of the gown sweeps the floor in a shimmer. His gaze in the mirror is the same, but carrying something beneath it you can’t quite place.
When you face him again, his voice is as composed as ever. “It fits as though it was made for you.” And the way he says it makes your pulse trip, because it sounds less like flattery and more like a fact he’s already decided on.
He steps forward without hurry, the faint sound of his shoes on the floor against the soft hush of the boutique. You only come up to his chest, so when he stops in front of you, he seems to take up far more space than he should.
His hand lifts and he adjusts one thin strap of the dress where it’s shifted slightly. His knuckles skim just beneath your collarbone, warm against skin, before he lets the fabric settle back into place.
From this close, you can see the fine details in his shirt, the smooth line of stitching, the way the black fabric contrasts with the pale light. He’s not looking at the strap anymore, though. His gaze is on you, steady but unreadable.
Your stomach flips. “Stop it,” you mutter, eyes darting away toward the mirror. “I’m starting to blush.”
There’s a pause, then the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll try to be careful, then.”
But his voice is quiet, and it doesn’t sound like a promise.
“You look stunning,” he says at last, voice smooth and measured. “You should take this. But only if you’re comfortable enough.”
You glance down at the glittering fabric, fingers brushing over the skirt. “I don’t know. I am but I’m attending alone, and I don’t want sooo many second glances.”
One of his brows lifts slightly. “Alone, huh?”
You meet his gaze in the mirror, trying not to react to the way it lingers on you a moment longer than necessary. “Yes.”
He hums, as if filing the information away, his eyes steady. “Then perhaps, the right kind of company would make the second glances easier to ignore.”
Your lips twitch into a faint smile. “And you’re offering?”
He doesn’t answer right away, but his calm expression doesn’t falter. “I’m saying it would be a shame for the dress to be the only thing keeping people’s attention on you.”
“So you’re indirectly asking me out and inviting yourself at the same time?” you say, grinning at him over your shoulder.
The corner of his mouth lifts, just enough to show he’s enjoying himself. “You can choose what suit I should wear,” he replies, the grin subtle but unmistakable.
Your laugh comes out softer than you mean it to. “You realise that’s a dangerous offer, right?”
“I trust your taste,” he says easily, eyes flicking briefly over the dress again as if to prove his point.
You shake your head, still smiling, and turn back toward the mirror. “If you’re wearing something I choose, you’ll have even more people looking.”
His reflection in the glass is calm, but the glint in his eyes is anything but. “Then it’s only fair we match.”
You’re still facing the mirror when his voice comes, low but certain. “If you decide on this one, I can make a few adjustments. Tailor it to fit you perfectly.”
You turn slightly toward him. “You do alterations too?”
He nods once, stepping closer but keeping his hands at his sides this time. “I’d prefer to. It would be a shame for it to be anything less than exact.”
The way he says it makes your chest feel warm, not just because of the offer, but because you can tell he means it. “And how would that work?” you ask, brow raised.
“I’ll give you my card,” he says simply. “You can come by my studio before the event. We’ll decide on the final fit and the suit.”
You almost laugh at the smoothness of it. “Convenient.”
“I like efficient arrangements.”
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a slim black business card, and slips it between your fingers, not rushed, his touch warm against yours for just a second longer than necessary.
You glance down at the neat print of his name, then back up at him. “So I’ll see you soon, Kamo.”
His smile is faint but certain. “You will.”
The next few days are useless for anything productive. You keep catching yourself replaying the way he looked at you, the smooth timbre of his voice, the way he stood so still yet seemed to take up all the space in the room.
God.
Four days later, you push open the boutique door, the faint chime echoing in the near-quiet. It’s late, barely half an hour before closing and the place feels softer somehow, dimmer in the low evening light.
“Hey, you,” you call, leaning casually against a display. “You have time?”
From somewhere in the back, you hear his voice, warm and even. “Of course I do.”
He appears a moment later, stepping around the corner. Brown slacks, crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. It’s so unfair, the way he makes something that simple look that good. You can’t stop your eyes from trailing, the open collar, the line of his shoulders, the way his hair catches the warm light.
“You’re staring,” he says with a quiet laugh as he walks toward you.
“Yeah, I am.” You grin, a little shameless. “Sorry. You look so good.”
One brow lifts, and there’s that subtle shift in his expression again, the one you’ve already learned means he’s amused but not going to let you off easy. “Apology accepted,” he says lightly, though his eyes linger on yours just long enough to make your pulse pick up
He moves past you to the door, flipping the lock with a soft click. When he turns back, there’s the faintest ghost of a smile on his face. “You look good too,” he says, voice low and even.
“Thank you,” you reply, the corner of your mouth tipping upward. “I pulled on tight clothes so you wouldn’t have trouble taking measurements.” You laugh lightly, but even you can hear the edge of nerves under it.
Black leggings, black turtleneck, ankle boots, simple, fitted, leaving very little guesswork.
“I see,” he murmurs, his gaze sweeping over you from head to toe with the same unhurried thoroughness he’d given the dresses. No rush. No obvious expression. Just taking it in.
And somehow that’s worse than if he’d been openly staring.
He crosses to a counter, retrieves a small measuring tape, and gestures for you to step toward the center of the room. “We’ll start at the shoulders.”
You move where he wants you, the boutique so quiet that you can hear the faint roll of the tape between his fingers.
When he steps in close, you catch the faint scent of his cologne again, subtle, warm, not too sharp. His hands are steady as he guides the tape across your back, but the warmth of his knuckles against the edge of your neck has your pulse skipping.
“This won’t take long,” he says softly, eyes briefly meeting yours before dropping to the numbers.
It’s exactly professional, except for the way every movement seems to take a second longer than it needs to. He shifts the tape down, brushing it along the curve of your sides until it rests around your waist. “Hold still,” he says quietly, stepping in behind you.
You feel the faint tug as he pulls the tape snug, snug enough that it draws you subtly back against him. Your breath catches before you can stop it, and the reflection in the mirror ahead makes it worse: his head tilted slightly down, eyes focused on the numbers, his height dwarfing yours.
The heat rising in your cheeks is impossible to ignore. So you clear your throat and blurt, “You should wear a white suit.”
There’s a pause before his eyes lift to meet yours in the mirror. The faintest smile curves his mouth. “Should I?”
“Yes,” you say, trying to sound casual. “Sharp, clean. It would look very good on you.”
He finishes noting the measurement, the tape retracting with a soft roll. “Then I suppose I’ll have to find one,” he murmurs, his tone as composed as ever, though the glance he gives you feels far from neutral.
He steps around you, the measuring tape loose in his hand, and then lowers himself to one knee in front of you. The movement is smooth, like he’s done this a hundred times before. His hands settle the tape low, resting lightly over your hips. He adjusts it with precise little shifts, the backs of his fingers brushing against the curve of your thigh.
“Legs?” you ask, glancing down at him, one brow raised.
“Mm,” he hums without looking up. “This isn’t only about the dress. I told you I make clothes.” He pauses, fingertips ghosting down the outside seam of your leggings. “And you would look good in mine.”
You almost choke on nothing, your brain supplying about three entirely inappropriate interpretations at once.
Then he looks up at you, eyes catching yours, the faintest tilt to his mouth and adds, smoothly, “In the ones I make, of course.”
The smug little grin that follows is enough to make your knees feel a little unsteady, and you hate that he knows it. He rises smoothly, the measuring tape still looped loosely in his hand. You tilt your head back to meet his eyes, your grin playful.
“I wonder how many women you tell this,” you tease, the words light but edged just enough to probe.
He steps closer, just a fraction, but enough that the space between you changes. The air feels warmer, your eyes level with the crisp white of his shirt and the faint scent of his cologne wrapping around you.
“Not as many as you think,” he says quietly, his gaze steady on yours. The heat radiating from him is impossible to ignore, subtle, controlled, but there, like he knows exactly what it’s doing to you and isn’t in a hurry to pull away. His hand shifts, unrolling the last bit of the measuring tape. “One more,” he says, tone as even as it’s been all evening.
You don’t need to ask where, his gaze drops briefly, then lifts back to your eyes as if to confirm your permission.
You nod once. He steps in, looping the tape around your bust with precise, measured movements. His fingers work deftly, careful not to linger where they don’t need to, yet somehow, you feel every brush of his knuckles through the soft knit of your turtleneck.
For a moment, the only sound is the faint tick of the clock above the counter. He’s close enough now that you can feel the warmth of his body in front of you, the faint exhale of his breath when he glances down to note the number.
Then he steps back, letting the tape roll between his fingers. “That’s all I need,” he says softly.
You swallow, trying to ignore how empty the space feels without him right there.
“I’ll have it ready for you the day before the event,” he continues, slipping the tape into his pocket. “Come by in the evening for the final fitting.”
It sounds like an invitation, even if his voice stays perfectly professional. “Okay, mister,” you say, letting a grin slip into your voice, “I’ll see you the day after tomorrow, then.”
Instead of just nodding, he reaches for your hand and lifts it. His lips brush the back of it, warm and deliberate, before he lets go. “You will,” he says simply. That faint, knowing smile curves his mouth, and you can’t help but match it, even as your pulse kicks into overdrive.
You turn for the door, keeping your pace even, casual but the second the evening air hits your face, it’s like your whole chest is buzzing. God, what was that? Every nerve is awake, every thought tangled up in the way he looked at you, the weight of his hand, the heat of his breath against your skin.
Meanwhile, inside, you’re screaming.
The next two days pass in a haze of normalcy, work, errands, the usual, except every quiet moment your mind drifts right back to him. The calm in his voice. The weight of his gaze. The ghost of his lips against your hand.
By the time you push open the boutique door again, it’s late. The soft chime sounds over the low murmur of cardboard being unpacked.
But it’s not Noritoshi you see first.
There’s another man behind the counter, tall, hair loose, dressed in black slacks and a black shirt unbuttoned enough to show the line of his chest. He’s in the middle of lifting something from a box, but his expression is open, warm, entirely unbothered by the work.
His eyes catch yours instantly, and he straightens. “Oh—” Then his voice carries, deep and surprisingly cheerful. “Noritoshi!”
You hear footsteps in the back before you even see him.
And then he appears, the same calm presence as always, though something about the way he takes in the sight of you makes the air feel a little heavier. The other man glances between you both, a knowing glint in his eyes despite the sweetness in his smile. “Customer’s here for you,” he says, leaning casually against the counter.
Noritoshi’s smile is small but real as he walks toward you, his pace unhurried like always.
“Oh, hi,” you greet, matching his calm with your own or at least pretending to.
“That’s my brother, Choso,” he says as he reaches you, nodding slightly toward the counter where Choso is still leaning, watching the two of you with mild interest.
You glance over at him, then back to Noritoshi, letting a grin tug at your lips. “Oh, so the good genes run in your family, yeah?”
Choso chuckles under his breath. Noritoshi’s brows lift just a fraction, but there’s an amused glint in his eyes as he studies you for a beat longer than necessary.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, voice low, smooth.
You’re still smiling at Noritoshi when Choso straightens from the counter, a sly kind of sweetness in his tone. “She’s the one you were talking about, right?”
Noritoshi’s head turns toward him just enough for you to catch the flicker of warning in his eyes, but Choso doesn’t seem remotely intimidated.
You blink, caught between curiosity and the slow curl of a grin. “Oh? Talking about me, were you?”
Noritoshi exhales quietly, almost like he’s conceding a point. “He talks too much,” he says simply, though the faintest crease at the corner of his mouth betrays him.
Choso just shrugs, smirking. “Didn’t say anything bad. Just that you made quite the impression.”
Your brows lift, and you look back at Noritoshi, enjoying the fact that, for once, he’s the one holding your gaze a little too steadily.
You turn toward the fitting area first, throwing Choso a wink as you pass. He grins like the cat that got into the cream, clearly pleased with himself.
Behind you, you hear Noritoshi’s measured footsteps and the sharp edge of his silence as he passes his brother, that faint glare unmissable. Choso only leans against the counter again, wearing his smugness like a badge of honour.
Inside the fitting space, Noritoshi sets a garment bag on the hook and unzips it with careful precision. “I fitted the bust a little more so you’d feel more comfortable,” he says, his tone as even as ever.
Your brows lift. “You did?”
He nods once, pulling the dress free, the fabric catching the warm light. “You mentioned not wanting too much attention. The change keeps the line clean without unnecessary distraction.”
The way he says it makes you pause, fingers brushing over the smooth material before you take it from him. The weight of it in your arms feels heavier than it should, like it’s already pulling you forward.
“Guess I should try it on,” you murmur, brushing past him. The scent of cedar and faint smoke lingers as you step inside, the wooden boards creaking beneath your feet.
The air is cooler here, quieter, every sound softened by the thick walls. You set the dress carefully across the chair, fingertips dragging over the grain of the table before you start undoing the first buttons.
Outside, you can still sense them waiting, the fabric slides into place easily, cool against your skin as you smooth it down over your hips. For a moment you just stand in the stillness, drawing a steady breath before sliding the curtain open again.
The light spills across you as you step outside. Both of them are there exactly where you left them. Choso with his arms folded loosely, Noritoshi standing straighter, sharper.
Neither says a word at first. Their gazes track you in unison, following the fall of the dress as it sways with each step. The silence stretches long enough for you to feel it settle on your shoulders like another layer of fabric, heavier than the one you’re wearing.
Choso tilts his head, expression unreadable but eyes locked on you. Noritoshi’s lips part just slightly, like he’s about to speak but he doesn’t.
You stop in front of them, the air between you charged, waiting.
Choso closes the gap between you in a few long strides, his arms still loosely crossed until he reaches you. Then he takes your hand without hesitation and spins you under it, the fabric of the dress sweeping around your legs.
He’s a little taller than Noritoshi, posture relaxed but carrying that easy, rebellious air that contrasts sharply with his brother’s measured composure. When you face him again, he gives a low whistle. You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Show-off.”
From the side, Noritoshi watches, not with irritation, but with that small, knowing smirk that’s somehow more dangerous than jealousy. “You look good,” he says finally, his voice smooth, steady. “Fits like second skin.”
Something about the way he says it makes it feel heavier than it should, and you feel the smile still lingering on your lips threaten to turn into something else entirely.
Choso’s still standing beside you, hand sliding casually back into his pocket, when he tilts his head and says, “You know, fittings usually aren’t this intimate.”
You glance at him, half-laughing, half-wary of where he’s going with this. “Is that so?”
“Mhm,” he says easily, his grin widening. “But then again, I don’t usually see my brother this invested in a client.”
Noritoshi doesn’t look away from you, though there’s the faintest crease of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “You talk too much,” he says evenly.
Choso shrugs like he’s just telling the weather. “What? I’m helping.”
You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your cheeks betrays you, and from the look Noritoshi gives you.
Choso eventually drifts back toward the counter, rummaging through the boxes again with a smug little hum, leaving you and Noritoshi in the quiet space between the racks.
Noritoshi steps closer, unhurried, until you can feel the faint warmth radiating from him. His hand lifts, fingers steady as he tilts your chin up, not roughly, but with the kind of calm precision that makes the gesture feel heavier than it should.
“You really look good like this,” he says, his eyes holding yours without wavering. Then, softer but no less certain: “When do I get to pick you up tomorrow?”
Your pulse jumps, but you manage to keep your voice level. “Seven?”
He nods once, letting his hand fall away slowly. “Seven,” he repeats, as if committing it to memory. That faint, rare smile curves his lips again, the one that lingers after you’ve already looked away.
Behind you, Choso mutters something under his breath about “timing” and “you owe me,” but you barely hear it over the quiet thrum in your chest. You change back into your clothes, slipping out of the fitting room while Choso carefully folds and packs your dress into its garment bag.
Noritoshi is standing near the counter, sleeves rolled, attention half on the ledger in front of him. You step up close, close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne again and without a word, reach for the phone tucked neatly into the chest pocket of his shirt.
His brow lifts slightly, but he doesn’t stop you.
You type in your number, then hand it back, your palm flattening briefly over his chest before you withdraw. “Text me when you’re home tonight,” you say with a small, knowing smile.
He watches you for a beat, eyes steady, before nodding once. “Alright.”
You hold out the payment for the dress, and he accepts it without breaking eye contact.
Choso, already at the door, swings it open with a flourish, the garment bag in one hand. “M’lady,” he says in mock formality, grinning wide as he hands you the bag. A wink follows, just in case the message wasn’t clear enough.
You step out into the evening air, still smiling and you swear you can feel Noritoshi’s gaze on you until the door closes behind you.
The door swings shut behind you, the bell’s chime fading into the quiet.
Choso watches you disappear down the street, his grin slow and satisfied. “She’s cute,” he says, turning back toward his brother. “And into you. I don’t even need to be a genius to see that.”
Noritoshi straightens a few things on the counter, his movements precise. “You talk too much,” he replies, but there’s no real bite in it.
Choso leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “If I didn’t talk, you’d still be standing here pretending you’re just selling a dress.”
That earns him a faint exhale, the closest thing to a laugh Noritoshi will give right now. “It’s not pretending,” he says evenly. “She needed the dress.”
“And you needed her number,” Choso shoots back, one brow lifting.
Noritoshi doesn’t answer, but the faint curve at the corner of his mouth is all the confirmation Choso needs.
It’s late when your phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with an unknown number.
Noritoshi: Home.
You stare at it for a second, your lips curving before you even realise. You tap back quickly.
You: Efficient as always.
The reply comes after a pause, like he’s thinking about how much to say.
Noritoshi: You asked me to text. I keep my word.
You lean back against your pillows, still smiling at the sheer Noritoshi-ness of it.
You: Sleep well, mister tailor.
Another pause.
Noritoshi: Goodnight.
And even though it’s just a word on a screen, you can almost hear his voice in it, low, even, and entirely too good at staying in your head.
Saturday rolls in quiet and unhurried, the kind of morning where sunlight slips through the blinds just enough to make the air feel warm. No work today, no rushing, no schedules, just the quiet hum of anticipation in the back of your mind.
You tidy up your apartment, moving through each room with a lazy efficiency, music playing low in the background. Clothes folded, dishes put away, floor swept, every little task a distraction from the fact that tonight is the night.
By early afternoon, you’re in the shower, steam curling against the glass while you let the heat soak into your skin. Shampoo, conditioner, a little extra time with the body scrub, every step deliberate, a ritual in patience. You curl your hair next, soft waves falling over your shoulders, and smooth on a hydrating facemask while you sit at your vanity. The faint scent of rosewater lingers in the air.
Your nails and toes get the final touch, a soft, rosy hue that looks natural but flawless, the kind of colour that catches the light without screaming for attention. Perfect.
You glance at the clock. Still hours to go, but your pulse is already a little faster just thinking about the way he’ll look when he shows up.
You text him your address. The reply comes almost immediately.
I will be there at 6:45.
You stare at it for a moment, thumbs hovering, but you don’t type back. Somehow answering feels like it will make the time pass slower, or maybe it’ll make the reality sink in too fast.
So you set the phone down.
And that’s when it starts, that restless hum under your skin. You move from room to room, checking little things you’ve already checked, re-adjusting your hair, reapplying lotion to hands that didn’t need it.
Every time you glance at the clock, another five minutes have crawled by.
By the time it’s close to six, you can feel your heartbeat in your throat. The dress waits, pristine on its hanger. His text lingers in your mind like a promise.
At exactly 6:45, there’s a firm but unhurried knock.
You open the door and almost forget how to breathe.
Noritoshi stands there in perfectly tailored black slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a white jacket that looks like it was made for him. The black silk bow tie at his collar is neat, but his hair loosely slicked back, a few rebellious strands falling into his face, softening the sharpness.
“Hi,” you manage, though your voice comes out quieter than intended.
His eyes sweep over you slowly, then back up, a faint curve at his lips. “You’re going to make me look underdressed.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you laugh, stepping back to let him in.
As he passes, his hand finds your waist, light, steady, almost like it belongs there and he guides you back toward your room.
“Is this part of the service?” you tease, glancing at him over your shoulder.
“Only for certain clients,” he says smoothly, his thumb brushing against your side as if by accident.
You raise a brow. “Lucky them.”
“Lucky me,” he counters without hesitation, his tone calm but his eyes sharper now, lingering just long enough to make your skin prickle.
You glance toward the mirror, catching his reflection behind you. “Careful, Kamo. You’re flirting.”
He meets your gaze in the glass, not even pretending to deny it. “I’m aware.”
He steps in behind you, fingertips grazing the seam of your dress as he smooths the fabric over your hip. “Making sure it sits perfectly,” he says quietly, though the care in his touch feels like it’s about far more than tailoring.
His hand lingers at your waist, then tightens just slightly, pulling you back into him. The movement is unhurried, deliberate, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through the thin space between you.
When you turn your head, he’s already looking at you. Your heart kicks hard against your ribs, and you’re not sure if it’s from the closeness or the way his gaze stays steady, as if he’s memorising you. His other hand lifts, brushing softly over your cheek, the back of his fingers warm against your skin.
“Shall we?” he murmurs, his voice low, his nose almost brushing yours.
“Yes,” you whisper back, breath catching.
He lets his hand fall, offering you his arm instead. You slip yours through, feeling the faint firmness of his hold as you reach for your purse and keys.
Your heels click softly against the floor as you step into them, the weight of his presence right beside you, and together you head for the door.
The evening air is cool when you step outside, your heels clicking softly on the pavement. Noritoshi keeps you close, his hand resting lightly at your back as you walk.
His car is parked just down the street, sleek, dark, and polished enough to catch the streetlights. He opens the passenger door for you without a word, his hand brushing your lower back as you slide in.
By the time he’s settled behind the wheel, the cabin smells faintly of cedar and something warmer, his cologne, subtle but unmistakable.
“You’re quiet,” he notes as he pulls into the road, his tone casual, though his eyes flick toward you briefly.
“Just taking it in,” you say, glancing at him. The contrast of the white jacket against the dark leather seats, the easy way his hands rest on the wheel, it’s all a little unfair.
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Good. I like the idea of you enjoying yourself.”
You let your gaze linger a little longer than necessary. “That depends on how the night goes.”
His eyes cut to you again, slower this time, before returning to the road. “Then I’ll make sure it goes well.”
The rest of the drive hums with quiet anticipation, the city lights flickering across his profile, every small glance between you feeling like it’s carrying something heavier beneath it.
The hum of the engine fills the silence for a moment before he glances over again. “You’ve been ready for this all week, haven’t you?”
You smirk faintly. “You’ve been thinking about it all week, haven’t you?”
He doesn’t flinch at the accusation, just lets one corner of his mouth curve. “I have my moments.” His tone is calm, but the look he gives you lingers just long enough to make your stomach flip.
You shift slightly toward him, resting your elbow against the door. “And how exactly do you plan on making sure the night goes well?”
“That,” he says smoothly, “is something you’ll see for yourself.”
Before you can press him further, the car slows in front of a sleek glass-front building, the warm glow from inside spilling onto the pavement. A valet steps forward as Noritoshi stops, and he’s already out of the driver’s seat, coming around to open your door.
The moment you step out, his hand settles naturally at your waist again, guiding you forward. The air changes instantly, conversations pausing, heads turning. You feel it in the way the room seems to track you both, the sharp contrast of your gown and his pristine white jacket catching the light.
He doesn’t seem to notice the stares, or maybe he just doesn’t care. His pace is measured, his posture straight, his hold on you unshaken as you move deeper inside together.
If anything, his thumb brushing lightly against your side tells you he knows exactly what kind of picture you make and he’s perfectly content to let them look.
The moment you step fully into the reception hall, the soft clink of glasses and low murmur of conversation wraps around you. The lighting is warm, flattering, catching on the crystal chandeliers and the surface of every champagne flute.
Noritoshi doesn’t let his hand leave your waist, even as you both move further into the crowd. He’s not gripping, just resting it there, steady, a quiet anchor that somehow makes you more aware of every inch between you.
People approach. Some greet him first, others you, but either way his presence is constant, leaning down just enough that you catch the faint warmth of his breath when he says something for your ears only.
“You’re getting a lot of looks,” he murmurs at one point, his voice carrying just enough weight to make you glance at him.
“So are you,” you reply, sipping from your glass.
He hums, that faint, unreadable smile tugging at his lips. “That was inevitable.”
At the buffet, someone makes a comment about how well you two “match,” and his response is immediate, though delivered with that calm elegance he never loses. “We do,” he says simply, eyes flicking to you for just a moment before he moves on to pour wine into your glass.
It’s subtle, but the longer the evening goes, the more it feels like he’s drawing an invisible circle around you both, not obvious enough to make a scene, but enough for anyone watching to understand you arrived together and you’ll be leaving the same way.
At some point between polite smiles and introductions, you feel a gentle but insistent pressure at your waist. Noritoshi leans in, his voice low. “Come with me.”
You follow as he guides you through the crowd, weaving between clusters of guests until the hum of conversation fades. You end up in a quieter alcove near the tall windows, the city lights glittering just beyond the glass.
His hand stays at your waist as he turns toward you fully, the polished mask he wore for the crowd softening. “Better,” he says quietly, like the noise in the main room was too much for his liking.
You take a sip from your glass, watching him over the rim. “You’re not one for small talk, are you?”
“Not when I could be talking to you,” he replies, his tone still calm but warmer now, like embers instead of ice.
Your lips curve. “You’ve been glued to me all night. People probably think we’re—”
“They can think what they like,” he says, cutting in gently but firmly. “They’re not wrong.”
The way he says it, steady, unhurried, almost like he’s testing your reaction, makes your pulse jump. You glance toward the ballroom, then back at him. “And if I wandered off?”
His thumb presses lightly into your side. “Then I’d find you.”
You step in, closing the small space between you. With your heels, you’re nearly eye to eye now, the shift enough to make his gaze sharpen just slightly.
One hand rests on his chest, feeling the steady warmth beneath the crisp white shirt. “Would you, yeah?” you ask, your grin playful but edged with curiosity.
His eyes hold yours, calm but unwavering. “Oh, I would,” he says quietly, the words landing with more certainty than volume.
The air between you feels heavier now, the background hum of the event fading into something almost private. His chest rises under your hand, steady but slower, like he’s measuring the moment as much as you are.
The evening winds down in a blur of warm lighting and the faint hum of music. You’ve had a few glasses of wine, enough to leave a pleasant buzz in your veins and Noritoshi hasn’t moved from your side once.
When you finally step out into the quieter hallway leading toward the exit, you feel his hand steady at your back. “Slow down,” he murmurs, not unkindly, as your heels click a little faster than usual.
“I’m fine,” you say with a grin, glancing up at him. “You just like touching me.”
One brow lifts. “Do I?” His tone is dry, but the faintest curve touches his mouth.
“Mmhm,” you hum, brushing your shoulder lightly against his arm as you walk.
By the time you reach the valet stand, you’ve turned it into a game, leaning in to comment on how “crisp” his white jacket still looks, or how “unfair” it is that he doesn’t even look rumpled after hours of standing.
He guides you into the passenger seat of his car with quiet efficiency, closing the door gently before circling to the driver’s side. Once you’re on the road, you cross one leg over the other, the movement slow, deliberate. “You’ve been very good tonight, Kamo. No scandal, no trouble.”
His eyes stay on the road, but his voice is smoother now. “That’s your version of good behavior?”
“Maybe I’m trying to see what it takes to break yours,” you say, smirking.
That earns you a sidelong glance, brief, measured, but with a spark beneath it that makes your pulse skip. “Careful,” he says quietly, turning his attention back to the road.
And somehow, that single word feels more like a promise than a warning.
You glance down at the way his arm rests on the middle console, his hand relaxed there. Without thinking too hard, you slip your fingers into his, tracing the shape of his knuckles.
“Are you left-handed?” you ask, watching the way his other hand keeps the wheel steady.
“Yes,” he replies simply. A slow grin spreads across your lips. “Oh, me too. You still good with your right hand?”
He doesn’t look at you, but you catch the smallest shift in his mouth, a barely-there smile. His grip on your hand loosens, and then his palm slides, warm and deliberate, down to rest on your thigh. The pressure is subtle, steady, but the weight of it sends a pulse straight through you.
“Do you want to find out?” he says, his voice calm as ever, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.
The light hum of the tires on asphalt is the only sound for a moment until you realise you’re holding your breath. You let out a quiet laugh, low in your throat. “Maybe I do.”
Your hand moves over his, fingers curling lightly as you guide his palm higher over the smooth fabric of your dress. His thumb shifts automatically, brushing against you in a way that makes the heat in your chest drop lower.
His eyes never leave the road, but you can feel the subtle change in his grip, the way his fingers flex slightly against your leg. “You’re not making it easy to drive,” he says, tone still maddeningly calm.
“Then park,” you murmur, grinning when you catch the faintest exhale from him.
He doesn’t, of course, instead, he keeps that steady pace, the only sign of his focus shifting being the slow, deliberate way his hand stays exactly where you’ve placed it.
When he finally pulls up in front of your building, he kills the engine without a word, turning to look at you fully for the first time since you left the event. His gaze is steady, but there’s a heat behind it now, restrained but unmistakable.
“Upstairs?” he asks simply.
“My feet hurt,” you say, drawing out the words in a mock-whiny tone just to get a rise out of him. He exhales, loud, sharp, almost like he’s trying not to smile. Then he unbuckles, pushes his door open, and strides around to your side of the car.
“Out,” he says, low and firm.
You barely have both heels on the ground before his arm hooks under your knees and the other around your back, sweeping you up in one smooth motion.
Your arms instinctively loop over his shoulders, your head tipping back as you laugh, loud, surprised, delighted.
He grins then, full teeth, the expression rare enough to make your stomach flip. With one arm holding you steady, his other hand casually clicks the car locked without even breaking stride toward your building.
“You’re drunk,” he says, the words more amused than accusing.
“I am not,” you protest immediately, trying to look offended, but the smile on your face betrays you.
His brow lifts as he adjusts you in his arms. “You’re lighter than you think you are when you’re arguing.”
The lobby doors part easily as he shoulders them open, still holding you as if you weigh nothing.
“I can walk, you know,” you murmur against his shoulder.
“I know,” he says without looking at you, his tone so even it almost hides the small smile tugging at his mouth. “But this way, I can make sure you don’t get into trouble between the door and the elevator.”
“That’s a long five meters,” you tease, your voice warm with laughter.
He glances down at you briefly, the low light catching the stray strands of hair that have fallen into his face. “You’ve managed worse in less.”
The elevator dings, and he steps inside, shifting his grip so you’re nestled a little closer. His cologne is faint but warm, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest under your arms.
When the doors open onto your floor, he carries you straight to your door, only setting you down once you’re standing on the welcome mat.
The moment your heels touch the ground, his hand lingers at your waist, his other brushing a lock of hair away from your cheek. “Still not drunk?” he asks softly, his eyes searching yours.
“Not even close,” you whisper back, though your pulse is thrumming hard enough to make you wonder if he can hear it.
His mouth curves faintly, like he knows. “Good.”
You drop your purse on the table as he steps in behind you, the door clicking shut. Without asking, Noritoshi heads for the kitchen, moving like he’s been here before, jacket off, sleeves rolled, filling a glass with water.
You’re leaning against the counter when he turns back to you. “Drink,” he says simply, holding it out.
You take it, sip once then set it down on the counter beside you.
Before he can comment, your fingers catch the front of his shirt, pulling him closer in one sharp, decisive movement. His brows lift slightly at the suddenness but he doesn’t pull back.
You close the distance, your lips meeting his, the taste of wine still lingering between you.
For a second, he’s still, just letting you take the lead and then his hand finds the curve of your waist, his other bracing lightly on the counter behind you, holding you in that little bubble of warmth and steady breath.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to murmur, “Tipsy, hm?” his voice low, almost amused.
His lips find yours again, this time with more intent, slower, deeper, drawing you in until the rest of the room feels distant.
Your hand drifts down, skimming over the flat plane of his stomach and toward the waistband of his slacks.
Before you get far, his fingers wrap firmly around your wrist, holding it still. His mouth hovers over yours as he whispers, “You are under the influence of alcohol.”
You shake your head slightly, brushing your lips against his in defiance. “I don’t care.”
He kisses you once more, but this time it’s brief, almost like he’s taking one last taste before pulling back. “I won’t sleep with you,” he says quietly, guiding your hand gently away from him.
Your breath catches, not from rejection, but from the way his voice stays so steady even now. “Not until you’re sober.”
The weight in his tone makes it clear, it’s not that he doesn’t want to. It’s that he’s choosing to wait. And somehow, that restraint makes the heat between you burn even more.
“Then at least stay here,” you say, the words coming out softer, almost sad.
“I will,” he answers without hesitation. “On the couch.”
You frown, a little whine escaping before you can stop it. “Nooo.”
His lips quirk faintly, but his tone stays firm. “I will not take advantage of this. Of you. If you are drunk.”
Before you can argue, he leans in and presses a slow, warm kiss to your forehead, his hand lingering at the side of your face. “Get some rest,” he murmurs.
The touch lingers long after he pulls back, the quiet weight of his words settling into you. And as you drift toward your room, you can still hear him moving in the living room, jacket folded neatly, shoes set aside, making good on his promise to stay.
You pad into your bedroom, the click of the door muffled by the carpet. The dress slips from your shoulders easily, pooling onto the bed before you pull on an oversized hoodie and soft shorts. Barefoot now, the chill of the floor makes you move a little quicker.
Your hair is still curled from the evening, strands brushing over your cheeks as you step into the bathroom. You turn on the tap, cupping warm water in your hands and pressing it to your face, washing away the last traces of makeup and the faint stickiness of the night.
When you glance in the mirror, you catch sight of him in the reflection, Noritoshi, leaning casually against the doorway of the living room, arms folded. His eyes aren’t sharp now, just quietly following your movements.
“You should be lying down,” you say, voice thick with fatigue.
“I will,” he replies evenly. “I wanted to make sure you got to bed first.”
There’s no teasing in his tone, just that same steady calm, and somehow it makes your chest warm. You walk past him toward your bedroom, the oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder. By the time you sit on the edge of the bed, your body feels heavier, sleep pulling at you.
You’re just pulling back the covers when he appears in the doorway, a glass of water in hand, again. Without a word, he steps in and places it on your nightstand, the faint clink of glass against wood the only sound in the quiet room.
Instead of leaving, he sits down on the edge of your bed, close enough that you can see the faint crease where his white shirt stretches over his shoulder.
He doesn’t speak at first, just watches you, that unreadable calm still in his gaze, though softer now in the dim light. Then one of his hands lifts, his fingers brushing lightly over your shin in a slow, absent motion, like he’s checking you’re really there.
It’s not a heavy touch, just warm enough to make you acutely aware of it. “Tired?” he asks quietly.
“A little,” you murmur, shifting under the blanket but not moving away from his hand. His eyes hold yours for another beat before he nods, as if coming to some quiet decision.
“You don’t have to sleep on the couch, you know,” you say, watching him from under your lashes.
“I know.”
“Can you just stay? I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.”
His hand slides higher, resting firmly on your knee, his grip tightening just enough to make your breath catch. “Oh, I want you to,” he says evenly, “but not if you’re not sober.”
“So?” you whisper, leaning forward a little.
“I can stay.”
He stands then, slow and deliberate, unfastening his slacks before stepping out of them. His shirt follows, leaving him in just his briefs and a fitted undershirt, the fabric clinging enough to trace the lines of him.
You scoot over without hesitation, holding your blanket open for him, smiling like you’ve already won.
He exhales, almost a laugh. “You are annoying,” he says, mockery curling at the edges of his tone.
“Yeah, and you’re too hot to sleep alone on my couch,” you fire back without missing a beat.
The corner of his mouth lifts, not a full smile, but close enough before he slides in beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight, his warmth immediately filling the space between you.
He settles onto his side, one arm folded under his head, the other resting loosely on the blanket between you. For a few moments, neither of you speak, the quiet is warm, not awkward, broken only by the faint rustle of sheets as you shift closer.
Not enough to cross any lines, but enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him. Your eyes trace the curve of his shoulder under the thin undershirt, the steady rise and fall of his chest. He’s facing you, his gaze steady even in the dim light.
“Goodnight,” he says finally, his voice low, the kind of tone that hums in your chest.
“Goodnight,” you echo, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you close your eyes.
It doesn’t take long for sleep to pull you under, the last thing you’re aware of being the warmth of him just an arm’s length away, close enough to reach, far enough to make you wait.
It’s early, so early the sky outside your window is still deep blue, not a hint of the sun yet. You stir, shifting under the blanket, and feel him move slightly beside you.
“What’s wrong?” Noritoshi’s voice is low, thick with sleep, his eyes barely open.
“I’m cold,” you murmur, your voice just as soft.
“Come here,” he whispers.
An arm slips over your waist, warm and heavy, pulling you closer. You lift your head as he frees his other arm from beneath him, sliding it around you so you’re tucked fully against his chest. The steady thump of his heartbeat fills your ears as his thumb brushes slow circles over your side through the blanket.
“Mm that‘s better,” you whisper, your breath warm against his collarbone.
He doesn’t answer, but the faint tightening of his arms around you is enough. In the quiet, with his warmth pressing into you, it’s almost too easy to close your eyes again.
The next time you wake, it’s not to the quiet, it’s to the deep rumble of thunder rolling so loud it shakes the windowpanes. A sudden crack follows, bright lightning flashing behind the curtains.
You blink, disoriented, still wrapped in the warmth of Noritoshi’s arms. He stirs at the sound, his hand flexing against your side before his eyes open halfway.
“Storm,” you murmur, your voice still thick from sleep.
His gaze flicks toward the window, then back to you. “I can hear.” His tone is dry, but the corner of his mouth tips faintly upward.
Another rumble shakes the air, and you feel the reflexive pull of his arm tightening around you.
“Not a fan of thunder?” you tease softly.
“I’m fine,” he says, voice low, “but you moved closer first.”
You smile into his chest at that, your fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his undershirt. The warmth between you and the steady thud of his heartbeat make the storm feel further away than it is. Thunder rolls again, closer this time, the sound muffled only slightly by the walls. You stay curled into him, the warmth and weight of his arms far more comforting than the blankets.
“Sorry that I touched you yesterday,” you murmur, your voice almost lost under the sound of rain hitting the windows.
Noritoshi shifts just enough to look down at you, his expression calm but intent. “I don’t mind,” he says evenly. “I just didn’t want to take that as consent.”
The steadiness in his voice makes your chest tighten a little , not from guilt, but from the quiet certainty that he means it. Your fingers trace lightly over his side, the soft cotton of his undershirt warm under your touch. “So now?” you ask, glancing up at him through your lashes.
His lips twitch faintly. “Now, you’re sober.”
Outside, the storm cracks again, but it only makes the air between you feel warmer, closer. His last words hang in the air between you, quieter than the rain but heavier than the thunder outside.
You tilt your head against his chest, fingers wandering idly over the curve of his ribs. “And what exactly does ‘now’ mean for you, Noritoshi?”
His hand at your waist tightens just slightly, his thumb brushing slow, deliberate strokes over your hip. “It means,” he says, voice low and even, “I don’t have to hold back anymore.”
You let out a small hum, pretending to think. “Maybe I liked you holding back.”
One dark brow lifts. “No, you didn’t.”
You grin, teeth catching your bottom lip as you shift closer, your leg sliding over his. His eyes drop briefly, then lift to yours again, a flicker of heat now threading through the calm.
“Careful,” he murmurs, though his tone has lost the warning edge it had last night, now it’s almost a dare.
“Why?” you tease, leaning in until your lips nearly brush his jaw. “What happens if I’m not?”
His fingers curl at your hip, pulling you just that fraction closer. “You’ll find out.”
Another roll of thunder shakes the room, but neither of you look away from each other now. The storm grumbles again outside, low and steady, like it’s waiting for something to break.
Your gaze lingers on his mouth just a second too long, and when you look back into his eyes, you catch the faintest shift, a subtle narrowing, the kind that says he’s decided something.
He lifts one hand, fingers brushing along your jaw in a touch so light it makes you shiver. His thumb drags gently over your lower lip, like he’s testing the shape of it.
You lean into him without thinking, your breath mingling with his.
When his lips finally meet yours, it’s unhurried, no rush, no force, just that deep, deliberate pressure that makes your stomach flip. His other hand stays firm at your hip, keeping you anchored against him as the kiss lingers, drawing out every second like he’s making up for all the restraint of the night before. You shift closer and he tilts his head just enough to deepen it. The change is subtle but devastating, his mouth coaxing yours open, the kiss turning warmer, slower, more certain.
By the time he pulls back, your breathing a little unsteady. “Told you,” he murmurs, his voice low, lips ghosting over yours.
The moment your breath steadies enough to answer, he closes the distance again but this time, there’s no hesitation.
His mouth claims yours with more heat, his grip at your hip tightening, drawing you flush against him. The kiss deepens, the slow, careful edges from before giving way to something sharper, more urgent.
Your fingers slide up into his hair, tangling in the strands that have fallen loose, and he exhales against your mouth, low and rough, like he’s been holding this in too long.
When his hand leaves your hip, it’s only to skim up your back beneath the hem of your hoodie, his palm warm against bare skin. You arch into it without thinking, the motion pulling a faint sound from his throat that you feel more than hear.
Outside, the thunder cracks louder, the rain slamming against the window, but it’s nothing compared to the heat between you now. He breaks the kiss only long enough to glance down at you and whatever he sees there makes his jaw tighten before he leans back in, hungrier, his lips moving against yours like he has no plans of letting go anytime soon.
His hand on your back slides higher, fingers splaying over your spine as he pulls you into him, the kiss turning almost bruising in its intensity.
Your hoodie rides up with the motion, and before you can even think to adjust it, his hand has moved your thigh, gripping firmly enough to make you gasp into his mouth.
That sound seems to light something in him, because the next second, he’s shifting you, guiding you to straddle his lap in one fluid motion. The blanket slips from your shoulders, pooling at your hips, but you barely notice.
He kisses you deeper now, the kind that leaves no room for anything else, his thumb brushing slow, deliberate circles over your thigh through the thin fabric of your shorts.
When you try to push his undershirt up, his hand catches yours, not to stop you completely, but to hold you there, his lips pulling back just enough for his breath to ghost over yours.
“You’re sure?” he asks, voice low, steady despite the heat radiating from him.
You nod without hesitation, your hands already curling into his shirt. His eyes hold yours for one more beat and then his grip shifts, guiding your hands up his torso as he pulls the fabric over his head, tossing it aside before pulling you back in, the kiss even hungrier than before.
What follows is a blur of heat and urgency, clothes tugged away, his mouth trailing along your skin, your nails pressing into his shoulders. The storm outside fades into the background, only reappearing in sharp cracks of thunder between the sound of your breathing and the low, steady rhythm he keeps you moving to.
When it’s over, the world feels quieter, warmer.
You’re stretched out on top of him, cheek resting against the solid rise of his chest. One of his arms is draped securely around your waist and back, holding you in place, the other lazily playing with your hair, twisting strands between his fingers.
His breathing is calm now, almost matching the steady drum of his heart beneath your ear.
“We should start dating,” he mutters, the words casual, but the weight of his hand at your back says otherwise.
You smile against his skin, letting out a quiet laugh. “Yes, we should.”
His thumb brushes slowly over the curve of your spine in silent agreement, and neither of you moves to get up.
Outside, the storm hasn’t let up, rain tapping steady against the windows, thunder rumbling low like it’s settling in for the night. Noritoshi shifts just enough to reach for the blanket at the foot of the bed, pulling it over you both in one smooth motion. His arm stays firm around your back, the other still toying idly with your hair.
“You’re warm now?” he murmurs, the words more felt in his chest than heard.
“Mhm,” you hum, nuzzling closer, your legs tangled with his.
Neither of you says anything else. The storm fills the space, his heartbeat steady under your ear, his thumb still tracing that same slow path over your spine.
Somewhere between the thunder and the rhythm of his breathing, your eyes grow heavy. But before sleep can take you completely, you feel his lips brush the crown of your head.
You’re not sure if you dream the next part, or if he really says it, low enough that it’s almost lost to the rain.
“Good, stay like this.”
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
you made it to the end... still hungry? ⇢ my masterlist’s full of treats.
thinking abt how poorly chronically offline Noritoshi is like let’s be real, his hobby is studying and aiming for 990 marks for TOEIC, i don’t think he has the time to waste on his phone. imagine you tell him, “you killed that” or “you ate that” and his response would be “i eat what? I ate breakfast, yes,” / “i killed? i killed what?”. or when you use new internet slang, his inner dad flare up for the third time that day. “you are always on that phone, your speech starts to not make sense. you know how bad it is to be on your device all day for your brain?”
oh yeah definitely, let’s ignore how he reads articles on his phone every morning while sipping on his black coffee like an old man reading morning newspapers. when the article is so interesting, your ‘good morning’ went unnoticed. you had to tap his shoulder or even take his phone to snapped him out. but yeah, he would still nag you on your screen time. but if you bring up that he also always on his phone first thing in the morning, he would say “at least i learned something from the articles. you scrolled on god knows what with the volume all the way up,”
the downside of this is that he nags, but on the bright side, it’s easier to make him look like a fool for once. sure, he knows a lot but when it comes to trends, he’s the dumbest. worry not! if you tell him about a trending stuff you seems to like, he would look it up alone so he can humour you or even purchase it for you.
if you mumble “you’re so boring,” after you tell him about these things and to his clueless response, he would take it to heart. literally. but he’s not though, just boring in the trending topics department. however, he has a lot of fun facts to share or becomes your personal daily news reporter. “i just read about manul. you know manul? it’s *rambles facts*,” / “have you heard? there was an accident last night. it’s near our apartment,”. after being close to you, you’d see him being more comfortable and actually loves to talk about his research and interests. it’s honestly an achievement worth wearing as an honorary badge.
one more thing, he would stay in tune with the politics. you just have to listen to his rant about them. he’s a middle age dad in a body of a young man in his 20s. don’t even imagine him being actually middle age dad. spoiler, it gets worse with his kids driving him nuts with brainrot phrases. “what are you even saying? what is skidibi?” “it’s a brainrot thing, pa,” “…is there anybody in this house that actually make sense?” yes, he likes to exaggerate when he nags. he has this balance between being a mom and a dad. honestly, he deserves both best dad ever and best mom ever mugs.
extra : imagine him teaching his kid maths. “if you subtract this, what do you get?” he pointed to the equation with his pen. his child, despite knowing their dad’s upcoming irritation, spat it out nonetheless (and for the third time within the study session) “67,”. noritoshi’s jaw clenched in exasperation, confused between wanting to just scold the kid or pinching their cheek. “that’s the third time you said it, it’s not even the answer. is this another one of the rotting of the brain thing you like? drop it. not when i’m teaching you,”. even in the moment of irritation, he would never lay his hands on his kids though, he’s all about breaking the cycle of his dad’s ways of disciplining. (okay now we’ve drift far away from the topic. i’ll save this soft dad noritoshi for some other time wink wink)
hihi that’s all for my yap seesh! follow me on tumblr / tiktok to be fed with more noritoshi content! (shameless plug) (can you tell my brain is slowly rotting from all this tiktok brainrot. someone please put some wrinkle in my brain…)
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