Alive since 1998 | A side blog for some of the most iconic characters I know | Fairy Tail / Haikyuu / BNHA / Demon Slayer / Bungo Stray Dogs | main blog: @jjtherosereblogs
Anime Hot Take That Will Probably Make People Mad:
Fairy Tail is actually a good anime with strong themes and character development (with very valid criticisms like EVERY OTHER ANIME), y'all are just assholes.
kita was in the middle of his daily routine, sweeping the fallen leaves near the school shrine, when he saw you. you weren’t doing anything graceful—you were currently engaged in a very serious, very heated debate with a vending machine because it had stolen your change. you were tapping the glass and whispering, “we can do this the easy way or the hard way, buddy,” with a look of such genuine, hilarious focus that kita’s broom actually slipped from his hand.
he watched the way your nose crinkled and decided, with a terrifyingly calm finality, that he needed to be the one to solve every minor inconvenience in your life from now until the end of time. you looked up, saw the boy with the silver-tipped hair, and your heart did a violent, panicked flutter because he looked hopelessly handsome.
“the sensor is misaligned,” kita said, stepping toward you with a gaze so steady and full of a sudden, heavy devotion that you felt your knees turn to water. he reached out, his fingers brushing yours as he pressed the return lever. “it’s a waste of your energy to be upset with a machine. i’m kita shinsuke. i’d like to walk you to the convenience store to get what you need, and then i’d like to ask for your number. i feel it’s the most logical step to take after realizing i don’t want to stop looking at you.”
#2 ōmimi ren
ren was used to being the quiet one, the one who just observed. he was sitting on a bench, watching the sunset, when you sat down on the other end to tie your shoe. you were humming a song under your breath, a soft, haunting melody that seemed to resonate right in ren’s marrow.
he felt a shift in the universe. it was a slow, crushing realization that he’d been waiting for you his entire life. he watched the way your hands moved—gentle and steady—and he felt a surge of yearning that made his lungs feel tight. you looked up, saw the stoic, tall boy, and gave him a peaceful, knowing smile. “the sky is pretty today, right?”
“it’s second-best,” ōmimi rumbled, his voice thick with a sudden, deep love. he turned his whole body toward you, his gaze heavy with a terrifyingly sweet sincerity. “i’m ōmimi ren. and i think i’ve just found the person i want to watch every sunset with. would you allow me to walk you home? and then… give me a chance to take you somewhere for a snack. i don’t want to miss a single second of knowing you.”
#4 ojiro aran
aran was busy trying to keep the miya twins from killing each other until he saw you. you were a volunteer for the library, and you were currently trying to reach a book on the very top shelf, standing on your tiptoes and making a series of soft, determined grunts.
he felt a wave of affection so powerful it almost knocked him off his feet. you were so focused, and when you finally snagged the book and did a tiny, silent victory huff, aran’s heart did a vertical jump that would have cleared any net in the country. he felt that he needed to be near you. you saw the large, kind-faced boy and gave him a dazzling, appreciative smile that made his heart skip three beats.
“let me help,” aran said, his voice deep and vibrating with an intense devotion. he reached up and easily adjusted the books around yours, his gaze locked on you with a beautiful, heavy focus. “you shouldn’t have to strain yourself. i’m aran, ojiro aran. and i think i’ve just realized i want to be the guy who reaches things for you for the rest of my life. please, could i take you for lunch? i really need a chance to hear your voice.”
#5 ginjima hitoshi
ginjima was busy cleaning the clubroom, his mind focused on doing a perfect job, until he saw you. you were the new assistant manager for the track team, and you were currently trying to untangle a massive knot of measuring tapes, looking like you were about to cry but still trying to laugh it off.
he felt his heart explode. he’d never seen anything as lovely as you in that moment. he felt a frantic need to be the one to fix the mess for you. he walked over, his face already turning a bright, hot red, his heart drumming against his ribs. you saw the earnest, handsome boy and felt your own heart skip a beat; he looked so sincere.
“i’m a pro at untangling stuff! give it here!” ginjima blurted out, grabbing the tapes with a look of pure, puppy-like devotion. he looked at you with wide, shimmering eyes. “you’re… you’re the most amazing girl i’ve ever seen. i’m ginjima hitoshi. please, let me do this for you. and then let me buy you a juice? and then go on… a date? just one chance? i promise i’ll work harder than anybody to make you happy!”
#7 miya atsumu
atsumu was walking through the hallway, basking in the attention of his usual fan club, when he saw you. you were a student from the art department, and you were currently covered in smears of charcoal, trying to carry a massive, wobbling canvas through the crowded corridor. you looked like a total mess, but to atsumu, it was like the heavens had opened up and dropped a masterpiece right in front of him.
he stopped mid-sentence. his fox smirk faded, his jaw actually dropped. he felt a physical ache in his chest, a yearning so sharp he forgot he was supposed to be popular. you caught his eye and gave him a tired, slightly frustrated grin that made his pulse spike into a rhythm that was borderline dangerous. you thought he was way more handsome than the posters made him look, and you felt your face heat up instantly.
“wait—hey! hold on!” atsumu shouted, pushing through his fans like they were nothing. he grabbed the side of your canvas, his hands trembling slightly, his eyes locked on yours with a desperate, wide-eyed obsession. “yer… yer actually real? i thought i was hallucinating. ya look like a dream i haven’t even had yet. listen, let me carry this. let me carry everything. give me one chance, yeah? i’ll buy ya all the paint in the world. i’m being dead serious, i’m falling for ya right here on the linoleum.”
#10 suna rintarō
suna was boredly scrolling through his phone, looking for something to record for his own amusement, when he saw you in the music room. you were practicing a dance routine for the school festival, but you weren’t perfect—you were currently laughing at yourself because you’d tripped over your own feet and ended up in a heap on the floor.
for the first time in his life, he didn’t want to see the world through a screen; he wanted to see it through you. he watched you pick yourself up, shaking your head and laughing, and he felt a spark of interest turn into a full-blown fire in his chest. he had the need to be the one who made you laugh like that every day. you saw the tibetan sand fox looking boy in the doorway and smiled, thinking he looked cool and mysterious.
“you’re doing it wrong,” suna said, leaning against the doorframe with a look of concentrated obsession in his half-lidded eyes. he didn’t smirk; he looked at you with a raw sincerity that made your breath hitch. “the turn is too wide. but… it’s the best thing i’ve seen all day. name’s suna rintarō. and i’m currently trying to figure out how to get you to look at me like that forever. can i take you for a soda? just give me a chance to show you i’m more interesting than your dance moves.”
#11 miya osamu
osamu was leaning against the gym wall, unenthusiastically peeling a hard-boiled egg, until he saw you. you were sitting on the steps outside, happily devouring a homemade spam musubi with a look of such pure bliss that osamu felt his soul leave his body. you weren’t shy about it—you had a grain of rice on your cheek and you were swinging your legs, lost in your own world.
he felt a tug in his gut that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with the way your eyes lit up when you took a bite. he’d found her. the girl of his literal dreams. he fell for you so hard he almost choked on his egg. you looked over, saw the grey-haired twin staring at you with a look of pained adoration, and you offered him a piece of your snack with a shy, hopeful smile.
“that looks like the best thing in the world,” osamu muttered, walking over and sitting on the step below you. he looked up at you with a gaze that was heavy with a quiet, intense yearning. “and i’m not talkin’ ‘bout the food. i’m miya osamu. i know ‘m a stranger, but i’ve just decided yet the most beautiful person i’ve ever seen. would you let me take ya to my favorite fatty tuna spot? please. i really need a chance to see ya eat something else that makes you look that happy.”
#13 kosaku yuto
kosaku was trying to look cool in front of his teammates until he saw you. you were a student from the culinary club, and you were currently carrying a tray of freshly baked cookies that smelled like heaven. you tripped slightly, but saved the tray with a series of incredibly athletic, panicked movements.
he felt his heart do a series of backflips. you were agile, you were talented, and you looked like you’d been made out of sugar. he almost tripped over his own feet. you saw the boy staring and offered him a cookie with a shy, playful wink.
“that was the best save i’ve ever seen!” kosaku laughed, but his eyes were wide and full of a sudden, desperate yearning. he took the cookie, but his gaze never left your face. “i’m kosaku yūto. and i think i’ve just realized i’m in love with you. is that too much? okay, how about this: let me buy you a drink to go with this cookie, and let me have a chance to take you out tomorrow. please?”
#14 riseki heisuke
riseki was busy feeling nervous about practice until he saw you in the stands. you weren’t watching the players; you were currently trying to balance a pencil on your nose while waiting for your friend. you were making the funniest, most concentrated face, and when the pencil finally stayed, you let out a tiny, muffled cheer.
riseki felt a wave of adoration so strong he felt like he’d been hit by an atsumu-serve. you were so cute, and so perfect. he felt a deep, quiet need to be the one who cheered for you. you saw the first-year staring and accidentally dropped your pencil, flustered that someone was looking.
“i… i think you’re incredible,” riseki whispered, walking to the edge of the stands and looking up at you with a raw, sweet obsession. “i’m riseki heisuke. i know i’m just a first-year, but… you’re the most beautiful person in this gym. could i please have your number? i’d really like a chance to take you out. i’ll be the best boyfriend ever, i promise!”
#15 akagi michinari
akagi was running laps, full of energy and noise, until he saw you. you were a student from the gardening club, and you were currently trying to catch a stray bunny that had escaped from the school coop. you were crawling through the dirt, whispering, “psst, come here, you little fluff-ball,” with a look of pure, chaotic kindness.
he stopped running; he skidded into the grass next to you. he took in your dirt-smudged face and the way your eyes were wide with worry, and he felt his heart do a series of rapid-fire blocks against his ribs. he was gone. he was down bad. he was ready to become a bunny if it meant you’d look at him like that. you looked at the energetic boy and giggled, your face contorting into one of joy.
“i’ve got it! i’ll catch him!” akagi chirped, but his eyes were shining with a desperate, sweet adoration. he lunged for the bunny and handed it to you, his face bright red. “whoa, you’re… you’re actually a masterpiece. my name is akagi michinari! i know i’m covered in sweat, but please don’t go. can i walk you back to the garden? and then… please let me take you on a date. i’ve never felt a ‘zing’ like this before, i swear!”
→ the taxi’s next and last routes are to itachiyama institute, nohebi high, and kamomedai high. get in!
n: haha ‘zing’ :3 i’m chewing on a block of dark chocolate rn!! i watched cinemasins of hotel transylvania some days ago.
the silence of the apartment was a heavy, suffocating blanket, a physical weight that pressed against his chest until he was certain his ribs might crack like dry kindling. it had been exactly twelve minutes and forty-three seconds since the double blue checkmarks had appeared on the screen—two little sapphire daggers plunged directly into his sensitive, setter’s soul.
to anyone else, it was a tuesday evening. to oikawa, it was the great drought. the abandonment of the century. the day the sun decided to simply stop shining.
he sat on the edge of his bed, the glow of the phone illuminating the sheer, unadulterated devastation etched into his features. his thumb hovered over the record button. he had already scrolled through three different “sad classical piano” playlists on spotify until he found one with just the right amount of minor-key yearning.
click.
the soft, weeping notes of a nocturne began to swell in the background. oikawa waited for the crescendo, his eyes fluttering shut as if he were currently auditioning for a tragedy at the globe theatre. he drew in a breath so deep it sounded like a wind tunnel, then let it out in a long, rattling, theatrical exhale—a sound that carried the weary weight of a thousand lonely winters.
“it’s getting cold out here, my love,” he whispered into the microphone, his voice a hushed, melodic rasp. “the shadows are lengthening. the birds have stopped singing. i fear that if i don’t hear the chime of a notification soon, i shall simply dissolve into the floorboards and become a permanent architectural feature of this building.”
he sent it. then, thirty seconds later, another one.
this time, the piano was more aggressive. he let out a sharp, jagged huff, the kind of noise a victorian orphan might make while staring at a loaf of bread through a bakery window.
“thirteen minutes,” he groaned into the receiver, clutching his stomach as if he were nursing a mortal wound. “thirteen minutes of radio silence. is this the end? have you traded me in for a more punctual model? i bet his serves are mediocre. i bet he doesn’t even know your favorite drink temperature. please, have mercy on a dying man.”
somewhere, you finally stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around your hair and picking up your vibrating phone with a curious tilt of your head. your lock screen was a graveyard of voice memos. you hit play on the most recent one, and the sound of a weeping cello nearly made you drop your phone.
“you absolute menace,” you murmured, a massive, uncontrollable grin tugging at your lips. you didn’t even bother to type. you hit the call button.
he answered on the first half-ring. “so, she lives!” he cried out, though his voice was immediately thick with a sweetness that could give a person five cavities at once. “i was moments away from calling the coast guard to report a missing person. i had the search party flyers drafted, y/n. i was going to use the photo where you’re eating that giant crepe.”
“i was in the shower, tōru,” you laughed, falling back onto your bed, the sound of your own heart hammering against your ribs. “for ten minutes. literally ten minutes.”
“a decade in tōru-time,” he corrected, his tone shifting from theatrical to something much more dangerous—soft, gooey, and utterly devoted. you could practically hear him pouting through the speaker, his lips pulled into that specific curve that always made you want to hand him your entire life savings. “a shower? without telling me first? the cruelty is staggering. i was sitting here contemplating the void. looking at my volleyball and thinking, ‘what is the point of a perfect toss if the light of my life isn’t there to witness my greatness?’”
“you’re a drama king,” you teased, though you were already twisting a lock of damp hair around your finger, your heart swelling at the sheer intensity of his focus.
“i’m a man in love!” he countered, his voice dropping into that honeyed, sincere register that always turned your bones to jelly. “there’s a difference. most people breathe oxygen, but i’ve discovered that i actually require a steady stream of your attention to maintain basic biological functions. my heart rate is currently synced to your typing bubbles. when they disappear, i go into cardiac arrest. it’s a very serious medical condition. my doctor is baffled.”
“you don’t have a doctor for that.”
“i’m my own doctor. and the prescription is your face. right now. preferably within five inches of mine.”
you bit your lip, the warmth spreading through your chest like spilled tea. it was ridiculous, the way he hovered over you, the way he seemed to revolve around your existence like a moon caught in a particularly stubborn orbit. he was the best setter in the prefecture, a titan on the court, a man who had thousands of girls screaming his name, yet here he was, throwing a fit because you hadn’t replied to a meme of a cat in a hat quickly enough.
“i’ll be over in twenty minutes,” you said softly.
the silence on the other end was brief, followed by the sound of him tripping over what was likely a stray sneaker. “twenty? make it fifteen and i’ll have the good snacks. the ones i usually hide from iwa-chan. the chocolate-filled ones you like.”
“deal.”
when you arrived at his door, he practically hauled you inside, his arms wrapping around your waist before the door had even clicked shut. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your shampoo with a desperate, shaky sort of reverence. he smelled like expensive cologne and the faint, salty tang of the gym, a combination that always felt like home.
“there you are,” he mumbled against your skin, his grip tightening just a fraction. he felt like a furnace, his heat seeping through your clothes. “the world is back on its axis. everything is fine. i’m a functional member of society again.”
he pulled back just enough to cup your face in his large, calloused hands. his brown eyes were wide and swirling with an affection so bright it was almost dizzying to look at directly. he looked at you as if you were the person who had personally invented the concept of color.
“did you actually record those memos with a spotify playlist running in the background?” you asked, leaning into his touch.
“i believe in production value,” he said, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone with aching tenderness. “if i’m going to suffer the agony of a delayed text, i want it to be cinematic. i want you to feel the crumbs of my broken spirit.”
“you’re so dramatic, tōru. i love it.”
he leaned down, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ghosting over your lips. “good. because i have enough devotion to fuel a large city, and i plan on spending every bit of it on you. now, come sit. i have three more dramatic sighs queued up for when you inevitably look at your phone instead of me.”
you laughed, letting him lead you toward the couch, his hand never leaving yours, his fingers interlaced with yours so tightly it felt like he never intended to let go. as you settled into the crook of his arm, he pulled a blanket over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders with a fussiness that was purely, vibrantly him.
he didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched you with that raw, wide-eyed stare that made you feel like the only girl in the world. he leaned in, pressing a lingering, soft kiss to your temple, then another to the tip of your nose, and finally, a slow, sweet press of his lips to yours that tasted of chocolate and absolute, unshakeable certainty.
he was a lot—he was a landslide, a tidal wave, a symphony played at maximum volume—but as you curled into his chest, listening to the frantic, happy thrum of his heart, you realized you wouldn’t trade his chaos for all the peace in the world.
n: i love oikawa so much, man. i sent this drabble to my friends, i think i’m so funny. be my friend pls.
shōyō highlights you so kageyama won’t steal you away.
wc: 1.3k
the crickets were doing their nightly orchestral performance and the karasuno high boys’ volleyball team was currently scattered across the campsite like a bag of dropped marbles. it was supposed to be a peaceful transition into s’mores territory, but nature had other plans—mainly, it was dark. like, advanced dark. the kind of dark where you start wondering if you’ve accidentally closed your eyes and forgotten how to open them.
you were just trying to reach for a marshmallow when it happened.
the sun dipped below the horizon, the campfire flickered low, and suddenly, you weren’t just the team manager anymore. you were a walking, breathing neon billboard. your tracksuit—the one you had meticulously washed and folded—began to emit a hum of light so violent it could probably be seen by a satellite orbiting mars. you were glowing with a radioactive lime-green intensity that made the surrounding pine trees look like they were part of a high-budget sci-fi rave.
“u-uh, y/n?” tanaka stammered, dropping his stick into the embers. “did you... did you eat a uranium bar for dinner?”
you stared down at your sleeves. they were luminous. your pants were luminous. even the little ‘karasuno’ logo on your chest was beaming with the fervor of a thousand dying suns. you looked like a glow-stick that had been snapped by the hand of god himself.
from the shadows of the nearby tent, a familiar tuft of orange hair bobbed into the light—or rather, into your light. hinata didn’t look surprised. he looked relieved. he looked like a man who had just successfully navigated a ship through a storm using nothing but sheer, unadulterated yearning.
he lunged toward you, his eyes wider than dinner plates, reflecting the neon green of your jacket so intensely that he looked like he was possessed by a very cute, very frantic forest spirit.
“it worked!” he chirped, his voice hitting a frequency that probably made every bat in a five-mile radius crash into a tree. “y/n! you’re so bright! i can see you from anywhere! i could see you from the top of mount fuji! i could see you from the bottom of the ocean!”
you blinked, your vision swimming with green spots. “shōyō? did you... did you do something to my laundry?”
he didn’t even have the grace to look guilty. he looked proud. he looked like he deserved a noble peace prize for services to stalking—no, protective observation. he’d stayed late in the gym for three nights straight, hunched over a plastic tub like a mad scientist, stirring your tracksuits in a chemical soup of high-grade, industrial-strength glow-dye he’d ordered from a questionable corner of the internet.
“i was thinking,” he started, vibrating so hard he was a blur. “what if you got lost? what if the woods swallowed you up? what if a giant owl thought you were a snack and flew away with you? i can’t jump high enough to catch an owl yet, y/n! i needed a way to find you! you’re like a little lighthouse, but prettier! so much prettier!”
he was practically foaming at the mouth with devotion. hinata was operating on a level of down bad that required its own geological classification. he was deeper than the marianas trench. he was more gone than a ball kageyama had spiked into the floor.
he grabbed your glowing hands, his palms warm and slightly calloused from the court. “now, even if the world ends and all the lights go out forever, i’ll just look for the green glow and i’ll know exactly where my heart is. it’s right here! in this radioactive jacket!”
“shōyō, i look like a nuclear accident,” you whispered, though your heart was doing a triple-backflip off a diving board.
“you look like an angel made of starlight!” he countered, his face inches from yours. the neon green reflected off his skin, making his orange hair pop in a way that was almost dizzying. he was looking at you with such raw, frantic adoration that it felt like your bones were melting into a puddle of warm honey. “i stayed up so late making sure the dye was even. i didn’t want you to have any dark spots. every inch of you has to be visible so i never, ever lose you in the dark.”
the rest of the team was staring. kageyama looked like he wanted to jump into the campfire to escape the second-hand embarrassment. tsukishima was making a comment about light pollution that no one was listening to. but hinata didn’t care. the world could have dissolved into a black hole at that moment, and he would have just spent his final seconds making sure his grip on your neon-green sleeve was secure.
he pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours. the glow was so bright now that it was illuminating the freckles on his nose. “are you mad? please don’t be mad. i just... i get so itchy when i can’t see you. it’s like my eyes don’t know what to do if they aren’t looking at you. i have to know where you are at all times, y/n. it’s a necessity. like breathing. or volleyball. but mostly you.”
his desperation was sweet, like a gallon of sugar poured directly into your veins. he was a boy who had decided you were the north star and he was a very energetic, very loud sailor.
“i’m not mad,” you breathed, the scent of campfire smoke and hinata’s laundry detergent filling your senses. “but everyone is staring, shōyō.”
“let them stare!” he yelled, suddenly spinning you around in a circle. “let them see how bright you are! you’re mine and you’re glowing and i’m never letting you go into the woods alone!”
he squeezed you in a hug that was borderline rib-crushing, his face buried in the crook of your neck. you felt the frantic thrum of his heart against your chest—a rapid-fire thump-thump-thump that matched the rhythm of a setter’s hands. he was so hopelessly, devastatingly devoted to you that he’d turned you into a human lantern just to ease his own anxiety about losing sight of you for even a second.
as the night went on, you became the unofficial campfire. the team didn’t even need the flashlights anymore; they just followed the luminous green aura that followed hinata around like a moon orbiting a very hyperactive planet.
every time you moved to get water or adjust a tent stake, hinata was there, his hand hovering near your waist, his eyes tracked onto you with the intensity of a heat-seeking missile. he was basking in your glow, quite literally.
later, when everyone crawled into their sleeping bags, the glow was still going strong. through the thin fabric of the girls’ tent, you could see your own limbs shining like a spectral entity. and from the boys’ tent next door, you heard a muffled, dreamy sigh.
“she’s still there,” hinata’s voice whispered, sounding utterly intoxicated with relief. “i can see the tent glowing. she’s right there. she’s safe. she’s so bright. i love her so much it hurts my teeth.”
you curled up in your radioactive sleeping bag, a goofy, helpless grin plastered on your face. you were a neon disaster, a walking safety hazard, and the absolute center of hinata’s universe.
and as you drifted off to sleep, you knew that if you so much as shifted an inch, a certain orange-haired middle blocker would be awake and staring at the green light, his heart overflowing with the kind of frantic, beautiful love that could light up the entire world.
n: isn’t hinata just so cute? brazil hinata however 🤤 hinata should be more popular cs he’s the main character, duh.
bestfriend!kei accidentally rats himself out for having a huge crush on you.
wc: 1.4k
usually, the air in tsukishima’s room smells like expensive laundry detergent and the faint, lingering scent of old books, but today it was saturated with something far more lethal: the scent of your shampoo. it was a tactical assault on his senses. he sat at his desk, pretending to care about a history textbook, but his brain was busy cataloging the exact frequency of the fabric of your hoodie rubbing against his bean bag chair.
he was currently enduring a very specific kind of torture, one where he had to pretend that your presence didn’t make his pulse do a frantic tap-dance against his ribs. it was exhausting. he deserved a medal, or perhaps a small kingdom, for the restraint he was showing by not simply collapsing at your feet and asking you to step on him.
“i’m heading out to the convenience store,” you announced, stretching your arms over your head. the movement caused your shirt to ride up a fraction of an inch, and tsukishima felt his soul temporarily leave his body through his tear ducts. “do you want anything?”
he didn’t even look up. if he looked up, he was compromised. the golden light of the afternoon was hitting your hair in a way that made him want to write a five-page thesis on the physics of light reflection.
“yeah,” he muttered, his voice a dry rasp that betrayed absolutely nothing—he hoped. “your affection. but whatever.”
the silence that followed was heavy enough to crush a small sedan. tsukishima froze. the words had slipped out like a rogue spy escaping a high-security prison. his heart was trying to punch its way through his sternum to find a more dignified owner.
“what?” you asked, tilting your head.
tsukishima finally turned, his face a masterpiece of practiced indifference, though his ears were glowing a shade of red usually reserved for emergency flares and fire trucks.
“what.” he repeated, deadpan.
“did you just ask for my affection?”
“i asked for strawberry shortcake,” he lied, the falsehood so blatant it practically grew a nose. “clearly, the lack of sugar is making you hallucinate. it’s a tragic symptom of your deteriorating mental faculties. go buy your snacks and leave me to die in peace.”
“kei,” you said, stepping closer. you didn’t call him ‘kei’ often. usually, it was nicknames or just a sharp poke to the ribs. when you said his name like that—soft, like something just shared between you two—it felt like a physical weight pressing against his lungs. “i heard you.”
tsukishima felt like a cornered animal, if that animal was six-foot-three, wore glasses, and was hopelessly in love with a girl who thought he was just a grumpy beanpole. he pushed his glasses up his nose, the plastic clicking against his skin. he wanted to vanish. he wanted to be a puddle. he wanted to be the very floorboards you were standing on so he could support the weight of your entire life.
“your hearing is as questionable as your taste in movies,” he snapped, though the bite was gone. his hands were shoved so deep into his pockets he might have been touching his kneecaps.
you didn’t back down. instead, you leaned into his space, your eyes shimmering with a mix of amusement and something that made his knees feel like they were made of overcooked noodles. “you’re blushing.”
“it’s the lighting.”
“it’s four in the afternoon and we’re in the shade.”
“the sun is reflecting off the neighbor’s roof,” he countered, his brain scrambling for any logical explanation that didn’t involve him admitting he would literally let you ruin his life if you asked nicely.
you reached out, your fingers grazing his forearm. the contact was electric. to tsukishima, it felt like being struck by lightning, except the lightning was warm and smelled like fruit. he felt a desperate, localized heat blooming wherever you touched him. he was a goner. he was a pathetic, shivering mess of a man disguised as a cynical middle blocker.
“if you wanted affection,” you whispered, moving even closer until he could see the tiny flecks of sparkles in your eyes, “you could have just asked. you don’t have to be a weirdo about it.”
“i’m not a weirdo,” he breathed, his height suddenly feeling like a disadvantage because he had to look down so far to see the person who held his entire cardiac rhythm in the palm of her hand. “i’m a person with standards. standards that you’re currently vibrating against.”
“shut up,” you laughed, and the sound was so bright it felt like a direct insult to every miserable thought he’d ever had.
before he could formulate a witty retort about your lack of decorum, you surged forward. you buried your face in the crook of his neck, your arms wrapping around his waist.
tsukishima stopped breathing. his nervous system went into a full-scale lockdown. he felt the soft pressure of your chest against his, the puff of your breath against his skin, and the world simply ceased to exist. there was no volleyball, no exams, no annoying teammates—only the weight of you.
his hands hovered in the air for a second, trembling like a victorian orphan in a blizzard, before he finally broke. he collapsed into the embrace, his long arms winding around you with a ferocity that bordered on primal. he tucked his chin over your head, squeezing you so tight he was worried he might actually merge with your atoms.
“you’re so warm,” he murmured into your hair, his voice losing every ounce of its defensive edge. it was a vulnerable sound, a complete surrender. “it’s annoying. everything about you is an inconvenience to my peace of mind.”
“is that so?” you teased, muzzling into his sweater. “should i let go?”
“if you let go, i’m filing a police report for emotional battery,” he threatened, though he was currently stroking the back of your head with a tenderness that could have melted a glacier.
he was so far gone. he was wandering in the desert of your attention and he never wanted to find an exit. the way you fit perfectly under his chin felt like a cosmic joke, a puzzle piece designed by a deity who specifically wanted to see tsukishima kei lose his entire mind.
he pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a reverence usually reserved for ancient artifacts. his expression was no longer bored or smug; it was tender. he looked at you like you were the only source of oxygen in a vacuum.
“i don’t want anything from the store,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a low, honeyed register. “i was being literal. i want you to stay here and keep making me feel like my heart is going to explode. it’s a very interesting sensation for me. i’d like to study it for the next fifty to sixty years.”
you beamed at him, a smile so radiant it probably could have powered a small city for a month. “fifty years? that’s a long time, tsukki.”
“i’m a very thorough student,” he whispered, leaning down.
when his lips finally met yours, it was a bit clumsy at first—the height difference was a logistical nightmare—but then his hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you upward, and everything clicked. it tasted like strawberry lip balm and the kind of quiet, domestic forever that tsukishima had spent his whole life pretending he didn’t want.
he kissed you like he was trying to memorize the texture of your soul. he kissed you with the bottled-up desperation of a thousand nights spent staring at his ceiling, wondering if you could hear his heart screaming through the walls.
when you finally broke for air, he kept his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes closed. his glasses were slightly crooked, and his hair was a disaster from your fingers running through it. he looked human. he looked happy.
“forget the store,” you breathed, clutching the front of his shirt. “i think i have everything i need right here.”
tsukishima let out a huff of a laugh, a genuine, throat-deep sound that vibrated through both of your chests. he pulled you back into the circle of his arms, burying his face in your shoulder once more, determined to never let another inch of space come between you again.
the history textbook remained forgotten on the desk, its pages fluttering in the breeze, utterly useless compared to the lesson he was currently learning about the gravity of a girl who finally loved him back.
n: this was supposed to be a crackfic but i somehow turned it into a sweet fic.
rintarō takes photos of you instead of the scenery.
wc: 1.2k
there was a specific brand of silence that followed suna around, a quietness that usually signaled he was either deep in thought or currently plotting the social demise of atsumu miya. during this particular school trip to the mountain outskirts, it was neither. he was wielding his phone like a high-precision medical instrument, his thumb hovering over the shutter button with the kind of focus usually reserved for professional snipers or people trying to catch a shiny rayquaza in the wild.
you had spent the better part of the afternoon wandering through the botanical gardens and the winding forest paths, occasionally glancing back to see him lagging behind. every time you turned around, he was crouched near a bush or leaning precariously against a maple tree, his narrow eyes locked onto his screen.
“did you find a cool bug or something?” you asked, pausing by a stone lantern.
“something like that,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrated in the cool mountain air. he didn’t look up. he just adjusted his angle by three inches, his tongue poking out the tiniest bit in concentration. ”the lighting here is... serene.”
“serene?” you laughed, the sound echoing through the trees. “suna, it’s a pile of rocks and some moss. we have that at home.”
“you don’t understand the composition,” he replied, finally pocketing the device and strolling toward you with that lazy, liquid gait of his. he looked like he was made of hinges and secrets. he reached out, his long fingers trailing briefly over the top of your head as he passed, a touch so light it felt like a hallucination. “go on. walk faster. i think there’s a waterfall up ahead that deserves my attention.”
you didn’t suspect a thing. why would you? suna was a creature of observation. he liked to watch. he liked to document the absurdity of the world from the sidelines. you simply assumed he was building a folder of “aesthetic landscapes” to rot in his gallery, or perhaps a collection of blurry photos of his teammates looking like cryptids.
it wasn’t until the bus ride back, when the cabin was bathed in the hazy, orange glow of the setting sun and the rest of the class had devolved into a collective nap, that the truth came out. suna was fast asleep next to you, his head tilted back against the seat, his jawline looking sharp enough to slice through diamond. his phone was resting in his lap, the screen still glowing faintly because he’d forgotten to lock it.
curiosity didn’t kill the cat; but it made it pick up the phone.
you slid the device from his grip, your heart doing a little rhythmic gymnastic routine in your chest. you expected to see trees. maybe a panoramic view of the valley. instead, when you opened the gallery, you were met with a wall of... you.
it was staggering. it was a digital shrine.
there was a photo of you from three hours ago, squinting at a map with your nose crinkled in a way that made you look like a disgruntled bunny. then, a series of at least twenty shots of the back of your head as you walked through the maple grove, the sunlight filtering through your hair. he’d captured you mid-laugh, your mouth wide and eyes bright; he’d captured you yawning; he’d even captured a close-up of your hand hovering over a wildflower.
it went on forever. scrolling down felt like descending into a deep, dark well of devotion. there was a photo of your shoes next to his. a photo of your reflection in a puddle. a photo of you sleeping against the bus window five minutes ago, looking absolutely ungraceful with your cheek pressed against the glass.
he hadn’t taken a single picture of the waterfall. not one.
“find anything interesting?”
the voice was right in your ear. you jumped, nearly dropping the phone onto the grimy bus floor. suna was awake, though his eyes were still heavy with sleep, hooding his gaze until he looked even more like a predator than usual. he didn’t look embarrassed. he didn’t look caught. he just looked... hungry.
“suna,” you whispered, feeling your face heat up until you felt like a human radiator. “there are three hundred photos of me here. in the last four hours.”
"is that all?" he leaned over, his shoulder pressing firmly against yours, forcing you to feel the radiating heat of his body. he took the phone back but didn’t put it away. instead, he zoomed in on a photo of your earlobe. “i thought i took more. i must have been distracted by the subject matter.”
“you told me you were photographing ‘interesting things’!” you hissed, though your heart was currently trying to exit your ribcage via your throat. “i’m not a landmark!”
“to me, you’re the only landmark worth visiting,” he said, his voice dropping to a frequency that made your toes curl inside your sneakers. he flicked to the next photo—one where you were mid-stride, looking particularly clumsy. “look at this one. the way your hair is flying? that’s art. i’m thinking about getting it framed. or maybe tattooed on my inner eyelid so i never have to go a second without seeing it.”
“you’re terrifying,” you breathed, though you were smiling so hard it actually hurt. “literally a stalker. i’m calling the police.”
“tell them to bring a high-capacity hard drive,” he countered, sliding his arm around the back of your seat so his hand rested on your far shoulder, effectively caging you in. “because i’m not done. i still need to document how your eyes look when the sun hits the horizon. it’s a very specific shade of ‘i’m never letting you go’.”
he leaned in closer, the tip of his nose brushing against your temple. the air between you felt thick, charged with the kind of electricity that could power a small city. suna rintarō, the boy who usually couldn’t be bothered to show emotion, was looking at you like you were the answer to a question he’d been asking his entire life.
“why?” you asked softly, the word barely a breath.
“because every time i look at something else, i feel like i’m wasting my vision,” he admitted, his honesty hitting you like a physical weight. he reached down, his fingers intertwining with yours, squeezing tightly. “you’re the only thing that isn’t boring. you’re the only thing that matters.”
he tilted your chin up, his thumb grazing your lower lip. for a second, the bus and the snoring students and the winding mountain roads vanished. there was only the smell of his laundry detergent and the intensity of his gaze.
“now stay still,” he murmured, bringing the phone up one-handed to snap a photo of you at point-blank range, your faces inches apart. “i need to record exactly how much you love me right now. for the archives.”
you didn’t pull away. instead, you buried your face in his neck, pressing your burning cheeks against his skin. he laughed—a rare, melodic sound—and wrapped both arms around you, holding you so close you could hear the steady, frantic thumping of his own heart, proving that for all his cool composure, he was just as wrecked as you were.
the camera roll continued to grow, one heartbeat at a time.
n: i feel so sick rn, someone help !! send me your cute fluffy pets here or on discord @/niquru
the glow from your phone screen felt like a spotlight in the dark, highlighting the absolute tragedy of your kitchen pantry. a singular, lonely can of chickpeas stared back at you, mocking your empty stomach and the profound lack of serotonin in your system. you shifted your weight, the floorboards groaning under your feet, and let out a sigh that sounded suspiciously like a dying whale.
it’s 1 am. a time for ghosts, bad decisions, and, apparently, a complete lack of snack inventory.
you pulled up your messages, your thumbs hovering over the contact that had been saved as ‘eita’ with a chaotic array of heart emojis. a flicker of hesitation crossed your mind. he had practice early. he was probably sleeping, dreaming of setting volleyballs or doing whatever setter things he did in his spare time. but the hunger was a physical ache, a sharp, demanding pang that made your head spin.
you typed, your fingers clumsy with exhaustion: “hey. i’m currently starving to death and if i don’t consume a snickers bar and those chips i like within the next hour, i’ll perish.”
you hit send, fully intending to lock your phone, crawl back into bed, and accept your fate as a martyr of the midnight munchies. you figured he would wake up to the message in the morning, laugh at the dramatics, and maybe tease you about your inability to maintain a grocery budget.
you managed three steps toward your bedroom before a sharp, aggressive banging echoed against your front door.
not a knock. a frantic, rhythmic pounding that sounded like someone was trying to break into a bank vault.
your eyebrows shot up into your hairline. you navigated the dark living room, tripping over a stray sneaker, and yanked the door open.
semi stood there, breathing like he had just finished a marathon. his hair—usually styled with precision that defied gravity—was an absolute disaster, stuck up in wild, chaotic directions as if he had run his hands through it a thousand times in a panic. his hoodie was half-zipped, revealing a rumpled t-shirt underneath, and he had one sneaker on backwards.
he looked like he had been dragged through a bush, sprinted across town, and then been hit by a truck—and yet, he was beaming at you.
“don’t ask how fast i ran,” he wheezed, his chest heaving. he held up a plastic grocery bag that was crinkled and leaking a little bit of salsa from a jar. “i saw the notification and assumed the building was on fire. or that you were dying from starvation. so i grabbed the snacks. i ran here.”
you blinked, stunned into silence. the cool night air drifted into the hallway, but the heat radiating off him was immense. he looked entirely frantic, a man possessed by the singular goal of feeding you.
“you ran?” you echoed, leaning against the doorframe, watching as he tried to catch his breath. “eita, it’s 1 am. you could have gotten a ride. or walked. or, i don’t know, slept through the night.”
he pushed his hair back, a sheepish, lopsided grin spreading across his face. his eyes, usually sharp and calculating on the court, were soft, searching your face for any sign of distress. “a ride? traffic at this hour is unpredictable. walking takes too long. my legs are my strongest asset, so i utilized them. besides,” he took a step into your hallway, his eyes crinkling at the corners, “i saw ‘starving’ and ‘perish’ and my brain short-circuited. i didn’t have time for logical thought processes.”
the absolute absurdity of the situation hit you, and you started laughing—a breathless, genuine sound that seemed to make his shoulders drop in relief. he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with his foot, and kicked off his slippers. the backwards one slipped off with a soft thud.
“you’re ridiculous,” you started, then stopped yourself, biting your lip. “you’re intense. and slightly terrifying.”
“i’m a man of action,” he countered, wandering toward your kitchen like he owned the place. he set the grocery bag on your counter with a dramatic flourish. “i see a problem, i solve the problem. you require sustenance? i provide sustenance.”
you followed him, leaning against the counter as he began unloading the bag. he had clearly cleared out an entire convenience store shelf. there were three kinds of chocolate, the specific spicy chips you liked, a container of yogurt, and a bottle of energy drink that looked like it contained enough caffeine to power a small village.
he was curating a survival kit just for you.
“you bought the spicy ones,” you noted, picking up the bag.
“you mentioned them once,” he said, turning to look at you. he was leaning against your counter, his arms crossed over his chest, his hoodie still half-zipped. the disarray of his appearance somehow made him look more real, more human than the polished athlete the world saw. his gaze held a weight to it, a heaviness that made your breath catch in your throat. “i have a good memory when it comes to the things that make you happy.”
you felt heat creep up your neck, something warm and sweet settling in your stomach that had nothing to do with the snacks. “you’re going to be exhausted for practice later.”
“practice is later,” he replied, waving a hand dismissively. “you’re here now. that is the only priority.”
he reached out, his hand coming to rest on the edge of the counter, fingers brushing against your arm. his skin was warm, a stark contrast to the chilled night air. he looked at you with an expression that was almost reverent, as if he couldn’t quite believe you were standing there in your oversized t-shirt, messy hair, looking like a disaster, yet he seemed to think you were the center of the universe.
“you know,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, losing the playful, frantic edge he had when he arrived. “i would have brought the whole store if i thought it would make you smile like that.”
you moved closer, feeling the gravity between you shift. he was a setter, a man whose entire life revolved around anticipating the needs of others, around the precise movement of fingers and the trajectory of a ball. but here, in the silence of your kitchen, his focus was entirely on you. he didn’t need to read the court to know exactly what you were thinking. he knew.
he reached up, his fingers lingering on your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw with a gentleness that made your heart hammer against your ribs. “do you have any idea how much you occupy my thoughts?” he asked, his voice low, intimate. “i spend all day thinking about you. wondering if you ate, wondering if you’re sleeping, wondering if you’re happy. and then you send a text like that, and it’s like... everything else vanishes. there is only you.”
the air in the kitchen felt charged, thick with the weight of his words. he was so sincere it made your chest ache. he wasn’t playing a game. he wasn’t trying to be cool. he’s standing in your kitchen at 1 am, smelling like sweat and convenience store chips, telling you that you were his entire world.
you reached up, grabbing his hand and pressing a kiss to his palm. he shivered, a small, involuntary movement, and his eyes darkened.
“stay,” you whispered, the request feeling less like a question and more like a lifeline.
he didn’t hesitate. he never did. “i wasn’t planning on going anywhere else.”
you moved into his space, wrapping your arms around his waist. he exhaled a breath he seemed to have been holding since he left his house, his arms closing around you, pulling you flush against him. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hair tickling your skin, and you could feel the rhythmic thump of his heart against your chest. it was fast, still racing from his sprint, but beneath that, there was a steady, grounding beat that you knew was for you.
“we should probably eat,” you mumbled into his hoodie.
“in a minute,” he murmured against your collarbone, his voice vibrating through your skin. “let me hold you for a minute first. my heart’s still recovering from the sheer panic of thinking you were starving.”
you laughed, a soft, muffled sound, and tightened your grip on his hoodie. he held you tighter, his hands roaming up to rest on your waist, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your back. the silence of the night wrapped around you, insulating you from the rest of the world.
it was the most mundane, beautiful thing you had ever experienced.
later, you would sit on the floor of your living room, the snack bags torn open, crumbs scattered, watching a show neither of you cared about. he would fall asleep with his head in your lap, his fingers hooked into your hem, refusing to let go even in his dreams. he would look like an angel, his sharp features softened by sleep, his chaotic hair finally settling into a messy halo.
but for now, in the kitchen, with the moonlight filtering through the window, you were content to just exist in the space he created. he’s your setter, your personal delivery service, your frantic, golden-hearted mess of a boy who would cross city limits just to make sure you didn’t have to face your hunger alone.
he pulled back slightly, just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression earnest and entirely unguarded. “next time,” he said, his voice a soft, rough promise, “just tell me earlier. i can always run faster.”
you leaned up, kissing him, the taste of salt and sugar and something distinctly, uniquely him lingering on your lips. he groaned into the kiss, a sound of pure, unadulterated devotion, and pulled you closer, as if he were trying to merge your two realities into one.
there was no need for words. he was here. he had run through the night, fought off the exhaustion, and arrived at your door because you were the only thing that mattered.
and as you stood there, anchored by his arms, you knew that if you called for him at 3 am, at 5 am, or in the middle of a thunderstorm, he would be there. he would be there, and he would probably be running.
tangentwithtanner
gummygunk
andulkaphoto
romaincrisis
origamiaround
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
