Sakusa Kiyoomi finds you in an old dusty gardening shed, ten minutes away from the chapel, you're kneeling down on the ground, the hem of your gown soiled by the dirt. His hand leans on the doorframe as he tries to catch his breath. He looks down at you, your lace covered hands pressed against your face.
He says your name softly and you gasp, trying to stand up even when you can't even feel your legs. He kneels down in front of you, his knees pressing against the dirt and grass beneath you.
"Kiyoomi your pants," you fuss, weakly trying to force him to stand back up.
"Do you think I care about my pants now?" he asks, firmly, "what were you thinking?"
The frown on your face deepens before you break into another sob. Your hand fisted above where your heart lies.
"I feel so terrible," you shake your head, "but I don't regret it and it makes me feel worse."
He swallows before grabbing your fisted hand into his, "Did he hurt you? Did he cheat on you?"
"God, no!" your body shakes as your sobs deepened, "He did not nothing wrong, its me, its all me, I-" your body jerks with every breath.
He hugs you and carefully removes the tiara that attached to your veil sitting on top of your head. He untangles your hair from its intricate style as he holds you, waiting for you to calm down.
"Talk to me," he asserts, "talk to me so I can understand before they get here."
A few beats of silence, he feels your body lean further against him and you feel it, you feel yourself giving into him.
"I don't love him," you whisper.
"I know," he says through gritted teeth, "but didn't you say it yourself? Love is nothing but a fantasy for us."
You pull away, and grab the lapels of his coat weakly. "For weeks, I've been at war myself and last night I told myself that it would be okay, that even if I don't love him it will be okay and I will be happy."
"But?"
"As soon as I looked at you, waiting beside him, I... I knew if I married him I would be miserable for the rest of my life."
He pulls you closer to himself, the sound of his heartbeat calms you, "You speak dangerous words."
"But my words are true, you are my best friend, yes, but in my dreams you are my lover, you are my love Kiyoomi."
— kiyoomi thinks “just friends” means “let me write you forty love confessions and never send them.”
sakusa kiyoomi x f!reader | fluff | request
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
there’s a folder in sakusa’s notes app titled drafts.
it looks boring at first glance—just another folder among the other plain, lowercase ones:
practice schedule
laundry list
groceries (motoya stop eating my yogurt)
but click it open and there’s a different kind of disaster.
forty. forty unsent messages to you.
one says,
“i’d die if you smiled at someone else like that.”
another just says,
“you looked nice today.”
and the last one—just your name, like he typed it out just to see what it looked like next to his cursor.
he rereads them every night. deleting nothing. not even the typos.
it’s kind of tragic, if you think about it—how this six-foot wall of volleyball perfection spends his evenings whispering digital love letters to the void (the void being the ‘you’ who keeps replying “ok 👍” to his texts about the practice schedules).
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
komori finds out first, of course. he has eyes everywhere, especially at the mcdonalds discount for chicken nuggets.
“bro, what’s this?” he snorts, leaning over sakusa’s shoulder mid-bus ride home, snatching his phone faster than sakusa can scowl.
“don’t—”
too late. komori’s already giggling like he just found out santa’s real. “oh my god, kiyoomi. forty?”
“give it back.”
“forty drafts? bro. these are—holy crap, these are POEMS. why are you writing like you’re about to drop a heartbreak album?”
sakusa’s ears turn red. “they’re not poems.”
“‘i wish i was the hoodie she’s wearing—
to feel her warmth without asking,
to hold her close without speaking,
to catch her sighs and call it breathing.’”
komori reads out loud. “if this isn’t a poem, i don’t know what is.”
he glares. “motoya.”
but komori just grins, shaking his head in pure disbelief. “no no, you’re in love. like, terminally. i’m calling iizuna.”
and because komori has no sense of self-preservation, ten minutes later iizuna’s reading the same draft with an amused, too-knowing smile.
“you wrote ‘if she ever gets cold i’ll kill the wind.’” iizuna looks up. “kill the wind, kiyoomi?”
“i was tired.”
“you’re dramatic.”
“shut up.”
“you’re in love.”
and sakusa, despite himself, glances out the window. watches the sky blur past like it’s trying to outrun him.
quietly, barely audible, he mumbles, “yeah. i guess i am.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
he didn’t mean to fall for you.
you’re… soft, somehow. in the kind of way that makes him feel like his chest is a too-small box and you’re the light spilling out of it.
you laugh too loud at komori’s jokes. you tuck stray hairs behind your ear without noticing him staring. you smell like something clean and nostalgic—like powdered sugar and early mornings.
you don’t notice him much, not like that.
you text him for notes sometimes.
you thank him after practice when he helps you carry boxes for the team.
you once said “you’re nice when you want to be,” and it made him forget how to breathe for three whole seconds.
and that’s it. that’s all it took.
now he’s the kind of person who types things like,
“you smiled at me today. i pretended not to notice because i think if i did i’d forget how to walk.”
and never sends them.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
it happens by accident—how you find out, almost.
it’s late. gym’s empty except for you two. you stayed behind to help tidy up, and he stayed because “i don’t trust motoya with the mop.” (in which, fair.)
he sets his phone on the bench. you’re sweeping when it buzzes, screen lighting up with a notification:
drafts — last edited 1 min ago.
you glance, teasing, “you journaling or something?”
he freezes. visibly.
“no.”
“oh?” you grin. “sounds like a yes.”
“it’s not.”
“so if i look—”
he steps forward so fast you nearly drop the broom.
“don’t.”
his voice isn’t angry—it’s desperate, raw, like you’ve threatened to read his heartbeat aloud.
and that’s when you realize it’s something real. not a joke, not a to-do list. something that could crumble him if you saw too much.
but you soften, smiling a little. “alright, i won’t.”
you don’t.
you go back to sweeping, humming quietly, pretending like the silence isn’t dripping with everything unspoken.
he stares at you like he’s trying to memorize the outline of your shadow.
and later, when you leave, he writes another one:
“she promised not to look. i think that’s the first time someone’s ever protected something of mine without knowing what it was.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the next day, komori is still trying to convince him to just say something.
“dude. you’re dying over there.”
“i’m fine.”
“you’re not fine. you looked at her for five minutes straight and almost walked into a vending machine.”
“that’s because you distracted me.”
“kiyoomi. please. she’s literally the only person you let talk to you before 9 a.m. that means something.”
“it means i tolerate her.”
“you tolerate her so hard you write essays about her smile.”
sakusa sighs. “motoya, i will—”
“—kill the wind? yeah, i read that one.”
he throws a towel at him. komori dodges, laughing so hard he almost trips over the bench.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
you’re walking out of practice together, both holding water bottles, talking about nothing—your favorite way to talk.
you tell him about how your phone storage is full because you keep forgetting to delete old notes.
“me too,” he says, without thinking.
you smile. “really? what kind of notes do you even have?”
and he should lie. he should. but something about the way your eyes meet his—bright, curious, open—makes the truth spill out before he can stop it.
“you.”
you blink. “me?”
“yeah.”
there’s silence. then a small, surprised laugh slips from you. “i—what does that mean?”
“it means…” he exhales, runs a hand through his hair, eyes darting anywhere but yours. “i write about you. things i can’t say out loud.”
you don’t tease. you don’t laugh again. you just tilt your head, smile soft. “that’s actually really sweet, kiyoomi.”
he looks at you like you just told him gravity doesn’t apply to him anymore. “sweet?”
“yeah. i mean—i write about you too. just not in my notes app.”
he freezes. “you… what?”
you grin, walking backward as you talk. “i draw. sometimes. i doodle people i like.”
his brain promptly forgets how to function. “people… you like.”
“yep.” you give him a look so gentle he thinks he might combust. “you’re my favorite one to draw.”
he stands there, completely still, like a computer blue-screening.
and later that night, there’s another draft.
“she said i’m her favorite. i think my heart’s trying to jailbreak out of my chest.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
after that, things change.
not dramatically—no fireworks, no big confessions. just… quiet shifts.
he lets you tie his mask strings when they get tangled.
you save him the last lemon drink from the vending machine.
he starts walking you home without saying he is.
komori catches him once, texting under the table, smirking. “writing her another note?”
“no.”
“then why are you smiling?”
“because she just said goodnight.”
“bro, that’s… wow. you’re gone.”
he doesn’t even deny it. just shrugs, cheeks pink.
and the next morning, a new note appears in drafts:
“if loving her this quietly is all i get,
i’ll let my pulse speak for me—
it already says her name.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
you finally see the folder one day—not by accident this time, but because he lets you.
he hands you his phone, careful, shy. “here. you can read them.”
you blink, startled. “are you sure?”
he nods.
and so you do.
one by one.
forty little pieces of him—some silly, some tender, some heartbreakingly sincere.
“her laugh could make a funeral feel like a sunrise—
grief would forget its name,
and even the dead would turn
just to see who made the light sound like that.”
“she borrowed my hoodie today—
it hangs on her like sunlight on silk,
the moon wearing my favorite cloud.”
“i’m trying not to love her too loud—
even echoes feel dangerous,
when her name sounds like home.”
when you’re done, you look up at him. he’s tense, fingers fidgeting.
“kiyoomi,” you say softly, smiling like you can’t help it. “you’re unbelievable.”
his eyes flick to yours. “in a bad way?”
“in the kind of way that makes me want to kiss you.”
the look on his face could make angels jealous.
you laugh, reaching up to cup his cheek. “can i?”
he doesn’t answer—just leans in.
and when your lips meet, soft and warm and unbearably real, he swears the air tastes like the word finally.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
that night, he opens his notes app again.
he doesn’t start a new draft.
instead, he edits the last one.
“you read them all, then kissed me—
every word i never said
found its way to your lips.”
and for the first time ever—
he hits send.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
a: my shitty relationship is taking a big toll on me 🤞🏻
Sakusa Kiyoomi who’s not so subtly obsessed with his girlfriend.
It all started lowkey, back when he just went pro and questions about the life of a promising player piled on to him, the clip of one of his first ever interview that happened off-court, and not in a conference room when they were all still covered in sweat and trying to breathe evenly, is still circling social media, the interviewer went with the anticipated question, “fans wish to know if there’s someone special outside the gyms, perhaps a partner?” to which Kiyoomi only nodded with the same level of sternness he carried during a match point.
Overtime it seemed to become much easier to let others in, he still appreciated privacy, but to know that people loved seeing him break out a grin whenever mentioning you after a good game was priceless. It was one time after an away game in Malaysia that they’d won in just two sets, he was approached by local reporters, swarming him with questions but one in particular stood out for him. So when he was asked “what do you miss about Japan?” he didn’t hold back the smile, instead leaning closer to the microphone and bluntly saying “my partner”.
Kiyoomi had already prepared for the worst when faced with the fame that’d come alongside success, he’d seen it happen before, the gossip and tabloids, people breaking up or even getting a divorce over others’ opinion, but seeing the feedback from his supporters each time a new photo of both of you walking around Osaka or visiting his family in Tokyo popped out only encouraged him to share you with the world further.
Eventually he had a whole highlight dedicated to photos of you in his instagram profile, stories piled up each year, sometimes domestic, candid ones where you’d be making cocoa or simply rearranging and cleaning his memorabilia that Sakusa had earned throughout his career, or less private moments of you walking around the streets of Rome when he took you with him to the training camp, moments from all across the world with you beside him.
It’s all gotten to the point where people recognise you in the stands when the Black Jackals are playing, some of Kiyoomi’s fans had even asked for a photo whenever you were wearing the jersey or jacket with his number.
One time on Valentine’s Day Kiyoomi had posted a photo of you sprawled out on your shared bed, hand on your heart and phone almost up your nose with a caption saying “sleeping through the special day”. He deleted it not even ten minutes later, but of course people had already screenshot it plenty of times, to this day remembering the random exposure that was gone in record time.
Safe to say one thing Sakusa was always good at was hard launching, brand deals, important events, friendships with players people wouldn’t even expect him to know, but one particular time outshined the rest of his shenanigans. It was nearing evening after a tough home game where they walked out with another win that Kiyoomi was stopped by a fan with camera angled at him, filming a video when they suddenly asked “what are you looking forward to after today?” when he simply lifted his hand, showing off the golden band on his finger, “seeing my wife”.
