"What more do you need than pride?"

xian no 1 yamaguchi fan tiktok- seravalanko

[showhay]

like any insane person, i will be opening my requests by thursday or friday since i’m about to acquire my freedom. i upload pretty slow these days due to the lack of sleep biting my ass. i love the consequences of my own actions.

[seravalanko]

THE DAY YOUR REQUESTS OPEN IM GOING TO BE FLOODING THEM NIQUE.

[showhay]

observer

yamaguchi tadashi x tsukki’s sister!f!reader

tadashi treats love like a lifelong binding contract and tsukishima’s sister is the fine print he memorized. wc: 1.6k, request

the gym smells like floor polish, sweat, and the unmistakable ozone of teenage ambition—like someone tried to microwave hope and slightly burned it.

you’re perched on the stage steps with a clipboard you don’t technically need, ponytail slipping, legs swinging, very much a third year who has Seen Things™. the first years are running drills, tsukishima is scowling at someone’s footwork like it personally insulted his ancestors, and yamaguchi is—

well.

yamaguchi is looking at you like the sun personally clocked out so you could take over the shift.

it’s not subtle. it’s never subtle. it’s the kind of looking that has witnesses. the kind that could be diagrammed in a court of law.

you feel it before you see it, that warm prickling between your shoulder blades, and when you glance over, there he is. freckled, earnest, eyes bright like he just discovered a new religion and it’s you folding towels.

you wave, because you’re not rude. you smile, because you’re human and he’s sweet and it costs you nothing. yamaguchi’s entire soul leaves his body.

he trips over his own feet.

“yamaguchi!” tsukishima snaps. “focus.”

yamaguchi apologizes to the floor, the air, tsukishima, and possibly you in several dimensions. he rights himself, cheeks pink, and then—because fate is a comedian with a grudge—he looks back at you again.

this time, he doesn’t even try to hide it.

you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, shoulders shaking. the clipboard becomes an excuse to cover your mouth. he sees that too, of course. his spine straightens like he’s just been knighted.

somewhere in the distance, crows caw. karasuno lives.

𓏵

being tsukishima kei’s older sister means a few things, culturally speaking.

one: you are immune to sarcasm. it washes over you like rain on a windshield. two: you learned early that affection comes in strange shapes, like insults disguised as concern and concern disguised as silence. three: everyone assumes you’re scary.

you’re not. you’re just tall, calm, and you don’t sugarcoat. it’s a curse. first years look at you like you might hand out pop quizzes on breathing wrong.

except yamaguchi.

yamaguchi looks at you like you hung the moon, labeled the stars, and personally approved the concept of summer break.

it started small.

he’d linger when you helped pack equipment, hovering like a polite ghost. he’d offer to carry things you were already holding, arms out, hopeful, like a very earnest coat rack. he’d listen when you talked—really listen, eyes on your face, nodding like every word was a sacred text.

you noticed. you’re not oblivious. you’re also not cruel.

so you smiled. you talked back. you asked him about his serves, about school, about that new pen he kept clicking like it owed him money.

he remembered everything.

everything.

𓏵

the first time it clicked—really clicked—was during a practice game. you were chatting with kiyoko near the wall, laughing about something mundane, and you felt it again. that sensation. you looked up.

yamaguchi was on the bench, towel around his neck, staring.

not angry. not jealous. just… intent. like he was counting your breaths, making sure they were steady.

when hinata leaned over and said something funny—probably a complaint about kageyama, knowing him—you laughed, nudged his shoulder.

yamaguchi’s fingers curled into the towel.

you blinked. tilted your head.

he smiled at you.

it was bright. it was sweet. but it did not reach his eyes.

later, he offered you a sports drink he hadn’t even opened yet. cold, condensation slicking the plastic.

“you looked thirsty,” he said.

you took it, thanked him, brushed his fingers by accident.

he didn’t wash that hand for the rest of the day.

𓏵

it escalates the way ivy does. quiet. determined. impossible to notice until it’s everywhere.

yamaguchi knows your schedule better than you do. not in a creepy way, you tell yourself. in a considerate way. he just happens to be around when you finish club meetings. he just happens to save you a seat. he just happens to have extra snacks you like.

“how did you know i like melon bread?” you ask one afternoon, accepting the warm package.

he shrugs, eyes soft. “you smiled more when you ate it last time.”

that’s… unsettling. also kind of adorable. also deeply flattering. your heart does a stupid little skip like it’s trying to impress someone.

you start waiting for him too.

after practice, you linger. you walk slower. you glance around corners.

when he jogs up, breathless, freckled grin wide, it feels like something clicking into place. like a chair sliding under you just as you sit.

tsukishima notices, of course. tsukishima always notices.

“you’re smiling,” he says flatly one night as you walk home.

“am i?” you ask.

he squints at you. “that’s not denial.”

you shrug. “don’t worry about it.”

he worries about it.

he worries about yamaguchi, who suddenly walks you home too. who carries your bag without asking. who stands between you and the street like he’s daring traffic to try something.

“he’s intense,” tsukishima mutters once, glasses glinting.

yamaguchi bows politely. “i just want her safe.”

you snort. “i’m not made of glass.”

yamaguchi hums. “i know. you’re stronger than most people.”

the way he says it makes your chest ache. like he sees something you don’t even know how to name.

tsukishima watches him like a scientist observing a new species. odd specimen..

𓏵

the confession does not happen under cherry blossoms or fireworks or any of the other rom-com lies.

it happens in the gym storage room.

you’re inventorying balls. yamaguchi is helping, passing them to you one by one, careful not to brush your hands too often, like restraint is a muscle he’s actively flexing.

it’s quiet. dust motes drift. the world feels small.

he clears his throat.

you look at him.

his eyes are dark, steady, shining with something that makes your pulse pick up like it’s late to class.

“i like you,” he says.

simple. honest.

you don’t laugh. you don’t deflect. you breathe.

“i know,” you say softly.

his shoulders sag with relief so intense it’s almost comical. like he’d been holding the roof up with his spine.

“i think about you all the time,” he continues, words tumbling now, careful but fervent. “when i practice. when i study. when tsukishima annoys me. i think about making you laugh. i think about… taking care of you.”

there it is. that edge. that intensity.

you step closer. close enough that you can see the tiny scar near his eyebrow. close enough that his breath stutters.

“yamaguchi,” you say, voice warm, grounding. “just so you know, i don’t need someone to own my life.”

he nods immediately. “i know. i don’t want to own it. i want to be part of it.”

your heart does that stupid thing again, like it’s trying to escape your ribcage and join his.

“i like you too,” you say.

the sound he makes is not dignified. it’s like a kettle boiling over. he clamps a hand over his mouth, eyes wide, damp.

“really?” he whispers.

you laugh, gentle. “really.”

he asks if he can hold your hand like he’s requesting permission to touch a sacred artifact. you say yes. his fingers lace with yours like they’ve been rehearsing.

later, when you kiss him, it’s slow and reverent and so careful it nearly makes you cry. like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

𓏵

dating yamaguchi is like being adored by a very polite storm.

he opens doors. he remembers dates. he texts good morning and good night like a ritual. he watches you eat to make sure you’re enjoying it. he listens when you rant about exams and nods like he’s preparing for battle.

he also gets… focused.

a guy from another class flirts with you? yamaguchi smiles, sweet as sugar, and somehow ends up between you and the offender within minutes, conversation redirected, presence unmistakable.

you raise an eyebrow later.

“i trust you,” he says quickly. “i just don’t trust them to understand what they’re not entitled to.”

it’s intense. it’s a lot.

it’s also weirdly reassuring.

you talk about it. you always talk about it. boundaries, feelings, expectations. yamaguchi listens like your words are coordinates keeping him from drifting off course.

“tell me when i’m too much,” he says once, forehead pressed to yours.

you cup his cheek. “tell me when you’re scared.”

he exhales. “always.”

tsukishima pretends not to notice the way yamaguchi looks at you like a promise carved into bone. pretends not to notice the way you lean into him like you belong there.

he does, however, threaten yamaguchi with bodily harm exactly once.

yamaguchi thanks him for caring about you and says he understands.

tsukishima does not know what to do with that.

𓏵

the night you realize this is forever sneaks up on you.

you’re studying late in the gym stands, legs tucked under you, yamaguchi beside you, whispering mnemonics. tsukishima is across the aisle, pretending not to eavesdrop.

you yawn. yamaguchi drapes his jacket over your shoulders without breaking his sentence.

you look at him. really look.

the freckles. the earnest concentration. the way his knee presses into yours like an anchor.

he looks back, soft and unwavering.

in that moment, you feel it settle. deep. solid. like a root taking hold.

you squeeze his hand.

he squeezes back immediately, like he’d been waiting for the signal.

somewhere below, the gym lights hum. above, the rafters creak. life continues, ordinary and miraculous.

yamaguchi leans in and murmurs, “i love you,” like he’s been saying it forever.

you smile, heart full to bursting. “i love you too.”

and he couldn’t be happier.

n: i hope he’s not too ooc 😔

tadashi’s taglist

@lsirria @the-bloopsters @sleepykeijiii @averys-place @reverd-ck @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @rabbitcola @katzline @asthmaticasma @meonelixir @xiansoria @pelicanpizza @x3nafix @michexoxo @depressinglyobsessed @keiob @mptality @qardasngan @crystal-lilac @methiart @wensurr @suha-reads @adagio4strings @sillylule @seravalanko @fiannee @forgottensniper @eri0-0 @olliesoxenfree @windsblow @starzlytoetsie @littlemissfix-itfic @kuroofangirl67 @bigdaddyyaoii @lilith-dear @applepiblog @thecranberrypineapple

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners !

iloveu

[seravalanko]

hope you didnt forget about me cause I just got my phone back again 🥹🥹🥹 LOVE YOUR WORKS

[showhay]

assume

komori motoya x stoic!f!reader

motoya falls for a girl so stoic he can’t tell if she’s here to date him or emotionally assassinate him.

you were known for your face.

and not in the way komori thought you should be—like, “she’s so pretty i might perish dramatically in front of everyone with zero regrets.” no, you were known for your expression. the expression that never changed. the expression that could watch a building collapse and you’d still look like you were politely waiting for bus number 48 to arrive.

stoic. unreadable. the human version of “…” in a text.

you got it from your father—a man so stone-faced he once met sakusa’s aunt during new years and she genuinely thought he was a wax statue.

komori motoya fell in love with it instantly.

and violently.

the first time he ever saw you was in the hallway outside the gym, calmly eating a melon bread while itachiyama’s girls squealed past you about how “sakusa-kun looked like a god when he served today.”

meanwhile, komori walked by, half-dehydrated, holding sakusa’s extra wipes like a glorified purse. and you, with the facial expression of a tax auditor, glanced at him once.

just once.

and komori folded like a lawn chair in a tornado.

his brain short-circuited.

his soul left his body.

his knees physically buckled like he’d been struck by lightning and cupid at the same time.

you nodded at him. expression unchanged.

he had the audacity to blush like you’d whispered something sinful in his ear.

and then—

then the teasing started.

he didn’t understand how it was possible for someone with a face carved from marble to be the most effective flirter in the building. each time you spoke, each time you tilted your head the slightest degree, each time you pushed a stray hair behind your ear with the gentlest fingers known to mankind—komori basically combusted.

𓏵

today was no different.

practice had ended and sakusa was stretching in the corner while komori wiped sweat off his forehead, already glancing toward the door because he knew.

you always showed up at this time.

walking in with your slow, calm footsteps, expression completely neutral, like you weren’t the most emotionally destructive force in his life.

the door slid open.

there you were.

and komori, poor komori, dropped the towel like a 40-year-old Victorian man seeing exposed ankles.

“hey,” you said softly, the same calm tone that made him want to lie face-down on the floor and scream into the earth.

“h-hi—” his voice cracked like a 13-year-old boy discovering puberty.

you blinked at him. no smile, no smirk. just pure serene stillness.

the kind of face monks probably trained centuries to achieve.

but your eyes… they lingered.

that was the problem. your eyes always lingered.

you stepped closer, brushing a loose thread off his jersey sleeve.

“you’re sweating,” you murmured.

komori nearly ascended.

“y-yeah, practice, haha, you know, running— jumping— existing— i mean—"

you hummed, a soft, tiny sound that hit him harder than any spike.

and then—

you leaned in slightly. not flirtatiously. not dramatically. just gently, calmly, like you always did.

“you did well today,” you whispered.

if sakusa didn’t catch komori by the collar he might’ve fallen straight to the floor.

sakusa sighed. “get a grip.”

komori is gripping absolutely nothing.

your face remained unchanged. but your tone? your tone was the equivalent of warm sunlight on a winter morning. soft. kind. something that made komori want to protect you despite the fact he was 99% sure you'd beat him in a staring contest until he burst into tears.

he loved it.

he loved you.

and unfortunately, he was convinced you liked sakusa.

because everyone liked sakusa.

girls slipped love letters into sakusa’s locker daily. someone knitted him a scarf. someone else wrote a confession poem titled “hands so pure they must be sanitized.” sakusa ignored most of it, but komori noticed how you always went quiet when sakusa walked by.

never reacting. never blushing. never anything.

which, in komori’s dramatic mind, meant: you obviously liked him.

what he didn’t know was that you went quiet around sakusa because komori was next to him—and talking to komori made you feel uncharacteristically warm, and you didn’t know how to handle warmth.

𓏵

today, komori couldn’t take it anymore.

after practice, he found you outside under the sakura tree, scrolling on your phone with the exact same expression one might wear while filing taxes.

“can i— uh— talk to you?” he stammered.

you looked up at him slowly. “you are talking to me.”

he wheezed. he physically wheezed.

whole lungs malfunctioning.

“i just— i wanted to ask…” he swallowed, ears turning red, then scarlet, then full nuclear-core temperature. “d-do you… maybe… like sakusa?”

a pause.

a blink.

you tucked your phone away, staring up at him with that same unreadable face that made komori’s entire stomach fold into origami.

“…no,” you said simply.

“oh.”

another blink.

“i like you,” you added.

komori died.

komori actually died.

his knees hit the dirt. he threw his hands over his face. he made a sound so high-pitched an entire flock of birds took off from the tree in panic.

“m-me?” he squeaked from behind his fingers.

“yes.”

he peeked at you, eyes wide, pupils blown like he had seen god and god winked at him.

you, expression still the emotional equivalent of a closed refrigerator door, tilted your head. “should i repeat it?”

“NO— i mean— yes— i mean— wait— WAIT HOLD ON—”

you leaned closer, voice soft as velvet. “motoya.”

he melted.

actually melted.

his soul dripped out like lava.

“i like you,” you whispered again.

and this time, his nose started bleeding.

not like a cute anime trickle.

no.

full-on geyser.

sudden, catastrophic, medically concerning.

you stared at the blood. “should i get tissues?”

“NO— I MEAN— YES— I MEAN— YOU CAN’T JUST— SAY IT LIKE THAT— I’M FRAGILE—” he sputtered, pinching the bridge of his nose as he panicked.

you reached out and gently wiped a bit of blood from under his eye.

soft hands. gentle touch. stoic face.

komori nearly fainted again.

once he finally stopped hemorrhaging emotions (and blood), you both sat on the grass. you stayed close. closer than normal. your shoulder touched his, and he felt like he might spontaneously combust into artisanal charcoal.

“so…” he said shyly. “you like me.”

“yes.”

“and… you want to… maybe… go out sometime?”

you nodded once. simple. calm. definitive. “yes.”

he let out a noise that could only be described as a dying kettle.

you turned to him, finally—finally—breaking your stoic look with the tiniest smile. not big. not dramatic. but soft. real. gentle enough to crash his entire nervous system.

“does that make you happy?” you asked.

“happy? HAPPY?” his voice cracked again. “i feel like someone injected fireworks into my bloodstream— i feel like i could bench-press a train— i feel like—”

you rested your head lightly on his shoulder.

he stopped breathing.

completely.

you spoke quietly, eyes half-lidded, tone melting with warmth:

“i like you, motoya. i want to be with you.”

he inhaled sharply, clutching his chest like love physically punched him.

“i… i wanna be with you too,” he whispered back.

you reached for his hand. he let you take it instantly. your fingers intertwined with a slowness that felt sacred—like it was something meant to happen all along.

komori squeezed your hand gently.

you squeezed back.

“motoya?” you murmured.

“y-yeah?”

“can i kiss you?”

he short-circuited so violently sakusa probably felt it from across campus.

and then you leaned in, expression still calm, eyes soft, lips brushing his with the faintest, sweetest pressure—

and komori felt the world tilt.

flowers blooming somewhere far too dramatically.

romance movie violins playing even though no one hired musicians.

the sakura tree above you practically shedding petals like confetti.

when you pulled back, face unchanged, you whispered:

“you’re very cute when you blush.”

and then he died again. happily. dramatically. beautifully.

komori wasn’t sure if you froze him or melted him.

all he knew was—

you touched his hand again,

n: just like what i told @forgottensniper and i quote “komori is the most down bad marshmallow to ever breathe”

and he became warmth itself.

motoya’s taglist

@kukikoooo @averys-place @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @asyaacia @rabbitcola @s1lly-bon @whimsybloom @forgottensniper @katzline @michexoxo @pelicanpizza @george-russell-defender @depressinglyobsessed @ghostwifeyy @methiart @wensurr @suha-reads @sillylule @hibernatinghamster @olliesoxenfree @griffincorn @fiannee @starzlytoetsie @littlemissfix-itfic

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners !

iloveu

[seravalanko]

HELLO SAILOR 😍

[seravalanko]

Melting like an ice cream when you smile...

Melting- Kali Uchis

oikawa x reader

reader is really kind and is really cute too. cute reader is real. yes we are real. also, established relationship.

dedicated to @showhay for dedicating a yamaguchi fanfic for me 🤧❤️‍🩹 my first time writing an x reader fanfic like this so...kinda nervous 😓

You were irresistible. You were heaven, and Hinata basically combined. It wasn't just about your well-known cute face but also for your personality. So it wasn't a surprise to have Torū Oikawa also fall for you, too.

His genuine attention was given to a few rare subjects—mainly volleyball, milk bread, and well...you. Was it really wrong for him to be persuaded by eyes that looked like they were handpicked by the gods themselves? Or finding himself heeding to every whim of yours with words that sounded like they were blissfully unaware of the sweetness stuck on them? Yes or no, Oikawa was whipped. Hard.

Now, Torū Oikawa is a man who is also found to be charming. He's got the looks, smarts, and body to be considered attractive. Because of that, he came to be used to flattery, the honeyed words of girls trying their hardest to receive even the slightest compliment from him. But you? You were different. You didn't outright flaunt your beauty, didn't beg for attention, you were yourself, and maybe that's why he fell in love. Fell in love with the way you never held back true kindness, and people still craved for it. The way you smiled—oh gosh—especially your smile.

He melts—not literally, of course—but if he could, he would whenever he sees that bright smile of yours. Every single time you flash even the smallest grin or let out the tiniest chuckle, his knees buckle. .

"Torū!" You call out, waving rapidly as you caught up to his large strides. It was a sight really, seeing the most popular boy in school freezing up at the mere sight of you. Everyone could understand, though. They couldn't fight the fact that they would react the same way, too. "You done with practice?"

His fingers carded through your hair as you wrapped your hands around his body. "I-uhm- yeah. I'm done. Wanna walk home together?" In that second, he thought that when you agreed, it would be the happiest moment he would have ever had in his entire lifetime.

But he's wrong. Maybe you would be the first person to give him so many happy experiences. For now, however? He just wants to bask in the glory of being the one to gather that many shining smiles from you.

a/n- i wrote this right b4 sleeping. dont mind if its short asf. i will make a pt2...maybe.

[showhay]

bullseye

— tadashi spent six hours trying to shoot a single plush frog off a stand. for you. and god, it was personal.

yamaguchi tadashi x f!reader | fluff | mainly dedicated to: @seravalanko

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TADASHI WOOO!!

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the sun’s setting in a honey-colored haze, the air thick with grilled yakitori smoke and laughter and the distant ring of goldfish scoops snapping. the summer festival’s in full swing—lanterns swaying, fireworks queued up, children squealing, and you’re holding a bag of candied apples while yamaguchi tadashi is on the verge of a breakdown in front of a shooting stall.

he’s been there since… what time was it again?

you glance at your phone.

oh. four hours ago.

the booth owner looks exhausted. tsukishima looks like he’s having the time of his life.

and yamaguchi—your sweet, freckled, baby-deer-of-a-boyfriend—is gripping the cork gun like it’s his life mission. his eyes are laser-focused on a shelf of cheap stuffed toys. they’re all kinda sad-looking, to be honest—bears with missing eyes, cats that look like failed taxidermy, and one tiny stuffed frog that seems to be the target of his entire soul.

“tadashi,” you say gently, because you think he might be entering a dissociative state. “you don’t have to—”

“no,” he cuts in, voice firm, chest puffed, curls sticking to his forehead. “i got this.”

tsukishima snorts from the sidelines. “you said that twenty games ago.”

“shut up, tsukki.”

you can practically see the veins on yamaguchi’s forehead pulsing. his freckles glow under the lantern light, cheeks flushed pink, lips pressed together in that tight, nervous determination you fell in love with. he adjusts his stance like he’s about to take a championship serve, exhales slowly, and pulls the trigger.

the cork whiffs past the target. the frog doesn’t even wobble.

you bite your lip, trying not to laugh. tsukishima doesn’t bother. he cackles so hard he nearly drops his drink.

“this is tragic,” tsukishima says, recording. “you’re going viral for this.”

yamaguchi’s hand twitches. “tsukki, i swear to god—”

but he doesn’t finish, because you step forward, resting a hand on his arm. and just like that, he freezes. the entire world freezes. every atom of him locks onto the warmth of your hand. he swears his pulse stops, then starts again just to have something to offer you.

“hey,” you whisper. “it’s okay. i don’t need the frog.”

his eyes dart to yours—wide, a little manic, a little lovesick. “but i need you to have it.”

you blink, soft laughter spilling out. “why?”

he doesn’t answer right away. he just stares, like he’s looking straight through you and memorizing every flicker of your expression. there’s something too sincere about it—something that makes your stomach flip, because this boy doesn’t just like you. he’s hopeless. he’s the kind of down bad that rewrites entire personality traits around your smile.

finally, he mutters, “because it’s like me.”

tsukishima mock-gags behind you. “oh my god.”

you elbow him in the ribs without even looking. “shut up, tsukki.”

and then, yamaguchi reloads. because suddenly he’s not just playing a carnival game anymore. no, this is a duel. a fate-defining, heart-on-the-line duel. and his opponent? a one-eyed plastic frog dangling smugly from a string.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

by hour six, the booth owner has given up and is cheering him on. random kids are watching. tsukishima has run out of storage space on his phone from all the videos. and you—well, you’re alternating between laughter and tears because it’s genuinely that ridiculous.

“if he misses again, i’m praying for divine intervention,” tsukishima mutters.

“he’ll do it,” you say, crossing your fingers. “he has to.”

and maybe it’s the way you’re looking at him, like you still believe in him after six straight hours of failure. maybe it’s the way your voice sounds when you say tadashi, like it’s made of something that keeps him alive. but suddenly, his shoulders straighten, and his grip steadies.

he takes a deep breath. aims. fires.

plink.

the frog wobbles—once, twice—and then falls.

you both freeze.

tsukishima drops his drink.

the booth owner screams, “HE DID IT!”

the crowd erupts in cheers like he just scored the winning point in nationals. yamaguchi just stands there, gun limp in hand, blinking like he can’t comprehend what just happened.

you gasp, bouncing on your toes, hands flying to your mouth. “you did it, tadashi!”

and that’s when he moves—snapping out of his daze, stumbling forward to claim his tiny, slightly lopsided prize. the booth owner hands it to him like it’s a holy relic. and when he turns back to you, holding that frog in both hands, he looks so proud. so stupidly, adorably proud.

he holds it out, cheeks glowing red. “here. it… uh. it matches my vibe.”

and that’s when you lose it. not laughter—though that too—but something warmer. you reach forward and hug the frog to your chest, eyes sparkling.

“it’s perfect,” you murmur. “thank you.”

yamaguchi makes a strangled noise. he wasn’t prepared for this. he wasn’t prepared for how cute you look clutching it, or for how your voice softens like that, or for how his heart is suddenly sprinting like it’s late for practice.

“oh my god,” tsukishima mutters, already recording again. “he’s gonna combust.”

and he’s right—because yamaguchi does. internally, at least. fireworks, implosions, mental short-circuits. his brain blanks out. your smile overloads his system. he’s standing there, watching you hold that frog like it’s the most precious thing in the world, and all he can think is: i’d do it again. all of it. i’d spend a hundred more hours just for that smile.

you look up at him, tilting your head. “you okay?”

he blinks, half-laughs, half-wheezes. “uh—yeah. yeah, just—” he waves a hand helplessly at your grin. “wow.”

you giggle. “wow?”

“wow,” he repeats, softer now. “you’re just. wow.”

tsukishima snickers. “oh my god, you’re so whipped.”

yamaguchi doesn’t even deny it. he just shrugs, smiling shyly, eyes never leaving you. because yeah. he is. painfully, irrevocably, pathetically whipped. you don’t know it yet—but he thinks about you when he wakes up, when he eats, when he blinks. you’re in the spaces between his thoughts, the static in his chest, the gravity he can’t unstick from.

you tug on his sleeve. “hey, let’s go see the fireworks.”

and when you reach for his hand, he lets you take it instantly—like it was already yours to begin with. because it is.

you walk through the glowing festival crowd together, your hand swinging in his, the stuffed frog tucked between your arms.

tsukishima trails behind, muttering something about how he’ll use the footage for insurance.

but yamaguchi doesn’t care. he’s too busy staring at you through the light of paper lanterns, every heartbeat humming the same quiet promise: he’d do anything just to keep that glow on your face.

and when the first firework cracks the sky open—pink and gold, a mirror of the cotton-candy hues reflected in your eyes—he swears, right there and then, that if love were a festival game, he’d keep playing forever. as long as the price is your god-given smile.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a: whenever someone tells me they have their notifs for my uploads, i cry for a minute

<taglist>

@lsirria @the-bloopsters @sleepykeijiii @averys-place @reverd-ck @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @rabbitcola @katzline @asthmaticasma @meonelixir @xiansoria @pelicanpizza @x3nafix @michexoxo @depressinglyobsessed @keiob @mptality @qardasngan @crystal-lilac @methiart @wensurr @suha-reads @adagio4strings @sillylule

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

iloveu

[seravalanko]

DEDICATED TO ME??? ILYSM NIQUE 😓❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹 I SWEAR ONE DAY ILL DEDICATE AN OIKAWA OR WHOEVER YOU WANT FANFIC TO YOU 😍😍😍

[showhay]

block

— satori went to support the girls’ team and accidentally found the love of his life performing volleyball exorcisms on the court.

tendō satori x middle blocker!f!reader | fluff | request

i’ll be changing my layout soon, just because :P

♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

there were many things tendō expected from a casual thursday. a nice cafeteria pudding. maybe a good serve or two during morning practice. definitely another round of teasing goshiki until the first year dramatically threatened to “show him what he’s made of” (never actually did).

what he didn’t expect was to fall in love at approximately 3:27 p.m., somewhere between a flawless quick set and a perfectly timed block that sent the opposing team’s ace crying into her towel.

because holy shit, you were terrifying.

“she’s like me,” tendō whispered, eyes wide, clutching the edge of the bleachers like he’d just seen a miracle.

semi snorted. “you mean loud and a little scary?”

“no,” tendō breathed, grinning so wide it almost hurt. “i mean perfect.”

ushijima hummed beside him, arms crossed, expression unbothered. “her technique is strong. she reads the attacker well.”

“reads? she saw into that girl’s soul!” tendō said, voice pitching high. “i swear she knew exactly where she was going to spike before she even breathed. it’s like— it’s like watching a psychic battle but with kneepads!”

shirabu sighed, flipping through his phone. “you’re being dramatic again.”

but tendō wasn’t listening. his entire body leaned forward, red hair catching the gym lights, eyes never leaving you. every time you jumped—every time your hand met the ball with that snap that echoed through the gym—his heart stuttered like a poorly timed set.

he was gone. fully, entirely, tragically gone.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

you were chaos incarnate on court. laughing after blocks, making little hand gestures to your setter like some secret code, and celebrating every point like you’d just won olympic gold. but then—then you’d go all serious when you read the opposing team’s formation, eyes narrowing, body loose and ready. tendō recognized it instantly: that sharp, unpredictable focus. that thrill of the game.

and maybe, deep down, he recognized a piece of himself too.

when the whistle blew, announcing your team’s victory, tendō clapped like a maniac. the rest of the boys followed, though goshiki did it mostly because semi elbowed him into it.

“we’re going to meet her,” tendō said suddenly, standing.

“we are?” semi asked, eyebrow raised.

“yes. i’m gonna get her number.”

“you don’t even know her name.”

“minor detail!” tendō waved, already hopping down the bleachers like a redheaded cartoon character fueled by unfiltered adrenaline.

ushijima followed at a steady pace (“someone should supervise”), goshiki trailed behind whispering “senpai’s got game, right?” like a mantra, and shirabu trudged along with the face of a man who regretted every decision leading to this moment.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

you were toweling sweat from your face when you heard the footsteps—then saw them. the boys’ volleyball team. the tall, terrifying legends of shiratorizawa. and in the middle of them, one bright-eyed redhead who looked like he’d just discovered religion.

“hi!” he chirped, too loudly. “you’re amazing! like, freakishly amazing. are you human? i mean, you play like a divine cryptid.”

you blinked. “uh. thanks?”

ushijima nodded solemnly. “you performed well.”

“yeah,” semi added with a grin. “i think our middle blocker just fell in love.”

tendō didn’t even deny it. “i did. hi. i’m tendō satori. full-time middle blocker, part-time psychic. i think we’re soulmates.”

goshiki gasped audibly. shirabu groaned audibly.

“uhh,” you said, face hot, still clutching your towel like a shield. “that’s… fast.”

“so was your reaction time on that quick set!” tendō countered. “see? we already have something in common.”

semi choked on his laughter. goshiki looked at tendō like he was witnessing the birth of a new species.

but tendō didn’t waver. his grin softened a little, voice dropping into something a bit less manic, a bit more real. “seriously though, you’re incredible. you read players like a storybook. i’ve never seen someone so in sync with the court.”

you blinked again, surprised by the sincerity tucked beneath the chaos. “thank you, really. that means a lot coming from—” you glanced up, eyes flicking to his jersey. “—from the famous tendō satori.”

his brain short-circuited. “you know who i am.”

“everyone knows you,” you teased lightly. “you’re kind of impossible to miss.”

semi muttered, “he’s going to explode.”

he almost did. tendō clasped his hands dramatically. “then it’s destiny. we have to hang out sometime. for science. to test the psychic connection between two middle blockers who are clearly meant to block out the sun together.”

ushijima nodded, because to him, that sounded perfectly reasonable. “that seems logical.”

shirabu pinched the bridge of his nose. “you’re all insane.”

you laughed—an honest, full laugh—and tendō swore the gym lights flickered for a moment, like the universe itself couldn’t handle how pretty it sounded.

“fine,” you said, smiling. “you can have my number. but only if you promise not to use it for weird experiments.”

“no promises!” he said immediately, but his hands trembled a little as you took his phone. he was trying to play it cool—keyword trying—but his heart was doing backflips, and he could feel semi watching with the smuggest grin known to man.

you typed your number, saved it under your name with a little volleyball emoji, and handed it back.

“so… text me?”

“i’m gonna text you so hard,” tendō blurted before realizing how that sounded. “wait—no—uh, not like that! i mean—like, consistently! with enthusiasm! not in a weird way, just a totally normal, maybe slightly romantic but definitely respectful way—”

“you’re cute,” you said simply, and he froze.

he blinked. then blinked again. then looked at semi as if to confirm he hadn’t hallucinated it.

“she said i’m cute,” he whispered.

semi nodded. “she did.”

“she said i’m cute.”

“yes.”

“holy shit.”

ushijima patted his shoulder like a proud father. “good job.”

goshiki was already vibrating. “senpai! you did it! teach me your ways!”

“step one: be born weird,” tendō said dreamily. “step two: fall in love with a volleyball goddess.”

you laughed again, shaking your head. “i’ll see you around, tendō.”

“you will! i’ll make sure of it. not in a creepy way, just in a fate-has-already-written-this-in-the-stars kind of way!”

and somehow, the ridiculousness only made you smile wider.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

that night, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. the way you grinned after every point, the way your hair caught the light, the way your laugh made something warm and reckless bloom in his chest.

he texted you at exactly 9:03 p.m.

tendō 🧠: hey hey hey! psychic experiment #1: can you feel me smiling right now?

paradise: i can feel the chaos through my screen

tendō 🧠: success!! you are the one!

semi, visiting his dorm to read some of his manga, groaned into his book. “you’ve known her for five hours.”

“five hours of eternal devotion,” tendō murmured, eyes soft, thumbs tapping another message.

tendō 🧠: i can’t wait to see you block someone again. it was like art. violent, beautiful art.

you replied with a heart emoji and a lol, and he nearly combusted.

he spent the rest of the night staring at your contact name, rereading your single heart emoji like it was scripture.

somewhere outside, the campus lights flickered. maybe it was nothing. or maybe it was the world shifting a little, just enough to make room for something new.

tendō didn’t know. he just knew that the next time he saw you, he was bringing flowers. probably purple ones. maybe a stuffed volleyball with googly eyes.

whatever it took to make you smile again.

and if his heart beat a little too fast every time he thought of your laugh—well, that was just part of the experiment.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a: a ton of followers have been sending me oikawa and gojo edits on tiktok 🤑

<taglist>

@lsirria @cvntyandfasionable @the-bloopsters @highandalive @nelinkythoughts @sleepykeijiii @averys-place @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @evilari111 @nivabiva @s1lly-bon @yeonette @katzline @asthmaticasma @michexoxo @xiansoria @pelicanpizza @keiob @ghostwifeyy @perpetuallydone @mptality @qardasngan @crystal-lilac @methiart @alyriaschoenheit @suha-reads

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

iloveu

[seravalanko]

hey hey hey...😍 first thing I read when I woke up

[seravalanko]

when someone asks me who I miss and the only thing I can think about is the oh in fanfics

[seravalanko]

so i was on the bus going home after my choir rehearsal and i wanted to pass the time so i started writing. i zoned out for quite a bit and woke up to three pages in my notes being filled about my crush. i need to know whatever i was on cause i need to take that shit again. (note under the cut)

listen up you little pricks (respectfully). do you know how hard it is to have a crush on your best friend? specifically one that just siblingzoned you, and the crush of EVERYONE? well i do. unfortunately. and it hurts so BAD. im 101% percent sure that she knows i like her, but she hasn't spoken up about it yet. im distancing myself a bit from her for a while in hopes that ill either lose feelings or that the suspicion i like her disappears. the worst thing? everyone ships me with her. since im always found walking with her, my classmates took that and rolled with it. i have to act so nonchalant whenever our ship name is screamed out so that it isnt obvious i like her. but i lwk think its too late for that because one of my friends said its obvious enough. but i cant help it man, imagine having a best friend THAT perfect. shes so beautiful, talented, athletic, smart, funny, kind...shes the epitome of golden. and you know whats funny? ive had one rule since forever and its "never fall in love with a basketball/soccer/volleyball player" guess what. shes a basketball AND volleyball player. i knew i was doomed when i found myself noticing all her little habits. the way she tilts her head to the right whenever she listens to someone, the way she holds her pen when shes done writing something, the way her eyebrows furrow whenever shes focused... shes everything but she probably thinks im nothing 😂💔 she has so many other people falling for her, but i truly think im the only one whos fallen in love this deep for her. gosh. i love the way she can carry me with ease. i love the way she puts her arm around my shoulder whenever we walk together. i love the way she whispers in my ear when she needs to say something private. i love the way her hair turns light brown under the sun. i once saw her during golden hour and i swear i felt my heart skip a beat. i love the way her eyes crinkle whenever she smiles. shes so radiant, sometimes i wonder why i have the blessing of just being with her. she matches my frequency so well too. i even started treating my hands better because i saw hers and thought "her hands are so perfect if i take better care of mine will she notice?". i started watching more minecraft args just so she'll talk to me more. its okay, i can wait a whole eternity for her. no matter how much disinterest she shows in me, i dont think this crush of mine will ever disappear.

a/n- never zone out on the bus ive learned this the hard way

[rose-nympho]

I’ve been staring at him for so long that I feel pregnant

[seravalanko]

him AND ness

[ballsandbabes]

hello!!! Id like to request any character from haikyuu/knb (as many as you'd like i dont mind) with a reader whos very frail (i.e. they get sick really easily and their body is really weak). bonus points if theyre childhood best friends! no pressure if you dont want to write this, love your works!

Hi, thank you for your request. And thank you very much for waiting. I just picked random characters from the fandoms mentioned that I found exciting for this idea. I hope you like it. <3

___ _ _ _

authors note: y/n = your name// not proof read// GIF not mine // Have fun <3

pairing: Midorima Shintaro/ Bokuto Kōtarō/ Kenjirō Sakamoto/ Hajime Iwaizumi x fem!reader

summary: Reader being super sickly and how the boys would roll with this situation :)

genre: romance, hurt/comfort

word count: 6.5k

Midorima Shintaro

When Midorima Shintarō was little, he didn’t believe in fate. He believed in logic, in science, in patterns that could be seen and explained. But that changed the day he met you - his future childhood best friend.

It was a warm autumn afternoon and you’d just moved into the house next door — a quiet girl with bright eyes and a soft smile, the kind who always waved from behind a window because you weren’t allowed outside too much. You were sick often; fevers, fainting spells, fatigue. It seemed like every other week, you missed school. The neighborhood kids thought you were strange. But Midorima, Midorima just thought you were… fragile. Just like a porcelain doll. Something rare.

He remembered the first time he came over — his mother had sent him to deliver a notebook of missed homework. You’d been curled up in bed, pale but smiling.

“Thank you, Shintarō,” you’d said weakly, your voice barely above a whisper,“You always remember.”

He’d blushed,“It’s… it’s nothing. You should focus on getting better.”

But he did remember — every time. He carried your notes, your textbooks, sometimes even your favorite snacks, always pretending it was just because it was “logical to keep you caught up.” He’d sit at your bedside, reading aloud from textbooks, and whenever you fell asleep mid-sentence, he’d quietly mark the page and tidy up your desk. You never knew that when you were hospitalized one winter, he left a small green four-leaf clover charm under your pillow — the first of many lucky items he’d start to collect after that.

___ _ _ _

Years passed, and you both went to different middle schools. You kept in touch for a while, but life — and your health — often got in the way. When you transferred to Shutoku High for your first year, you hadn’t expected to see him again,“Shintarō?”

He froze mid-step, adjusting his glasses like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing,“Y/n...?”

It was you — a little taller, your hair longer, your smile the same. You still looked delicate, your posture light, but your eyes were brighter than he remembered. “I didn’t think I’d see you again, after middle school,” you said softly. He cleared his throat, the faintest hint of pink dusting his cheeks,“Neither did I… but it’s— it’s good that you’re here.”

___ _ _ _

From that day on, you found little things changing. Your desk would always have a bottle of water waiting when you arrived — “hydration is essential,” he’d say, pretending it wasn’t from him.

On colder days, he’d lend you his scarf (“You clearly didn’t dress appropriately for the weather,” he’d scold).

And when you’d overexert yourself and start coughing during class, he’d appear beside you like clockwork, silently placing a handkerchief on your desk — always neatly folded, always with that faint green clover stitched in the corner. You tried to tell him he didn’t have to fuss, but Midorima didn’t see it as fussing. To him, it was… inevitable.

“It’s only logical to look out for you,” he’d say,“You never think ahead.”

But logic didn’t explain why he waited by your gate every morning, or why he checked your temperature with the back of his hand when you looked pale, or why he always carried an extra pack of tissues — just in case you needed them. It also didn’t explain the way his pulse jumped when you smiled at him.

___ _ _ _

It happened after class. You’d insisted on staying late to help clean the gym, even though he’d told you three times not to.

When he found you, you were slumped against the wall, your breathing shallow,“Y/n!”

He dropped his bag immediately, kneeling beside you. Panic flickered in his normally calm eyes,“I told you to take it easy!”

You tried to laugh, but your voice was faint,“I just… didn’t want to be useless.” He pressed his lips together, removing his glasses and setting them aside,“Don’t say that. You’re not useless.”

“Then why do you always have to take care of me?” you whispered. He froze. Then, very softly, he said, “Because I want to.” He carried you to the nurse’s office himself — despite your protests, despite his trembling hands. And when you finally woke up, he was sitting beside the bed, head resting on his arm, glasses askew, still wearing that worried frown even in sleep. You reached out, brushing a strand of green hair from his face,“Shin…”

His eyes fluttered open. “You’re awake,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

You smiled,“Thank you. For always being here.”

He adjusted his glasses, turning slightly away to hide his blush,“Of course. I can’t just ignore someone who’s always getting into trouble.”

You laughed weakly,“You’re really bad at admitting you care, you know.” He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose,“Maybe. But… you already know, don’t you?” Your heart skipped a beat,“Yeah,” you whispered. “I do.”

___ _ _ _

A few weeks later, when you were feeling better, you found a small box in your locker. Inside was a delicate green hair ribbon and a note in Midorima’s tidy handwriting.

“Green is your color. It’s good for health — and for luck. Wear it when you can’t have me around to remind you to take care of yourself.”

You smiled, clutching it to your chest. He’d never say “I love you” out loud — not yet — but you didn’t need him to. He showed it every day, in the quietest, most careful ways. Because that’s how Midorima Shintarō loved — not with grand gestures or loud words, but with constant, unwavering care. And for someone who’d always been so fragile, his love was the strongest thing you’d ever known.

Bokuto Kōtarō

The first time Bokuto saw you cry, you were five. He’d accidentally knocked you over while running through the park, and you’d scraped your knee. You didn’t yell, or pout, or even get mad — you just stared at the blood, blinking hard as tears welled up. And Bokuto, even at five, panicked,“I— I’m sorry! Don’t cry, okay?! Here, you can have my bird feather! It’s lucky!”

He’d pressed a tiny grey feather into your hand — probably fallen from a crow — and watched as your tears turned into a small, wobbly smile. That was the start of everything.

___ _ _ _

Bokuto was energy in human form. Loud, chaotic, with an endless need to run, shout, and play. You were the opposite — calm, soft-spoken, and frail. You caught colds easily, fainted once during tag, and had to sit out of gym class more often than not. And yet, wherever Bokuto went, he made sure you were there too. If the class went outside, he’d walk slower so you could keep up. If you had to stay home sick, he’d drop off your homework — and sometimes a crayon drawing of an owl, labeled “Bokuto’s Watching Over You!!”

He’d always grin and say, “It’s okay if you’re not strong! I’ll be strong for both of us!”

You’d just laugh,“You already are, Kōtarō.”

He didn’t know it then, but he loved you for that — for how you saw him, even when everyone else just saw his noise.

___ _ _ _

By the time you both got into Fukurodani, Bokuto had become a star — loud, confident, and admired. But you still saw the same boy who gave you a feather to stop your tears. You sat in the stands during his practices when you were well enough. Sometimes you read, sometimes you just watched. He said he played better when you were there.

And honestly? He did. Whenever his spikes hit the floor, he’d glance up at you, waiting for your tiny thumbs-up — the one that meant “I’m proud of you.”

When you weren’t there, Akaashi usually caught him glancing at the door, a little quieter, a little deflated.

“Don’t worry, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi would say, “She’ll come tomorrow.” And when you did, he lit up like sunlight breaking through gym windows.

___ _ _ _

You’d promised to meet him after practice. It was cold, snow falling in gentle flurries. You stood outside the gym, bundled in a thick scarf, cheeks pink from the wind.

“Y/n!” Bokuto ran out, hair messy, voice booming with excitement. “You came! I thought you’d stay home — it’s freezing!”

You smiled softly,“I said I’d watch you, didn’t I?”

He beamed,“You shouldn’t be out if you’re gonna get sick, though!”

You laughed quietly,“You’re one to talk — you never wear your coat properly.” He opened his mouth to protest — then noticed your hand trembling slightly. His grin faltered. Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders.

“Kōtarō—”

“Shh. I got good stamina. You don’t.” He grinned again, trying to play it off. “Besides, it looks better on you.” You looked up at him — big, golden eyes, snowflakes caught in his hair, his breath fogging in the cold — and your chest ached with something warm.

“I’m lucky,” you murmured. He blinked,“Huh?”

“I’ve always been lucky,” you said, smiling,“To have you.” Bokuto didn’t know what to say. His face turned pink, and he rubbed the back of his neck, mumbling, “That’s… not fair. You can’t just say stuff like that outta nowhere!” You giggled,“Sorry.” He pouted — then leaned closer, eyes soft,“Hey, next time you feel sick, tell me, okay? Don’t try to hide it.”

“I don’t want you to worry—”

“I already worry!” he blurted out, voice cracking a little. “When you don’t text back, or when you look pale, or when you miss class — I worry, okay? You don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

Your throat tightened. Then, quietly, you whispered, “Okay.”

He relaxed, a small, relieved smile spreading across his face.

“Good,” he said, bumping his forehead against yours gently. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

___ _ _ _

Months later, when the cherry blossoms bloomed, you handed him a small pendant — a clear charm with a tiny feather inside.

“What’s this?”

You smiled,“You gave me a feather once, remember? Now it’s your turn. For luck.” He stared at it, then at you, his grin stretching wide,“You remembered that?!”

“I remember everything,” you said softly,“You’ve always been my lucky charm.” He laughed, the sound bright and boyish, but there was a hint of something deeper in it too — pride, affection, love. “Then,” he said, fastening the charm to his sports bag, “I’ll keep it with me. Always.”

And from that day on, every match, every victory, every cheer — that little feather swung by his side. Not for luck, really. But as a reminder — that somewhere in the stands, or waiting by the gym doors, was the person who’d believed in him since they were kids. The one who saw him — and whom he’d protect, always.

Kenjirō Sakamoto

Kenjirō Sakamoto had always been calm. Measured. Reliable. The kind of boy who never raised his voice and always kept things under control — on and off the court. But when it came to you, control didn’t come so easily.

You’d been sick for as long as he’d known you. Asthma, weak immunity, exhaustion — something was always trying to pull you down. Yet every time he visited, whether at home or the hospital, you still smiled like sunlight through pale curtains.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” he’d scold gently. “I’m resting right now,” you’d reply, eyes shining with quiet humor,“You’re here — that counts as resting.”

He’d sigh, trying not to smile. You always had a way of softening him. Even when you were tired, you still showed up to his games — bundled in scarves and blankets, clutching a thermos of tea like it was armor.

You’d wave from the stands, small and bright, and he’d always spot you — even in a crowd of hundreds. When he made a good pass or landed a shot, you’d cheer — soft but certain. It wasn’t loud like other fans, but it was his favorite sound in the world.

___ _ _ _

He learned early on that loving you meant patience. Some days, you were full of energy — teasing him after practice, helping him study, walking with him to school. Other days, you couldn’t even get out of bed.

And on those days, he’d bring the world to you.

Homework. Snacks. A small notebook full of doodles from the team. He’d sit beside your bed, reading quietly or holding your hand while you slept. Sometimes, when you woke up and saw him still there, you’d whisper, “You’ll get tired of this someday.”

And he’d answer without hesitation, “Never.”

Because he meant it. To Kenjirō, your frailty wasn’t a weakness. It was a reminder — that strength wasn’t only in muscles or stamina, but in the way you smiled through pain, the way you believed in him even when you could barely stand.

___ _ _ _

It happened one night after a long practice. He came over to check on you, only to find you curled on the couch, coughing until your voice broke.

“Y/n,” he whispered, kneeling beside you, heart pounding. You tried to smile, breath shallow,“Hey. You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“Don’t joke right now,” he said, voice shaking as he grabbed your inhaler and pressed it into your hand. You took a few slow breaths, finally easing into his arms. He held you there, eyes squeezed shut.

“I hate this,” he whispered,“I hate that I can’t fix it.”

You rested your forehead against his shoulder. “You already do. Every time you stay. Every time you care.” He looked at you then — really looked — and something in him cracked open.

“You make it sound easy,” he murmured,“But I’d do anything to keep you safe. Anything.” You smiled weakly,“You already do that, too.”

___ _ _ _

A week later, when you’d recovered, you came to his game. The team cheered when they saw you in the stands — wrapped in a big green blanket, waving that same thermos. After the match, he ran straight to you, sweat still clinging to his temples.

“See?” you said softly,“You played better with me watching.”

He laughed under his breath, eyes soft,“Maybe I did.”

You brushed your fingers against his wrist. “You don’t have to worry about me so much, Kenjirō.”

“I know,” he said. Then, quietly but firmly: “But I still will.”

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours — his touch careful, reverent.

“Even if you’re fragile,” he whispered, “you’re my strength. Always.”

Your heart thudded softly in your chest,“And you’re mine.” The gym lights flickered off behind you, the world quiet for a moment — just two people standing close, breathing in sync. And in that stillness, neither sickness nor worry mattered. Only the warmth between you — fragile, yes, but unbreakable all the same.

Hajime Iwaizumi

You were used to being sick. Coughs that lingered for weeks, fevers that came without warning, dizzy spells that left you clinging to walls — it was all routine by now. But Iwaizumi wasn’t used to watching you hurt. Since the beginning of your relationship, about three months ago, your poor health had been an "issue". At first, he tried to play it cool — bringing soup, reminding you to take your medicine, texting “Don’t push yourself, okay?” whenever you skipped practice or class.

But as time went on, worry began to turn into frustration.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling worse?” he asked one evening, voice tight, hands gripping the back of a chair. You looked down, guilty,“I didn’t want to bother you. You have your own stuff, Hajime.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck,“You’re not a bother. You never are.”

“You say that,” you murmured,“but you look tired every time you come see me.” That hurt — because it was true. He was tired. Tired of seeing you pale and shivering. Tired of feeling helpless. Tired of being scared that one day, you’d just stop answering your phone.

But what hurt more was knowing you thought you were a burden. He crossed the room, crouched in front of you, and took your cold hands in his warm ones,“Hey. Listen to me. I don’t want perfect. I just want you. Even if that means sitting here, holding your hand while you nap through half the day.”

You blinked back tears,“You’ll get bored of that eventually.”

He smiled, a little crookedly,“You underestimate how stubborn I am.”

That made you laugh — a small, weak laugh, but it was enough.

___ _ _ _

A few weeks later, spring came, and you were well enough to meet him at the park near school. The air smelled like new grass and sun-warmed earth. He jogged up to you, grin wide,“You made it!”

You rolled your eyes playfully,“Barely.” He brushed a stray leaf from your hair,“Still counts.”

You watched the sunlight flicker through the trees and said quietly, “It’s hard sometimes, you know. Feeling like I’m always behind. Like everyone’s living faster than me.”

He didn’t say anything right away — just squeezed your hand. Then, softly,“Then I’ll walk slower.” You looked at him — really looked — and for the first time in a long while, your chest didn’t ache with guilt. It ached with love. “Okay,” you whispered. “But only if you promise not to carry me the whole way.”

He chuckled,“No promises.”

And when you leaned against him, his arm wrapping around your shoulders, it felt like the world had finally stopped rushing past. You weren’t broken. You weren’t a burden. You were loved — just as you were. And Hajime, ever steady, would be there — every step, every breath, every fragile, beautiful day.

[seravalanko]

AWWW THANK YOU FOR ANSWERING MY ASK 🥹

[showhay]

cardio

— kenma swears he’s not working out because of you. he just wants to make sure your air particles see him thriving.

kozume kenma x f!reader | fluff | request

at 01:43 i bypassed my writers block. this idea was inspired by the photo lol

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

kenma hates sweating. he hates running, he hates anything that makes his heart beat faster than when you so much as say his name. but for some reason—some deranged, love-fueled, no-good reason—he’s been doing push-ups.

and the playlist? oh, the playlist is criminal.

“for when y/n breathes near me.”

forty-seven songs. a mix of lo-fi beats, dramatic anime openings, one (1) taylor swift song he refuses to admit is there, and suspiciously upbeat tracks that sound like he’s trying to summon motivation from a higher power.

kuroo found it once.

"bro. bro." he said, looking at the screen like it was a sacred scroll of emotional damage.

kenma just stared back blankly. “don’t.”

"‘for when y/n breathes near me’?! this sounds like a religious experience, not a playlist!"

“i said don’t.”

he deleted it that night. and then made it again an hour later. with better cover art.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the truth is, kenma’s been spiraling. not in a dramatic, pacing-around sort of way—no, he spirals quietly. the kind of spiral where he blinks and realizes he’s been staring at your instagram story for ten minutes straight, just because your coffee had a heart in the foam.

he doesn’t even like coffee. but now, every time he walks past a café, his chest tightens like it’s a side quest he can’t unlock without your permission.

fukunaga found out about the playlist too. because of course he did. kenma accidentally connected his phone to the team’s bluetooth speaker during warm-ups. the gym echoed with “daylight” by taylor swift.

“yo, kenma,” kuroo grinned, already a menace, “you manifesting her or what?”

kenma turned red enough to power a small village.

“it was on shuffle,” he muttered.

“shuffle doesn’t explain the playlist title.”

“it’s— it’s for running.”

“uh huh,” kuroo said. “running from what, your feelings?”

it took three more months before kenma could make eye contact again.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

but here’s the thing: you notice. not the playlist (god forbid), but him.

the little ways he tries. the way he lingers by the vending machines after practice, pretending to scroll when really he’s waiting for you to pass by. how he brings extra drinks “just in case” you forget yours, though he phrases it like, “uh, i got two, you can have one, whatever.”

how his hand trembles when yours brushes his. how he still opens his games mid-conversation, but his thumb doesn’t move—just resting there, eyes flicking up at you like you’re something fragile and electric all at once.

you never tease him for it. instead, you smile that warm, easy smile that makes kenma feel like his ribcage might short-circuit.

“you’ve been working out?” you ask one day, half-teasing, half-genuine, after noticing the faint definition on his forearm.

he freezes. he doesn’t blink.

“uh,” he says intelligently.

you giggle. “you look good.”

and that’s it. that’s the moment his brain blue-screens. if love were a video game, you just entered god mode.

he goes home, collapses face-first onto his beanbag, and immediately opens spotify. he adds three new songs. the playlist is now titled

“for when y/n breathes near me (deluxe edition)”.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the next practice, kenma forgets his headphones.

it’s over for him.

fukunaga smirks the moment he realizes. “uh oh. no music today?”

kenma grunts.

“guess we’ll just have to motivate you the old-fashioned way,” kuroo chimes in. he cracks his knuckles like a cartoon villain. “what would y/n think if your arms didn’t look good enough?”

kenma’s head snaps up like he’s just been hit with a buff potion.

“shut up.”

“nah, come on, kenma,” kuroo continues, way too pleased, “you’re doing this for love, right?”

“he’s so in love,” fukunaga singsongs.

“shut up!” kenma yells again, voice pitching higher than he’d like. but his push-ups suddenly look perfect.

kuroo whistles. “look at that form. pure devotion.”

fukunaga nods solemnly. “if you don’t marry y/n, i will. think about it.” (YES FUKUNAGA PLS, MARRY ME)

kenma’s face burns. “you guys are—” he stops. no point arguing. his pulse is already running faster than his mouth.

the thing is… he kind of likes it. the thought of you watching. cheering. maybe smiling the way you do when he gets a serve right.

so he keeps going. push-up after push-up, until his arms shake and his vision blurs, all while imagining your voice saying, “you look good.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

you find out about the playlist by accident.

you’re hanging out at his place, both sprawled on his bed, your head resting against his shoulder as you scroll through tiktok. he gets a notification from spotify. a little banner slides down from the top of the screen.

“now playing: ‘for when y/n breathes near me (deluxe edition)’”

you blink.

he freezes.

the silence is deafening.

“...kenma.”

“delete me,” he mutters immediately.

you bite back a smile. “that’s— that’s so cute.”

“no it’s not.”

“it is!”

“it’s embarrassing.”

“it’s literally romantic.”

“no it’s— wait. really?”

you nod, smiling softly. “you made a whole playlist because of me?”

his cheeks turn pink, his eyes darting away. “i just— it helps me focus.”

“on what?”

“...breathing.”

you laugh so hard he hides his face in his hoodie.

but when you tug the hood down and press a kiss to his cheek, he swears the world glitches. time stutters. his heart restarts like an old console warming up again.

you whisper, “you don’t need music, you know.”

“huh?”

“i’m already here.”

and just like that, kenma forgets how to exist properly.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

later that night, kuroo texts him.

kuroo: heard you finally confessed

kenma: i didn’t confess

kuroo: you literally made her a playlist

kenma: it wasn’t for her

kuroo: the title says “for when y/n breathes near me (deluxe edition)”

kenma: shut up

he turns off his phone, rolls over, and smiles into his pillow anyway.

your laughter still echoes in his ears. your handprint still lingers on his heart like a soft static charge.

kenma isn’t the type to chase grand gestures or loud declarations. he’s the quiet type—the kind who falls in love silently, completely, like it’s something coded deep into his system.

but when you text him goodnight with a pink heart, he opens spotify and renames the playlist one last time:

“for when y/n exists.”

no irony. no embarrassment. just truth.

and maybe, if you listen close enough, you can hear him smiling between the beats.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a: we’re on the verge of breaking up AND HE DOESN’T WANT TO RETURN MY HARDCOVER UZUMAKI MANGA, FUCK MY LIFE. I LOVE THAT BOOK 😭 I ALREADY GIFTED HIM ALMOST ALL OF THE VOLUMES OF SOLO LEVELING (the other ones were out of stock)

<taglist>

@lsirria @cvntyandfasionable @the-bloopsters @trulyylee @nelinkythoughts @kukikoooo @sleepykeijiii @briestrom94 @averys-place @reverd-ck @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi@evilari111 @rabbitcola @nivabiva @miilsa @katzline @asthmaticasma @meonelixir @michexoxo @pelicanpizza @harlisangels @x3nafix @knkzshx @zzzviix @meikstv @depressinglyobsessed @buriedfifi_ @keiob @ghostwifeyy @bigdaddyyaoii @perpetuallydone @mptality @qardasngan @crystal-lilac @methiart @wensurr @emotiandon @alyriaschoenheit

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

iloveu

[seravalanko]

GUESS WHO FINALLY REMEMBERED HER PASSWORD 🥹❤️‍🩹

[cowboypoisons]

“omg hinata harem is weird kghn sweeps blah blah blah” well shit tell every single person hinata interacts with to stop FALLING IN LOVE WITH HIM THEN this shit is getting out of hand 😭😭🙏🏾

[seravalanko]

tell hinata to stop being so damn gorgeous if you dont want him being shipped with others 😡

[showhay]

contagious

— when hajime catches a cold, he also catches feelings, a fever, and an incurable case of being pathetically in love with you.

iwaizumi hajime x f!reader | fluff | requested

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

iwaizumi hajime was the kind of man who claimed to “never get sick,” and yet here he was—half-dead in bed (his words), glaring at his own tissue box like it personally wronged him.

you stood at his doorway, arms crossed, watching the poor idiot try to reach for his water bottle that sat just out of reach. it was kind of tragic, like watching a mighty lion lose to a child’s sneeze.

“you look like death warmed over,” you said, stepping in, voice light.

“i’m fine,” he croaked, voice lower than usual—rough, rasped, and irritatingly attractive for someone with a fever.

“sure, and i’m the libero for the olympics.” you rolled your eyes, padding over to him, the soft squeak of your socks on his floor making him smile through his headache.

his eyes—a little glassy from the fever—softened when he saw you. even when his body was begging him to sleep, his heart stirred awake, like it always did when you were around.

“you didn’t have to come, y/n.”

“yeah, and you didn’t have to text me ‘if i die, delete my search history’ at 3 a.m., but here we are.”

he groaned, pressing his face into his pillow, trying to hide the fact that even that made him grin. “that was a joke.”

“funny,” you said, sitting on the edge of his bed, “because i opened your laptop and saw fifteen tabs of ‘how to make ginger tea without ginger.’”

he peeked up at you, cheeks tinted pink—not from the fever, but from the way you were so casually in his space, so effortlessly yours even in his chaos.

“you’re mean,” he muttered.

“and you’re dramatic,” you replied, reaching out to check his forehead. your hand met his skin, and his whole body tensed—not because of the temperature, but because you were touching him.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

you, with your soft touch, your worried brows, your eyes that carried too much warmth.

“haji, you’re burning up,” you murmured.

his heart stopped. not from the fever—from that. the way you said his name. the nickname that only you used. it sounded like sunlight, like care, like something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

“‘m fine,” he said again, voice weaker, eyes avoiding yours.

“uh-huh,” you deadpanned, “and i’m totally believing the man who looks like he fought god and lost then got farted on.”

you tucked the blanket around him anyway, your touch slow, careful, almost reverent. and iwaizumi swore he could feel every atom in his body shift toward you like he was orbiting a sun he’d never escape.

you stood up to make tea, and he groaned in protest. “don’t leave.”

the words came out hoarse, unguarded. you froze mid-step, heart stuttering.

“i’m just going to the kitchen, you big baby,” you teased, but your voice softened.

he turned his head to look at you, eyes heavy-lidded and full of something tender. “i just… you make it quieter.”

you blinked. “make what quieter?”

“everything,” he said simply, like it wasn’t the most devastating confession he’d ever made.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

you stayed. of course you did.

you made him tea. you wiped the sweat from his brow, made fun of him for sniffling like a five-year-old, and forced him to eat soup you picked up from the convenience store.

“open up,” you said, holding the spoon like you were feeding a toddler.

“y/n, i can feed myself.”

“you can barely breathe without sounding like a dying tractor, haji.”

“a what?”

“open.”

he glared. you glared harder. he caved—because he always did.

he opened his mouth, took the bite, and then froze when your thumb brushed the corner of his lip to wipe off a drop. your touch lingered—brief, thoughtless, murderous. because if you kept doing that, iwaizumi was sure his heart would give out faster than his immune system.

you noticed the way he stared at you, cheeks faintly flushed, eyes softer than they had any right to be.

“what?” you asked, grinning.

“nothing,” he said too quickly, voice cracking.

you smirked. “you sure? you’re looking at me like i’m dessert.”

he choked on the soup. “y/n—”

“what? you are! it’s okay, i’m flattered,” you teased, leaning closer just to watch him panic.

“you’re evil,” he muttered, but his ears were red and his smile betrayed him.

you giggled—the sound that always made his world tilt. “and yet, you’d still let me feed you again.”

he mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘i’d let you do anything,’ but you pretended not to hear.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

as the afternoon bled into evening, he fell asleep beside you, exhausted but content. his breathing steadied, his face unguarded—he looked younger, softer.

you sat on the edge of his bed, scrolling your phone, and occasionally glancing at him. his blanket had slipped a little, so you reached out to pull it back up. your hand brushed against his chest accidentally, and your breath caught.

his heart was racing.

you froze, eyes flicking up to his face. he was still asleep, brows slightly furrowed—maybe dreaming, maybe not.

“you’re ridiculous, haji,” you whispered, brushing a stray hair off his forehead.

what you didn’t see was his fingers twitching the moment your touch left him.

because he wasn’t fully asleep. not really. he was just lying there, caught somewhere between fever and fantasy, trying to memorize the way you sounded when you whispered his name.

he wanted to hold your hand—but his pride (and his snotty nose) said maybe not right now. so instead, he waited.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

when he woke up hours later, you were asleep in his desk chair, curled up, phone clutched loosely in your hand. the dim lamp painted your face in gold.

his throat tightened.

you’d stayed.

you’d taken care of him.

you looked so right in his room, like the universe made a mistake keeping you two as ‘best friends.’ curse oikawa, this is all his fault.

he sat up quietly, pulling the blanket off himself and draping it over you instead. your nose scrunched in your sleep, a little hum slipping out of your lips, and iwaizumi bit back a laugh.

his hand hovered over your cheek, debating—and then gave in.

he brushed his thumb lightly across your skin, whisper-soft, reverent. “you have no idea what you do to me, do you?” he murmured, voice low, almost fond enough to hurt.

you stirred, eyelids fluttering open. “haji?”

he froze. caught.

“you should be sleeping,” you mumbled, eyes half-lidded.

“so should you,” he whispered back.

“can’t,” you said, voice sleepy. “you snore like a dying lawnmower.”

he chuckled, quiet and warm. “you stayed though.”

“yeah,” you yawned, “someone has to make sure you don’t drown in your own tissues.”

he smiled, soft and helpless.

“come here,” he said.

you blinked. “haji, you’re still sick—”

“so? i’m contagious anyway, it’s too late now.” he murmured, eyes holding yours like gravity.

you laughed, but you didn’t resist when he tugged you toward him, wrapping an arm around your waist. your body fit against his so naturally that it scared him a little—how easy it was, how right it felt.

his hand rubbed small circles on your back, and you mumbled something about him being “a furnace,” but didn’t move away.

“thanks for taking care of me,” he whispered, voice heavy with things he didn’t dare say yet.

“anytime, haji,” you murmured against his chest.

he smiled into your hair.

and maybe—if love was a sickness—he didn’t want to be cured.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

in the morning, you woke up to find iwaizumi staring at you.

“good morning,” you said groggily.

“you drooled on my shirt,” he said, but his grin gave him away.

“you pulled me into your deathbed,” you shot back.

“worth it,” he said instantly.

you blinked. “you didn’t even hesitate.”

“wasn’t planning to.”

you rolled your eyes, cheeks warm. “you’re insufferable.”

“you love me,” he said without thinking.

the silence that followed was thick, heavy—and then you smiled.

“yeah,” you said softly, “i think i do.”

and iwaizumi, sick and all, thought maybe the fever wasn’t the reason his heart was burning anymore.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a: my grandma who’s very fond of my ex in the ph keeps updating me about him, told her many times not to. ‘he’s miserable without you.’ IT’S BEEN FOUR YEARS

<taglist>

@cvntyandfasionable @the-bloopsters @nelinkythoughts @sleepykeijiii @averys-place @reverd-ck @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @evilari111 @tetsurae @asyaacia @rabbitcola @nivabiva @s1lly-bon @yeonette @forgottensniper @katzline @michexoxo @meonelixir @immortalblazethief @pelicanpizza @han0vyc @meikstv @babybird-meena @ghostwifeyy @bigdaddyyaoi @perpetuallydone @mptality @buriedfifii @depressinglyobsessed @keiob @qardasngan @crystal-lilac @methiart

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

iloveu

[seravalanko]

purred in joy

[showhay]

hinata’s cousin: dethroned

— oikawa tōru has witnessed many horrors in his life—losing to shiratorizawa, bad hair days, and now… kageyama tobio giggling at you.

kageyama tobio x hinata’s foreign cousin!reader | fluff | requested

this is also a reference of yearner!oikawa [the girlfriend is you, from another fic]

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

oikawa tōru had always believed in three sacred truths:

one, perfect serves can heal all wounds.

two, iwa-chan’s punches are the universe’s way of keeping him humble.

and three—kageyama tobio was incapable of romantic affection.

or so he thought.

it all began during the karasuno vs seijoh rematch, a heated game, energy crackling through the air—oikawa serving, smirking, basking in the chaos. everything felt normal until he noticed it.

the way kageyama’s eyes wandered—mid-rotation, mid-game, mid-life crisis, probably—toward the bleachers.

and then… he smiled.

oikawa nearly dropped his towel.

“did… did he just smile?” kunimi muttered, eyes squinting like he was watching a rare wildlife phenomenon.

“impossible,” oikawa said, voice trembling like an ancient prophet predicting doom. “the only thing kageyama smiles at is dairy products.”

but kageyama did smile again. a tiny one, barely there—but it was there. and when oikawa followed his gaze—oh. oh no.

you.

sitting pretty and cheering, bright-eyed and clapping like karasuno’s personal sunbeam. you waved when kageyama’s eyes met yours, and oikawa actually heard the sound of the boy’s soul leaving his body.

the “king of the court” blushed.

“no way,” kindaichi whispered, sounding scandalized. “he’s in love.”

“no, no, no,” oikawa said, shaking his head like he was trying to reset his reality. “love is for normal people. that’s kageyama tobio. he feels three emotions: irritation, volleyball, and lactose.”

and yet—there he was, serving like his life depended on your applause. oikawa watched, horrified, as every point kageyama scored made him look up, scanning the stands for you. each time you smiled, he stood a little taller.

“oh my god,” oikawa whispered. “he’s doing this for her.”

“it’s cute,” kunimi said blandly.

“it’s a disgrace,” oikawa hissed. “a scandal. an insult to his former title!” he pointed dramatically. “look! the once terrifying king of the court has become—what? a court jester for love?”

but deep down—somewhere between his ego and the space he reserved for drama—oikawa felt a flicker of sympathy. because he got it.

he really did.

after all, he’d been there too. whipped. helpless. fully ruined by affection. his mind flashed briefly to his own girlfriend (you know, the one who could make him blush harder than any victory ever could). he’d done the same—turning into a puddle at the sight of her, going soft whenever she called him tōru.

so maybe he couldn’t judge kageyama too harshly.

maybe.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

“we’re following him,” oikawa announced after the game ended, clutching his water bottle like a mission folder.

“we are?” kunimi said.

“we have to confirm this!” oikawa’s eyes gleamed. “the king has fallen, and i will witness the coronation of love.”

“you need therapy,” kunimi said.

“and yet you’ll come.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

they trailed after kageyama like the world’s worst secret agents.

he wasn’t hard to find. after the match, instead of heading straight to the locker rooms, he bolted toward the vending machines outside. oikawa crouched behind a pillar, kunimi and kindaichi beside him, all three peeking out like nosy grandmas at a neighborhood scandal.

and there you were. jogging toward him with a smile that could stop traffic.

“you were amazing out there!” you beamed, breathless but glowing. “you’ve gotten even better, tobio!”

he froze. literally malfunctioned. his eyes went wide, his hands stiff, his whole body screaming error: girl speaking detected.

“uh—i—th-thanks,” he stammered, shoving out a bottle of milk toward you like it was a sacred offering. “uh. here. this is for you.”

you laughed, eyes lighting up. “you remembered i like this brand?”

“of course,” he mumbled, voice soft and shaky.

oikawa clutched his heart. “he’s SPEAKING GENTLY. i—he’s—he’s—”

“don’t faint,” kunimi said dryly.

“i won’t faint,” oikawa whispered. “i will ascend.”

he leaned closer to whisper to kindaichi, “do you see that look in his eyes? the devotion? the way he’s acting like she personally invented joy itself?”

“yeah,” kindaichi murmured. “you kinda look like that with your girlfriend too.”

oikawa froze. “excuse me?”

“when you talk about her,” kunimi added, “you get that same dumb smile.”

“i do not have a dumb smile,” oikawa hissed.

“you do,” they both said in unison.

“well—fine!” oikawa sputtered, cheeks pink. “maybe i understand him a little! love is a powerful force! it humbles even the greatest of men!”

meanwhile, kageyama was currently melting under your attention.

you leaned in to brush something off his cheek—maybe sweat, maybe dust—and said softly, “you always look so serious, but you’re happy today. it’s cute.”

he short-circuited.

you saw the flicker in his eyes, the way his shoulders tensed and relaxed all at once, how his lips twitched upward before he whispered, “’cause you’re here.”

and if oikawa hadn’t been crouched in public, he would’ve screamed.

“HE SAID IT,” he whispered harshly. “HE SAID IT. DO YOU HEAR THAT? ‘CAUSE YOU’RE HERE.’ i can’t—i can’t breathe—”

“this is the best day of my life,” kindaichi whispered, recording oikawa’s breakdown in real time.

oikawa pressed his hands to his temples. “he’s gone. the king is gone. he’s been replaced by a blushing, milk-gifting romantic.”

and then you laughed. a soft, shy giggle. and kageyama smiled—fully, genuinely, eyes crinkling, completely lost in the sound of you.

oikawa froze. something warm hit his chest.

oh.

that feeling—he knew it. he’d seen it in mirrors, in the way his heart softened when his girlfriend laughed at his jokes, or texted him during training, or just looked at him like he was something worth loving.

“you get it now, huh?” kunimi muttered.

oikawa sighed, shoulders dropping. “yeah,” he said quietly. “i get it.”

and then kageyama hugged you.

you gasped, half surprised, half flustered, as he wrapped his arms around you like he’d been waiting all day for that one moment.

oikawa immediately fainted.

kunimi and kindaichi didn’t even move.

“he’s so gone,” kindaichi said, watching kageyama hold you, his face buried in your shoulder.

kunimi hummed. “yeah.”

“guess we can’t call him king anymore.”

kunimi shrugged. “nah. he’s just a simp now.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

ten minutes later, oikawa woke up to kunimi saying, “they’re still hugging.”

and for once, oikawa didn’t feel rivalry. didn’t feel bitterness. just a weird, reluctant sort of pride.

“you know,” he murmured, standing up and brushing himself off, “love looks… good on him.”

“you would know,” kunimi said.

“of course i would,” oikawa said, tossing his hair, though his smile softened at the thought of his own girlfriend waiting for him after matches. “i invented being down bad.”

“that’s not something to brag about,” kindaichi muttered.

oikawa looked toward kageyama one last time—still smiling, still holding you close—and grinned.

“come on, boys,” he said, hands in his pockets. “let’s go. before i start writing poetry about this.”

kunimi sighed. “too late for that.”

“don’t expose me,” oikawa said.

and as they walked away, oikawa glanced back just once—at you laughing softly, at kageyama looking at you like you were his entire universe, with hinata absolutely fuming as he jumps kageyama—and smiled.

because for all his dramatics, for all the rivalry and pettiness and ego, oikawa tōru knew one thing for sure:

the king of the court wasn’t dethroned by defeat.

he was saved by you.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a: i write about the fluffiest fics but i don’t even experience any of these. if only he changed.

<taglist>

@lsirria @cvntyandfasionable @the_bloopsters @trulyylee @highandalive @nelinkythoughts @kukikoooo @sleepykeijiii @n-o-b-o-d-y123 @averys-place @reverd-ck @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @evilari111 @rabbitcola @s1lly-bon @yeonette @forgottensniper @katzline @michexoxo @asthmaticasma @meonelixir @immortalblazethief @pelicanpizza @x3nafix @knkzshx @han0vyc @meikstv @depressinglyobsessed @keiob @ghostwifeyy @perpetuallydone @mptality @qardasngan @crystal-lilac @methiart @bloodredblessy

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

iloveu

[seravalanko]

this is just beautiful

[seravalanko]

tadashi yamaguchi kei tsukishima ave me! oh no! whatever will I do without your big strong arms saving me!! haha haha.... come back soon, the kids miss you 🥺

"xian u weird asf" you mean devoted? whatcha mean by that.

[showhay]

Hiiii, first of all, i LOVE ur stories, u r my fav writer<3, I would love it if u could make another story with Yamaguchi where the reader is Karasuno's manager and I'll leave the rest up to u 🥺🥺? Sorry, I'm not good at thinking of ideas for stories.😭🙏

favorite

— tadashi would brush the court floor with a toothbrush if it meant you’d smile at him for three seconds longer.

yamaguchi tadashi x manager!f!reader

c/w: fluff!! cat-like behavior (i implemented this in here so that it doesn’t get boring, it doesn’t affect the story at all)

thank u bby!! i hope this is good 😚

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

there was a rumor going around karasuno’s gym that you weren’t the manager—you were the feral cat who’d somehow evolved into a girl. the third-years had started it, mostly as a joke, but then nishinoya swore he’d seen you crouched on top of the volleyball net like some urban cryptid, calmly holding the clipboard while kageyama served. to be fair, you did have a certain feline grace. you’d move around the gym barefoot sometimes, dodging stray balls with the reflexes of a ninja and the calm expression of someone sipping tea.

and if you were the cat, then yamaguchi tadashi had long ago appointed himself as your very willing scratching post.

he had it bad. so bad that hinata joked yamaguchi’s heart probably meowed when you walked in. when you came through the gym doors with your oversized karasuno hoodie sleeves dangling past your hands, yamaguchi swore even the fluorescent lights got brighter. he’d watch you crouch to tape the corner of the court or kneel to wipe a scuff mark, and he’d feel this wild, protective kind of awe, like you weren’t cleaning the gym floor but painting the sistine chapel with your fingers.

today was no exception. the team was scrimmaging, and you were perched on the very top of a stack of mats like some judgmental owl. clipboard balanced on your knees, pen between your teeth, you were scribbling down rotations and muttering to yourself.

“y/n,” yamaguchi called, voice a little higher than usual. “uh, water?” he held out your bottle with both hands like an offering to a queen.

you blinked down at him, then smiled, and it was over for him. he’d fight ushijima himself with a pool noodle if it meant seeing that smile again.

“thanks, tadashi,” you said softly, and his name on your lips was like electricity and sugar at the same time.

nishinoya immediately pounced. “ohhh, she called you tadashi!” he hollered. “first name basis!”

tanaka wolf-whistled. “our little yamaguchi’s getting bold!”

“guys—shut up!” yamaguchi sputtered, his ears going crimson.

but you only tilted your head, catlike. “should i not?”

he shook his head so fast his hair flopped into his eyes. “n-no! i like it!”

you hummed, scribbling something down. “good.”

yamaguchi nearly melted right there.

he’d been trying to prove himself to you for weeks in his own quiet way. unlike the other boys, who had no shame (tanaka and noya had both attempted to juggle volleyballs while singing love songs in your direction), yamaguchi’s devotion was stealthier. he’d clean your clipboard before practice, wipe down the benches you sat on, and—his secret shame—stay after everyone left to re-tape the lines of the court so you wouldn’t have to do it alone.

he’d even started learning how to fold those tiny paper stars because he overheard you telling kiyoko you liked them. he kept them in his pocket, planning to give them to you one day, but somehow he never got the courage.

today, though, something felt different. maybe it was the way the afternoon light streamed through the windows, making your hair look like some kind of halo. maybe it was the fact you had a little smudge of chalk on your nose from the scoreboard. or maybe he’d just reached his limit of quiet pining.

between sets, while the others argued about rotations, he found you by the supply closet. you were restocking towels with one hand, phone tucked under your chin, muttering something about the upcoming tournament.

“hey,” he said softly.

you looked up. “hey, tadashi. what’s up?”

he scratched the back of his neck. “uh, you’ve been working really hard lately.”

you blinked. “so have you. your float serve’s been crazy.”

he ducked his head, cheeks pink. “thanks. but, uh… can i help you with this stuff?”

you raised an eyebrow but handed him a stack of towels. “sure. just put them on the shelf.”

you worked in companionable silence for a moment, the muffled shouts of the team echoing from the gym. then you laughed quietly. “sometimes i think you’re the only normal one here.”

he smiled. “i’m not that normal.”

“oh?” you tilted your head, playful. “what makes you so special, then?”

he hesitated, then blurted out, “i think you’re the best part of karasuno.”

you froze, towel in hand. “what?”

his face went crimson. “i—I mean, you’re always taking care of everyone, and you never complain, and—” he swallowed hard. “you make everything better.”

your expression softened, something unreadable flickering across your face. “tadashi…”

he panicked, thinking he’d overstepped, but you reached out and brushed a stray piece of hair from his forehead. your touch was light, warm. “you’re sweet.”

“i’m serious,” he murmured. “i’d… do anything to make things easier for you.”

you blinked at him, and for once, you looked a little shy. “that’s really nice of you.”

he tried to laugh it off. “guess i’m just your court janitor, huh?”

but you shook your head. “no. you’re…” you trailed off, then smiled. “you’re my favorite.”

his heart absolutely detonated. “favorite?”

“mm.” you grinned. “don’t tell tanaka, he’ll start crying.”

he couldn’t stop himself from grinning back, a little dazed. “i won’t.”

the moment stretched between you, warm and quiet.

then, very softly and out of impulse, you said, “can i kiss you, tadashi?”

his brain short-circuited. “y-you—what?”

you laughed. “you’ve been running around taking care of me for weeks. the least i can do is give you a thank-you kiss.”

he opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish, then managed a tiny nod.

you stepped closer until your toes brushed his sneakers. he smelled faintly of sweat and the lemony cleaner used on the gym floor, and under it all, something warmer, something just him.

you reached up, fingers sliding into the hair at the back of his neck, and pulled him down a little. he made a soft, startled noise, his hands hovering awkwardly before settling at your waist.

the kiss itself was slow and sweet, the kind that felt like it had been waiting for a long time. you tilted your head, brushing your lips against his once, twice, then deepening it just enough for him to feel your smile against his mouth.

he melted completely, knees going weak, heart pounding so hard he thought you’d hear it. he kissed you back shyly at first, then with a little more courage, a soft sound escaping him like he couldn’t hold it in.

when you finally pulled away, you were still close enough for your foreheads to touch. “thank you, tadashi,” you whispered. “for everything.”

he swallowed, dazed. “thank you,” he breathed. “for… this.”

you laughed softly and pecked his nose, the chalk smudge on yours brushing his skin. “we should probably get back before tanaka sends a search party.”

he nodded, still pink and smiling, and for the first time all practice, he felt like the gym wasn’t just a place for volleyball—it was a place where maybe, just maybe, someone like him could have a tiny, perfect piece of you.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a: i’m in fact, not dead. i’ve been having a mid-life crisis on how cute should my home screen be.

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

iloveu

[seravalanko]

hey yamaguchi. hey. im here. I love you. im better than that fuck face called tsukishima. I can treat you better. (THANK YOU NIQUE ILYSM)

[seravalanko]

you know those videos on tiktok that say "giving fanfic/art ideas should be a job"? I wholeheartedly agree with that. we've all went through that one time where you have multiple ideas but terrible execution right...? trust me guys, hmu and ill churn out the best fanfic and art ideas you'll ever hear.

yes this may be a master plan for good writers to hmu, but idgaF bc it might work. god forbid a girl just be lazy sometimes. yeah sometimes xian.

win-win situation ladies and gentlemen, no payment, just a single ask for me to give out any ideas for any fandom (maybe not any but ill research about anything), and i get fanfics beautifully written. love you darlings, this is just a cry for help because I cant write, dont be pressured by this 🥹❤️‍🩹

this is starting to be a rant acc