lyn✯

𝟏𝟖+ love and hate are such a thin lines

[st4rgirllv]

⋆Artist's Profile⋆

➣!Lyn's New Releases!

𝄞ˎˊ˗𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐋𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐏𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐭. 𝐓𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐚 𝐊𝐞𝐢

𝄞ˎˊ˗ 𝐀𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝐟𝐭. 𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐚 𝐇𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢

𝄞ˎˊ˗ 𝐌𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬, 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐭. 𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐨

𝄞ˎˊ˗ 𝐈 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐈 𝐒𝐚𝐰 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐟𝐭. 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐦𝐚 𝐊𝐨𝐳𝐮𝐦𝐞

➣!Grammy Winners!

𝄞ˎˊ˗𝐎𝐨𝐩𝐬, 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝, 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧! 𝐟𝐭. 𝐈𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢 𝐓𝐨𝐠𝐞

𝄞ˎˊ˗𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲 𝐒𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐭. 𝐓𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐚 𝐊𝐞𝐢

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𝄞ˎˊArtist's Cut 𝄞ˎˊDiscography 𝄞ˎˊRules

[st4rgirllv]

i just saw he post u should ABSOLUTELY write for carl gallagher! maybe he’s with someone who’s equally chaotic but more emotionally intelligent?

“You are not throwing a pipe bomb at two in the morning because some guy called you trailer trash, Carl.”

He pauses, already halfway to lighting it.

“…He also said you looked stupid.”

“And tomorrow, after coffee and at least one full night of sleep, you can decide if that deserves explosives.”

Carl stares at you for a second before shoving the lighter back into his pocket.

“You’re kinda ruining my process.”

“Your process is felony-based.”

like that yk??

yes ! I just finished it,, I hope you like it thoughh

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐂𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞

[st4rgirllv]

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐂𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞

Carl Gallagher x Reader cw: mentions for explosive, slight fluff, very short (sorry :,( based on this req, ouhh I hope you like itt,,

You've been friends with the Gallaghers before you even walked. It was pretty hard not to be, you live next to them. Plus, your dad saw it as an oppurtunity to leave you with people who can watch you while he drinks or work, but mostly drink.

You've lost count on how many times you crashed on Carl's bed because of your dad's explosive drinking. Yeah, you could consider Carl to be your bestfriend in the entire world.

Mostly because you're both... chaotic? Some people would say you're both crazy for trying to put Debbie's doll in the microwave for an... experiment, but really, you're just curious little kids.

very curious and very begrudging kids.

Aside from that, you do surprisingly well in school which you carried until now.

So while Carl shakes down nerds, dorks, and losers for money, you're in the library reading some shit about the pythagorean theorem. You didn't really mind what he did.

Of course it was a bad thing to do, but half that money probably goes to you when Carl sneaks in some snacks in the library so you could eat.

“Hey, what time you gonna finish that?” A thirteen year old Carl raises his eyebrows trying to peak at what you're writing.

“I think I'll stay for two more hours. I really need to pass this test. You can go home though,” you placed your head on your palm, looking at the books around you then at him.

“I really don't want you to go home alone though, but I have some things to do.” He looks around, looking puzzled.

“Carl, I'll be fine. I know how to go home,” you tell him in a 'duh' kinda tone.

“Of course I know you can go home. I'm just saying there's creeps lyin' around waiting for a pretty girl like you to walk by so they can harrass you. I'll just come back for you, kay? Don't go anywhere.” he looked at you in the eye and ran away.

i'm gonna tell you right now, out of all the things he said, all you heard was- “He thinks I'm pretty...?” you watched the library doors open and close when he left.

After that studying was just a blur, unable to focus.

Before you knew it, it's been two hours and like clockwork he waited and walked you home, along with some stories of what happened in the two hours you weren't with him but you were so exhausted you passed out on the Gallagher's couch, nothing really new.

You were awaken by the sound of someone trying to tiptoe out the backdoor and failing miserably. You look up to see a certain brunnette holding something... odd. “Carl?”

The boy stood frozen in his spot, turning around to see you rubbing your eyes. “Hey, you're awake, good,” he starts walking towards you and dragged you out.

You were still groggy from your sleep and completely confused until he filled you in on what he was about to do.

“What, that's crazy!? You are not throwing a pipebomb at two in the morning because some guy called you trailer trash, Carl. You don't even live in one”

“That's worse!” He pauses, already halfway to lighting it. “He also said you looked stupid by the way.”

“Okay, and tomorrow, after coffee and at least after one full night of sleep, you can decide if that deserves explosives,” you looked at him with full concern on your face.

Carl stares at you for a second before sighing and shoving the lighter back into his pocket. “You’re kinda ruining my whole process.”

“Your process is felony-based. You can't go to juvie Carl, you're only thirteen,” He smacks his lips at the thought with a pout on his face.

You look down the ground walking back to his house. “Plus, what am I gonna do without my partner.”

“Fine, but if he talks shit again, I'm gonna blow his head smooth off,” he opens the gate to his house and you just laugh at him walking up their porch.

Little did you know he'll end up in juvie anyway for a completely different reason.

ᯓ★ I got lazy towards the end okay,, ᯓ★ Masterlist

[st4rgirllv]

hi people,,

please request 🙏 since I'm able to write because it's summerrr

[st4rgirllv]

hmm, I'm lowky tired of looking for Carl Gallagher ffs should I start writing?

[st4rgirllv]

LYNNN I MISS YOUUU

BBY I MISS YOU TOO😞🤕 I'LL TRY TO POST TMRWWW

[camgirlallegedly]

SIDE QUEST

in which kenma kozume strategically falls, fakes partial paralysis, and accidentally signs the coach’s granddaughter up for a side quest neither of them expected to complete.

you hadn’t meant for volleyball to become the thing people associated with you, but it had a way of following wherever you went, clinging to your name like an afterthought that refused to be forgotten.

back in the uk, it had started innocently enough. a school trial you’d attended out of boredom, a coach who had raised his eyebrows at your first serve, teammates who had learned very quickly that you did not hesitate when it came to swinging hard.

you hadn’t been the loudest on the court, nor the most dramatic, but you’d been efficient in a way that unsettled people. your hits were explosive, your timing clean, and your serve had a sharpness to it that made receivers flinch half a second too late.

people liked to call it natural talent, which you never bothered correcting. the truth was less glamorous; you simply hated doing anything halfway, and if you were going to play, you were going to play properly.

it was fun for a while. tournaments, away games, the particular echo of rubber soles against polished floors, the way a gym always smelled faintly of dust and adrenaline. you liked the rhythm of it, the structure, the simple satisfaction of watching the ball hit exactly where you’d intended.

but you never loved it in the all-consuming way some of your teammates did. you didn’t go home replaying matches in your head. you didn’t tape inspirational quotes above your desk. volleyball fit into your life neatly, like an accessory you could remove when it no longer matched the outfit.

the injury happened in the most unremarkable way possible.

no dramatic collision, no heroic dive. just a bad landing, your ankle rolling at an angle it had no business attempting, and the sharp, immediate sting that told you something had gone wrong before you even hit the floor.

you remember staring at the ceiling of the gym while your teammates crowded around you, their voices overlapping, someone squeezing your hand too tightly as if pressure alone could undo it.

infact, you remember the inconvenience of it more than the pain, the way your mind leapt straight to the recovery timeline and the months of physio that would follow.

rest, they’d said. rehab, they’d insisted. patience.

you had tried, at first. you showed up to appointments, did the exercises, nodded through the lectures about stability and strengthening. but somewhere between the third week of elastic bands and the fourth reminder that you’d have to sit out the remainder of the season, your motivation thinned.

it wasn’t devastation that made you stop.

it was indifference.

volleyball had been good to you, yes, but it had never been the center of your world. and if returning to it required months of meticulous effort for something you only moderately missed, you found you didn’t particularly feel like fighting.

so you let it go.

#1 captain: sis u cant be fr rn ur my best outside hitter u gotta come back when ur fully recovered 😭😭

You: i deaduzz cant be bothered twas a good run 💔💔💔💔

your parents didn’t protest much when the conversation shifted from recovery to relocation. they had been discussing moving back to japan for years, always circling around the idea of giving you the chance to reconnect with your roots, of practical things like work and opportunity and timing.

the conversation about moving back to japan does not happen under dim lighting with tense silence and heavy sighs.

it happens in the middle of your parents arguing over whether coriander belongs in everything.

“it absolutely does,” your father insists, leaning across the kitchen counter like he’s presenting a thesis instead of a herb.

your mother rolls her eyes with theatrical disbelief, reaching up to flick flour from his cheek with unnecessary tenderness. “you only say that because you think it makes you sound cultured.”

“i am cultured.”

“you’re so dramatic, honey.”

you sit at the table watching them like you always do, somewhere between exasperated and deeply fond, because this is how they’ve always been: slightly unbearable, completely inseparable, incapable of finishing a disagreement without drifting back into shared laughter.

it’s in the middle of that nonsense that your father clears his throat in a way that signals a topic shift.

“speaking of cultured,” he begins, grinning at your mother as if this is all part of an elaborate performance, “we’ve been thinking.”

you immediately narrow your eyes.

“that’s never good.”

“that's rude,” your mother says lightly, sliding into the seat across from you and reaching for your hand. “it’s actually a very good thought.”

your father nods with exaggerated seriousness. “a brilliant one, really. groundbreaking.”

you wait.

“what would you think,” your mother says carefully, though her eyes are already bright with anticipation, “about transferring to nekoma in japan? just for the next chapter.”

“ew, mom, don't say chapter— this isn't some freaking wattpad fanfiction,” you cringe, trying to hold back your laugh.

“new country, new school,” your father elaborates, draping an arm around your mother’s shoulders as if they’re about to announce a vacation instead of a life change. “well— old country— but you get my point. plus, you'll be closer to family."

“and closer to proper rice,” your mother adds.

you stare at them both.

they stare back, clearly expecting some dramatic protest that never comes.

you lean back in your chair, considering it. the idea doesn’t feel threatening. it feels… interesting. a shift, yes, but not a loss. you’ve never been particularly attached to staying in one place simply for the sake of familiarity.

“nekoma’s good,” your father continues, softer now but still warm. “and your grandfather’s been pretending not to miss his dear, doting, princess granddaughter.”

your mother laughs. “he absolutely has not been pretending.”

you picture your grandfather squinting at a computer screen, muttering about volleyball and attendance and probably you, and you feel something that isn’t dread so much as curiosity.

“and you two are coming too,” you say, eyeing them suspiciously.

“of course we are,” your mother replies immediately. “did you think we were shipping you off like a parcel?”

“ooh, that's tempting though,” your father muses. "we could just send her off and we could finally have our alone time." he adds, wiggling his eyebrows up and down in an exaggerated rhythm, like he’s personally auditioning for the role of most annoying person alive.

"oh my god?? you guys are so nasty.. now i wanna go to japan alone." you physically recoil, dragging a hand down your face.

your mother elbows him without looking.

the kitchen falls into that familiar comfortable noise, cutlery clinking, your parents bickering about logistics with an ease that suggests they’ve already decided this will work because they’ll make it work together.

you watch them for a moment longer before shrugging lightly.

“okay,” you say.

they both pause.

“okay?” your mother repeats, almost suspicious.

“okay,” you confirm, reaching for your glass. “it’ll be good.”

and good it was, because— nekoma does not swallow you whole the way some new schools threaten to.

it opens instead, slowly and curiously, and you step into it with the kind of confidence that doesn’t demand attention but gathers it anyway. you don’t have to try particularly hard; you’ve always known how to hold eye contact just long enough, how to laugh without sounding rehearsed, how to ask someone about themselves in a way that makes them feel genuinely interesting.

the girls who approach you first are exactly the kind people would stereotype without thinking twice.

they're loud in the hallways, skirts slightly shorter than dresscode allows, lip gloss perpetually fresh. they know who’s dating who before homeroom ends and have opinions about everything from teachers to cafeteria food. they look, at first glance, like the type who would smile sweetly and slice you apart the moment you turn your back.

they do not. they're warm in a way that surprises you.

they ask about your move without prying, about london without romanticizing it, about your old team without turning it into some dramatic loss. they shove their phones into your face to show you pictures, complain openly about tests and boys and life in general. when you laugh, they laugh harder, not because they’re performing but because they genuinely enjoy the sound of it.

within a week, you are walking to class together. within two, they are saving you a seat at lunch without asking.

it isn’t calculated, and it isn’t fragile. there’s no tension humming beneath the surface, no secret resentment about your accent or the way people look twice when you pass. if anything, they seem faintly proud of it, as though your presence has elevated their collective aura.

they text you at night about trivial things and serious things in equal measure. they drag you to convenience stores after school and sit on the curb sharing drinks, talking about futures that feel both distant and uncomfortably close.

it was somewhere during those early weeks that you properly met kuroo.

you had noticed him before, of course. he was difficult not to notice, all sharp grins and lazy confidence. he watched people with an assessing look that suggested he enjoyed understanding the mechanics of social dynamics almost as much as he enjoyed poking at them.

your first real conversation happened by accident, if you could call it that.

you’d been leaning against the railing near the courtyard, half-listening to one of your friends recounting a story, when kuroo approached with the air of someone who had decided something and was now simply following through.

“so you’re the transfer everyone’s talking about,” he’d said, tone light but eyes curious.

“am i?” you replied, matching his ease without missing a beat. “should i be concerned?”

he laughed, and there was something approving in it.

you learned quickly that he enjoyed banter, that he sometimes pushed at people’s reactions to see how they held up. you also learned that he respected resistance, that he liked when someone didn’t fold immediately under his teasing.

you didn’t.

so a kind of understanding formed between you, not constant but steady. you weren’t inseparable, but you moved in overlapping circles, trading comments and glances across classrooms, occasionally finding yourselves side by side at school events without having consciously planned it.

he mentioned volleyball once, casually.

“you used to play, right?” he’d asked, leaning back in his chair.

you had tilted your head, considering how much you wanted to give away. “a little.”

“a little,” he repeated skeptically, as if he already knew that wasn’t the whole story.

you only smiled.

it never occurred to you that this small thread of connection, this shared understanding that you were more capable than you pretended to be, would eventually loop back around and tie you to the very gym you had so easily walked away from.

at the time, nekoma was simply a new setting, a fresh stage on which you could choose whatever role you pleased.

which, unfortunately, included the role of granddaughter.

your grandfather, yasufumi nekomata— or as students call him— coach nekomata, insists you visit his office at least once during your first week, claiming it is for “administrative purposes,” though you strongly suspect he simply wants to look at you in person and confirm you are real and not just a concept his son-in-law keeps mentioning on video calls.

his office is cluttered in a way that suggests he knows exactly where everything is despite appearances. papers stacked in uneven piles, old photos pinned to a corkboard, a half-finished cup of tea going cold near his elbow.

“hm,” he says, his signature smile on his face.

“that’s all i get, old man?” you ask, closing the door behind you. “no dramatic welcome? no tears?”

“you’re late,” he replies calmly.

“by three minutes?”

“unacceptable.”

you narrow your eyes at him before dropping into the chair across his desk without permission.

“my dear granddaughter, you’ve grown,” he continues.

you fight a smile and lose.

“that tends to happen over several years,” you reply, taking the seat across from him without waiting to be offered one.

he hums as if this is groundbreaking information, leaning back in his chair with the air of someone evaluating a long-term investment.

“you’re louder now,” he adds after a moment.

“i was like six back then..” you remind.

he just chuckles and reaches over to ruffle up your hair before he reaches for the cup of tea near his elbow, takes a slow sip, then grimaces faintly at the temperature before setting it back down without comment.

“so,” he says, steepling his fingers together in a way that immediately makes you suspicious, “how is nekoma treating you?”

“it’s fine.”

“fine,” he echoes, unimpressed.

“people are nice. classes are normal. no one’s tried to fight me yet.”

“that’s promising..?”

you tilt your head. “should i be concerned that you phrased it like that?”

he ignores the question entirely, instead pulling open a drawer with deliberate slowness. you watch his movements carefully, already anticipating some form of paperwork.

you are not disappointed.

he slides a single sheet of paper across the desk toward you.

you look down at it.

club registration.

you look back up at him.

no words are exchanged for a full three seconds.

“absolutely not,” you say finally.

he blinks once, calmly. “you didn’t read it.”

“i don’t need to.”

“students are required to join a club.”

“required is a strong word.”

“it is the correct word.”

you lean back in your chair, crossing your legs with exaggerated nonchalance. “i just transferred. i deserve a grace period.”

“you’ve had one.”

“it’s been only 19 days.”

“exactly.”

you stare at him in disbelief.

“what if i’m still adjusting,” you argue.

“you adjusted on day two,” he replies without hesitation. “your teachers already say you participate too much.”

“that’s because they ask easy questions.”

“hm.”

you eye the paper again but make no move to touch it.

“i don’t feel like committing to anything,” you admit, tone lighter than the statement sounds. “i like keeping my afternoons open.”

“for what.”

“existing.”

“you can exist in a club.”

“well— not peacefully.”

he studies you for a moment, and you recognize that look immediately— the one that means he’s two steps ahead of whatever excuse you’re preparing next.

“you’re avoiding effort,” he says, almost lazily.

“i’m conserving energy.”

“for what.”

“social obligations,” you reply promptly.

“you’re popular,” he says bluntly.

you blink at him.

“that was fast.”

“i hear things.”

“that’s mildly invasive.” you exhale through your nose, fighting the urge to smile again.

“just pick something,” he says, nudging the paper closer to you with one finger. “i don’t particularly care what it is. art. literature. chess. as long as you’re not wandering the halls after school pretending you’re above participation.”

you lift your chin slightly. “i am above participation.”

he raises one eyebrow.

you hold his gaze.

“…selectively above participation,” you amend.

his lips twitch.

“end of the week,” he says calmly. “you’ll submit that form.”

“or what.”

“or i will choose for you.”

the audacity.

you stand, snatching the paper from the desk with a dramatic sigh. “you wouldn’t dare, you old fart.”

he smiles— not warmly, not threateningly, but knowingly.

and that is somehow worse.

you pause at the door, glancing back at him once more.

“if you sign me up for something weird,” you warn, “i will hold a grudge.”

“don't say that like i don't know you— you're already holding one,” he smiles.

you narrow your eyes at him again before slipping out of the office, the form folded loosely in your hand. "whatever, see ya' later, love you."

you fully intend to ignore the form.

you do not yet realize that your grandfather has been coaching for decades, and patience is a skill he possesses in terrifying abundance.

but since you're you— you do, in fact, ignore the form.

for three full days, it lives folded in the front pocket of your bag, migrating between notebooks and loose worksheets as if trying to remind you of its existence. every time your hand brushes against it, you pretend you’re looking for something else. a pen. lip gloss. literally anything more urgent than commitment.

you tell yourself you’re weighing options.

in reality, you’re procrastinating with remarkable dedication.

by the fourth afternoon, the topic finally surfaces.

you’re walking out of the school gates with your friends, the late-day sun casting everything in that warm, forgiving glow that makes even concrete look cinematic. someone is complaining about a math quiz. someone else is scrolling through her phone, trying to decide where to stop for snacks.

“wait,” one of them says suddenly, turning to you. “what club are you joining?”

you groan softly.

“don’t.”

“what,” she laughs. “you have to pick one, right?”

“apparently,” you mutter.

“oh my god, join something fun,” another chimes in. “like dance. or drama with us. you’d be so good at drama.”

“i don’t want to rehearse things,” you reply. “that defeats the point of being naturally impressive.”

they laugh, shoving your shoulder lightly.

“what about sports?” someone suggests. “didn’t you used to play something?”

“a little,” you answer automatically, and the phrase feels suspiciously familiar.

“volleyball, right?” she presses.

you wave a hand dismissively. “that was abroad. and also inconvenient.”

“inconvenient,” she repeats, amused. “you make everything sound like it’s optional.”

“it is optional,” you insist. “that’s the beauty of it.”

“not clubs,” she sings.

you open your mouth to argue further when the friend walking slightly ahead of you stops abruptly.

“…no.”

the tone alone makes all of you freeze.

“what,” you ask.

she slowly turns around, eyes wide with dawning horror.

“i left my homework in my desk.”

there’s a collective pause.

“you’re joking.”

“i’m not.”

“it’s due tomorrow.”

“i know.”

you stare at her for a moment, calculating the distance you’ve already walked from the school gates, the effort required to turn around, the sheer injustice of it all.

she grabs your wrist before you can slip away.

“come back with me.”

“why me.”

“moral support.”

“you don’t need moral support to retrieve paper.”

“yes i do.”

you sigh dramatically but allow yourself to be tugged along as the group collectively pivots and begins heading back toward school.

the campus is quieter now, the end-of-day rush having thinned into scattered students and lingering club members. your friends peel off one by one, offering exaggerated condolences as they continue home, until it’s just you and her climbing the stairs toward your classroom.

“you owe me,” you inform her.

“i know,” she replies breathlessly. “i’ll buy you something tomorrow.”

“make it expensive.”

she laughs.

when she finally retrieves the forgotten homework, clutching it triumphantly like a recovered relic, she looks far too pleased with herself.

“see,” she says. “worth it.”

“let's agree to disagree..”

you both head back toward the entrance, but as you reach the gates, you pause.

“hey— your legs stop working or something?,” she says slowly. “are you coming?”

you glance toward the courtyard, then toward the administrative building where you know your grandfather’s office is.

you had overheard earlier that he was holding one of his practices today, something about extended drills and a stubborn team that refused to listen.

you hesitate for only a second.

“i’ll stay a bit,” you say casually. “my grandpa’s here.”

she nods, unsurprised. “text me when you get home.”

“i will.”

she waves once before disappearing down the path toward the gates, leaving you standing in the soft quiet of an almost-empty campus.

you don’t rush. you never rush.

you wander instead, taking the longer route through the courtyard, listening to the distant thud of something rhythmic echoing faintly from the direction of the gym. the sound is familiar, though you haven’t let yourself dwell on it properly since arriving.

the gym doors are propped open slightly when you approach, warm air spilling out along with the muted squeak of shoes against polished floor. you don’t step inside immediately. instead, you lean lightly against the outer wall, peering in just enough to catch the motion of drills unfolding.

your grandfather’s voice carries clearly, sharp but not unkind, correcting posture, calling out adjustments.

you’re still deciding whether to make your presence known when someone exits through the side doors.

you glance over without thinking.

he doesn’t see you.

his head is tilted down, attention fixed on his phone, steps unhurried and slightly distracted in a way that suggests this is a routine rather than a rare lapse.

you recognize him distantly from passing glimpses in hallways, from the way kuroo occasionally refers to a “lazy setter who's actually the brain of all of their operations.” with too much fondness.

he looks entirely unremarkable in this moment.

until his foot catches.

it happens quickly.

too quickly.

one misstep against uneven pavement and suddenly he’s tipping forward, hands shooting out too late to prevent the inevitable. the impact is loud in the quiet courtyard, palms scraping harshly against concrete, knees following with a thud that makes your breath hitch before you can stop it.

for a fraction of a second, you simply stare.

then you’re moving.

“oh my god—” you drop to a crouch beside him without hesitation, reaching for his arm. “are you okay?”

he’s sitting upright, staring down at his hands like they’ve personally offended him.

there’s a shallow scrape along his palm already beginning to redden.

“did you hit your head?” you press, leaning closer. “can you stand? are you dizzy?”

he blinks up at you slowly, as if surfacing from somewhere else entirely.

“my legs feel weird,” he says after a pause, voice quiet but oddly steady.

your stomach drops.

“what do you mean weird.”

he shifts slightly, attempting to push himself up, and there’s just enough instability in the movement to make your concern spike. his hands press against the pavement, fingers flexing once as if testing sensation, and you don’t notice the way his expression flickers— not pain, not quite— but calculation.

practice had run longer than usual.

you hadn’t been there for it, but he had, and the evidence is written in the slight slump of his shoulders, in the way his breathing is heavier than the short walk outside should warrant. coach had made them run extra laps that evening, and kenma had endured it with the quiet resignation of someone who hates cardio but lacks the energy to protest.

he’d come outside under the perfectly reasonable excuse of refilling his water bottle.

fresh air, a brief pause, a moment to delay the inevitable return to drills.

he had not, however, anticipated gravity betraying him.

“okay,” you murmur, already sliding your arm under his before he can protest. “we’re going back inside.”

he considers correcting you.

he considers saying he can manage.

he does neither.

instead, he allows his weight to tip slightly toward you, just enough to make the support necessary rather than optional. his legs do work. they absolutely work. they are simply protesting the idea of further exertion, and if your concern grants him a few extra seconds of reprieve, he sees no reason to decline the offer.

you don’t notice the subtle adjustment, the way he times his steps to seem marginally unsteady without fully collapsing. you’re too busy scanning his face for signs of dizziness, too focused on keeping him upright as you guide him toward the open gym doors.

“did you hit your head?” you ask again, frowning.

“no,” he replies quietly.

“are you sure.”

“yeah.”

he leans a fraction more when you tighten your hold, not dramatically, not enough to alarm you further, but enough that walking suddenly requires less effort on his part.

it’s efficient.

the gym doors swing open with more force than you intend, the sound loud enough to draw a few glances from the court.

practice immediately pauses, everyone's eyes snapping to the entrance.

you’re not entirely unfamiliar with nekoma’s boys’ volleyball team, not really, mostly because kuroo has a habit of orbiting your conversations whenever it suits him and dragging pieces of his team along in passing. you’ve seen them in hallways, heard their names tossed around in jokes, picked up fragments of inside stories that never quite included you.

and kuroo is the first to fully clock the situation.

he’s halfway through saying something to yamamoto when his gaze lands on you— specifically, on the fact that you are half-carrying their setter like he’s just returned from battle.

there’s a beat.

then his eyebrows shoot up so high they practically leave his forehead.

“…what,” he says slowly, dropping the volleyball in his hands without looking.

“he fell,” you reply immediately, tightening your hold instinctively. “his legs feel weird.”

kuroo blinks once.

then twice.

then, to your mild confusion, his expression shifts into something dangerously amused.

he strides over with exaggerated urgency, stopping just in front of you before placing a dramatic hand over his chest.

“thank you,” he says solemnly, voice ringing with mock gravity, “for rescuing our delicate little setter.”

you narrow your eyes at him. “i’m so serious right now.”

“so am i,” he insists, reaching out to take kenma’s other arm. “we nearly lost him.”

kenma, traitor that he is, says nothing.

kuroo smoothly transfers kenma’s weight from you to himself with practiced ease, though he gives you one last grateful nod as if you’ve performed a heroic deed.

“you’re safe now,” he tells kenma in an exaggerated murmur. “she carried you through the battlefield.”

“i walked,” kenma mutters faintly.

“barely,” kuroo replies.

you cross your arms, unconvinced but still watching closely in case he actually collapses.

kuroo straightens, clearing his throat as he shifts into something more formal.

“since this is apparently a life-altering moment,” he says lightly, gesturing between you and kenma, “allow me to introduce you properly. (y/n), this is kenma, our tragically fragile setter.”

kenma glances at you, expression neutral but eyes sharper now that he’s upright.

“hi,” he says.

“yup, hi,” you reply without thinking.

his gaze lingers a second longer than expected.

kuroo’s eyebrows begin doing that shameless, up-and-down waggle like he’s discovered a national secret.

before he can speak again, another voice cuts in.

“what’s all this noise?”

your grandfather approaches at an unhurried pace, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the scene.

his gaze lands on you first.

then kenma.

then kuroo.

he exhales through his nose in something suspiciously close to laughter.

“you,” he says, pointing mildly at kenma, “couldn’t even make it to the water fountain without incident?”

kenma blinks.

“i tripped.”

“hm.”

your grandfather’s eyes shift to you.

“and you,” he continues, “were escorting him like he’d broken both legs.”

“he said his legs felt weird,” you defend immediately.

kuroo coughs into his fist.

your grandfather looks between the two of you again, amusement growing.

“how ironic,” he murmurs.

you don’t like that tone.

“what.”

he gestures vaguely toward the court.

“you still haven’t joined a club.”

you freeze.

“gulp.”

“manager,” he says simply.

“no.”

“yes.”

“absolutely not.”

“you’re here anyway.”

“that’s different.”

“how.”

“i’m visiting. please don't start, grandpa."

you glare at him.

he smiles faintly.

“we could use a manager,” he continues calmly. “someone attentive. someone who notices when a player is about to collapse.”

you open your mouth to argue, but yamamoto suddenly appears at your side with the energy of someone who has just received divine revelation.

“WAIT,” he blurts, eyes wide. “you’d be our manager?”

you stare at him.

“no.”

“that would be insane,” he continues, already spiraling. “we’d finally have a pretty manager. karasuno wouldn’t be able to flex kiyoko at us anymore.”

“i am standing right here,” you inform yamamoto dryly.

“exactly,” he says earnestly, as if that proves his point.

“we are not recruiting based on aesthetics,” your grandfather interjects, though he does not look particularly opposed to the enthusiasm.

“i don’t even want to be in a club,” you protest. “this is coercion.”

there’s a faint snort from somewhere behind yamamoto, and you catch a glimpse of a tall first-year, who you know as lev, squinting at you both with growing confusion.

“wait,” he says slowly, pointing between you and your grandfather. “why are you talking to coach like that.”

inuoka nods. “yeah. didn't you just transfer?.”

“and you called him grandpa,” yamamoto adds, suspicion finally catching up to his enthusiasm. “who calls the coach 'grandpa.'”

you blink.

your grandfather looks deeply unimpressed.

“students usually call me coach,” coach nekomata says dryly.

“exactly,” yamamoto insists, gesturing wildly. “so why aren’t you?”

kuroo’s eyes light up with interest, clearly enjoying the unfolding mystery.

“oh,” he says slowly, like he’s assembling a puzzle in real time. “oh no.”

you glance at him.

“what.”

he looks between you and your grandfather again, eyebrows beginning to lift— not in the cartoonish waggle yet, but close.

“don’t tell me—”

“tell you what,” you reply flatly.

"(y/n), are you related to coach nekomata or something.." lev questions, earning himself a kick from yaku who questions how lev could be so impossibly clueless.

there’s a collective intake of breath.

you watch the realization spread across their faces in waves, starting with confusion, morphing into horror.

your grandfather exhales once, as if he’s been waiting for someone to catch up.

“yes. she’s my granddaughter,” he says calmly.

the silence that follows is immediate and deafening.

yamamoto’s jaw drops.

“WHAT.”

kuroo physically steps back like the information has force.

“you’re kidding.”

“i don't joke about family,” your grandfather replies.

you fold your arms, mildly amused by the chaos. “surprise.”

“since when,” yamamoto demands.

“since birth,” you answer.

“we’ve been—” he gestures vaguely around the gym. “—acting normal around you.”

“what were you planning on doing instead,” you ask dryly.

kuroo drags a hand down his face, then looks at kenma, who has gone suspiciously quiet.

“you,” he says slowly, “just fake-died in front of the coach’s granddaughter.”

“i did not fake-die,” kenma mutters.

“you said your legs stopped working,” you cut in, narrowing your eyes slightly.

kenma’s gaze flickers to yours for half a second before dropping.

“i said they felt weird,” he corrects.

kuroo makes a strangled noise that sounds very much like disbelief.

“this is insane,” yamamoto declares, running both hands through his hair. “we finally get a manager and she’s royalty.”

“i am not royalty.”

“you are coach royalty.”

“that’s not a thing.”

“it is now.”

your grandfather watches all of this unfold with poorly concealed amusement.

“if you’re done panicking,” he says mildly, “practice is not over.”

the team scrambles back into position, though the energy has shifted noticeably. there are still glances in your direction, still whispers that cut off when you look their way.

you feel none of the awkwardness they seem to expect.

you’ve been someone’s granddaughter your entire life.

it has never once intimidated you.

what does catch your attention, however, is the way kenma avoids looking directly at you now, shoulders slightly tense in a way that wasn’t there before.

you file it away without fully understanding why.

the decision becomes official the next day.

you sign the form with a pen borrowed from kuroo, who watches with open delight as if witnessing history in the making. your grandfather accepts it without ceremony, merely nodding once before announcing to the team that nekoma now has a new manager.

you feel, briefly, like you’ve just volunteered for something irreversible.

there is a moment— a small, dramatic one that exists only in your head— where you consider how easily you could have joined literature club instead.

and yet here you are.

official. responsible. required to show up.

you die a little inside at the thought of effort.

because effort means consistency, and consistency means expectation, and expectation means you can’t simply drift in and out when you feel like it. you now have a role. a title. duties.

you try to tell yourself it won’t be that bad.

it is worse.

managers, it turns out, actually do things.

you start with the obvious tasks first.

water bottles, towels, recording stats, collecting stray balls that roll too far during drills. you keep track of substitutions during practice matches and scribble down rotations with neat precision, telling yourself it’s purely administrative and not at all a sign that you’re invested.

nekoma doesn’t need help with strategy.

that becomes clear quickly.

their plays are deliberate, their formations calculated, and at the center of it all is kenma, who orchestrates everything with the quiet efficiency of someone who sees three steps ahead and finds no reason to explain himself.

you don’t interfere with that.

instead, your attention shifts elsewhere.

conditioning, fatigue, all that stuff.

you notice the way kenma’s shoulders start to slump long before anyone else does, the way he presses his lips together slightly when drills drag on too long. you see how he lingers a second too long near the water cooler, how he tilts his head back as if bracing himself before returning to the court.

he doesn’t complain loudly.

he doesn’t need to.

you begin timing his breaks more carefully, handing him his bottle without asking, refilling it before he can wander off again. you remind him— casually, always casually— to stretch properly instead of halfheartedly reaching for his toes and calling it a day.

“you’ll regret that later,” you tell him once, nudging his knee lightly with the toe of your shoe.

“…i won’t,” he replies, not looking up.

“you will.”

he sighs but stretches properly anyway.

it becomes a pattern.

you don’t hover, not exactly, but you pay attention. when your grandfather pushes them through extra laps, you’re already waiting at the sidelines with a towel in hand before kenma makes it back around. when he drifts toward the exit after practice under the pretense of refilling his bottle, you watch closely enough to ensure he doesn’t collapse again— strategically or otherwise.

“don’t trip,” you jokingly tell him one evening as he passes.

he pauses.

“…i won’t.”

there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

surprisingly, this is where the two of you fit.

not in loud exchanges or dramatic revelations, but in quiet, consistent proximity. you don’t try to fix his game, and he doesn’t try to impress you with it. instead, you exist in the in-between moments— during cooldown stretches, while the rest of the team argues about something trivial, while your grandfather lectures them about focus.

sometimes he’ll stand beside you while you update notes, glancing down at your handwriting.

“you’re writing a lot,” he murmurs once.

“it’s called doing my job.”

“you said you hated effort.”

“i do.”

“then why are you trying.”

you consider that for a second before shrugging.

“i don’t like doing things badly.”

he hums softly, as if that answers more than you intended.

it’s easy, unexpectedly so.

you’re louder with everyone else, sharper with kuroo, more animated with your friends when they visit the gym. with kenma, though, your voice lowers without conscious decision. you sit beside him on the bench without making a spectacle of it. you don’t ask invasive questions. you don’t force conversation.

and in return, he doesn’t retreat.

he lingers. he hands you his empty bottle instead of refilling it himself. he lets you fuss over minor scrapes without protest.

the irony is not lost on you.

you didn’t want responsibility.

now you’re monitoring the physical state of a setter who pretended his legs stopped working just to avoid running extra laps.

and, worse, you don’t entirely mind it.

it becomes noticeable before either of you intend for it to.

kenma has always been selective about what he listens to. when kuroo tells him to stretch properly, he grumbles. when yamamoto reminds him to hydrate, he ignores it entirely. when your grandfather pushes for extra conditioning, he complies with visible reluctance, as though every additional lap is a personal betrayal.

and yet.

“stretch.”

you don’t even look up from your clipboard when you say it one afternoon, watching him attempt to half-commit to a cooldown.

“…i am,” he replies.

“that doesn’t count.”

there’s a pause.

then, without further argument, he bends properly.

kuroo freezes mid-sip of water, lowering the bottle slowly.

“…interesting.”

you glance at him. “what.”

he walks closer, eyes narrowing slightly at kenma, who is very deliberately avoiding eye contact.

“i’ve been telling him to stretch correctly for years,” kuroo says thoughtfully. “years.”

kenma remains bent forward, fingertips actually touching his toes now, as if deeply invested in hamstring integrity.

“and yet,” kuroo continues, “one casual comment from you and suddenly he’s compliant.”

“i am not compliant,” kenma mutters.

“you just folded.”

“did not.”

“did too.”

you roll your eyes lightly. “maybe he just respects proper instruction.”

kuroo’s eyebrows begin their obnoxious up-and-down waggle, enthusiasm radiating from every inch of him.

“ohhh,” he says slowly. “is that what this is.”

kenma straightens, ears faintly pink.

“shut up.”

“no, no, i’m fascinated,” kuroo continues, circling slightly like he’s studying an anomaly. “i, the captain, say stretch and he acts like i’ve personally insulted his bloodline. you say stretch and he listens immediately.”

“that’s because you’re annoying,” kenma replies flatly.

“and she isn’t?”

you blink.

“excuse me.”

kuroo grins. “present company excluded.”

you shake your head, but there’s no real irritation behind it.

“maybe he just doesn’t want to like.. eat shit infront of someone again,” you say mildly.

kenma shoots you a look.

kuroo gasps. “trauma bonding?”

later that week, your friends finally visit during practice.

they’ve been curious, of course. the novelty of you voluntarily committing to something structured has not gone unnoticed.

they lean against the wall near the entrance, whispering commentary that you pretend not to hear while organizing equipment.

“you look busy,” one of them calls lightly.

“i am busy.”

“you look responsible.”

“please don't. this feels like employment. and you know how i desperately love living life unemployed.”

they giggle, watching as the team rotates through drills.

it doesn’t take long for them to pick up on the pattern.

“why do you keep looking at that one,” another asks quietly, nodding toward kenma as he wipes sweat from his forehead.

“i look at everyone.”

“no, you don’t.”

you pause.

you absolutely do.

but perhaps not equally.

“you handed him his bottle first,” she continues, eyes narrowing with amusement. “and you told him to stretch. and you keep hovering near him specifically.”

“i do not hover.”

“you’re hovering.”

“i am monitoring.”

“him.”

“the team.”

“him.”

you sigh.

“he forgets things.”

“like what.”

“hydration.”

“so does everyone else.”

“not like him.”

there’s a beat.

one of them smirks.

“you’re weirdly attentive.”

“i’m doing my job.”

“sure.”

you glance toward the court again without meaning to.

kenma happens to glance back at the same time.

it lasts only a second.

but your friends notice.

“oh,” one breathes dramatically. “oh, this is so embarrassing.”

“nothing is happening,” you insist immediately.

but nothing doesn’t mean much when you’re standing closer to him than you stand to anyone else.

nothing doesn’t mean much when your hand finds his sleeve before your brain catches up, when your eyes track him even during rallies you pretend to watch objectively.

and nothing definitely doesn’t mean much after a match.

the gym is louder than usual during the practice game against karasuno, the kind of loud that settles into your bones. sneakers squeak sharper, serves crack harder against palms, and every rally stretches just slightly longer than comfortable. you stay near the bench, clipboard tucked against your hip, attention split between the scoreboard and the court.

kenma moves differently in a match.

more precise.

more deliberate.

his sets are clean, almost effortless in appearance, but you can see the strain building in subtler places— the way he exhales through his nose a second too long, the way his shoulders round slightly between plays.

you don’t interrupt.

you wait.

when the final whistle blows and the teams separate, energy dissolving into post-match chatter and towel-snatching and exaggerated complaints, kenma drops onto the bench with quiet resignation, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. he looks fine to anyone glancing casually.

you step into his space without announcing yourself, fingers brushing lightly against his shoulder before sliding down to his forearm.

“congratulations, pudding hair.” you tell him.

“pudding hair..?” he questions.

you raise an eyebrow.

“…has no one ever told you your hair looks like pudding?”

"no.. trust me, people tell me all the time."

you step closer, close enough that your knees almost brush his. you adjust his hair so it isn't all sticky against his forehead. your fingers steady and practiced. your touch is careful but unhesitating, like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

you tilt kenma’s chin up slightly when he looks like he might brush you off, your thumb grazing just under his jaw for half a second before you let go.

“don't forget to breathe properly, idiot,” you instruct softly.

he does.

without complaint.

and that, more than anything, is what makes kuroo choke on his water across the court.

because nothing might be happening.

but nothing doesn’t usually look like this.

you glance to the side briefly and catch a cluster of orange and black standing a little too close to the net.

karasuno— they’re pretending to be engaged in conversation.

they are not subtle.

hinata is openly staring.

kageyama’s gaze flicks between you and kenma with sharp assessment.

tanaka nudges nishinoya so aggressively he nearly stumbles forward.

“…is that normal?” you hear hinata whisper.

“for nekoma?” nishinoya replies. “no idea.”

kuroo notices them noticing.

and immediately makes it worse.

he strolls over with the air of someone about to provide commentary, resting an elbow casually on kenma’s shoulder.

“don’t mind her,” he calls lightly toward karasuno. “she’s our very dedicated manager.”

“i can hear you?” you inform him.

“good.”

tanaka leans toward daichi, eyes wide.

“since when does nekoma have a manager like that.”

daichi looks faintly exhausted already.

“focus.”

meanwhile, hinata is craning his neck shamelessly.

“she’s really close,” he mutters.

kageyama doesn’t answer immediately.

he watches as you press a bottle into kenma’s hand without being asked, watches the way kenma takes it without complaint, watches the way you say something low and quiet that makes kenma nod once in acknowledgment.

kageyama’s brows knit together.

“…that’s why,” he mutters under his breath.

hinata leans closer. “why what?”

“that’s why he doesn’t drop off in the third set,” kageyama says, tone tightening slightly. “he’s pacing better.”

tanaka blinks. “dude. what are you even talking about.”

kageyama gestures vaguely toward the two of you, though he makes it look like he’s stretching his arm.

“he used to slow down faster,” he continues, half to himself now. “but today he adjusted.”

hinata squints. “he was still annoying to play against..”

“i know that, you dumbass!,” kageyama snaps quietly.

his eyes flick to you again, narrowing. because to kageyama, that’s not romance.

that’s strategy.

noya slowly processes this.

“so you’re saying—”

“if that’s how he’s maintaining consistency,” kageyama interrupts, jaw tightening faintly, “then it’s an advantage.”

hinata’s eyes widen as he jumps to the absolutely wrong conclusion.

“are you jealous...?"

“i’m not jealous.”

“you’re jealous.”

“i’m analyzing.”

kuroo leans down toward kenma with a grin that spells trouble.

“congratulations,” he murmurs. “you’ve triggered kageyama’s.. setter rivalry mode.”

kenma follows his gaze lazily, remembering his first encounter with kageyama. hinata was really right. kageyama was exactly like a grumpy, scary sabertooth tiger.

“…why.”

“because,” kuroo says cheerfully, “apparently having a manager who monitors your hydration counts as a power-up.”

you catch only the tail end of that exchange.

“what counts as a power-up,” you ask.

“nothing,” kenma replies quickly.

kuroo snorts.

meanwhile, kageyama is still watching, eyes flicking between kenma’s posture and your proximity.

if this is how kenma maintains stamina—

if this is how he stays sharp—

then it’s something to account for.

and suddenly, what karasuno thought was just you being attentive looks suspiciously like a competitive edge.

you don’t realize you’ve just entered setter politics.

kenma does.

and for once, he doesn’t look particularly bothered by it.

because rivalry is familiar territory. competition makes sense. if kageyama sharpens up, if karasuno recalibrates, if someone across the net starts watching his tempo more closely, that’s predictable. that’s part of the system.

what does bother kenma, though, is when the attention shifts from the court to you.

this time, it was a training camp with other schools, the gym more crowded, air thick with the smell of sweat and polished floors. you’re near the bench again, taking notes, keeping score, doing your job with that quiet efficiency that makes everything around you run smoother.

earlier, though, you hadn’t been inside.

between games, you’d stepped out into the open-air corridor that wraps around the side of the gym, needing a moment where the noise didn’t press against your ears. a few other managers from different schools had gathered there too, clipboards tucked under arms, comparing schedules and complaining about how none of the boys refill their own bottles properly.

it’s easy, standing there.

easy in a way that feels different from inside the gym.

you’re laughing at something one of them says, leaning lightly against the railing, sunlight catching along the edge of your hair. no one’s watching you like you’re responsible for them. no one’s waiting for your signal. you’re just another student, just another girl talking about trivial things.

one of the managers nudges you lightly. “you’re coach nekomata's granddaughter, right?”

you groan softly. “unfortunately.”

they laugh.

it feels normal.

then someone calls them back inside, their team needing something, and one by one they peel away with hurried apologies, leaving you alone by the railing for a moment longer than intended.

you don’t rush back in.

you’re still smiling faintly when you turn toward the entrance.

and that’s when the guy from the opposing team wanders over during a break, water bottle dangling loosely from his hand. he doesn’t hesitate when he approaches you, doesn’t glance at the court to check if anyone’s watching.

“hey. you’re the manager, right?” he asks, leaning slightly against the wall beside you.

you nod, polite but distracted.

“yup, that's me.”

“you’re here every match?”

“well.. usually?”

his eyes flick over you in quick assessment before he smiles, pleased with whatever conclusion he reaches.

“i gotta say— you don’t look like a manager,” he says.

you tilt your head slightly. “what does that mean.”

he shrugs, grin widening. “just seems like you should be on the court instead.”

you let out a soft breath through your nose, amused but unimpressed. “retired early. tragic story.”

he laughs like you’re charming, like this is going somewhere. then, he smiles, easy and confident. “you joined recently? last time i checked, nekoma didn't have a manager.”

“mm.”

“figured. we wouldn't forget faces like yours.”

it’s bold, but not aggressive. practiced.

you offer a neutral smile, more amused than flustered.

“that’s convenient.”

the boy in front of you continues talking, unaware of the shift unfolding behind him.

“you should visit our school sometime,” he says. “we’ll give you a proper tour. might even convince you to switch sides.”

you almost laugh at that.

before you can respond, a familiar presence steps into your peripheral vision.

kenma.

he doesn’t wedge himself between you dramatically. he doesn’t glare. he doesn’t even raise his voice. he simply stops close enough that the space changes.

his gaze lands on you first.

“coach wants you to track the next game more carefully,” he says, tone neutral.

you blink.

“right now?”

he nods once.

there is absolutely no prior instruction from your grandfather about this.

the other boy shifts slightly, glancing between you and kenma.

“we were talking,” he says lightly, not confrontational, just pointed.

kenma finally looks at him then, expression unreadable.

“matches aren't over,” he replies, voice flat in a way that leaves little room for argument.

it isn’t hostile.

it isn’t loud.

it’s simply final.

there’s a brief pause where the air feels heavier than it should for something so small.

then a whistle blows, cutting through whatever tension had started to gather.

the opposing player backs away with a half-smirk, jogging toward the entrance of the gym.

“guess he needs you,” he calls casually over his shoulder.

you turn to kenma slowly once he’s gone, folding your arms.

“did that old geezer actually say that.”

his eyes glance around for a second then his eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder.

“…no.”

the admission is quiet.

you stare at him for a moment longer than necessary.

“kenma.”

he exhales faintly, like you’re the one making this complicated.

“you were distracted,” he says.

“i was being polite.”

kenma’s jaw shifts slightly, not in anger, not quite in frustration either, but in that subtle way he does when he’s trying to reorganize thoughts he didn’t expect to have.

“you don’t have to be,” he says finally.

you blink at him.

“i don’t have to be polite?”

“not to him.”

there’s something almost defensive in the way he says it, though he’s clearly trying to sound indifferent.

you study him more carefully now. the tips of his ears are faintly pink, his gaze refusing to settle directly on yours for more than a second at a time. he’s not good at disguising physical tells. not when it’s about something he doesn’t fully understand yet.

“why,” you ask, an eyebrow raising.

he hesitates.

this is the moment.

this is where it shifts.

kenma is good with systems, with rotations, with patterns he can predict. this, however, isn’t structured. there’s no clear input-output response to explain why the sight of someone else standing close to you tightened something unfamiliar in his chest.

“he was looking at you,” he says instead, like that’s explanation enough.

“people look at me, a lot, infact.” you reply lightly.

“not like that.”

the words come out before he can filter them.

and now he’s forced to commit.

you don’t say anything right away.

the gym noise feels distant for a second, like it’s happening behind glass. you’re suddenly aware of how close he’s standing.

“and how was he looking at me,” you ask, softer now.

kenma finally meets your eyes.

it’s not confrontational. it’s not dramatic.

it’s honest.

“like he thought he could take up your time.”

the phrasing makes your breath hitch faintly.

“and that bothered you?”

another pause.

he could deflect here. he could say something about efficiency again. about distractions. about focus.

he doesn’t.

“…yeah,” he admits.

it’s quiet.

but it’s real.

something in your chest loosens at the same time something else tightens.

you don’t tease him.

you don’t laugh.

instead, you step just slightly closer, closing the space he tried to control earlier.

“well, you’re already taking up my time,” you say, voice gentle but deliberate. “on purpose.”

he goes still.

completely still.

the gym could be empty for all he notices.

“i am,” he says slowly.

“yeah.”

you tilt your head a little, studying his expression the way he studies plays mid-match.

“so you don’t have to lie about coach next time.”

the faintest flicker of embarrassment crosses his face.

“…okay.”

“you could just say you don’t like it.”

he swallows.

“i don’t like it.”

there it is.

the words land between you, and instead of feeling heavy, they feel strangely obvious— like something that had already been sitting there for weeks, waiting for one of you to finally say it out loud.

you blink at him once.

then twice.

kenma looks mildly horrified at himself, as if the sentence escaped without permission and he’s now watching it float away beyond retrieval.

you can’t help but smile. it's not teasing. not smug. just soft amusement.

“you know,” you say, tilting your head slightly, “most people would’ve just said they were jealous.”

his ears turn pink immediately.

“i wasn’t—” he starts, then stops, clearly realizing that arguing will only make it worse. “…maybe a little.”

the honesty makes you laugh under your breath.

around you, the gym is still loud— someone arguing about serves, a ball rolling across the floor, yaku shouting at lev somewhere in the distance— and somehow that makes this feel less serious, less fragile. just two people talking a little too close during a break.

“for the record,” you add lightly, “i wasn’t interested.”

kenma looks up quickly.

“…you weren’t?”

“no. i was waiting for my setter to stop being weird.”

he exhales a quiet laugh— surprised, relieved— and some of the tension leaves his shoulders all at once.

“i wasn’t being weird,” he mutters.

“you lied about coach.”

“yeah but…strategically.”

you grin.

the moment settles into something lighter, easier, the tension dissolving into quiet amusement instead of awkwardness. kenma looks calmer now, shoulders no longer drawn tight, though the faint pink at his ears hasn’t faded.

you watch him for a second longer than necessary.

then another.

a thought crosses your mind— simple, obvious, impossible to ignore now that it’s there.

“…let me ask you something,” you say.

he nods immediately, cautious but attentive. “yeah.”

you hesitate only briefly, surprising even yourself with how calm you sound.

“do you like me?”

kenma freezes.

completely.

it’s not dramatic— just a full system pause, like his brain has suddenly encountered an unexpected variable.

“…oh,” he says quietly, buying time.

you almost laugh.

“that wasn’t a trick question.”

he looks at the floor, then back at you, clearly running through several possible responses and discarding all of them in real time. there’s no strategic answer here, no optimal play, just honesty waiting uncomfortably at the center.

“…uh— yeah,” he admits finally.

the word comes out soft but certain.

your chest warms instantly.

“yeah?” you repeat.

he nods once, more firmly now, as if committing to the statement makes it easier.

“i think i have for a while,” he adds, voice quieter. “i just didn’t realize it was obvious.”

you smile. “it wasn’t. you’re very subtle.”

“…i thought i was.”

there’s a beat where both of you just stand there, the air suddenly charged in a completely different way — not tense, not heavy, just aware.

you shift a little closer without thinking.

“good,” you murmur.

his brows lift slightly. “good?”

“because,” you say, unable to stop the small smile forming, “i like you too.”

that does it.

kenma’s composure slips in the smallest way— surprise softening his expression, relief following immediately after, like something he didn’t realize he’d been bracing for finally settles.

he lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“…okay.”

the space between you feels smaller now, comfortable instead of uncertain.

you reach out without really thinking, brushing a stray damp strand of hair away from his eyes where it’s fallen loose from his last game. it’s an absentminded gesture, the same kind of adjustment you’ve made a dozen times before, but this time your hand lingers a second longer than necessary.

this time, when your hand lingers, neither of you pretends not to notice.

his gaze drops briefly to your lips, then lifts again, silently asking a question he doesn’t quite know how to voice.

you answer by leaning closer.

the kiss is soft, tentative at first, more curious than practiced— warm and quick and unmistakably mutual. he stiffens for half a second in surprise before relaxing, fingers lightly catching at your sleeve like he needs confirmation this is actually happening.

when you pull back, both of you blink at the same time.

kenma looks faintly stunned.

“…oh,” he says again.

you laugh quietly. “you already used that reaction.”

“…i don’t have another one.”

and somehow that makes it even better.

you’re both smiling— small, almost shy smiles— when, just around the corner, out of your sight, absolute chaos is unfolding in complete silence.

karasuno has not moved.

they had originally followed hinata insisting he'd come to look for kenma.

they had not expected to witness emotional development.

“we should not be listening,” daichi murmurs under his breath, voice firm but noticeably quieter than usual.

no one moves.

asahi nods solemnly in agreement while also leaning slightly closer to the wall.

“…we’re not listening,” tanaka whispers.

they are absolutely listening.

hinata is frozen mid-crouch, both hands clamped over his mouth, eyes so wide they look physically painful. he is shaking violently with the effort of not making a sound.

nishinoya grips tanaka’s shoulders like he needs structural support to remain upright.

tanaka, meanwhile, is mouthing something that looks suspiciously like NO WAY over and over again without producing audio.

just behind them, tsukishima has stopped walking entirely, one eyebrow raised as he peers around the corner with open, undisguised curiosity. his expression doesn’t change much, but the slight upward tilt at the corner of his mouth gives him away.

“…wow,” he murmurs under his breath, voice barely above a whisper. “kozume kenma. didn’t think he had it in him.”

yamaguchi, standing beside him, looks like he doesn’t know where to focus— the wall, the floor, the ceiling— anywhere except directly at the scene they are very much witnessing.

“tsukki,” he whispers urgently, tugging at his sleeve, “we shouldn’t be watching—”

tsukishima doesn’t move.

“and yet,” he replies quietly, eyes still fixed forward, “here we are.”

yamaguchi turns faintly red, clearly torn between moral responsibility and overwhelming curiosity, ultimately settling for covering the lower half of his face with his hand while still peeking through his fingers.

behind them, sugawara has both hands pressed over his mouth, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, while asahi looks like he has accidentally witnessed something deeply sacred and isn’t sure where to look out of respect.

daichi, meanwhile, slowly scans the entire group with the exhausted expression of a man realizing he has completely lost control of the situation.

“no one,” he whispers firmly, “makes a sound.”

everyone nods.

another soft murmur from you drifts down the hallway.

karasuno collectively leans forward at the exact same time.

the synchronized movement nearly causes hinata to lose balance, hinata nearly squeaks anyway despite the earlier instruction.

nishinoya slaps a hand over his mouth just in time.

everyone freezes.

luckily, you and kenma remain blissfully unaware.

behind the wall, daichi slowly turns toward the group with the exhausted expression of someone herding extremely emotional children.

“again.” he whispers, voice deadly calm, “be quiet.”

hinata nods aggressively.

too aggressively.

his water bottle slips from his hand.

and their hero, again, nishinoya catches it mid-air with reflexes worthy of nationals.

they stare at each other, silently celebrating.

tanaka wipes imaginary tears from his eyes.

“they kissed,” he mouths dramatically.

sugawara nods solemnly, like confirming a prophecy fulfilled.

kageyama crosses his arms, expression serious.

“…that explains his focus lately.”

daichi stares at him.

“that's your takeaway?”

meanwhile, just a few steps away, you laugh softly at something kenma says, the sound drifting toward them again.

hinata nearly ascends.

daichi physically pushes the entire group backward from the corner before anyone combusts.

they retreat in tiny, frantic steps, still refusing to break the sacred rule of silence until they’re far enough away—

and then—

silent screaming.

arms flailing.

pure chaos.

completely unaware, you and kenma remain standing in the hallway, the moment still warm and new, neither realizing that seven volleyball players have just collectively witnessed the beginning of your relationship.

LMAOOO I JS HAD TO ADD KARASUNO TO THE SCENE OF THE CRIME

I LOVE MY BABY KENMA SO BADD HES SO CUTE

i have another atsumu fic coming up for yall toooooooo

[st4rgirllv]

this shit is so good guys I had to reblog

[st4rgirllv]

𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐋𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐏𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝

Tsukishima Kei x baker!reader cw: just fluff, meet cute, yamaguchi's cousin!reader, might be a bit of mischaracterization, not proof read wc: 828

Tsukishima was not one for romance.

He'd turn down movie suggestions that involved romcoms, cringe at couples he saw on the street, or even stare weird at people who talked about crushes and soulmates.

Don't get him wrong—he doesn't hate the concept of love, he just doesn't understand it as well as a normal person would.

And attending a wedding with your best friend because he didn't wanna be alone, doesn't help either. Yamaguchi left him alone at the altar to congratulate the bride and groom.

Being the gloomy guy he is, he never wants to interact with others, but if you ask him right now, where he sees himself in ten years he would've never guessed he'd be standing in the same altar on the same day he met you.

On that day he went with Yamaguchi just to accompany him, he saw the most ethereal girl he's ever seen in his entire life, walking down the same aisle twenty years later.

Just like in the movies, time around him slowed down. Your dress is hugging all the right spots elegantly, with an evident smile on your face that lit up the church with all the natural lights hitting you softly.

To him, you looked like an angel that had just fallen from heaven's grace just for him. All of a sudden, everything he thought he'd never understood no matter how much it was explained to him was walking towards him.

When he heard your voice address his name he knew it was as sweet as he anticipated. “you know me?” the blonde asked. He thought he'd have to come up with an inexcusable way to talk to you at the reception. Guess fate really loves him.

“yeah, you're Tadashi's friend right? I'm his cousin, I've heard a lot of great things about you.”

Right there in front of the chapel, you yapped about something he couldn't even remember anymore while the light from behind you made you glow like you had a halo above your head.

‘ask her out. ask her out. ask her out. ask her out. ask her out. ask her out. ask her out. ask her out. ask her—’

“strawberry shortcake,” the boy blurted out. Damn it, out of all the things he couldn't say, he said ‘strawberry shortcake’?

“oh, I love strawberry shortcakes! I actually bake some in my free time, if you want—I could bake for you,” you flashed the sweetest smile he'd ever seen.

“yes, I'd love to... try your baking,” he smiled awkwardly. God, what was he doing. He could swear he knows ball up until she showed up.

“okay,” you continued to smile at him, but it was getting really awkward. He just stared at you, wondering if he should ask for your number— “so are you gonna ask for my number or—”

“yeah, sorry,” he apologised quickly, pulling out his phone and giving you his number.

The next few days, had been nothing but feet kicking and giggling coming out of that sweet lips of yours—as tsukishima oh, so eloquently described as when you talk to him via texting.

Of course, he calls you when you both have free time and hearing you laugh at his sarcastic jokes makes his heart fluttler like a butterfly, along with the way you just know what to say, and how to say it, words sliding out your tounge like butter you use when baking with him.

He doesn't even really do anything when you invite him over to your apartment to bake. While you tell him the right measurements and techniques on how to bake, he just stares and watches the way the flour would secretly flow to your face and apron.

Even years after you started dating, he'd still stare at you with those puppy eyes and not at all helpful in the kitchen. Of course, this time he's more annoying because he basically has all the right to hug you from the back, and hold your hand while your mixing—which is a pain in the ass by the way—and follow you around as you bake.

But it's fine, you couldn't care less. Especially when you bake him strawberry shortcake, that's when he's most affectionate.

Occationally, you'd walk around the church where you first met eachother, and on your fourth year anniversary, you look behind for just a second and miss the way tsukishima was now on one knee.

There he held a ring, so gorgeous it was almost as ethereal as you.

With no hesitation, you said yes and accidentally made a really loud noise inside a church, yikes.

No matter, because around two years later you were back there in front of the altar, saying your vows and promising lifetimes to each other.

Yamaguchi was of course Kei's best man and well, thanks to him Tsukishima finally believes in romance.

If you told Tsukishima from ten years ago that he'd be married, he would've never believed you.

ᯓ★ I got lazy towards the end okay,, ᯓ★ This has been in my drafts since september,, | Masterlist

[st4rgirllv]

𝐀𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞

Higuruma Hiromi x Reader cw: angst,,,, manipulation, nsfw, pet names, not proofread wc: 1.2K words

Marrying Hiromi Higuruma might've been the biggest mistake of your life.

Not even a year into your marriage, you're already eating and sleeping alone. He proposed to you six months into dating and you said yes like an idiot. eight months after you got married you noticed how he never went home for days and comes back on his day off like he wasn't gone for three days.

At least every month you had a fight about him being at work too much and him begging you to stay and understand how important his job is, and every single month, you stay.

It's given you were a little young for Hiromi, and everyone kept saying you need to live life before settling down but you ignored them and married the love of your life. Those six month made you feel like a high and this marriage made it feel like a widthrawal.

He didn't mean to leave you all alone in the house, hours were heavy, shit ton of paperwork, court preps, research. There simply wasn't enough hours to do all of them, let alone come home to you.

When he came home this weekend, entering the door. You were watching something on the TV, you weren't even listening. You were too spaced out and drunk to focus on your surroundings, but you heard his footsteps getting closer, he leaned in for a kiss from the back but you turned your head away.

It's obvious you were upset with him, fancy dinner was left on the table, only one plate empty. He sighed, placing his things on the counter, loosening his tie and removing his coat. Neither of you spoke, neither wanted to.

Your silence said more words than he'd ever spoken to you in a month. How can he endure not talking to you when you're clearly upset at him. How can he just sit there near the counter and watch you spiral? Your grip on the glass tightens, you throw it out of anger, storming up to your room.

“What's your problem? If you have one say it.” Higuruma followed you up the stairs. “Stop being a bitch and just say it!” He stops at the top of the stairs.

You stop, you slowly turn to him, “Did you just call me a bitch?” You move closer, fueled by anger.

Higuruma just realizes what he said, he closes his eyes, “look, baby I'm sorry, I swear I didn't mean it,” He mover closer, his hands rake through his hair. “I didn't mean to upset my wife, I'm just tired, okay?” his arms now open wide.

Wife? Were you still his wife? Now you just felt like a stranger living in his house, eating in his house, and sleeping in his house. Tears fill your eyes.

All of a sudden, his face has a red hand mark and you're packing your stuff and he's begging you to stay. “C'mon baby, I didn't mean it, please don't leave,” His arms wrapped around you from behind. “You can't leave please.”

You didn't listen, you couldn't listen to his excuses. Not anymore. You shook him off, closing your suitcase and heading out your bedroom door. Your husband's cries in the background.

Before you were even out the door he stood in front of you blocking it. “Please baby, I'm begging you, don't leave.” He clutched his chest, tears visible through his eyes.

To your surprise he knelt down to your thighs, holding it tight. He's pleading and crying, he's never done this before. Then again, you never really got to packing when you said you'll leave him.

“Let go Hiromi.” you tried shoving him off, but he won't budge. He refuses to lose his wife, He refuses to lose the only person that tolerated his insane job. He's never letting you go.

“Please yn, I'll be better! I promise, just— please don't leave,” his forehead on your thighs as he plants soft kisses on it. Higuruma wasn't muscular but it was given he's heavier than you, so when he pushed his forehead closer you fell.

Given the chance, he crawled on top of you, still pleading, mumbling a bunch of sorrys and I'll change, kissing your hand up until your face, You tried to avoid him, but inevitably failed.

Soon, you're on top of what seemed to be a desperate, pleading, touch starved, lawyer and making out with him. Small pleas are still coming out of his mouth as his hands roam your hips, trying lower your shorts.

You never even knew when it happened, all you knew was you're now on the bed with your face pushed down on the bed with your ass up. Your husband behind you cooing you now, instead of pleading,

“Shh, it's okay baby, let it all out,” he traces the back of your spine that sends shiver down to your core. His pace was brutal, you felt like you were being split open down in the middle. Your moans heard from every corner of the house.

You asked him to slow down but apparently you were such a brat earlier, so this was your punishment. On of his hands steady your hips and the other plays with your clit. “Hiro— ahh, can't!”

“hmm? sure you can, you always take it so well, baby,” he pushes harder, tears streaming down your face, you never wanted him stop. “been such a good girl f'me—shit—you close again?” he utters in a low voice in your ear.

You've came so much, it felt like you're about to black out again. “ 'm close, please—” you voice out what you can.

“I know, baby, but before you do can you please kindly write your signature here, hmm? Just a little something that makes our bond stronger, okay?”

What? you thought as he placed some papers on the bed, still pounding you from behind, not even a pause. To high from coming multiple times earlier and the stick up you your pussy, you couldn't read any of it.

“C'mon baby, just sign it. M—R—S. Higuruma and, I'll let you come as much as you want.” he whispers on your ear purposely slowing down so the feeling in your stomach comes down.

Getting frustrated you signed the papers and begged him to go faster just like he planned. “Perfect, such a—ahh—perfect girl, my perfect girl” he went faster hitting all the spots that made your stomach do backflips.

“Hiro—!” you gripped the sheets.

“I know, baby come f'me okay? Fuck, 'm close too.” he moves his hair away from his face “You’re taking all of me. So fucking deep. Let it go, baby.”

“Hiromi—!” you screamed his name as both of your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave. A sob came out of your worn out throat, tear stained face, mascara running down your face.

“Fuck, s' good f'me, I don't deserve you.” he kissed your face, then looked at the papers you signed. “You can't leave me anymore, okay? at least not legally.”

You wanted to ask what he was talking about but you were too worn out and your throat was s o dry you couldn't get anything out. “It's nothing your pretty little head should worry about, hm? I'll take care of you.”

Was the last thing you remember him saying before passing ourt from exhaustion. You swore the next time he comes home, you're gonna give him your piece of mind and leave him for good.

What you didn't know was you signed all your rights to him until you die.

I told you he's never letting you go.

ᯓ★ saw higuruma and I immedietly thought American Wedding

ᯓ★ t'was a little dark but whatever I got a bit lazy

ᯓ★I hpe you guys liked this | Masterlist

[st4rgirllv]

𝐌𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬, 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥

Shinichiro Sano x Reader

cw: angst like a lot, foul language, yearning frick bruh

“What are you doing here?” you ask your ex-boyfriend of three years, Sinichiro, who's standing at your front door.

“Merry Christmas?” he breathed a smile, cold air coming out of his mouth, he played it off like nothing went wrong, handing you a wrapped box, with a poorly tied bow around it.

“What do you want, sano,” you fought the urge to close the door on his face.

“Seriously..? It's not shin anymore? ya' know it hurts me when you call me by my last name—” he rambled until he noticed the door moving towards his face. “wait, okay! I'm sorry, I just came by to give you a gift, it's the least I could do.”

“I don't want your shit, sano, and where did you even get the money to give me a gift,” you crossed your arms with an exasperated face.

“Doesn't matter, just open it,” he handed you the gift, forcing you to take it. Your eyes lifted from the wrapped present to his eyes with a skeptical look. As you open the box you saw a pair of sneakers.

Maybe to everyone else in the world it's just a pair of sneakers.

But to you, it was everything. You remembered telling him the first time you met that there was these pair of sneakers that they don't produce anymore, and you loved them to death until you lost one of them in the ocean when you left it a little too close to the ocean bay.

You remembered telling him it was the most comfortable sneakers you've ever worn and nothing had come close to it. You didn't know a new pair would be in front of you years later.

“It's not a big deal, I had some connections,” the boy smiled softly at you. “I just— I wanted to thank you for being there for me. I know it got really hard a lot of times, and you still stayed. I'm greatful for that,” a somber smile on his face covered just a bit of the fact that his eyes looked like glass about to break.

“no,” you whispered underneath your breath, shoving the box back to his chest.

“w-what do you mean..?” he stepped back, letting you stand out the door with him.

“you can't just show up at my front door, give me a present and think everything is just gonna be alright. I did everything to help you but you wouldn't even try to help yourself. What was I supposed to do? I died slowly, trying to—not even fix you, just to make you feel better. And then one day, I find out from Mikey you just left. No note, no goodbye, not even a kiss goodbye while I slept, thinking I'd wake up next to you on christmas.” your tear stained face stare at him, hoping something would happen.

you just didn't know what.

“I'm sorry, I know what I did and I regret it. I wish I never left. I thought I needed to get away from everything that held me back—”

“So I was also holding you back?” you raised your voice, chest heaving.

“It's not like that. I-I felt alone, and I didn't know what else to do. So I ran and ran until I realised I needed you more than breathing air because I felt suffocated in a place that should've let me breathe until I understood that the best place I could've been free was you, and I fucked it up,” he handed you back the box. “look I can't change the past, all I can do now is apologize and hope you'll forgive me again.”

“Shin, you abandoned me. You might as well have left me for dead, and the toughest part is that we both know what happened to you and why you were out on your own.” you turned around, to head inside, “Merry Christmas, please don't call.”

The door shut on his face, glossy eyes looking around for some sort of comfort while you stand on the other side of the door, setting the box aside. “hey, you were outside for a really long time, you okay?” you look up to see your loving boyfriend comfort you.

“yeah, it's just an old friend, left early,” you smiled at him that never quite reached your eyes. While you walk with your boyfriend through the walls of your home, shinichiro sits on your porch, watching the last bit of snow fall for the night.

ᯓ★ A guy I like really loves this song so I decided, why not ! update, he cheated on me so people can go fuck themselves

ᯓ★ + happy 100th post to me !

ᯓ★ Merry Christmas, please don't hate me ! | Masterlist

[st4rgirllv]

𝐈 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐈 𝐒𝐚𝐰 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐞

Streamer!Kenma Kozume x Reader cw: angst, post breakup (2years), yearning, help me

“Hey, it's me,” a voice you wouldn't dare to forget came through your house phone. Dropping the dishes back to the sink, you ran to your couch eagerly and sat beside the phone to listen. “I thought I saw your face today, which is weird considering you moved away two years ago,” he continued.

you would've never admitted it but you hated the fact that you chose your career over him. and you missed him so much, that you cried every night, hoping he'd call to ask you to come back because you knew you'd do it in a heartbeat.

“sorry, I know I shouldn't call anymore but I thought I heard you laughing at a nearby bookstore you always roamed around looking for the book that they never really stocked—” the dyed blonde rambled on while you stared at the wall, listening.

“and I remembered searching for it all over websites just to see you smile,” he chuckled. “but I wasn't that resourceful, so I couldn't find it anyway but guess what,” the boy breathed a smile throught the phone. “they finally restocked it in the old bookstore and picked one up for you, you know, just in case you wanted to come by, I'd already reserved you one.”

shaky breaths come in and out of your mouth, throat dry with slow tears on your face as you stared at the same newly purchased book on your coffee table. “I thought I saw your face today,” he sniffled. “but when I turned my head you were gone. uhm, and then everything just came flashing back to me, and I couldn't help but fall in love with you again.”

shit, say something. anything. do something, pick up the damn phone. your hand reached for the black telephone just to freeze before you could pick it up. you opened your mouth to no avail while your eyes bawled.

you wanted to say you're back—back to him, but being scared just led you to froze and let him say, “anyway, I just wanted to vent my feelings since you're still in America and wouldn't be able to hear this. It's just a way of moving on for me,” he continued while you sobbed wanting to tell him you're back now.

“but I promise, it's the last time I'm going to call. Bye, yn”

stop. pick up the damn phone!

“Ken, I'm here—” you pick up the phone just a second too late to hear the machine deleting his message and to be met with a dial tone.

You slump in your couch with the telephone in your hand, sighing deeply, missing the last chance to say that all you've been thinking about all those two years were him and him alone.

ᯓ★ Uhm I actually hate this bro | Masterlist

[st4rgirllv]

𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

College Varsity!Kei Tsukishima x Reader cw: Insecurity, small angst, bittersweet, small fluff

Tsukishima Kei was the kind of campus legend people whispered about in dining halls and study lounges. Six-foot-whatever, absurd wingspan, varsity jersey hanging just right, cheekbones sharp enough to slice someone’s GPA in half. Of course, girls in designer coats waited outside the gym for him—lip gloss fresh, perfume clouding the hallway. They weren’t even subtle about it anymore.

“He should be with someone like me,” you overheard once. “Someone who matches his level.”

And by level, they meant money. Influence. Prestige. It's not like tsukishima grew up rich, he just has that kind of pull that even you couldn't avoid.

‘someone who matches his level’ would never be you because well, You were just… you. A little quiet. A little unsure. A lot overshadowed. You wore a five dollar, thrifted sweater with a small coffee stain in one of your sleeves that you depended on with your life during winter.

But Tsukishima Kei—annoying, composed, impossible Tsukishima—walked right past those girls every time. His gaze always searching, scanning, and inevitably landing on you like it was instinct.

Like he depended on you. Tonight was no different.

Practice ended late, light rain here and there, cold air frosting his breath as he left the gym. The rich girls flocked, stepping forward like synchronized dancers ready for their moment.

“Kei! We’re going to a party at Yuri's place, you should come.”

“You’d love the view from her penthouse—”

He cut them off with dismissive nod. “I actually already have plans,” Lies.

Ugh, God knows how much they've thrown parties for him. He hated those stuck up bitches who think they're better than all of humanity just because their daddy buys them all the channel bag that could've fed homeless people.

The only plan he had was finding you.

Right on cue, there you were on the stone steps outside the library—with your dragged out sweater, knees tucked up, fingers stiff from the cold as you highlighted your textbook. Your backpack was falling apart at the seams, and you were chewing on the end of your pen like the world wasn’t buzzing with all its expectations around you.

Tsukishima felt something unclench in his chest.

He walked over, stopping in front of you until your eyes lifted, and god—your eyes. They always softened when you saw him, like you couldn’t help it.

“Hey, you're ditching royalty again?” you asked dryly.

He huffed out a small laugh. “If they’re royalty, then what does that make you?”

You snorted. “A peasant? Commoner?” you tried to fakely thought, snapping your fingers “Court jester?”

“Try again,” he said quietly.

Your breath caught, but you looked away before he could see too much.

“What are you doing outside of the library?” golden eyes stared down at you, light illuminating just the right amount on his face to make you breathe heavier.

“Oh, they kicked me out cause I was short on money to renew my library card, so,” you chuckled dryly, your lips forming a straight line.

He sat beside you, long legs stretching out, shoulder brushing yours. He was warm, too warm. A quiet atmosphere wrapped around the two of you as you both stared at the dark street in front of the library.

“You know,” you murmured, staring at the ground, “you could have.. anything you want.”

He didn’t even hesitate, “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

You swallowed hard, “and you should be with those people. They’re… everything I’m not. I mean you could be on a yacht right now.” you let out a heavy breath, a little too heavy.

Tsukishima tilted his head, expression unreadable. Then his voice dropped—low, steady, final. “And they should have what they want. They deserve what they want. I hope they get what they want.”

Your chest tightened. Of course. Of course. You forced a small smile and nodded, like it didn’t sting. “Right,” you whispered. “Of course, and what do you want, Kei?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t look away. Just leaned in—slow and deliberate—until you felt his head down on your shoulders. “You,” he murmured. “I just want you.”

Your pen slipped from your fingers and clattered on the stone.

Tsukishima continued, voice even but trembling at the edges. “I want the boring stuff with you, late-night grocery runs, fighting over who gets the last blanket, holidays where it’s just us and terrible cooking, kissing you before work and coming home to you.”

Your heart, oh, your poor heart.

“ ‘got me dreaming about a driveway with a volleyball net,” he swallowed, eyes flicking to yours, vulnerable in a way he never let himself be, “I want a couple kids with you. Ones who look annoyingly like me.”

You let out a breathy laugh—half shock, half disbelief. He wasn’t finished. He paused, voice dropping lower. “I hope I get what I want.” Silence. Thick, warm, trembling.

“Kei…” you whispered, because what else could you say? Your throat was tight, your eyes burning.

He finally pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. “You don’t need to give me an answer. You don’t have to want me back, but don’t act like you’re less than anyone else who wants me.”

Your heart was pounding so loud it drowned out the wind. Your eyes went in his direction to see him staring back. You reached for his hand—hesitant but brave—and he let you take it. His fingers curled around yours instantly.

“Stay with me?” you asked softly.

He squeezed your hand. “Try and get rid of me.”

And on the cold library steps, with campus lights flickering around you, it finally made sense:

He could have anyone. Everyone wanted him, but Tsukishima Kei—beautiful, untouchable, impossible—only wanted you.

It doesn't matter if you are the most beautiful shade of blue if their favorite color is green.

ᯓ★ Wassuppp ᯓ★ Yes, there is a sequel of another pov | Masterlist

[st4rgirllv]

OOH GUYS I PROMISE LATER I'M GONNA TRY RO WRITE SOMETHING

[st4rgirllv]

lynn i miss u 😔😔 i hope school going alright for you. 🫶🫶🫶

YKW I'M GONNA POST THIS MONDAY CAUSE CLASSES GOT SUSPENDED I PROMISEEEEE🫶

[st4rgirllv]

queen come back i miss you 😔

SOON KORI LIKE THIS WEEKEND OUT WITH 4-5 FICS

edit: Dude I'm such a liar

[st4rgirllv]

Thinking about college frat boy!Tsukishima Kei who probably gets invited to bars and clubs because of how good he looks despite his attitude.

The bass thumped so hard it practically rearranged your internal organs. The club was packed, your drink half-melted, and your tolerance for sweaty strangers brushing against your back was rapidly dwindling.

And then it happened. A hard shove against your shoulder had you stumbling into the nearest table, nearly spilling your drink all over yourself.

You spun around, ready to rip into whoever—

It was a tall blond guy in a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, gold-rimmed glasses low on his nose, and a face that looked like he was perpetually judging the world.

Well, he looked well educated and looked good. Maybe if you played nice he's apologize.

Wrong.

You took a deep breath and smoothed your shirt. “ 'scuse me?” you said, loud enough to be heard over the music, flashing the kind of polite smile that screamed I’m giving you one chance before I destroy you.

He didn’t even look surprised. Just annoyed. And worse—condescending. “I’m married,” he deadpanned.

You blinked. “What?” you chuckled.

“I get it, it happens,” he said flatly, shrugging. “But I’m not interested. Enjoy your night though.” he flashed a dashing smile on you.

God, if he didn't look that great you'd have punched the shit out of him.

There was a full two seconds of stunned silence where your brain processed the fact that he just assumed you were hitting on him.

Wait a sec, you knew this guy. This guy was the person people avoided not because he bullies his peers, but because of his god awful attitude.

You realize you go to the same college, and that this rude, smug, incredibly smart and handsome guy was only popular for his looks.

Your jaw dropped. Then snapped shut. You smiled—much wider this time. “Married?” you echoed, faux-sweet. “Wow, I’m so sorry. That must be hard.”

His brow furrowed. “What?” he turned to you.

“Having such a wildly inflated ego and being in college while married must be difficult,” you said, your tone dropping dry as dust. “Tell your imaginary wife she’s doing the Lord’s work by taking you”

His friends choked on their drinks. One literally wheezed.

You scoffed stepping away, but oh, how petty you were. “And for the record,” you added, stepping closer, your eyes narrowing,

“if I were going to throw myself at someone, it wouldn’t be a human embodiment of a red flag wrapped in smug. Enjoy your night, Casanova.”

You turned on your heel and walked off without another word, your drink swaying in your hand.

Behind you, Yamaguchi muttered, “Damn, Kei, she clocked the hell outta you.”

Tsukishima didn’t say anything. Just watched you disappear into the crowd, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek.

“…She was kinda hot though.”

Masterlist

[st4rgirllv]

Snow On The Beach

Gen Narumi x insecure!Reader | Beach Day cw: Fluff, hurt/comfort, a little emotional healing

You knew it was stupid. It was just a beach day. Just a casual thing. First Division had wrapped up a mission early, and one of the guys had jokingly said, “Let’s hit the beach or something before the next kaiju eats us.”

And somehow… it stuck.

Now here you were—at the beach with Narumi’s squad. They wouldn't dare to say no to the first division's captain if he asked to bring his girlfriend and you couldn't say no to him either.

Which meant people with abs and biceps and personalities loud enough to fill oceans. People who looked like they belonged in hero posters and swimsuit ads. People who laughed like they’d never known fear.

People who didn’t need to second-guess every step they took in public.

You sat near the edge of the blanket, tugging at the oversized shirt over your swimsuit and wondering if it was obvious how often your hands clenched into fists. Narumi was out in the water, roughhousing with some of his teammates—shoving, laughing, swearing, flipping one of them into a wave.

And he looked like he belonged there.

He always did.

You didn’t notice him stop until his shadow cast over you, blocking out the sun. “Hey,” he said, water dripping from his hair, glinting off his shoulder.

You gave him a small smile. “ Wow, if I didn't know better, I'd say you're from a shampoo commertial.”

“Hot, right?”

“You’re so annoying,” you laughed it off—a little too off.

He grinned, then crouched in front of you, studying your expression. “Why haven’t you come in the water?” he asked.

You shrugged. “I’m fine here. I’m not really a water person,” you tried to excuse your way out of his stare.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

A beat passed. He wasn’t buying it. You could tell by the way his eyes softened—not with pity, but with the kind of quiet knowing that made you want to cry.

So you added, quieter, “I don’t exactly look like everyone else, you know.”

He blinked. “No, you don’t.”

You laughed bitterly, already turning your face away until he caught your chin gently, made you meet his eyes. “You look better.”

The words stopped you cold. He didn’t say it teasingly, no. Didn’t say it with that cocky edge he used when he flirted either.

He said it like it's a fact. Like the sun was hot, like kaijus were dangerous, like he loves you.

You didn’t reply, so he sat beside you, arm looping around your waist, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Don’t do that thing,” he said softly.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you think everyone’s looking at you and thinking the worst. Well, they’re not. And if they were, they’d still be wrong, you know.”

“…You’re just saying that because you’re my boyfriend.” you smiled sweetly at him.

“No,” he dragged, “I’m saying that because it’s true.” He kissed your shoulder, just above the shirt collar. “But I am also your boyfriend, which means if you’re gonna sit here thinking you're less than beautiful, then I'm gonna sit here and keep correcting you until you believe it.”

You were quiet for a while, leaning into him as the ocean breeze picked up. Then, barely above the sound of the waves, “....you're weird, like snow on the beach.”

He grinned against your skin. “No, that’s weird.”

“You’re such an idiot.” you played with the hem of your shirt.

“Yeah,” he said, tugging you up, “but I’m your idiot. Now c’mon. Let’s go touch some water and give you something new to hate.”

And somehow, when his hand found yours, the beach didn’t feel quite so terrifying anymore. Your lips curled widely around face with a laugh just a little brighter.

A little warmer.

Like him.

ᯓ★ I love this guys, I feel seen | Masterlist