➢ synopsis: when your daughter starts kindergarten at the quirky all-girls school across town, you form an alliance with the only other solo parent in her class: hot single dad miya osamu. what ensues is a year's worth of chaos — and a love you didn't think you deserved.
➢ what to expect: friends-to-lovers, slice of life, found family, tooth-rotting fluff, occasional angst, mentions of absent parents, any 18+ nsfw content will be tagged!
➢ how to read: each installment stands on its own, but there's an ongoing story that unfolds if you read it chronologically!
➢ listen while you read: ufo, better than, worth it
➢ status: in progress!
1. lunch boxes
➢ when you get a call from your daughter's teacher that a classmate ate her lunch, you're determined to give the parents a piece of your mind — only to meet hot single dad miya osamu instead.
2. bake sale
➢ at your first pta meeting of the school year, osamu ropes you into running the fall bake sale with him.
3. on the house
➢ osamu treats you to lunch at onigiri miya — and grows determined to change your half-hearted relationship with food.
4. bug fair
➢ osamu finds out about his daughter's school project the night before it's due. in a rare moment of panic, he calls you for backup.
5. pick-up lines
➢ you meet osamu's twin in the pick-up line of your daughter's school.
6. stage fright
➢ osamu comforts your daughter before her first music recital of the school year.
7. the fiancé
➢ your ex-fiancé comes into town with a favor to ask. meanwhile, osamu struggles to keep his own feelings in check.
8. field trip
➢ osamu notices you're having an off day and wants nothing more than to comfort you. the only problem? you're both chaperoning the kindergarten field trip.
...stay tuned for more!
please note: there is no taglist for this series! i wish i had time to maintain one, but alas, adulting is hard. feel free to turn on post notifications for my blog instead!
note this is my first time doing smth like this !! established relationship, high school!kenma x f!reader, i absolutely adore kenma i think he'd be such a cute bf, yn and kenma are in the same class (nekoma 2nd year class 3), apple divider by @pixopix
synopsis: you thought your silly hobby can be hidden from your boyfriend, tsukishima.
pairing: tsukishima kei x reader
content: gender neutral reader, fluff fluff fluff, domestic, short drabble, just a little tsukki headcanon because i love him, self-indulgence.
Everyone can agree that Tsukishima Kei isn’t the flowery, poetic words kind of guy.
Even the man himself accord to that perception.
He is, though, a man of gestures. Not the grand kind — but the kind that makes you feel stable and at ease.
Achingly so, he’s consistent with it as well that by all means, you feel guilty for hiding a particular interest.
You were afraid of what he’ll say if he finds out you have a childish hobby for collecting blind boxes, toys, or whatever you may call it.
Thus, you tried your best to hide your whole box of trinkets from him as you two unpack in your new shared home.
You were so careful, lest your trinkets make a noise. So quiet, that only the slow droplets from the faucet — that needs to be replaced — echoes through the walls.
But he’d notice.
He would always notice before you can even utter a word about it.
Hence a few days after, as not to arouse suspicion, he made an excuse saying, “I’m heading out to buy a new faucet for our bathroom.”
When he came back, he wasn’t holding a metallic water tap.
Instead, he was holding a small box — a blind box — and you take a peak as you hide behind the door, eager to pounce at him and open the blind box yourself.
“Oh,” Tsukishima says casually, “It’s the rare one.”
You inhale sharply and with a thud, your boyfriend looks up at you.
“Can I…” You hesitate for a moment, “Take a look..?”
He walks towards you without saying anything, and he hands you the trinket.
You didn’t even notice the way both edges of your lips turned upwards, and the way your eyes sparkled as you admire the trinket on your hand.
But Tsukishima noticed.
As you were about to give it back, he shrugged. When you looked at him with confusion, he just said, “What? It’s yours.”
And moments later as you got out of the bathroom after your shower, you noticed your collection of trinkets were already organized on the shelf. They were placed carefully as though they were something sacred — something special.
More so, the trinket that Tsukishima got you? It’s placed beside his dinosaur figurine.
He didn’t tease you. He didn’t question it.
You smile — because you realized you didn’t have to hide or explain yourself to him; and because you knew that being who you are is something Tsukishima had already chosen.
He soon became your assistant who follows you around the shop whilst carrying your shopping basket full of blind boxes — and he’d secretly look for one as well to match trinkets with you while he’s at it.
note: back to writing fluff & i need a six-foot tall volleyball player with glasses named tsukishima kei to support me in my hobby of collecting useless, expensive trinkets <3.
where it's you, your downstairs neighbor Iwaizumi & your cat
contains: gn!reader (no pronouns used, no gendered pet names, no physical descriptions), socmed au, neighbor au (bit of biker au too whoops), strangers to lovers, two very mildly suggestive slides (10 & 11) but otherwise pretty much pure fluff, iwaizumi the man that you are
a/n: downstairs neighbor iwaizumi wouldn't leave my mind so here we are. i really wanna write more smau oneshots they're so fun to make. also can you tell i'm ovulating bc i'd never look at jpgs of irl men otherwise lmao
tags. fem reader, best friends (i have a problem), idiots in loveeee who miss each other sm and decide to kiss like bro…, wc 2.1k
you might just have the worst best friend in the world.
all tooru has ever done is prove to you how terrible of a flake he can be, skipping hangouts for practice and cram nights for dates. lately, your chat has become a minefield of “sorry, can we raincheck?” texts, often sent when you’re ten minutes deep into waiting for him.
and yet. here he is, standing by your gate with a sheepish smile, hair messy and free of gel. his glasses sit a little crooked on his face, like he’d forgotten them until the very last minute.
you have half the mind to shut the curtains and pretend he didn’t buzz in, rambling about making everything up to you and becoming a better best friend—but don’t tell iwa that, he’s gonna get jealous.
but it’s too late. tooru has spotted you, brown eyes lighting up like he’s seen the sun for the first time, and he’s grinning. like he knows you’ll unlock the gate and open the door for him—it’s just a matter of when.
your heart shouldn’t flip. it does anyway, tumbling behind your ribs like a lovesick washing machine.
you hate him. hate his stupid face, stupid hair, stupid grin and stupid dimples. hate the way he pushes up his glasses.
you especially hate the way that makes you feel. like you want to punch and kiss him at the same time, which leads your stream of consciousness to the thought of his glasses pushing up against your face if you ever kissed.
would they fog up? god, would he do that thing, rip off the frames and go in hungrier?
“hello?” tooru calls from the gate. it’s muffled by distance and the window, but it’s him all the same.
the guy you’ve missed for the majority of high school. the guy who only ever shows up every blue moon, assuming ushitoshi or whatever his name is doesn’t mess things up.
“i promise i won’t bail!” he yells again. flaps his arms and turns out his pockets for show. “i only have my phone, for emergencies!”
you jam the button meant to unlock the gate. you hope you don’t regret this, you think as you open the door.
tooru’s already on the other side, smiling with something fond blooming in the corners of his eyes.
says a soft, “hi,” and you have to pretend that you don’t notice the way his adam’s apple bobs.
“hey,” you say, taking him in.
soft sleep shirt, the bright alien one with a hole in the side and a fraying collar. sweatpants, from the aoba johsai team kit. he looks good: taller than the last time you saw him, and bigger too.
the shirt clings to his shoulders, broad enough to know that tooru would sooner be scouted for modeling than beating his impossible dreams. it’s kind of wrong, how he doesn’t even seem to know how much he’s changed. like a secret he hadn’t meant to keep from you.
tooru closes the door behind him with a gentle kick, the lock clicking back into place.
he stares, and you hold it, challenging. silent questions pass in your head, mostly about who the hell had their hands in his hair, because it’s too messy to be casual.
and then—
“race you upstairs.”
that bastard. catching you off guard like that, it’s cheating.
you sprint after him, bounding up the stairs while he takes two at a time with his freakishly long legs.
“oikawa, when i catch you—”
“if,” he singsongs, already in your room. when you burst in, he’s already sliding a dvd into the player, grinning wide. then he turns to you, pouting. “what happened to tooru? tooru, i’ll kill ya! tooru, i missed you!”
he says it in a pitched voice that definitely isn’t yours. and he has the gall to still laugh to himself as he clicks through the movie intro—one that he chose by cheating.
“well, that’s what happens when i don’t see you for a week, stupid,” you grumble, throwing yourself onto your bed. “and you’re a cheater.”
tooru gasps, half offended, half dramatic. “you were just slow.”
he pads over, settling in while you still lay messily tangled with the blanket. he tugs on it, jerking your body. “come on, i said i’ll make it up to you.”
“by making me watch a scary alien movie, or what?”
the opening scene plays, and you realize that no, you aren’t watching one of those scary movies your best friend chooses to piss you off. instead, it’s a sappy romance drama, one you’ve cried your eyes out to a million times.
“i’m not that mean,” tooru says, patting the space beside him. “plus, i meant it when i said i missed you.”
you give in, crawling to curl against his side.
and some things really don’t change. he still smells like the cologne you and iwaizumi picked out last christmas, the one iwaizumi said would wow his fangirls and grinned smugly when you got annoyed at the notion.
you had hugged tooru once after that, and that cologne lingered for days on your sweater. made you feel like one of his fangirls, hiding it until the smell had disappeared.
“hey,” tooru whispers. he’s close enough for his lips to be brushing against the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. barely five minutes into the movie, and he's already bugging you. “so, shikumi from class two wanted me to pass his number to you.”
“who the hell is that?”
tooru laughs softly, slings an arm around you to pull you closer. he’s warm through the thin shirt, and you swear you can feel his abs against your side.
“told him you’d say that.”
you do know shikumi, though. he’s the kind of jerk who thinks that if he looked like tooru, handsome and all that, he’d get all the girls.
not true. tooru gets girls ‘cause he’s cute, sure, but they like him for his kindness and dedication to volleyball. it cancels out the less-than-swell parts of him, like the fact that he’s annoying and has a girl best friend.
alright, the girl best friend part isn’t completely ignored. in fact, people try going through you to get tooru’s number. and each time, you revel in the knowledge that every girl in the school wishes they could be you.
tooru runs a hand through his hair, puffing. now that you notice it, he’s been playing with his hair for a while, fixing it this way and that.
“i just,” he pauses, thinking of what to say. the movie is long forgotten, probably because you’ve seen it so many times. “i wish there was a way to keep our fans away.”
“our? i didn’t know you were including my singular suitor, mr. worldwide handsome,” you laugh, pushing up to look down at him.
tooru stares up at you, something hesitant swirling behind his glasses. he’s so pretty like this, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. like he’s waiting to see who makes the first move.
“i mean, having fans is fun and all, but sometimes they get in the way,” he sighs out. his hand trails up to your wrist, squeezing lightly. a reminder that this is real. “and i know shikumi, he’s relentless.”
“so what are saying?”
“we…could hold hands at school…and not have to deal with it.”
you frown, glancing at the movie out of the corner of your eye. this exact scene is playing out between the love interests, except at a library where they’re five feet apart.
not like the two of you, pressed flush together and sharing a bed. as friends, obviously.
you laugh, half in disbelief, and jab your thumb at the screen. “dude, acting should be your second choice.”
tooru laughs with you, a little too wide, too many teeth. “yeah, i was kidding. now shut up and watch with me.”
you settle back down, closer now. chest to his side, arms wrapped around each other. you put your hand on his sternum, feeling the way his heart works at a hundred meters an hour, ignoring the way it matches yours.
he goes another ten minutes—a world record, at this point—before speaking again.
"hey," he says again. by your ear as always, glasses making a little ticking sound when he pushes them up. in this otherwise silent room, it's like an explosion. "it was a good idea, right?"
you shift your head, looking up at him. the movie plays in the reflection of his specs, bright colors of romance and high school plastered over the planes of his face.
pretty, you think, and then you push that thought down.
"i dunno," you say, frowning. "you want to—what, be my fake boyfriend?"
"yeah."
and it's stupid, how his immediate response makes your stomach flip. like he's eager to do it, pretend that you're more than friends.
tooru fixes himself, brushing his hair away from his forehead nervously. "i mean—just—i don't want slimeballs like shikumi going after you, okay?"
"and i'm not supposed to want crazy fangirls taking you away too?" you respond, dry.
he raises his brows, looking at you pointedly. "why do you think we haven't had a movie night in a month? and don't answer with another question."
that's a good point. it's become all too regular for you to join the going home club because tooru's fans keep him in the gym hours after practice has ended. iwaizumi complains to you over text on the sidelines, talking about how his knees hurt from standing and waiting for your mutual best friend to finish up.
instead of answering, you intertwine your fingers together. his palm is rough from years of dream-chasing. the touch sets something off in your chest, scorching your ribs.
you hope he can't hear your heartbeat. hope he doesn't know that your brain is on the edge of bull-wild, thoughts about having him all to yourself wrecking havoc on your body.
"is this fake enough for you?" you murmur, just to have something to fill the silence with.
your eyes flick up.
tooru looks at you with something cracked wide-open in his eyes, vulnerable. he bites the inside of his cheek, humored, inadvertently making the dimple he has dip into his cheek.
you decide at that moment to hate his dimples. it's just there to taunt you, like one of those stupid kids who throw rocks and then say 'come and get me!'
"i told you not to answer with a question," he says, quieter than you. the sound of his voice, low and bordering on raspy, stirs heat in your stomach. your fingers twitch against his.
then tooru is yanking off his glasses with a pin-drop click, cupping your face with his free hand, and you're—
kissing.
it's textbook and chaste, like those first kisses on tv. a brush of lips for two seconds, and it still makes your pulse rocket to a dangerous high.
he's everything you've ever wanted, you realize, and none of this is real.
tooru pulls away, having the gall to look shy. you aren't—yearning, when you pitch forward to reciprocate. you swear that you aren't chasing. just getting a little revenge, right?
he meets you in the middle, tilting his head to let you in, and this time things move faster, a little hungrier. mouths sliding together like it's the most natural thing in the world, like you've been made to kiss each other.
sweetly, tooru runs his thumb along the crest of your cheek, shifts so that he's leaning over you. and then it's your turn to pull away, breathing hard and blinking up at him.
you feel like a deer in the headlights, frozen and trying not to look at the smooth, hard outline of his upper arm propped beside your head.
"uh," you say. sage words for someone who's just been kissed stupid.
"uhhh," tooru teases, softening the moment with a smile. your heart hurts a little, knowing that you can't go back.
he pulls you close by your still-twined hands, and whispers into your ear, "was that real enough for you?"
the movie is still playing, volume turned all the way down. you don't remember tooru having done that, but you suppose that you don't know a lot of things about your fake boyfriend.
like how he's a damn good kisser, and how pretty he is without his glasses. you feel like a changed person looking at him from a whole new perspective.
you swallow, mouth suddenly a desert devoid of moisture. your tongue feels like cardboard, still tingling. "thought we weren't asking questions."
tooru laughs. "got me there."
—
notes. title from steve lacy. ive been stuck on the concept of situationship final boss and oikawa is just perf for that ykkk
if u enjoyed and have time, please reblog or comment!! i love love feedback and i promise i will think about u forever ᢉ𐭩
Oikawa was in the bleachers, watching his girlfriend play. A Seijoh girl, that’s what they call her and her teammates. Her being a setter too, Oikawa was always excited to see her play or practice. Often they would play together (even on some cute dates). Today, however, the Seijoh Girls were losing to what everyone thought was an inferior team. All the spikers were already blocked at least once. But they kept trying. The Seijoh supporters went silent, it had been like this for a while already. And Oikawa could see everything, his face showing how he was analysing this match.
Seijoh lost. 20-25 18-25.
Oikawa waited for his girl outside the locker room. She was one of the last to come out, and while the other players exited, all Oikawa could say was “you did a good job”. When Y/n came out, the first thing she did was hug her boyfriend. He hugged her back, trying to appear comforting, although he had many things to say. He got her bag and they walked outside. He would walk her home. The first 10 minutes were silent, Oikawa could see on her face that the defeat was still in her mind. But after that she became more talkative and jokey. That was what encouraged Oikawa to vocalise his thoughts. How could she be behaving like that after such a humiliating loss?
“You know this is all your fault, right?” — that’s what Oikawa had to say. Being a setter, he couldn't help but notice how bad of a player his girl was.
He sensed her stopping, and he looked back.
“What?” — was all she could muster.
“Yeah, you know it. All your attackers were blocked heavily. That’s the setter’s fault. Your sets were off and clearly predictable. It was a poorly done job.”
“Tooru… why that?” — her voice and expression were filled with hurt, betrayal, insecurity.
“You know why, Y/n! I’m a great setter and we are in a relationship. There will be expectations and you should be able to meet them. I assumed you to the public, there will be eyes on you! And doing what you did today… you'll only be embarrassing yourself.”.
“I… I did my best!”.
“Well, clearly your best isn't enough. Maybe think about today when you decide to skip practice like you always do. You're not good enough to give yourself these privileges.”.
She didn’t answer. She knows she shouldn’t. If that's what Oikawa was feeling about her technique, she knew he meant it with the best intentions. He was the best afterall. He let her back at her house before walking away. That night all she could think of was his words, and the game, and the blocks, and her missed serves. Disaster was all she could remember of that day.
---
The next day, Y/n woke up earlier, much earlier than usual. Taking a volleyball, she went jogging to school. There, she trained her sets outside the gym. After a while the volleyball team boys arrived for the morning training. Her boyfriend spotted her. She was training, she wanted to improve. He was surprised.
“Good morning, Y/n!”
“Tooru…?” — she looks at him as she holds the volleyball, stopping the sets.
“Are you training, baby?” — he asks as he hugs her from behind. She hardens at his touch.
“Yeah”
“Soo good um?” — he says, giving a peck on her cheek. — "I'll come help you when practice is over, okay?”.
Y/n nods, not paying much attention to him, focusing on improving herself. Oikawa notices it. That’s why he leaves practice early and helps Y/n on her technique. At lunch, he explains to her a lot of volleyball strategies. And he watches the girls practice also, focusing especially on her. That night, when he walked her home, Oikawa couldn’t help but criticize her more.
“Yeah, you improved your technique but you were still distributing your sets dumbly. No strategy whatsoever. I’ll have a match next week, maybe, more than cheering, you should be taking notes.”.
And that’s what she did. Not only at the game, but everyday. Overworked her body and mind, wanting to become a better player and stop relying on her boyfriend’s shadow, who everyday had a new thing to say about her: “your serve is shit”, “jump higher, block more”, “your set is too close to the net”, “too far”, “eat healthier”, “do more running, you are too heavy on the court”. She felt ashamed, a failure, but she kept listening and going to Tooru for help. She wanted to do better, and even remembering that match where she led the team to defeat made her feel devastated. She started doing some weight work, running and also playing with the boys team when she had the change. Her friends would tell her to take it easy, but any new muscle or joint pain she had was a confirmation that she was on the right path. Her boyfriend also had his injuries, right? And that’s a sign that he puts up much effort.
---
Only a month later is when the next Seijoh girls match comes. Against another not so strong team, but it’s clear that the students are not very hopeful with the outcome, not many people are expected in the gymnasium. Oikawa spends the whole week trying to instruct her, but he keeps destroying her confidence: “you jump everyday and still look like you jump lower each time”, “maybe you should be a libero, your forearm passes are decent”, “where would you set the ball?” while showing a situation on a clipboard “so predictable”, “please, don’t do this on the match”, “in that way, your serve won’t go past the net”. And all that only gave her the need to practice even more. Now, she had tape on all her fingers (after trying to block her boyfriend’s spikes, or getting wrong contact with the ball while setting) and pains she never even had before. It would all pay off.
Match day came, Y/n put on her uniform and warmed up with the girls. After the warm up was over and she was walking to the coach, Oikawa called her. She walked closer to the stands and all he said was “you can do it, just do the basics” and kissed her on the cheek. He had really high hopes for her because he saw how she put effort into improving, even if she wasn’t the best and probably didn’t have any more potential. Oikawa even brought a notebook to put all his thoughts down and later have a talk with her.
The game started and Seijoh was doing well. Y/n sets were still predictable but they were a bit quicker, managing to escape the block more times. Her serves were not hard to receive but they were getting to the other side of the court. But the block was her biggest difficulty. She wasn’t that tall, and she also couldn't jump high. The first set ended 25-23 to Seijoh, which began to bring more people to the gymnasium. From the stands, she heard Oikawa say she should’ve been more focused when jumping up to block. And that’s what she did on the second set, giving all her energy on jumping as high as she could and doing the right movements so her arms would invade the spiker space.
That’s how she got her first block in the match. Her movements were done right and the good job ended in a monster block on the wing spiker of the other team. She only felt the strong hit of the ball in her arms before she was going back to the floor. She didn’t look where she was landing, her eyes closed from emotion. Next thing everyone heard was an agonising scream.
---
notes: hey this is my first fanfic so I'm sorry if it's out of character. I tried to do some angst but I didn't shed a tear, maybe I'm self projecting.
pairing: 27 dresses!atsumu x fem!reader
synopsis: you’ve always been a hopeless romantic. It’s why you spend your free time as a bridesmaid, packing your schedule with cake tastings and dress fittings. It’s why you’ve stayed at your job for this long, working overtime in a 9-5 to find another reason to stay by his side. And it’s why you’re going to be the best maid of honor you can be and plan your sister’s wedding to the one man you’re hopelessly in love with. You’ve long since accepted the heartbreak. Now, if only his arrogant, obnoxious, infuriating friend could just leave you alone!
word count: 4.3k
/ᐠ ◜𖥦 ◝ マ banner art by @/yulicechan on twitter! author's notes at the end.
THOUGH YOU DON'T remember much of your early childhood, it’s hard to forget the day you fell in love for the first time.
You’re eight, standing by the altar and waiting for the bride, holding a small bouquet of white lilies in one hand and your little sister in the other. The wedding was set at a local park, one only a few minutes away from your house. You didn’t think much of it at the time— it was just a place you’d pass by every day on your way to school. Sure, it was pretty enough with its lakeside view and worn dirt roads that cut through the grove of sakura trees, but it didn’t feel special. When you asked your father why the bride and groom chose such a boring place to host a wedding, he’d just smiled and said that it was an important place for them. Apparently, it’s where they had first met—crashing into one another in the very same spot where you stand now.
Ayumi tugs at your hand incessantly, fidgeting with the frills of her dress. “I’m hot,” she whines quietly. “How much longer do we have to stand here?”
Your father shoots you a concerned look all the way from where he’s seated with the rest of the guests in the front row. He’s hovering again, well—as best as he can given that he’s still at least six feet away, but you can tell he’s worried by the way his brow is furrowed and how his shoulders tense when Ayumi tugs at you harder.
“Onee-chan!”
“Turn around,” you murmur gently, “I’ll braid your hair and put it up, okay?”
Ayumi lights up immediately, her clumsy hands grabbing ahold of your lilies so your hands are free to carefully weave her hair. “I want it to look like yours!”
You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips and acquiesce, running your fingers through her waves to sort through the knots near the nape of her neck. When Ayumi settles at your touch and finally holds still, you can practically feel your father’s relief from here.
Your father frets. Often. Ayumi isn’t a baby, she’s only two years younger than you, but as overwhelming as his fussing can be, you understand it. After all, neither of you were really supposed to be up here. The patchwork dresses you and your sister are wearing are a reminder of that fact. The tailor had to improvise. There just wasn’t enough fabric from your mother’s bridesmaid dress for both of you.
(“At least it’s new. Unworn fabric is easier to work with.”)
You tuck the last strand of Ayumi’s hair into the bun, tying it in place, and carefully take a lily out of the bouquet, slipping it behind her ear. “Better?”
Ayumi beams at you and shoves the rest of the lilies back into your arms. “Better!”
Crisis averted, you take Ayumi’s hand again and turn your attention back to the aisle. There’s a light breeze, shaking the sakura petals loose as they drift by on the wind. The harpist hums as he’s finally given the cue and plucks a gentle melody, a soft one that feels achingly familiar.
The guests rise as the bride finally makes her grand entrance, clutching her own bouquet of white lilies, beaded dress trailing behind her. She’s ethereal, of course she is, but this isn’t the part you remember best. No—when you think back on this day you think about how the breeze brushed past you and how Ayumi’s lily nearly tumbled loose.
You think about how you turned instinctively, following the movement, and turning far enough to lose sight of the bride and to find the groom. And though the rest of the wedding is a blur, details lost in the haze of your childhood memories, you remember this part clearly, what you saw on that day.
You remember the honesty in his eyes— genuine, pure affection that made even your heart ache. The way he’d softened at the mere sight of her, like all the tension left him at once. It was beautiful. It was earnest. It was love.
When you think back on this day, you think about how all of it fell into place by chance.
Silk draped between the sakura trees, pink petals decorating the grass, family and friends crowded around the happy couple—all of it left you breathless. You wanted to take it all back. You were wrong. This place, the park—it’s not boring at all.
You’re eight when you attend your first wedding and you fall in love with love.
“...And another thank you to the bridesmaid who made this all possible! I couldn’t have done it without her!” The bride—your friend, Hisako—cheers when she says your name, and raises her glass. You blink, momentarily blinded as the tech crew turns the spotlight towards you but recover quickly, smiling and bowing as the crowd turns to you in applause.
Hisako beams at you, clapping the loudest, and hands the microphone to the next speaker—her grandfather, if you recall correctly. You’re listening—really, you are—but you can’t help the anxious jig of your leg, restless as you check your watch.
You exhale sharply. Alright. You’re still making good time. If you’re quick, you’ll still be able to rush back across town and show your face one last time at Akari’s wedding before it’s time to go home.
But first—the bouquet toss. You can’t miss that. Hisako’s grandfather has finally finished his speech which means she’s back up on stage, a collection of pink roses in her hands. Hisako’s scanning the crowd, squinting like she’s looking for something, and seems to find it when her eyes land on you. She tosses a wink at you before turning around.
To you, you realize. She’s going to throw it to you.
The bouquet sails through the air, and you swear time slows. You can see it—the pretty pink petals, the white ribbon tied along their stems—this is it. It’s headed right for your hands. You reach out, fingers practically grazing the roses when someone slams into your side, shrieking with glee as she snatches the bouquet out of the air seconds before you can, and you go down hard.
Surprisingly enough, the fall isn’t that bad. Yeah, you’re going to be sore in some places, but all things considered, getting away with only a few bruises after being so viciously battered seems like a miracle on your end. It’s funny though. You could’ve sworn the floors were made of solid hardwood; so why aren’t you more injured?
“Ya done? Can ya get off of me now?” a muffled voice comes from under you.
You shoot up, nearly smacking your head against one of the worried bystanders leaning over you, and scramble to get off the stranger you’ve landed on top of.
“Oh my god,” you stammer, “I am so sorry. So so sorry—please, let me help you up. Oh my god, is your head alright—should we call an ambulance? I’m going to call an ambulance, hang on—”
The man groans as he stands up, clutching at his head. “Can ya take a breath? Yer makin’ my head hurt worse. And don’t bother wastin’ yer time on an ambulance, I’m fine.”
You ignore his protests, already pulling out your phone and frantically punching in the number for the ambulance. “How’s your vision? Are you feeling faint? What’s your name?”
“Didn’t I just say I was fine? I can see ya and I’m still standin’ so it can’t be that bad.”
“And your name?” you press. “Do you know your name?”
“Well aren’t ya bold? There are better ways ta get my name than knockin’ me down on the ground ya know,” the stranger says with a sly smile.
“Answer the question or I’m calling the ambulance,” you narrow your eyes, waving the phone in your hand threateningly.
“Hah…” he bows his head in surrender. “Ya drive a hard bargain. I can’t argue with that,” he concedes, and holds out his hand. “Miya Atsumu.”
You eye him for a moment, contemplating if your stranger would be the kind of man to lie just to get you off his back. Eventually, you decide that no one could possibly be that short-sighted, lying about their wellbeing at their own risk, and you tuck your phone back in your purse, satisfied that you didn’t accidentally give this Atsumu fellow catastrophic brain damage.
To give credit where credit is due, Atsumu handles your staring quite well—he merely waits patiently with a smile till you’re done. He tilts his head to the side, then looks pointedly at his outstretched hand. “...And yer name?”
“Me?”
Atsumu huffs out a little laugh. “Shouldn’t I get ta know the name of the lady who swept me off my feet?”
You flush red (from embarrassment and certainly not because his cheap flirting is working) and take his hand, muttering your name. He’s warm under your grip, fingertips rough with old callouses. Your stranger—Atsumu, listens carefully, then says your name again. Says it slow like he’s savoring something; tasting the way it sounds in his mouth. It’s unusually intimate. Perhaps he did hit his head after all.
“I still think you should get checked out by a doctor,” you say, pulling away from him. “That was a hard fall.”
Atsumu’s charming facade falters slightly as he tsks, irritated. “I already answered all yer questions, that ain’t good enough for ya?”
“Sorry are you a doctor?” you snark.
“Are ya?” he parrots back.
“You don’t need to be a doctor to know that hitting your head can’t mean anything good!”
“So yer not a doctor either,” he dismisses.
Hah! Is that the only thing he heard? Your eye twitches as you stare up at this aggravating idiot. You have to reconsider your initial assessment. Perhaps there were no immediate signs of brain damage because there was nothing left to damage!
By this point, most of the small crowd initially surrounding the two of you has dispersed, tipsy guests flitting away—whatever it was that initially drew them to you; be it concern or curiosity, now that it’s evident that no one is injured or about to be, you’ve since lost their interest. There’s only an odd handful of people left, most of them being your fellow bridesmaids who were by your side when the bouquet was tossed.
One of them watches, concerned, when Atsumu idly reaches up and runs his hand over the back of his head, wincing slightly when his fingers brush over some tender spot.
“I know he said he was fine but maybe you should take him home anyway,” she murmurs to you.
You furrow your brow, briefly considering the notion, and nod. Right—it would be the responsible thing to do; whether you like it or not, you do owe him for possibly giving him a concussion. Even if he is an odd, impudent man, you wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself if he collapsed on the side of the road because of you. And, you shudder, you hardly want to find yourself on the other end of a lawsuit.
You assume that Atsumu comes to the same conclusion as you because as soon as the words ‘take him home’ are uttered, any objection he previously had dies on his tongue. He staggers towards you, throwing his arm over your shoulder as he leans on you. “Sorry,” he moans, “I think my head’s hurtin’ worse now. Ya must’ve been right—maybe I do need ta rest after all.”
You let out a small grunt at the sudden extra weight and instinctively reach around his waist to brace yourself. He’s solid under your grip, warmth bleeding through the layers of his fitted suit.
Atsumu’s still going on and on about his head—saying something about it aching something awful—all while he quietly shepherds you closer to the ballroom exit. At one point your heel catches on the edge of a table cloth and the two of you stumble forward. For an awful moment you think you’re about to give him a second concussion but Atsumu recovers quickly, pulling you closer to him to steady the both of you; close enough for you to smell the heady scent of sea salt and cedarwood that clings to him.
He smells of summer, this stranger of yours, and with how the two of you are draped over each other, you probably do too.
Against all odds, you both manage to weave your way through a crowd of tipsy guests with no casualties. In fact, you’re almost at the door when a familiar voice calls out your name. You think you hear Atsumu curse under his breath but you don’t have time to dwell on it before your friend, the bride herself, is there and fussing over you. “I saw the two of you limping, are you alright?!"
“I’m okay, Hisako,” you reassure, “I’m just worried about this one.” You glance up at Atsumu who’s wincing in pain and staring longingly at the door. “I’m going to call him a taxi—or an ambulance. I haven’t decided yet.”
“Taxi,” Atsumu says loudly.
“Ignore him,” you say louder.
(Hisako generously decides to overlook both of your childish antics: Atsumu, who mysteriously loses much of his strength, forcing you to support even more of his weight, and you, digging your fingers into his side to compensate for the sudden change in your balance.)
“I saw a taxi stand outside the hotel,” she says helpfully. “It should be easy to get a car from there.”
Atsumu smiles at you, smug and satisfied and a little too pleased. “Is that so? Well sounds like we’re takin’ a taxi after all.”
“You could always take the taxi to the hospital,” Hisako tacks on, and now it’s your turn to smile as Atsumu’s smirk falters and he grumbles something to himself.
“Thank you, Hisako,” you say as she moves to help you open the door. “Sorry for leaving so early.”
She brushes off your apology without blinking an eye. “Don’t worry about something like that. Just take care of yourself.”
You exit the ballroom with a wave and just like that, you’re standing outside in the opulent hotel hallway, alone as the sole keeper of a dying(?) man you’d met only thirty minutes prior.
You take a deep breath, bracing yourself to drag him all the way to the taxi stand. Your shoulder’s already cramping; a stiffness you know you’ll pay for in the morning, and the dress is hardly making it any easier, but after all the effort and humiliation just to get to the door, you’ll be damned if you don’t see this fiasco through to the end.
But, to your surprise, no sooner than when the doors to the ballroom shut, Atsumu’s pulling away from you and straightening up—dusting himself off like he wasn’t acting like he was seconds from death’s door only a few moments ago. “Thanks,” he sighs, already loosening his tie. “I owe ya one, for givin’ me an out like that.”
Your eyes widen as you watch him shrug off his blazer. “Your head—your concussion—you’re not injured? ”
Atsumu looks back at where you’re still lingering by the door and grins at you. “Isn’t that what I’ve been sayin’?”
It takes you a moment to realize what’s happened, if only because you would’ve never even considered the possibility that someone would have the audacity to-
“Wh–Lie?! Did you lie about your injuries to leave a wedding early?”
Atsumu slaps his hand over your mouth, cutting off your tirade and muffling the offended yelp you let out, and hushes you as he drags you further away from the ballroom and toward the hotel’s exit. “Wasn’t lyin’-I told ya I was fine, didn’t I? Ya were the one goin’ on an’ on about takin’ me home.”
You yank his hand off and glare at him, “because I rightfully thought you were actually concussed when you collapsed on me seconds later, whining about the pain!”
Atsumu, the brat, doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. “So it was believable? Might have ta use it again for the next weddin’ then.”
“Miya-san!” You gape at him, astounded. “I practically carried you through that ballroom—I thought I gave you a concussion! I was worried you were going to collapse on the side of the road!”
“And ya were worried that I was gonna sue ya.”
“And I was worried you would sue me!”
Atsumu barks out a laugh at that, a sudden and honest sound that startles you. He tilts his head and grins at you, fox-like and pleased, eyes bright with a sort of mischief that makes you think of the statues you’ve seen outside of inari shrines. It’s almost dizzying, the way his attention remains squarely on you, even as he moves to hold the door open for you.
It’s quieter outside, the faint chatter and music from the ballroom replaced instead with the sound of chirping cicadas and the occasional rumble of a passing car. The walk isn’t long—the taxi stand is just around the corner from the hotel after all— but Atsumu keeps pace with you the entire time, even when your heels slow you down. You look up at him, this obnoxious fool who nearly cracked his head open stumbling through a crowded ballroom with you, just to get out of a wedding reception early. The moonlight softens him, the silver lighting cradling him in a way that almost seems to make him glow.
It’s annoying, you decide. He’s annoying.
The taxi stand is surprisingly empty when you arrive, no cars already waiting to pick you up. In hindsight, it makes some sense— it’s an awkward time for the two of you to go home. Too late at night to be a part of the dinner rush but not late enough to be part of the drunken crowd needing a ride home; which means you’re stuck with your idiot till the next car comes.
“...you okay with sharing a taxi?”
Atsumu leans against the taxi stand sign and shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I be? Gotta repay the favor somehow, don’t I? Ya took such good care of me back there, ain’t it my turn now?”
You snort and raise an eyebrow, moving to rest against the sign as well. “‘Take care of me’, what—are you planning on paying for my taxi or something?”
“If ya like,” Atsumu hums.
“I’m going to ask the driver to take the longest route he can. As compensation.”
“Yer takin’ advantage of me!”
“You’re one to talk about ‘taking advantage’! You made me lug you around for half an hour,” you say, arms crossed, “just to leave a wedding early—who even does that?”
“Well we can’t all be like ya,” he sniffs. “I’ve never even heard of someone runnin’ to and from two different weddin’s on the same night.”
You freeze. That must’ve been a slip of the tongue. He couldn’t possibly know. You’d been so meticulous, even keeping your second dress stored in a locker at the other venue. You could’ve sworn that no one had noticed your comings and goings, not even your fellow bridesmaids, who’d been seated right next to you.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you deny. “You must’ve mistaken me for other guests.”
“No? So yer tellin’ me that it wasn’t ya that I saw runnin’ back and forth and slippin’ away during dinner?”
Damn it. “How did you even catch that? I was only gone twice!”
“Yer hard to miss,” he says, like it’s obvious. “And ya mixed up yer accessories at one point. The orange ribbon with yer purple dress gave it away.” He turns to you slightly, gently tugging at the ribbon you’d tied around your hair. “See?”
Damn it! You scowl when he hands back your bright orange ribbon, muttering curses as you shove it in your purse. How could you make such a rookie mistake? You must’ve been exhausted, running yourself ragged practically planning the two weddings. You’re just lucky that no one else noticed and that the only person who did also happens to be the one who allegedly suffered a concussion.
“So,” Atsumu starts, snapping you out of your stupor. “How many have ya been to?” Seven? Twelve?”
“What?”
“Weddin’s,” he clarifies. “Personally my money’s on twelve.”
“What makes you think I’ve been to so many?” you retort.
“Call it a hunch,” Atsumu says, leaning closer to you. “Ya look like ya’ve got a story.”
He’s staring again, that fox-like smile on his face. Gone is the lazy, sleepy-eyed look he’d worn during the reception. He looks excited. He looks enthralled.
(He looks… hungry.)
“Do you two want a ride or not?”
You jolt like a startled cat, whirling around to find an old man staring at both of you, decidedly unamused, from the driver’s seat of a taxi—one that’s been waiting for two of you for god knows how long.
You flush and bow apologetically, grabbing the back of Atsumu’s collar and forcing him down with you as well. “I’m so sorry—yes, if you’re still willing to take us—we didn’t mean to waste your time and—”
Your taxi driver closes his eyes in a long-suffering way and rolls up the window. “Please just get in the car.”
You bow again, lower this time, and practically shove Atsumu into the taxi. He tumbles in with an undignified yelp and you allow yourself a moment to savor the betrayed look on his face (serves him right for making you an unwilling accomplice in his childish games!) before throwing yourself in after him.
The old man stares in his rearview mirror as the two of you swat at each other, hissing about “bein’ such a brute” and “hogging all the legroom”. It seems that now you know for certain that Atsumu is 1. uninjured and 2. not going to sue you, you’ve no reason to hide how he really makes you feel: irritated.
“Address. Please.”
You freeze at the poor man’s plea and duck your head sheepishly, something Atsumu takes advantage of (because only one of you is apparently still capable of shame), who claims the last bit of free space by dumping his blazer on the empty middle seat. You can see the triumphant shit-eating grin he sends you out of the corner of your eye and when you hand the paper with your address to the driver, it’s hardly legible from how hard you’ve crushed it.
Mercifully, most of the ride back home is quiet, the dramatics of the night seemingly having exhausted you both. Atsumu’s eyes are closed as he leans back in his seat, head resting against the window. Osaka’s sodium lights paint every angle of him in shades of gold, casting him in a dull radiance—the city his own halo.
He’s pretty, you realize. Distractingly so.
“Yer starin’,” Atsumu says, cracking open an eye. “Somethin’ on my face?”
You dart your gaze away, back to your own window. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter. “I was just thinking.”
Atsumu yawns and stretches lazily. “About me?”
“About what kind of person fakes a concussion to get out of a wedding,” you snipe back at him.
“So ya were thinkin’ about me.”
“Not the point!”
“I could ask ya the same thing. What kinda person goes to two weddin’s at once? The first one wasn’t enough for ya?” Atsumu drawls.
You gape at him. “I love weddings! That’s why I go to them in the first place. You really don’t feel anything, getting invited to celebrate someone’s special day?”
Atsumu makes a face. “There’s nothin’ special about spending half my day watchin’ two scrubs make googly eyes at each other while I pretend like it’s the happiest day of my life too.”
“Well with that attitude, it’s no wonder you were invited,” you snark. “Enlighten me—why even go at all if you hate happiness that much?”
“I’m a writer,” he says, like that answers your question. “Call it research. Maybe I’ll write a horror piece next—all these weddin’s are givin’ me plenty’a material.”
“How novel. A man who doesn’t believe in marriage.”
“How sweet. A lady who does.”
You huff and eye him. “Mock me all you like, but at least I had a good time tonight.”
Atsumu just looks at you like you’ve said something stupid. “Who said I didn’t have a good time?”
The taxi slows to a stop, right in front of your apartment complex. Your driver looks at the taxi meter, looks back at the two of you, and doesn’t hesitate when he says a number higher than what the meter reads.
“Well as…lovely…as this was, this is me. Nice meeting you, Miya-san.” You thump Atsumu on the back once, hard, and open the door, moving to leave.
Atsumu grabs your hand before you can go, tugging you back. “Where ya goin’?”
“...Home?”
“Hah? That’s not what I meant and ya know it, ya scrub!”
“Didn’t you say you’d be paying for my taxi?”
Atsumu blinks owlishly at you. “I mean I did but—”
“How generous of you. Thank you, Miya-san,” you call over your shoulder as you slip out of his grasp. You slam the door to the taxi shut, muffling whatever it is he says next. Is it a cheap and immature way to have the last word? Maybe so; but when you walk away, it’s with a pleased smile curling at your lips.
Annoying, you think, ignoring the way that summer's day scent still clings to you. He really is annoying.
authors notes: this was written as my entry to the it's cupid, stupid! event hosted by @the-memokeepers! thank you to div and jazz for organizing it and sorry again for being so late. even though this was supposed to be an event for one-shots, i kinda spiralled out of control and now the outline has like 12 acts and i realized i had probably bitten off more than i could chew after i was finishing a chapter and it was already approaching 3000 words. thus the decision was made to split it up into multiple chapters to make it more manageable (for you and me). im a bit of a slow writer so updates may be sporadic but they will come. im determined to see this through. please be patient with me as i basically have not written anything in six years. this is literally my comeback fic.
special shoutout to @sun-snatcher for being one of my beta readers and hyping me up even when i thought id never be able to get it done, @nvllette for cheering me on as well and being so patient with me as i took longer and longer, and ofc, @yuechihua. Liya, thank you for keeping me sane throughout this whole process and locking in with me and saving me with your editing skills. this fic literally would not have gotten done without you.
thank you all so much.
if you enjoyed, please leave a comment, reblog, like, whatever– just let me know <3 i will do my best to get chapter 2 out in a reasonable amount of time!
Ushijima praising your beautiful pussy that he abuses until he sees his cock covered in white. He'll hold your hips and just watch you devour his cock endlessly.
"Don't stop please, keep - fucking me baby. Keep sucking me s-so good… this cock is all yours, all yours babe… keep it up."
