in true fashion of "what if we loved these guys so much we gave ourselves a little homework about them" it was my absolute pleasure to organize this little hq x reader fic exchange! together we wrote over 100k words and i think that's beautiful.
my warmest thank yous to all participants (っ˘з(˘⌣˘ ) ♡ the love for your craft shows in every line and i adore every single one of you.
… akira · @inkpetrichor // something like home ; kuroo
… alex · @honey-decadence // acts of love ; ennoshita
… april · @kentocalls // fall(en) for you ; iwaizumi
synopsis; (y/n) and suna have a heartfelt chat about her complicated relationship with atsumu
Suna hears the faint click of the balcony door behind him but doesn’t bother turning. From the soft shuffle of her steps, the lingering scent of her perfume, to the barely-there way she steps when the world is asleep, he knows it's her.
“Rinrin,” she calls, voice sweet as honey . “I’ve brought you chamomile tea.”
It's silly, really. He should be used to it by now—the use of his childhood nickname. And yet, even now, Suna finds himself fighting the urge to pretend he didn't hear, just to give her a reason to say it again. Part of him wonders what she'd think if she ever found out. If she knew the extent of what she does to him.
He pushes down the thought and glances down at the mug she gently nudges into his hand, uttering his thanks. Then he takes a sip, letting the bitterness settle on his tongue.
“Good?” she asks, settling into the chair beside his. The blanket she wraps around herself is three times her size, cacooning her like some bright yellow, fuzzy chrysalis.
“Chamomile is such a sad flavour,” he murmurs.
(Y/n) huffs a quiet laugh. “Such a cryptic description for a tea.”
He shrugs, already partly regretting his choice of words. Perhaps this time of night has him feeling a little bitter himself. Even so, (y/n) doesn’t question it and just sips her tea in silence, the steam curling up toward the stars.
Somewhere below them, the city glimmers: wet streets, red tail lights, a puddle reflecting the glow of a corner store sign. Usually, quiet moments like these feel peaceful and familiar. Tonight however, their quiet feels almost... melancholic. Suna tries not to think about why.
“You’re up late,” she notes.
“So are you,” he quips back.
There's no point trying to read her expression, he knows she didn’t come out here for tea or small talk. He's known her for so long, has had so many years to read her, learn all her quirks and habits. He's memorised the tones of her voice like they're his favourite song, has learned the intentions behind all her pauses. There’s something on her mind tonight. Something—someone. Most likely, she’s been holding in all day.
Not only that but she chose him to talk to. Maybe out of habit, but mostly because she knows he’ll listen. He should be flattered, but right now that knowledge settles heavily in his chest. He should go inside, finish that true crime video he was watching, make some excuse, pretend he's tired—
“Do you think he likes me?”
And there it is: the question he’d been dreading from the moment she stepped outside onto the balcony. He could shut her down, instead, he takes a moment to answer, staring out at the blinking city below, eyes unfocused—fingers flexing around his mug.
“Who?” he feigns, though he already knows. Of course he knows. Her and Atsumu have been arguing all day. It's a stupid reflex: deflecting, deceiving—they’re the greatest weapons in his arsenal. A double-edged sword, really, because when it came to her, they'd done nothing but work against him.
“You know who," she mutters.
He breathes in slowly and bites his tongue. For a moment, he wonders what it would be like to lie. To say: no, maybe he doesn't like you.
Thankfully for her, and unfortunately for him, he's never been that kind of selfish. “Do you think he does?”
She sighs, long and resigned. “I don’t know... Sometimes it feels like yes. Other times... I think I’m imagining it. Or maybe he’s just playing around. I can’t tell..."
He turns to look at her. Her blanket has slipped a little, exposing the curve of her shoulder to the night breeze—rousing the scent of sweet pea and strawberry. She's pulled her knees to her chest, resting her cheek on them as though she's trying to make herself smaller. Behind her, a streetlamp glows, bathing her in honey and gold.
He turns his gaze back to the skyline, ignoring the ache that settles in his chest. He knows the second she goes back inside, she’ll keep wondering about Atsumu. She’ll laugh at something he says. Maybe fall for him a little more. But right she’s here, so close yet so far out of reach.
“You shouldn’t have to guess,” he says simply.
Her eyes flick to him, searching for something—validation, perhaps. The reassurance that she's doing all she can. That one day, she might actually have a chance with the man who's constantly making her doubt. But Suna can't bring himself to say it. Not tonight, and maybe not ever.
“...You think I’m reading into things?”
“I think if someone wants you,” he starts, jaw tensing as he chooses his next words, "they should make it obvious. Especially with you.”
Hypocrite.
Her brows furrow. “Why especially me?”
He exhales through his nose, gathering his thoughts. “Because you tend to overthink everything. You feel everything deeply and you’ll blame yourself if you get hurt. It's not fair on you."
The admission hangs there between them—heavy, and raw.
(Y/n) holds her mug a little tighter, and Suna fears he may have said too much. Like maybe she’s hearing something underneath what he’s saying—has finally caught the double meaning and knows his words are only projection.
She lets out a breath of laughter. "You never mince your words, huh?"
The corner of his mouth lifts, just a touch. "Never."
Hypocrite.
"Well, either way," (y/n) continues, "I'm glad you don't. It's nice to have a bit of honesty."
This time, Suna stays silent.
Hypocrite.
What should he even be feeling, right now? Guilt, probably. Relief? He's already said so much—let words he's only ever thought about fall from his lips. And still, even after all that, she still hasn't figured it out, still can't read between the lines of his own self-deprecating script.
He wonders if that’s a blessing or a curse—it’s been years, years and years of pretending. Sometimes, he wishes he had Atsumu's nerve, just so he could stomp down his ugly feelings and distract her with a loud presence and flirty one-liners. Except he's not that kind of person. He's not Atsumu.
He's Suna. And Suna... loves her so much he doesn't know what to do with himself most of the time. So he forces it down, locks away his thoughts and his heart, and tosses away the key.
She's not his and might not ever be. Not to mention he'd also be stepping on another friend's toes. And as much as he hates Atsumu for dangling hope in front of her nose, making him the enemy is out of the question.
"I'm sure he'll figure his own feelings out one day," Suna adds quietly. "It's up to you how long you want to wait for it."
(Y/n) hums, light and airy. Getting her concerns off her chest seemed to have perked her up a bit—her voice coming out easier than before. "You always know what to say, Rinrin."
It takes him more effort than usual to play off his sorrow, forcing the smallest, faintest smirk before replying, “Yeah. I’m annoying like that.”
For the first time tonight, she smiles—soft, sleepy and affectionate.
Moments pass during which Suna spends lost inside his own head. He barely registers her moving until her head comes to rest gently against his shoulder. She does so without asking. Never does. And while his reflex would be to tense and pull away—with her, he welcomes the contact. Just lets her stay there, warm and oblivious, while his heart folds in on itself quietly. Because if he shifts even a little, if he opens his mouth again, he's afraid it'll all come pouring out—years of hiding all for naught.
He takes a sip of tea to keep himself busy—lets the steam blur his vision and the floral aftertaste coat his tongue. "I've decided—I don't like chamomile."
(Y/n) chuckles. "Because it tastes like sadness?"
"Mm. Could be."
“So cryptic,” she murmurs against him.
He huffs a breath that doesn’t quite qualify as a laugh.
Ironically, she couldn't have picked a better word.
thank you to everyone who likes, comments &/or reblogs! ☺️
— bday fic w my fav trope for my fav boy i lorb him sm
Monsoon season has eased into a gentle lull.
The cicada song goes lazy in the drizzle, the metal fan working overtime to propel a stream of sticky, suffocating wind in your face, through your hair. Everything moves languidly in the heat, each second coaxed honey-slow into the next as the summer rainy season settles over Miyagi.
On the TV drones a broadcast where they show a map of the prefecture, tracing the path of the next storm in red-blue whorls. It won’t quit until next week. Lying stomach-down and doing nothing on the hardwood floor, you hope it never will.
The doorbell rings. You don’t get up to answer it.
Your mom might be calling you to shove all the boxes with your things from Tochigi to the side, shuffling some of the cardboard away with her house slippers, but becoming one with the floor is your only mission. It’s a noble cause for a five year old like you.
Your mother calls again; you don’t respond, but you hope she can feel the gravity of your eye roll. She talks quietly to someone in the genkan, and then the stranger slips off their wet shoes with a squeak— sounds like rainboots and— pads down the hall.
You close your eyes, listen to the hiss of the rain and the empty lull of the cicadas and the hollow wheeze of a ball being bounced against the floorboards…but you don’t have a ball.
“Do you like volleyball?”
( And this is where it all begins. )
You crane your neck and turn your face towards the ceiling. The boy standing above you is haloed in a starburst of lamplight; he’s all round cheeks and bowl cut bangs that hang over his eyes. He brushes his hair (it’s dark like the ink from your mom’s fancy pen) away from his eyes (they’re dark blue).
Well, they’re more than just dark blue, but you haven’t learned enough words to really describe it, so.
You don’t know what kind of face you make, but judging by the face he makes, it must not be pretty. “No. I hate exercise.”
“You don’t have to run around,” he tells you. It’s under-breath and quiet. He talks strangely like all the other people in the neighborhood with their smudgy consonants and pitched vowels. “Setters don’t move a lot.”
You slide your attention back to the broadcast. The weatherman is almost finished; after this, the sports game your dad wants you to record for his mentor’s son will start. “I don’t even know what that is.”
He settles down on the floor next to you, cradling the volleyball in the hollow of his crisscrossed legs; without a word, he watches you watch the athletes jog around.
“Stop looking at me.”
“You said you don’t like volleyball.”
“I don’t, my dad’s friend does,” you say, pushing the tape recorder. Your jaw begins to ache, molars gritting. “Leave me alone.”
Your mom walks by, floorboards protesting under her and the laundry basket’s weight. The whole house is like this; it’s old, and creaky, and smells kinda stale. You wouldn’t be surprised if it was haunted.
She says, “Play nice with Tobio. He’s staying until his parents are back from work.”
That’s not until nightfall, which means you have to put up with the strange volleyball boy for hours. What if he makes you get up from the floor to run laps around the living room?
You shudder.
Tobio straightens and his ball rolls across the floor. He points to a man on the screen, but it’s hard to distinguish because they all look like tiny, walking stick men. “That’s my favorite player.”
“What’s so special about him?”
He shuffles closer, repositioning to lay on his stomach like you, whispering, “His spike point is super high. My grandpa heard that he’s still growing too.”
You don’t know what to say first. What even is a spike point? Why couldn’t his grandpa watch him instead? When will this bowl cut nerd leave you alone?
The whistle blows sharply, and Tobio’s so-called favorite player tosses up the ball. It’s too fast to track— you can only hear the echo of the impact and the spectators’ noise.
Woah.
“That’s called a service ace. He’s cool, right?” Tobio asks. His feet make a slow thump-thump beat against the floor that matches the rhythm of your pulse.
You nod, eyes hunting the ball as it goes up again, trying to catch the movement and make it tangible. “I guess.”
He reaches to claw at his volleyball, small fingers reeling it back in front of him. It looks right in his hands, a key sliding home.
“I’m gonna be just like him one day.”
ー
There’s a singular ribbon of light slipping its deft fingers in the line between your drawn curtains. When it flickers, you know that the light is coming from your neighbor and not an early dawn.
You stumble out of bed, careful to land your feet without sound, and skitter to the window. Throwing the curtains apart, you’re met directly with Tobio’s beams; they sear white-gold starbursts behind your eyelids that linger for a while.
You pick up your light, switching the button on and off.
Tobio messages: You’re up.
You woke me up, you send. Too bright.
Graciously, he angles his light away. Sorry.
What do you want — and you aren’t quite sure what his name is in your little firefly language— TO-B-IO?
He makes a face, all pucker with no sour bite. You want to laugh at his duckbill-pursed lips and press your thumbs between his furrowed brows, smooth out the wrinkles in his skin.
What the heck is TO-B-IO?
Name.
It’s supposed to be like this — he flickers his beam in a pattern that you assume must be his name. It’s easy to do after you learn it, like second nature.
Tobio.
You mouth the syllables with every pulse of your thumb on the flashlight’s button because for some reason, the shape of his name feels so right against your tongue in the way a volleyball looks so right in his hands.
Yeah, that’s better. He turns off his light and gives you a thumbs up; illuminated by only the moon, Tobio is all silvery and chromatic. You wonder if all boys sparkle like shining knights.
The moonbeam shifts away with the approach of a cloud, and you raise your flashlight again.
Mine’s like this — you show him, blinking the light. Got it, Tobio?
He shoots your name back in photons, little pulses of light that have you grinning excitedly. Tobio can’t really do the same; it’s awkward and stilted, almost half-assed. He has dimples, which almost makes up for it.
You seriously gotta fix your smile, you flicker. He dials the intensity of his light all the way up and shoots the beam right into your face.
ー
You come to the conclusion that Tobio is really freaky about volleyball.
He demands that you toss the ball to him on the one day the rain breaks, right when you’re about to step outside in a pair of eye-scalding Hello Kitty sandals, clutching a net and mason jar. Your mom has to come down to the genkan and wrestle away your beetle catching gear because she feels bad for Tobio.
( You feel bad for him too— kind of. Even if his parents are at work more than they are at home, at least he still has you to come to. )
After that, you throw more balls than you swing bug nets, and Tobio’s arms look like cooked lobster shells from how many times he’s received them. Although, sometimes it’s just sunburn.
You ask him once about why he can’t just go somewhere else to play; he says that he usually does, but the nearby kid’s gym is closed until the owners can fix the roof that leaked during one of the summer storms.
Plus, he adds, my grandpa’s helping Miwa with her volleyball stuff most of the time. And you’re okay at tossing.
It’s then that you’re introduced to the Kageyama family, sans Mom-geyama and Dad-geyama. You see them in passing like far-off ships from the porthole of your window sometimes; Tobio gets his eyes from his mom and hair from his dad.
So tonight, like all other nights when the kid’s gym closes early and Tobio’s parents overstay their time at the izakaya with their coworkers, Kageyama Kazuyo-san is in charge of his grandkids, and by the same token, you too.
( Your mom lets you stay at over on Friday nights, and Friday nights only. )
“Kageyama Kazuyo-san.” You toddle up to the old man; his knees crack and his beard bristles with a smile when he crouches down to meet you, and you can tell that Tobio did not get his smile from his grandpa. “What school did you go to?”
“Ah, that was so long ago,” Kageyama Kazuyo-san sighs. He cradles his chin between his thumb and forefinger, the skin on his knuckles gnarled and splattered with liver spots. “Why do you ask?”
You twist your hands behind your back, mouth shifting. “Tobio wants to go to your school because he said it’s a volleyball big-house or something, but he’s not telling me which one.”
The old man hums and scratches his beard; it makes a funny sound that tickles your ears. You lean in when he shields his mouth with a hand. “He might be embarrassed because he probably forgot the name.”
“Yeah, he’s a super idiot. Inoue-sensei made him stand at the back of the classroom ‘cause he keeps falling asleep. Oh, did you know that I’m the smartest in kindergarten?”
When Tobio’s grandpa laughs, it’s with his head tucked down and his shoulders shaking and— Tobio does that too, when you trip over your own jump rope during recess.
“I’ll tell you the secret,” Kageyama Kazuyo-san says. He rocks back on his haunches with a tired groan, knees creaking with relief; he crosses his hands over them, wrist in palm. “But only if you stop saying Kageyama Kazuyo-san. It makes me sound like an old monk.”
The words fly out before you can catch them with your hands, which freeze halfway around your mouth. “But you are old, Grandpa-yama.”
He regards you with narrowed eyes and a pursed mouth, bent frame unfurling after a moment. Grandpa-yama has long legs; it takes him a while to stand straight with minimal protest from his creaky knees.
“The name,” he declares, forcing his shoulders back and chest forward with his hands balled and propped on his waist like some manga hero, “is Shiratorizawa.” He curls back into his normal old man posture. “Now, go to bed, it’s late.”
You settle next to Tobio on the floor of his room. He’s sleeping already, body furled fetal with his knees and arms held tight against his chest— the blanket of his futon is kicked to the side, and he’s half-laying on your own.
Tobio insisted on the roll-out mattresses for reasons unknown. He has his own bed, the frame towering over you on the floor. The shadow it casts reaches all the way to the door.
He shifts, just close enough that you can smell his mint toothpaste (you tried it earlier and gagged at the spiciness) and see his brows furrowing. Tobio makes a small, displeased sound when you tug your blanket from under him.
“Psst. I bet you forgot that your grandpa’s school was called Shiratorizawa,” you whisper.
His eyes don’t open, but his nose crinkles like the crushed paper in Inoue-sensei’s trash bin. “Shut up.”
“That’s a bad word, Tobio.”
He just yanks the blanket his way until you’re both huddled under it.
ー
Primary school rushes towards you at a speed you hadn’t expected.
Winter thaws and eases to a close; the ice that had built up under the eaves melts away with a slow drip, feeding the bushes that line the outer wall of your house. They’re budding now, little blue-tipped blooms that’ll surely burst come summertime.
Armed with your mother’s old randoseru (because the new ones at the big store in Sendai made you cringe at the price), you march the short distance to the gate of Tobio’s house and ring the bell.
You don’t really know how to read his last name on the nameplate; the characters are too complicated for a simpleton child like you, and even if you weren’t a simpleton, you’d still be too lazy to look up the meaning.
He’s just always been Tobio. You’ve never really seen the need to know the meaning of his family’s name until now, because according to your mother, surnames are so important that she made you practice writing real kanji and hid all your hiragana books last night.
A girl— Miwa, since Tobio said that his mom was leaving early and coming home late today, like all days— breathes life into the intercom. The feed sparks. “Good morning, who’s this? Wha— Tobio, don’t run out like that!”
The door swings wide and Tobio stumbles out, a dark blue randoseru hanging from his shoulders. You don’t miss how the leather shines with novelty; you close your fists tighter around the worn straps of your own bag.
When he grabs the bars of the gate that’s very much taller than he is to close it, you spring on him.
“How do you read your last name again? I only know it’s Kageyama, but like— which kage does it mean?”
Tobio latches the gate with a metallic snick. “Shadow or something.” And then he squints at the placard. “It’s not that hard to read.”
“It is,” you insist, scrutinizing the engraved characters. Kageyama Tobio— shadow, mountain, to fly, hero— it fits, you think. You jolt the wrong way when his fingers tug at your sleeve, jerking your nose into the nameplate. “Ow….”
Tobio mutters an apology and slides an arm out of his backpack strap to grab tissues; you eye him with your palm clasping your nose. There’s a weird flex in the big pocket of his randoseru, the seams stretching to accommodate—
“Tobio,” you tell him, “you know they probably have volleyballs at school, right?”
He huffs, scooping the ball out underhand and sending it over the gate. You hear it bump against some garden supplies with a shallow clatter. “They won’t feel the same as mine.”
The tissues he offers you are creased all over in their little plastic pack. You take one nonetheless and dab at your nose; it isn’t bleeding, which is good, but you sniffle just to make him feel bad. “A volleyball is a volleyball.”
His face pinches in on itself, puckering like the mouth of a drawstring bag. You resist the want to pull his face out of the expression with your fingers; Tobio angles away to fumble with a map before you can reach up.
He points down the street, eyes fixed on his paper. “My sister said to keep walking until we get to the…lamp with the cat and then turn right.” He frowns. “There’s a cat lamp?”
You shrug, reeling him by the arm along the sidewalk. The asphalt is still damp at this time of day, and loose rocks grit against the soles of your new shoes. Tobio grunts when he stumbles over a small pothole, tugging your wrist.
The lamp with the cat is, in fact, a streetlight hosting a number of lost pet posters. There must be at least fifteen dogs and cats and hamsters that your neighbors are looking for, though the hamsters are good as dead by now.
Tobio grunts to get your attention— walk all the way down until we get to the konbini; turn left. No, if you buy something, we’ll be late.
You turn to him pleadingly. “The entrance ceremony isn’t that important, right? It’ll be fine if we’re late.” Tobio just keeps looking on and on, eyebrows lax in exasperation. You groan, “I’ll buy milk too.”
The aircon breathes ice down your neck when Tobio tows you into the convenience store; he speeds straight to the vending machine, deliberating between two brands with a squint. You wander off to pick up an onigiri, grabbing the first one you see off the shelf.
When you come back, Tobio’s still trying to weigh his choice of milk box.
“What’s taking so long?” you mutter, digging around your pocket for spare change. You slip a coin into the machine’s slot, nudging Tobio out of the way.
You jam two buttons at the same time, and one of the boxes comes racketing down with a dull clatter. He kneels to grab it while you put in a few more coins for your own.
“This one isn’t healthy,” Tobio scowls, slipping your peach milk into his randoseru for safekeeping until lunchtime. He punches the sharp end of the straw into the hole in his box. “Too much sugar.”
You waltz to the counter, absently dumping a stack of coins for your onigiri. You unravel the plastic covering, digging your teeth into the rice ball; salty ikura bursts under your tongue. “I’m not a sports freak like you, Tobio.”
He grunts and hooks his fingers into your sleeve, pulling you towards the door. His nails are short and neat, skin still soft; the heat blooming from his palm bleeds into your skin.
You move closer to him without a second thought. Tobio is shorter than you are and you have to tilt sideways to accommodate him, but you don’t like walking with a lean, so you wrap your palm around his to fix it.
He keeps his words to his chest, easing into a silence only filled by the grit-gravel crunching under your shoes. It isn’t until after the opening ceremony does he slip away, drawn like a moth to the flame at the sight of a volleyball in the ball-bin during recess.
ー
Three summers pass in all but the blink of an eye.
Tobio’s not as tall as you yet, but he’s still the tallest boy in your year. You’ve gotten lucky time and time again to share a classroom, a desk next to him; that way, you always have him to whisper to and he’ll always have you to give him hints on the multiplication worksheet.
You’ve been twined by the hand since that spring day at the beginning of year one. The other girls in your class tease you endlessly, little snide comments about how you’re Tobio’s girlfriend and you are always gonna be my love, itsuka darekato—
You don’t really care. They become white noise when he stretches his arm across the aisle to tap your wrist for help; it’s lunchtime, and you’re halfway through a bite of your rice ball while your girl friends giggle.
“Hitano-sensei didn’t explain this well,” he mutters, brows angled together. “Mixing words and numbers is stupid.”
Tobio, though lonely more often than not, finds solace in the junior volleyball club. He’s learned some choice words from the bigger kids— not that you really care. To you, he sounds cooler.
You set down your lunch, chair scraping along the floorboards. “Underline the important stuff only.” Tobio begins to draw under every character. “Er…maybe just the numbers, it’s easier if you just take the numbers out first.”
You can hear them teasing you with that Utada song in the back of the classroom, off-beat and terribly out of tune.
Always be inside my heart, itsumo anata dake no basho ga arukaraaaaa…
You study Tobio instead. You’ve learned that in concentration, he tends to stick out his tongue, pinch his brows, and pout. It’s endearing; you find yourself leaning closer, close enough to see his lashes flutter and eyes dart around.
You’re just trying to get a better look at his eraser-bitten paper, that’s all. Really, that’s all.
ー
Valentine’s Day is a nuisance.
You can’t quite grasp where it all went horribly wrong. Before, in the lower years, everyone wrestled in the playground together with no qualms; now, the girls and boys have broken up into cliques, and the boys are the only ones who still wrestle. The girls flutter about in the shade and by the swings instead.
Tobio and you are the only ones who have yet to separate.
“Have you given anyone chocolates?”
You turn to meet the expecting faces of your friends. Akari, the one who asked, slips her gaze past the curve of your shoulder— you know that she’s looking at Tobio.
He’s been steadily growing, and before long, he might be taller than you. But that hasn’t happened yet, and you hope that it won’t for a long time.
If Tobio shot up above the rest of your year, the number of crushes on him would skyrocket. You don’t think you can handle more than one girl— your friend nonetheless— chasing his affections.
Akari’s looking at Tobio with so much love sickness that you can practically see the hearts in her eyes. Your face prunes like a plum forgotten in the sun. “No way.”
The group breaks into white-noise chatter.
Well, I’m giving sweets to Sato-kun — I hope Katogawa reads the love letter I put in his locker — Nakamura-kun already said that he can’t wait to give me flowers on White Day — Whaaat, you’re lucky Nana, Himura-san rejected me…
“I’m confessing to Tobio after school,” Akari says. The noise falls flat.
You blurt, “You can’t do that.”
“Why not? It’s not like he’s your boyfriend.”
It’s not like he’s your boyfriend either.
“Because,” you sputter, shooting a glance over your shoulder. The boy in question is spinning one of the school volleyballs, hands running over the cracks and crevices in the sun-beaten leather.
“Because what?”
You have a lot of things waiting to dart off your tongue: because you’ve never talked to him before, so why should you get to call him Tobio, because you don’t know him like I do, because volleyball has always been his first love and I’m pretty sure that he’s not interested in girls or romance for any of the matter, because I’m his best friend, because—
“He has practice after school,” you tell her instead. The rest gets caught wriggling between your teeth. “At our neighborhood’s volleyball club. They have a match next week.”
Akari doesn’t budge. “Well, chocolates will make him excited for his game!”
You scramble for anything else. “He doesn’t like chocolate. Plus, he already has a girlfriend.”
Someone— it might be Ichiko— almost shouts, but the sound is caught in the hollow of her slack jaw. “Who?”
“Volleyball.” You say it with as much nonchalance as you can muster and play with the skin next to your nail that’s beginning to peel in strips.
Pain blooms hot and red, aching under your skin when you pull it too far back. Tobio’s going to be mad that you’re messing with your fingers again, and then he’ll let you borrow his hand lotion and give you his nail clipper and tell you to cut the skin before it gets too long and starts bleeding— you know this because he does it every time, without fail.
Ichiko laughs at your remark and Akari isn’t far off. She says, “It’s probably just something he does for fun, you can’t be serious.”
“Don’t cry when I say that I told you so.”
Secretly, you hope that Akari will heed your warning. She doesn’t, and Tobio gives a whole box of chocolates to your mom because the only sweets he’s ever really liked were the milk-flavored popsicles from the konbini.
You don’t see Akari’s face for two days. It takes her three more to be able to meet your eyes, and another to open her mouth.
ー
“I’m going to Okinawa.”
You try not to let your words wilt like old kelp. Tobio’s spoon stills, hovering over the marinated egg he always nabs when you bring pork curry for lunch; you knew that he might get upset. You’ve spent every summer together since you were five, him trying a new milk flavor for every volleyball you tossed his way.
Tobio lowers his makeshift plate— the lid of your bento. “Okinawa? Up north?”
“It’s actually down south,” you correct, and you readjust your grip on your chopsticks for the fifth time. There’s a little crescent divot in the wood from your fidgeting habit; you run your nail over the dip and it slots right into place.
Tobio tucks his mouth in, holds it between his teeth. When he lets go, he runs his tongue over his lips lightning-quick. “You aren’t coming to Kita-iichi with me?”
“What?” You push the side of your chopsticks into a soft potato and it falls into halves. Tobio looks for some far horizon just past your temple. The distance bleeding into the edges of his eyes is maddening. “It’s just vacation.”
“Oh.” He slips back into normal function, spooning the curry egg into his mouth. As he chews, he pushes around the loose grains of rice on your bento’s lid. “But you are going to Kita-iichi, right?”
You snort and bridge the short distance of your desk to poke his cheek with the butt end of your chopsticks. “Obviously, ‘cause it’s closest to home.” You nudge him again, and he does nothing to stop it. “Why? Want me to walk to a different school? The next junior high is an hour away, you know, and I—”
Tobio scowls, cuts your sentence in the middle with, “And you hate exercise.” The tail end of his sentence gets warbled by the other half of the potato you had split between your chopsticks.
“I was going to eat that, Tobio.”
“Sorry.” He isn’t. You give him the other half of the potato anyway.
ー
One of Tobio’s teammates— Kindaichi, you think his name is— looks at you with something akin to awe on the days you’re able to stay for practice.
“You should come to practice more often,” says Tobio’s teammate Kindaichi’s friend, Kunimi. It’s lunchtime, and he beelined down the aisle of desks the moment Tobio ran off to get something from the vending machine. “Hell, come to all our games too.”
“I’m busy,” you tell him, shuffling away your literature papers. “Senior high entrance exams are coming up. Plus, I’m not interested in you.”
Kunimi’s laugh is low and lazy, almost blasé. “The only thing I’m interested in is when Kageyama plays nicer every time you’re there. It’s like he’s practically in love with you.”
“What?”
The boy in question rounds the door frame with two milk boxes in hand, gliding across the length of the classroom with his head bent to look at his phone. Kunimi skitters away in the opposite direction before your best friend can spot him.
Tobio pokes your drink— banana flavored this time— with the straw first before he does his. When he passes it over, you can still detect the barest heat from his skin lingering on the box.
“Didn’t get the scholarship to Shiratorizawa,” he grumbles. His milk box slowly sinks in on itself the longer he sulks, inhaling the dairy with a vengeance. “Guess I’m taking the test with you.”
You start going through the possibilities in a millisecond— Tobio learns better with flashcards and volleyball terminology, he needs to summarize better, there’s no way he’s going to get through the English portion of the exam without falling asleep. Maybe you’ll bribe him to push through, he’s been wanting to work on his digs for a while.
“My mom’s making curry tomorrow. I’ll have flashcards ready then.”
Tobio is still frowning (pouting is the better word) when he rests his shoulder against yours. You wonder if his teammates have ever seen him like this.
ー
“I’m cold.”
Spring is coming later than the last. There’s still a good, solid centimeter of snow waiting to thaw on the shingled roof, a layer of frost still clinging to the placard on your gate.
You shift under the covers until Tobio’s eyes are lined up with yours. You study the furrow of his brow, how his eyelashes make the barest flutter as he awaits your response.
He still drags down an extra futon when you’re over. You sink your fingers into your blanket and step over to his bed— the real one, with the frame and mattress and dark blue sheets.
It bounces when you flop down on it with loose, sleepy limbs.
“C’mon,” you mumble, rolling onto your stomach and lifting a corner of the blanket, “sleeping down there’s bad for your back.”
Tobio clambers over with deliberate, smooth movements, like he’s trying not to waste energy. When he lies down, it’s not with your ungracious attitude but with a gentle slide that makes his warmth wash over you in waves.
He holds you in his gaze, brows low over his eyes, the corners of his mouth downturned— there’s melancholy tucked in there, the blue dusk that lingers after the sun has melted behind the mountains.
Should you even be doing this? He’s a boy, you’re in the same bed, but he’s also your best friend who falls asleep with you every Friday night. What if you aren’t supposed to do this? What if they— whoever they are— take you away from him?
You pull the covers up to your chin and Tobio threads his arms around your frame. You find that all your worryings are just that— worries, empty promises of something that couldn’t possibly happen because he’s here.
Tobio guides your head to press against his sternum, wordless. You can feel the weight of what he wants to say though, pressing against your ear, knotted around your waist. You card through the crow-feather strands at his nape and a shudder rips a wavelength down his spine.
“You okay?”
His ribcage spreads around a gasp for air, spine flexing when he lets his breath out all at once. You trace a nondescript shape around a knot in his shoulder, and he wraps a knee around your own, wordless. You think about what Kunimi said.
An eternity doesn’t do the minute before he starts speaking justice; the seconds go viscous all while sprinting past you.
“Kazuyo died.”
Oh.
You wrap him tighter in your arms. You can hear his heart kissing the underside of his ribs— the rhythm is stable, slow and assured.
“I pulled out an extra chair yesterday, watching the game,” he rumbles like a storm resting in the horizon, “I forgot until Miwa sat there and asked me who was leading the set.”
With your mouth dry, tongue like cardboard: “Are you okay?”
The cricket song fills what he doesn’t say with harmonics. You shift until the negative space between your bodies is airtight, filled to the brim with the scent of clothesline wind and salonpas. It’s the sharp, minty smell of a gym that has you shuddering, tears staining thundercloud spots into his shirt.
“I’ll be okay—” You pinch his shoulder and Tobio huffs out a small, not really laugh. “You should ask yourself that.”
( One day, but not today. )
“I’m being serious,” and you don’t sound very serious with your voice muffled in his chest, caught by the tail under the lump in your throat. “Always here for you.”
The compass point of his nose kisses the crown of your head when he cranes down to murmur— I know. You’re sinking deeper into the lined-dried sheets, wading through a pool of the gentle, honeyed warmth that comes from being cocooned in your best friend’s arms.
“I miss Kazuyo too,” you speak again, cheek flush to the worn, pilled cotton of his shirt. Tobio smiles that smile with his mouth pressed in a line; you can feel the shape of it against your hair. “I think he’s proud of you, though.”
I’m proud of you too goes unsaid.
Tobio’s chuckle is shaky, stained with a butchered inhale— I know.
He always knows. The thought of pressing the truth between his lungs, into the atriums of his heart anyway still unspools in your stomach.
ー
You get into Shiratorizawa. Tobio does not.
You think that he’s already accepted it, walking away from the results board with his hands jammed firmly in his pockets and shoulders set straight. Still, you chase his shadow, prying your fingers between the gaps and slipping into his pocket.
His hands are cold to the touch; he lets you press your palm to his, reeling in the heat you offer him so readily, so willingly. You’re thoughtless in your pursuit, driven only by instinct and a need to hoard every moment you can get with him.
“It’s good.”
You almost miss it from how dampened his voice is. There are cracks in it, a swallow mid-way through a vowel, a pinch to his lip, tongue pocketed in cheek.
“What do you mean?” you ask, breath going cloudy around the corners of your mouth. You shrug your scarf higher until the wool tickles the tip of your nose.
He looks down at the scuffed toes of his shoes, following his own steps like he can’t really believe he’s still here. When he speaks, it’s stilted and butchered like he’s choosing his words so very carefully. “You’re smart. You can get anywhere with that.”
You draw your brows together, frowning. Tobio gives no resistance when you pull your tangled-up hands from his coat and plunge them into your own pocket. He sags with the movement though, shoulder tilting to accommodate the height difference.
“But getting anywhere doesn’t really mean much if you aren’t there. Plus, volleyball goes places too.”
You hear his smile more than you see it. It’s a light scoff that gets washed under the sound of traffic, an upstep in his gait, a rustle between his elbow and side when he clasps your fingers tighter. Tobio ducks his chin into the scarf that he borrowed from you— he never remembers to take his own— and clears his throat.
Can he smell your detergent on the wool? Once, you left a sweater in his room; he handed it back cleaned and folded properly as per the washing instructions. You pressed it to your face until near-suffocation, drowning in the scent of clothesline wind and citrus soap.
You tilt into him, arm to arm, tendrils of body heat knitting together until you can’t tell where he ends and you begin, “What’s your backup school? If it’s public, then we’ll have already taken the standard exam.”
He’s hesitant, too caught up in watching his steps pad against the concrete. Your eyes trace the path down his profile from the slope of his forehead, along the gentle swell of his wind-bitten cheeks, off the cliff point of his nose. At the end of your journey is his cupid’s bow, half-buried under his scarf.
The yearning hits you full-force then, to see the purse of his mouth, the bowed line of his lips. Tobio is pouting, and you’ve only been able to catch glimpses of it through a window, across the playground, down the hall. You try not to think about Tobio hiding it from you.
“You should,” Tobio lifts his head up, running his tongue over his lips. You almost chastise him for doing so because he’ll end up using the chapstick that he bought for you last winter; he knows that you’ve been saving it in your left inside pocket. His hand slips away, leaving a phantom warmth in your palm, “We should go to different schools.”
Did he really just say that?
You can hear how dry his mouth is when he speaks again. “I’m going to Karasuno for volleyball.”
“Then I’ll go with you.”
“No,” he refuses, taking in a shaky breath, “you’re going to Shiratorizawa.”
The frown that folds over your face is deep-set, betrayed. “You can’t decide that for me.”
Tobio starts with your name— and you’ve never known a sound so fulfilling than when he says it— sneakers grinding against the sidewalk when he pivots to grab your shoulders. The clouds steaming from the corners of his mouth are synced to the harsh rise and fall of his chest. “You’re throwing everything away by not going to Shiratorizawa.”
( He sounds like he’s in pain. )
There’s so much in you that wants to combat him; that you don’t care about Shiratorizawa; that throwing away everything means throwing him away because ever since you were five years old, Kageyama Tobio has been your everything and for god’s sake, you might even lov—
But like Valentine’s Day in third grade, turning around to answer Akari over the chatter of the playground, the well of what you want to say dries up the moment you pry your mouth open.
“Fine.” You lock the remains behind the pearled gates of your teeth, tear your gaze away to hide your tears behind a guise of defiance. Your voice splinters when you say it again— fine.
The walk back home is silent.
Your curtains don’t glow with flashlit fireflies in the night.
Pork curry with eggs doesn’t fill you up during lunch anymore. The vending machine at the konbini is always a few coins short and a strawberry milk too heavy.
Spring comes, and the cherry blossoms bloom too early for the opening ceremony at Shiratorizawa.
ー
from: tobi !!
subject: untitled
Don’t be late for your opening ceremony.
to: tobi !!
re: subject: untitled
(draft) so u want me back now or wha|
(draft) idec abt shiratorizawa|
(draft) my mom made pork curry|
was late anyway. not sorry
from: tobi !!
subject: Volleyball
Training camp. A team from Tokyo came over to play with us. Hinata likes their setter.
to: tobi !!
re: subject: untitled
im not ur grocery list
….my mom wants peach milk
to: tobi !!
subject: interhigh haruko wtvr
gl on semis. iwa and oikawa r troublesum.
from: tobi !!
re: subject: interhigh haruko wtvr
Haruko is in the spring. We’ll try that one if Interhigh doesn’t work out. Thank you.
from: tobi !!
subject: English
What does it mean when a sentence is partially inverted in past tense?
to: tobi !!
re: subject: English
(draft) idek what that is TT
it means ur an idiot
to: tobi !!
subject: shoulnt even care but
i hate this school so u better beat them
from: tobi !!
re: subject: shoulnt even care but
Are you mad at me or something? You don’t have to go to the game but at least stop being mad. It’s bad for your heart.
to: tobi !!
subject: toboke bakageyama
stupid tobio ur so dumb smtimes i hate it >:/ and mom needs ikura onigiri from konbini on cat lamp street the brand w blue stripes.
from: tobi !!
re: subject: toboke bakageyama
Stupid Tobio also got peach milk for your mom as a surprise. She likes it, right?
ー
The sky opens up and in the patter of the raindrops, you think you can hear cicadas.
But that’s impossible; cicadas only come out in the summer, and it’s winter now. The mid-December chill has long wrapped its talons around the old wooden beams of your home, frosted over the corners of the windows and dripped from the eaves with icicles.
Your new heater sits over the ring of dust left by the metal fan from last summer; it hums with the winter storm outside. The day hasn’t gotten so cold that the rain will turn to snow. You hear the cicadas sing again.
( A better part of you knows that the hymn is just the heater’s hum. You still pretend that it is summer regardless. )
The doorbell rings and you don’t get up. Your mother is definitely calling you from the laundry room to greet your guests, but you only move to slide the short distance from the couch to under the kotatsu, feigning sleep.
Getting your feet warm again is the only thing you care about right now.
( Has this happened before? )
The cicada choirs cease their hum when the thunder gets too loud. Tobio— because you know that the footsteps are Tobio’s, he walks with the same caution and purpose from the court— pads over. When he crouches down, his knees crack, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
“Stupid Tobio,” he mutters. You can see his dumb little pout in your mind. “Not that stupid, I can be smart sometimes.”
You nearly stop pretending when you feel a cool hand on your forehead. But Tobio sighs in the absence of your response, clothes rustling with movement— he’s pulling the edge of the kotatsu’s blanket higher over your shoulder.
The cuff of his sweater brushes against the swell of your cheek; it’s damp, and you can smell petrichor on the threadbare fabric.
He ran up to the cat lamp konbini and back for you in the rain. He’s soaking wet and here he is, pulling up your blanket and checking if you’re sick or not.
“Can’t even work a kotatsu properly,” Tobio continues, cranking up the temperature until you’re sure that you’ve begun to sweat under the covers. “You’re the stupid one.”
He sets down something by your head, floorboards creaking as he stands, unfurls his spine, walks away. You crack your eyes open to a sliver.
It’s the peach milk.
The thing about Tobio is this: he doesn’t just ask if you could share your food or help him with a problem. He skates around what he really wants in hopes that you’ll be the one to pick apart the things he can’t express.
In this breadcrumb-trail language, pulling up the blanket and running errands in the rain is tantamount to I miss you.
Later, he slides his legs alongside yours under the kotatsu. You take a peek— he’s wearing the pajamas you always keep for him in the topmost drawer of your wardrobe.
“I know you’re awake.” Talk to me.
You shut your eyes tighter and feign a sleepy grumble, scooting away.
Tobio sighs. “I’m gonna drink your milk, it’s getting warm.”
“You’re a meanie.” Say sorry.
“And who’s the one ignoring me for a year?”
This is certainly a bruise to your pride, being made to apologize before he does. But then again, you’re equally as guilty for the ongoing feud with your best friend, opting for prickly exchanges and stiff greetings when you both happen to leave the house at the same time.
You huff and shuffle forward, resting your temple on his thighs, wreathing his waist with the cage of your arms. Tobio doesn’t seem to mind being held captive— instead, he maneuvers so that the sliver of space between you and his solar plexus is infinitesimal.
Here, you can feel every breath he takes. It’s more…intimate than it should be, but those worms of thought are banished by Tobio’s hand resting on your head. He’s warm, a lot warmer than the kotatsu.
“We’re going to Nationals,” he says to fill the silence. “Do you…want to go to the temple together on New Year’s? For good luck.”
“Yea.” It comes out before you can think. “I miss being with you.”
Tobio’s fingers slide tentatively from your crown to your temple, then lower until his palm cups your jaw, thumb pressing at the corner of your mouth. You swallow when you look to catch your best friend (more than, please, more than) slowly turning pink.
You had forgotten that he has dimples. The little dip in his cheek is still there when he suppresses his smile, all the same.
Everything thaws.
You might be seeing spring.
— 7.2k words later,, haii,, if u read thru all the yap abt tobio then ur legally obligated to reblog with tags!! /hj but pretty pls give me ur thoughts i will eat them all for breakfast lunch dinner and dessert <3
more than friends, less than lovers (but basically lovers anyway)
suna x reader fluff???, timeskip, solution-focused!suna x emotion-focused!reader in some bits, not rly angst but i guess angst if you squint and read between the lines hard enough
wc: 1318
_
being in a more than friends, less than lovers situation(ship) with suna is a headache. the biggest headache you'll ever have in your life. it's probably as bad as it is because you two have been friends since middle school—your lore went that far back into history and it always started with you liking him and him not liking you back. but things have changed—without anyone else knowing—and you simply can't deny just how special it is even if it's a little bit fucked up because
suna brings you home gifts from wherever he travels
it did not matter where suna was coming from—if you've been there, if you don't care about the place, or if there's nothing interesting about where he's going. suna will, without fail, bring you back a souvenir of some sort because he was thinking about you the entire time he was away.
and it's not entirely a secret. he just simply doesn't feel the need to address or explain what the hell he's doing at an overpriced trinket shop or at an overpriced sweets shop to buy something to bring home.
who cares about how pricey or impractical something is when your face lights up and you laugh your sweet laugh as soon as suna shows you what he brought home. it's funny, actually, that he considers your apartment home now.
he'll phrase it as "look what i brought home for you," and you both don't bat an eye because yeah what did he bring home for you? was it something cute to add onto your trinket shelf? a cute keychain to switch into your keychain rotation? or a snack to share and judge to eventually add onto your 'japan snacks tier list'?
suna simply feels as though he can't come home empty handed anymore. it's almost a tradition at this point.
suna spends the night when you can't sleep
it's only recently that suna learned you sleep better with someone by your side. not necessarily someone. him, to be specific. he didn't understand exactly why him being there helped you sleep better until one night it just clicked.
the steady rise and fall of your chest, the absolute peace on your expression, and the intimacy that vulnerability brings that became oddly apparent absolutely changed everything for him. it made his heart swell and the warmth he felt in his body almost made him want to hurl.
but the feeling was welcomed.
you sleep better when he's there because you feel safe.
and boy did that make his ego even larger than it already was.
there's a sense of pride that begins to bubble in his chest when you call him to sleepover. it's not to hook-up—you two are way passed that stage and simply enjoy one another's company now—but instead to cuddle and "sync heartbeats" to promote healthy living (or whatever the hell you say it is).
he doesn't care. he's more than happy to know you feel the way that you feel and that, to you, he's someone safe. so of course he'll pat your thigh until you fall asleep, of course he'll massage your scalp until you fall asleep, of course he'll do whatever you need him to do until you fall asleep. you can depend on him. please depend on him.
suna responds to you as soon as he can
as a professional athlete, he's a busy guy. it's not often his phone is on him and it's not often his smart watch is on him either. there are days where he simply doesn't have access to anything because he's on the court, he's training, or something else.
that doesn't stop him from communicating with you and understanding that a lack of response sometimes makes you feel anxious. he doesn't get it—he's simply not as emotionally charged or maybe sentimental as you at times—but he tries.
the moment he gets a chance and he sees your message, he'll send you a quick "hey, sorry, didn't have my phone on me all day" that is sometimes accompanied with a "i can talk later though" if he's busy at the time.
nonetheless, he's attentive. he's learned to be attentive. and he appreciates that you're respectful of his time and patiently wait for him. in fact, he adores that you wait for him. it comes with this sense of freedom, oddly enough, and it actually makes him want the day to go by faster so he could spend the rest of his free time with you.
suna reassures you no matter how many times you need it
suna has never been as emotionally aware as you are. in fact, he's very very solution focused. things can simply be switched on and off in his brain and there's typically a quick solution that follows any sort of inconvenience or 'odd' feeling.
but he knows you're not the same way. it took him a while to start understanding—that you are not looking for a solution but instead want to be heard and validated first—but he does his best and you're appreciative.
you'll tell him that some days you feel like you have to beg him for his time. you'll tell him that some days you feel as though he's got better things to do. you'll tell him that some days he does things that hurt you even though it isn't his intention to.
and suna listens. he listens to every word and he nods along. he apologizes sincerely and acknowledges the way in which you feel. and, because it's a conversation, he says his piece and reassures you that you're more to him than you think. even beyond the lack of 'label' you two have.
sometimes you feel guilty that these conversations keep coming up—that you feel oddly insecure at times, most especially when he's gone for much longer than usual. it seems a bit needy or 'out of place', too, considering that you two aren't even together for real.
but he tells you, always, that "if you're ever uncertain about something, ask me. i'll always tell you what i think."
and he does, every single time.
suna lets you in more than he does anyone else
perhaps it's the shared experiences, or perhaps it's because you two truly are best friends, but you are the person who knows suna the most.
there are parts of him he hates to let others know about but he's allowed for it to be yours. he's never been great at being vulnerable, but he allows himself to be when he's around you.
maybe it's because he feels safe, too, and he actually has come to appreciate the intimacy of your relationship. it's new—sharing new and seemingly niche experiences with someone—and he's glad it's with you. everything you two share is truly yours and his to share, and something about that makes him feel... a little bit giddy.
it's not to say your relationship is a secret—though neither of you ever talk about it openly—but suna appreciates the space you two have created for each other and share, more than he lets you know.
he once told you, as you two were lazing around in bed doing nothing but doomscrolling on your own phones, "you know me more than anyone right now."
to which you responded, "yeah. i mean, i've even seen you slip butt ass naked in the bathroom."
and he scoffs playfully at your teasing lack of empathy towards his attempt to be vulnerable.
suna loves you but he's just not ready to say it. he knows it's complicated and that it might even be unfair, but it's where he is and you simply just know.
it's a tough situation, one that consistently makes your head hurt; however, his actions for now are enough to keep you grounded. he loves you—clearly—and it's just a matter of time before he finds himself able to say it.
pairing: kageyama tobio/reader (both are 18+ in this)
genre: smut drabble
summary: Kageyama has had enough of you teasing him.
a/n: I wrote this a long time ago and originally posted it in deviantart. idk but I suddenly have the urge to post my fics from there to other places haha. hope you enjoy this proof of my thirst for kageyama from the past lmao!
You let out a gasp as he bit your neck, leaving a small love bite. You close your eyes as the pleasure starts taking over as you let yourself get lost in the moment.
Kageyama eyes the way you look appreciatively from his position above you. Disheveled hair, eyes almost glazed over with pleasure, your teeth biting your lip to keep your moans in. He thrust into you harder and smirked when a loud moan came from your mouth and an even lewder expression painted your face.
He kept up the rough pace, enjoying the absolute dominance he had over you. You were a moaning, panting mess and it was all because of him.
i'm currently working on a new haikyuu fanfic, it's a timeskip!sakusa kiyoomi x fem!reader. it is called "apple juice". i will probably post the first chapter on here, but not the full story? idk yet-
however if you want to check it out, i have it published to 3 sites currently; wattpad, quotev, and ao3.
as i'm writing this the first chapter is still a wip, but if you're reading this from the future, then it's probably up by now! :D
please check it out if it's something that may interest you!! links below lovelies! <33
wattpad link:
❝num num cookie.❞
❝what the fuck is wrong with you.❞
in which sakusa kiyoomi finds himself falling for a girl obsessed...
quotev link:
❝num num cookie.❞
❝what the fuck is wrong with you.❞
in which sakusa kiyoomi finds himself falling for a girl obsessed with apple juice. ♡
ao3 link:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Omg I’m so glad you’re back and doing good !! If you’re still looking for hurt/comfort fic ideas maybe one w Bokuto and a reader that’s super emotionally closed off and bokuto thinks he did something wrong and it all ends in the reader breaking down to him :) for a male reader using he/him pronouns please :)
this was such a fun prompt! this made me feel like i was back into the groove of "hurt/comfort king mizu" LMFAO. anyways, i decided to be an ass and split it into two parts even though i could honestly pull a "sweet sweet lies call drunk miya atsumu" and just make a hella long fic. ANYWAYS ENJOY, BECAUSE I SURE DID AHAHA
i took a bit of creative liberty with this prompt, mainly because you gave me a really good idea!! I'm sorry if its not completely true to your request!
——————
Bokuto x reader - In My Mind
⚠️ Warnings - none !
pronouns - male, he/him
you can find part two here!
——————
Every morning, the loud man with the spiky, grey-ish hair would yell “Good morning, (Y/n)!” from the door to the classroom.
It became a routine. Every morning, without fail, the man would yell “Good Morning!” specifically and only to (Y/n) (L/n), and only after the thirteenth time, did (Y/n) learn that the man's name was “Bokuto Koutarou.”
(Y/n) didn’t know why. In fact, their interactions weren’t only limited to morning greetings before class. In recent times, Bokuto would self-invite himself to (Y/n’s) secluded lunch spot, or walk him to and from classes, after school, hell even before school and talk, talk, talk his ears off.
Before he did, but now, (Y/n) didn’t seem to mind it. It was… good white noise, was what he told himself.
“Good morning, (Y/n)!” Right on cue, Bokuto slid the classroom door open, and chirped out his greeting right in the doorway. (Y/n) sat in the back of the classroom, and he never quite knew why Bokuto insisted on yelling his greetings from across the whole room everyday. How was he not embarrassed?
As per usual, (Y/n) didn’t respond. What are you supposed to say to something like that? Everyday? Was he supposed to yell it back? ‘Good Morning, man with spiky hair who I’ve barely learned was Bokuto Koutarou!’
Bokuto never seemed to mind his silence, though. He strut his way over to (Y/n), plopped down in his seat (which was so conveniently next to (Y/n’s) seat) and began talking about the funny looking cat on the street he found that morning, one that resembled some dude from another school. How could a cat look like a person? Spiky hair? Slanted eyes? (Y/n) didn’t know.
Bokuto Koutarou was a funny guy.
——————
Bokuto sulked down the hallway.
Sometimes, the break between classes felt longer than usual. And though he was grateful for less time sitting down and shutting up, sometimes he didn’t really know what to do in the downtime. He couldn’t find seem to find Akaashi, Washio was off with Konoha to wash the wasabi stains off his shirt, (Y/n) was…
…doing nothing, walking down the hallway aswelll! Bokuto’s eyes glimmered. (Y/n)! His current infatuation! The quiet, pretty boy who sat next to him! (Y/n)!
“(Y/n)!” Bokuto jogged up to (Y/n), who had flinched when his name was, quite literally, hollered from ten feet away in a relatively quiet hallway. (Y/n) turned around, squinting and holding his chest in shock. Bokuto grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, sorry! Did I scare you!? I was just really excited when I saw you because I got really bored and really lonely but then I saw you and was like all ‘YEAHH’ and…”
(Y/n) turned back forward, and Bokuto trailed slightly behind him, still talking. It was baffling how many topics this guy could pull out of his ass at any given moment. But how could he not? There was so much he wanted to tell (Y/n)!
——————
Lunch time was the trickiest for Bokuto.
(Y/n) would always beeline for the door and to his little lunch spot behind the school yard, and Bokuto would struggle catching him in time to walk with him. He was really good at dodging everyone clammoring for the door, wasn’t he? Maybe he was just too… beefy. Nonetheless, Bokuto could never seem to catch (Y/n) in time before he was out the door.
The lunch bell rang, snapping Bokuto into focus mode. He would catch him today.
“(Y/n)! Wait up-!” Bokuto spat, fumbling out of his desk as quickly as he could, but (Y/n) was already out the door. He wilted.
But it’s okay, because Bokuto always finds his way to (Y/n’s) lunch spot, and plops himself down close to (Y/n) and opens up the sandwich he buys from the cafeteria.
“You’re way too damn fast, (Y/n)!” (Y/n) says nothing, glancing at him with an unreadable expression before digging into his lunchbox.
Oh, well, he’ll catch him tomorrow. He’ll definitely catch him tomorrow.
Bokuto takes a big chomp out of his sandwich and begins talking like he usually does.
——————
Afterschool, every time he didn’t have volleyball practice, Bokuto would say the same thing.
“(Y/n)! Lets go eat ramen! I’m free today!”
And (Y/n) would say the same thing everyday.
“...not today.”
Bokuto would wilt, but spring back up again so comically after five minutes, when he spots an interesting looking rock, or when he sees a new keychain on (Y/n’s) bag. Everyday.
And today was no different.
“(Y/n)! I don’t have practice today! We should do something! Like ramen! I’m hungry!”
Bokuto walked uncomfortably close to (Y/n), making (Y/n) shuffle away a few steps, red in the face.
“I…” (Y/n) didn’t know what to say in times like this. “...I’m not really hungry.”
“That’s okay! We can go to the arcade!”
“It’s very loud there.”
“T-then maybe we could-!”
“My house is over there.” (Y/n) muttered, gesturing his finger over to the block of houses across the street. Bokuto didn’t realize that they were there already. He deflated, with a small ‘oh.’
(Y/n) gave a reserved “bye,” and Bokuto yelled back, “Goodbye, (Y/n)! See you tomorrow!”
Bokuto waved, and kept waving until (Y/n) disappeared from sight. Once he was gone, he paused, let his arm drop to his side pathetically, turned around, and in the opposite direction, began walking home…
…which was about a mile away.
But that didn’t matter! He got to walk with (Y/n) just a little more everyday. And one day, they’d go out for ramen! One day for sure!
Bokuto hummed a little tune to himself, kicking up pebbles as he walked.
——————
“But-but-but-but-but theeeen!” Bokuto whined, getting changed into a practice shirt in the club room. Akaashi, once again, was subjected to Bokuto’s long rants. If it wasn’t (Y/n), it was usually Akaashi. “He was all like, ‘i’m not really hungry, hurrr-durrr.’ like- who isn’t hungry after school!?”
“Well, for one, he packs bento every morning, and two, he doesn’t burn calories like sand like you do, Bokuto-san.”
Bokuto sputtered. “But! But--But then- he was all ‘arcades are too loud’-”
“Some people don’t like loud. And the arcade is very loud. It gives me a headache, and it probably gives him one, too.” Akaashi said, slipping on his knee pads. He didn’t bother looking up at Bokuto, who was currently flustered and stammering like a broken car engine. Just as Bokuto gathered his tongue and his teeth in his jelly-mouth to form words, Konoha cut in, and cut deep. He had said nothing until now, choosing to ignore Bokuto’s daily whining about his puppy love crush, but he felt like he should get a thought into Bokuto’s feeble mind.
“Bokuto, dude, in the nicest way possible… do you even know if (Y/n) y’know… sees you as a friend? Can you name a single time where (Y/n) had welcomed your advances with a friendly attitude?”
“Well of- of course, I…” Bokuto’s memories played on 15x speed, searching and scanning each interaction he’d had with (Y/n), forwards and back, just to find a single time (Y/n) had at least said “Good Morning.” A “Hi,” at least. He wracked his brain, but alas, he found nothing. Bokuto’s mouth fell into a small “oh.”
Akaashi averted his eyes pitifully. Konoha didn’t need to say it so brashly, but it was what everyone was thinking. Sarukui nudged Konoha’s shin roughly. “Now look at what you’ve done, it couldn’t've waited until after? Now he’ll be all depressed during practice!”
No one dared to speak after that. Bokuto stood there, like a kicked puppy no one had the guts to help, until Akaashi cleared his throat.
“Bokuto-san, if you really want to make a good impression on him, maybe it’s best if you… give him his personal space.”
"Not everyone gravitates towards bright rays of sunshine like you are, Bokuto-san."
Bokuto said nothing for a while. They all either stared at him, waiting for anything from their captain or looking away meekly, not daring to meet his hurt eyes.
“Yeah… yeah, that sounds smart.” Bokuto’s voice was more subdued that it had ever been. He grabbed at his kneepads.
“Bokuto-san-”
“It’s alright! I’m alright, promise! I’m gonna make him like me with this information! Hey hey hey!” Bokuto stormed out the club room before anyone could catch him.
Bokuto never lies. What reason do they have to believe he was? He’ll be fine.
——————
Bokuto Koutarou was not fine.
Bokuto Koutarou was stressing.
Bokuto, for the first time in forever, hadn’t woken up absurdly early to book it (Y/n’s) house, to walk him to school since he lived ‘so close.’ He had fought the urge to sprint all the way to (Y/n’s) just to walk with him. He was really clingy, huh? It’s on the list of things he needs to fix before he could present himself to (Y/n) again.
Well, at least he got like, an hours more of sleep than he usually did. Despite that, Bokuto trudged on his way to school like he had gotten no sleep. Even his hair seemed tired.
Bokuto paused at the entrance to the classroom. He took a deep breath.
He opened the door.
Some people looked to the door on instinct, seeing Bokuto, and expecting him to give his daily “Good Morning, (Y/n)!” It even seemed like (Y/n) was waiting for it.
Oh, well, it was probably all in his mind, anyways.
Bokuto walked to his seat, for the first time in forever, silent.
——————
leave me an ask in my inbox if you would like to be tagged part two!
