msby atsumu who is so focused on volleyball that he's only ever hooked up with a handful of people. he's always thought he was at least decent, but then his most recent hookup looks him dead in the eye and tell him the opposite.
"your charisma isn't good enough to make up for that," they say, stepping into their pants. "just saying."
atsumu huffs and puffs and texts the last person he hooked up with a few times. they're still friendly, but it fell to the wayside after the season started, and he's simply never gone back. he knows that he's good, but he needs the reassurance. it can't hurt to have his ego stroked a little, right?
except they avoid it. they hem and they haw and atsumu stares at his phone in horror.
he stews on it. broods. it gets so bad that he contemplates telling osamu, but he couldn't bear it.
to atsumu, there's only one person he can turn to.
kita sighs into the line.
he can hear him moving. it's late, and kita gets up early, but atsumu knows he still likes to cook for you. to cook with you. he's watched the two of you slip smoothly around each other in the farmhouse's little kitchen, the way the tide meets the shore; ever-changing, but always there.
(he wishes a lot, when he watches the two of you. thinks things he wouldn't dare admit—about the pink of your tongue and the o of your mouth; the way kita's fingers must dimple the plush of your thigh; the ripple of kita's lean muscles. he knows he shouldn't. he does anyway.
but if he's staring a little too much, neither of you ever says anything.)
"when's your next weekend off?" kita asks.
"huh? uh, in three weeks, i think?"
kita hums. "buy a ticket," he says. "we'll pick ya up at the station."
"fer what?"
kita lets out a little huff of air; in the distance, atsumu can hear your voice, the sun muffled by morning mist. his chest tightens.
"a lesson," kita says, amusement warming his voice. "after all, you've always been a hands-on learner, haven't ya?"
kita is more playful than you expected during sex. his eyes crinkle with his smile when you almost stumble into the bedframe, too caught up in the hot slide of his tongue in your mouth. he catches you, reels you in carefully, keeps you steady, but you can taste the laughter on his lips.
he's steady, as always. patient. when you pout at him because he's licking up the tender flesh of your inner thigh instead of your slick cunt, he chuckles, his voice deepening, the oncoming dusk on a humid summer night.
"stop teasing," you tell him, nudging his side with your foot.
"is this teasing?"
you scowl. "you know it is."
he breathes out another laugh, but he settles between your legs again, spreading your folds with one hand. you squirm, but before you can say anything, he dips his head and curls his tongue against your clit.
he works you with familiar ease, builds up your pleasure from kindling to bonfire. he's always been a quiet lover, but his fingers sink into the plush of your thighs; his hips stutter against the bed at times.
you cum hard. he squeezes lightly at your thighs, his firm grip grounding you as you shake through it. he keeps his mouth on your pulsing clit until you twist away, your overwrought nerves thrumming.
he doesn't go far. you can still feel his breath stirring against your dripping cunt. you slip your foot to the center of his chest and nudge him away. he goes easily; there's a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.
"you're trouble," you tell him.
he wraps a big hand around your ankle, his thumb stroking across the jut of bone. he tugs your foot close, dipping down to press a kiss to the arch of it.
it leaves a gleaming print of his mouth behind; a brand of your own slick against your skin. embers stir within you. you squirm.
his chest rumbles with his little laugh, far-off thunder.
"is that a bad thing?"
you level him with an annoyed glance. "i haven't decided yet."
he hums, using his hold on your ankle to spread you wide again. his gaze meets yours even as he lowers himself back between your legs.
"who are those for?" you ask, nodding towards the flowers cradled in nanami's arms. the bouquet is artfully wrapped, looped with ribbon to keep the stems from spilling out, each bloom nodding under its own lush weight.
he blinks, barely visible behind his glasses.
"you," he says.
you laugh.
nanami doesn't.
your laughter fades away, a star beneath the morning sun. "wait," you say, putting down your book. "really?"
single dad kita who is so used to licking his finger and swiping the grain of rice off of his daughter's chin that he does it to you one night when you have some on your lip.
you freeze. so does he.
his thumb is still pressed up against your lower lip. you can feel the work-rough pad of it; his spit is slick against your skin. there's heat rising to your cheeks, a supernova burn.
"kita—" you start to say, his name strung out, frazzled with panic.
his thumb slips between your parted lips. you press your tongue against it instinctively; you can taste the salt of him and a hint of the sake you'd been sharing.
kita stares at you, his eyes searching. they're the color of a sunrise, a sweet golden dawn. there's a promise in them.
you press your tongue against his thumb again.
he breathes in through his nose. it's calm. composed. it makes something in you itch.
slowly, carefully, you close your lips around his thumb.
his eyes go dark, the color of whisky. he lets out a soft breath; you only hear the shake because you were listening for it.
a door creaks open.
the both of you go still again.
"daddy?"
it's high and plaintive, an uneasy warble. a little hiccup follows.
kita pulls free of you in an instant. he wipes his thumb against his shirt; you watch as it dampens with your spit.
he's halfway to the hallway when he glances over his shoulder at you. his gaze keeps you in place, a butterfly pinned by its wings.
"stay," he says, simple and firm. "we're not done yet."
kita and his lean, sinewy strength. he hoists bags of rice with ease, only a glimmer of sweat on his brow. he rests them in the cradle of his shoulders—broader than you'd thought, the breadth of them hidden by his loose shirt—as if they're pillows. you watch him disappear into the back.
"yer starin'," osamu says from where he's blank-faced behind the counter.
you scowl. "you did this on purpose," you accuse.
the corner of his lips ticks up.
"you're the worst," you groan, burying your head in your hands. "you didn't even try to introduce me."
"didn't need ya embarrassing me."
"you're so mean."
osamu raises a brow. "i can take back that free onigiri, then."
you stuff it into your mouth. osamu sighs.
"you and 'tsumu," he mutters. "chew yer food."
you do, all while keeping a protective hand around your second onigiri.
"are you gonna tell me his name?" you ask.
he rolls his eyes. "no."
"bet atsumu will."
osamu sighs. "'s kita," he says. "he's our old captain."
"kita," you repeat, taking another bite.
"yes?" a voice says.
you choke on your onigiri. you cough, trying to dislodge the rice from your windpipe.
"are you alright?" kita asks.
you nod, still coughing.
he raises an eyebrow. "ya sure?"
"fine," you rasp. "thanks."
he inclines his head to you and glances at osamu. "everything's delivered," he says. "just let me know when ya need more."
osamu nods. "sounds good."
the two men exchange goodbyes as you try to regulate your breathing. kita glances at you as he turns to leave; his amber eyes practically glow in the afternoon light. you look away, your cheeks hot.
There is, you have found, nothing like spending time at the beach with Sae. There's something to it—your legs thrown over his as you lie side-by-side in the sand—and the quiet of it. The sea is rolling in and there's chatter as people start to leave for the day and Sae is warm next to you, under you. He smells of sunscreen and salt and summer skin and he is so terribly real, in a way that devours the distance you feel sometimes when you look up and he's staring back at you from the side of a building, his Calvin Kleins low on his hips and his eyes seaglass, clouded and worn.
"Look," you say, nudging at him just to feel the way he gives. "Your favorite."
Sae opens one eye. He gives the bird—circling nearer with each pass—a cursory glance.
"That's a tern," he says flatly, closing his eye again.
"What? No, that's a seagull."
"It's a tern," he says. "Now stop wiggling, you're getting sand everywhere."
"It's the beach, Sae. It's made of sand."
He hums. You huff, starting to shift away, but he tangles your legs together before you can go far. The hand on your hip is extra insurance, you suppose.
"Sae," you say.
He hums again. You try to wiggle free; he flexes his thighs and keeps you in place without any effort.
"Sae!"
"You'll scare it away," he says.
"The seagull."
"The tern," he corrects.
"Fine. The tern. The tern that is eating my fries that I would like to rescue."
He squeezes at your hip. "I'm comfortable."
"My fries, Sae."
"I'll buy you more later."
He's warm, and his hand is solid and real on your hip, and the tern is halfway through your limp fries. You settle back down into the curve of him.
Don't look at me. This is genuinely so sappy with a hint of suggestiveness at the end. Divider from @/cursed-carmine.
Kita x reader, no pronouns used.
Minors and ageless blogs dni. You will be blocked.
It's late; the lights of your reception have dimmed, fading stars. You can still hear the dregs of celebration, people chatting as they depart, the too-loud laughter of the less sober guests ringing out like bells.
The breeze stirs as Aran coaxes you out on the engawa, a welcome reprieve from the wet lick of summer.
"Where are you taking me?" you ask him, raising a brow.
He smiles. It reminds of you the glow of a window in the blue hour, golden and spilling out, a beacon in the night.
"Aran?"
"It's a secret."
You frown. "This better not be some Miya-engineered bullshit."
"I'm offended you think I'd be a part of that."
"They're a tsunami on the best of days. Not hard to think you might have gotten swept up."
He laughs, stepping around the raised beds Kita built for you when you first moved in, despite your questionable green thumb. "I promise there's no Miya involvement," he says. "Well. There's minimal Miya involvement."
"Not reassuring."
It's getting darker the further away you get from the farmhouse, the night settling around you, a velveteen embrace. The rice is rippling, the crickets chirping from underneath the green canopy of them.
It sounds like home.
You're just about to pester Aran again when you see Kita. The moon paints him silver, a lover's touch. He's crouched by a sapling, still tender-leaved, his hand cupped around the mound of dirt at its roots. He's gentle as he presses the dirt into place, a cradle made by careful hands.
"Shin?" you say.
Your husband—how strange that is, you think, how new, the thought only hours old—looks up. He blinks at you, his long lashes casting shadows, moonlight webbed through them.
"Was gonna wait until tomorrow," he says, glancing at Aran.
Aran shrugs. "We agreed that it's better today."
Kita raises a brow. "Who's we?"
Aran coughs. "G'night," he says, backing up towards the house. "Congrats again."
"Hey—" you start, but he's already disappearing into the night, leaving the two of you alone. You glance at Kita. "Shin?"
He pushes to his feet, thigh muscles rippling. "C'mere," he says softly, and you go to him, as you always will. You slot yourself into his side, a rib returned.
"Taking up an arborist side job, Shin?"
You feel his laugh more than you hear it, the rumble of it in his chest like far-off thunder. His hand is low on your hip; it's familiar, comfortable.
"Just the one, I think," he replies.
You look at the little sapling. It's all slim, pliable branches, the leaves a delicate green. "Just the one, huh? For what?"
He gives you a little squeeze. "For us."
"Hmm?"
"To grow with us," he says softly. "Every day, every year. The good and the bad and everything in between. A shelter."
"It's too small to stand under, Shin," you point out. If he notices your voice is rougher than usual, thick with a hint of tears, he doesn't comment.
(He notices. He's good at that, your Kita. Intentional and observant and so, so human.)
"One day," he says.
"A long time from now."
"A long time from now," he agrees. "But we'll stand under it together."
You press closer into his side, hooking your finger through his belt loop, an anchor, a hold. "Okay," you say. "It's a plan."
"It's a promise."
"A promise," you repeat, almost too soft to be heard. You look to the tree again. It's so small.
You push away from Kita; he makes an inquiring noise, too used to you to be startled anymore.
"I want a picture, Shin," you announce. "Us with the tree the day it's planted."
"It's dark out."
"There's flash," you counter.
"It won't come out well," he says.
"Don't care."
He sighs, but he's smiling, a gentle, sweet curve. "As you wish."
It takes maneuvering, but you manage it, the tree framed behind the two of you, the fresh dirt obvious. You blink away the afterimage of the lightning-kiss of the flash. Kita steadies you easily, and you don't fight it when he starts to lead you back to the farmhouse.
(You do look behind you, one last time. The sapling is bathed in moonlight, cast silver. It is tender, delicate, but you know—
It will endure.)
Later, when Kita's showered off the remains of the dirt and you're entwined in bed, exhaustion sunk into your bones, you blink.
"Hey Shin?"
"Mmh?"
"You said you were going to wait until tomorrow to show me."
"Yeah."
"What were you going to tell me when you came inside covered in dirt?"
"The truth," he says.
"And you would have kept me from going outside barefoot past midnight how?"
His eyes gleam; his lips quirk, a crescent moon curve bright with mischief. "A distraction."
"What kind of dis—"
His fingers slip beneath the hem of your sleep pants, trailing heat behind them, a shooting star of sensation. The tip of his middle finger skims low, flint to kindling.
"Oh," you say. "That kind."
Kita chuckles. It's all summer heat, a heady, sultry thing. He presses close, his hand dipping lower. He touches his forehead to yours, breathes against your lips.
"That kind," he agrees, and when you push forward to kiss him, he meets you halfway.
It is, you think, the perfect end to your wedding day.
cw for implied suicide. i block minors and ageless blogs.
—
Khaslana does not mean to fall in love with a dead woman.
Many cycles burn beneath his skin when he meets you. There is a bonfire inside him, stoked by the kindling of his companions' deaths, their Coreflames the splintered wood. It is an unrelenting flame, and he has begun to think it will always need to be fed.
You have not mattered, those previous cycles. You're one of the many who died at the Imperator's hand.
This time, she dies at yours.
Your blade has bloomed crimson, a flower that has long lived in Khaslana's garden. You set it to the floor gently. The chime of it pieces through the air, rips through the veil, and the court jolts back to life.
The Imperator's chosen swarm you, but your face—moon-calm, tide-steady—does not change.
Khaslana watches. He watches them build the pyre; he watches them strike flint against stone.
He does not interfere.
—
You die young.
It is as familiar to Khaslana as the forest fire that licks beneath his skin. You come to the Imperator's court with a blade hung high above your head, Damocles unnamed. He sees it gleam above you, a sickle-edged crescent moon.
It always falls.
And Khaslana watches.
—
(The children of humanity you swore to save... they are no more than ants to you now, aren't they?)
—
You are melancholy, this cycle.
Khaslana does not know what comes before. He knows only what you have become in the Imperator's court, the molded clay of you. Cerydra's hand has sculpted you unkindly, and in the quiet space behind his ribs, he thinks she has carved too close to bone. You are collapsing, a star folding into itself.
You slip away one night; the sword above your head shines silver, moonlight sharpened.
Khaslana follows.
You perch upon a windowsill, a grounded bird. Beyond the open glass, the golden treetops sway, a shimmering exhale. You do not look at him.
"You followed," you say.
He does not reply.
"One less piece on the board," you murmur to yourself. The wind grasps at your clothes with greedy fingers. "Cerydra will make do."
Khaslana watches.
—
(The children of humanity you swore to save... they are no more than ants to you now, aren't they?)
(Ants, Khaslana thinks.
Phainon used to try not to step on them.)
—
You are different, before.
He finds you in the cradle of the ripening grape vines, nestled on the thin grass that lies between each threading trellis. The air is sun-sweet in this town, laced through with the grassy kiss of the clovers that cover the slope outside your home.
He watches you pluck a grape from a nearby vine, the wine-dark cluster wobbling as you give your claim a vicious little twist. It bursts beneath your teeth. Juice collects on the seam of your lips, shining like a coin.
"You can have some, if you'd like," you say. "You don't have to hide."
Khaslana has never heard you sound content before.
You glance at him, your smile sun-woven, kissed by light. You pat the verdant grass at your side.
"Come sit, stranger who lingers," you say, confident in the kindness that he barely remembers. "I'll show you how to choose the best ones."
It is years before the Imperator's rise, before her tide of golden blood floods the land that nurtures you now. Khaslana knows that you will be whittled down beneath the knife of the Flame Chase Journey.
The sword always falls.
He sits.
—
The rain is warm.
It falls gently, more a kiss than a storm. Your little yelp still rings in Khaslana's ears; it had been a sweet sound. He watches as you leap across the riverbank, scurrying home, weaving a web of laughter in your wake. He follows more sedately, his boots heavy against the mud. The imprints of him will wash away by morning.
You glance over your shoulder, the sun rising over the horizon. You duck beneath a nearby tree—a meager shelter, the leaves trembling beneath the raindrops—and turn back to him.
"Stranger!" you call. "You'll be soaked!"
He continues at his pace.
You dart out from underneath the tree. He watches as you run away from your shelter, from the promise of your warm, dry home. As you run towards him.
He lets you wrap a hand around his wrist, your fingers the kindest shackle he's worn. You tug at him.
"C'mon," you say. "We're almost there!"
(We, you always say. We.)
He lets you lead him. You do not let go of his wrist; your fingers are gentle. Sweet.
Khaslana pretends he can feel the warmth of your skin despite the star-blaze beneath his own.
—
(The children of humanity you swore to save... they are no more than ants to you now, aren't they?)
(An ant is still life, is it not?)
—
He kisses you only once.
It is the first cycle since he has become Khaslana once more. He has not seen you in so long, not since violet flame grew out of the cracks of him. The cracks have mended; he is made flesh again.
But the Coreflames spit sparks inside him; his nerves are cinders, pain just a memory. He is reborn from ash, a phoenix rising, and he devours the Black Tide, leaving death in his wake.
You are weeding in the vegetable patch when he returns to you. Your fingers are clever against the dirt, the scythe of your nails cutting through the tatted roots. There's sweat gleaming on your brow; there's a clover leaf smeared against your cheekbone. Khaslana watches, the embers inside him stirring. That you are a fire poker to his blaze is no longer a surprise. You have always been made of iron.
You glance up. The pile of weeds ends up scattered across the dirt, their leaves ground beneath your feet. He catches you as you barrel into him, his big hands gentle against your skin. You do not cry.
He crosses the threshold of your home for the hundredth time. The thousandth.
The millionth.
You curl up into him that night. Your bed is too small for the two of you; you are poured into the spaces around him.
(In him.)
Khaslana does not sleep often. But he lies with you, listens to the soft song of your breath. It is as gentle as waves upon the sand, and just as steady. The moonlight catches in your eyelashes, spiderwebs them silver.
"I know you're awake," he says.
The corners of your lips curve up. You crack open one gleaming eye, the haze of sleep almost eclipsing it, morning mist.
"Do you always stare when I sleep, Stranger?"
He does not answer.
You hum, a honey-pour sound. You boldly nudge closer to him; your breath is cool against his lips.
"Well, Stranger?"
There are whispers of a Chrysos Heir rising to new heights, kindling catching.
"Khaslana," he says. "My name is Khaslana."
You draw in a sharp breath.
"Khaslana," you say, and he thinks his name a feast when held in your mouth.
Your hand settles on his cheek, a shock of winter chill. You sweep your thumb across his skin. You are not shy when you lean in to kiss him; it is not your way. Despite your surety, the kiss is delicate.
And charred wood will always crumble.
Khaslana surges into the kiss, his hand settling at your nape to bring you closer. His grip is heavy; he thinks it is likely too tight. He does not loosen it.
Your lips part when he licks across the seam of them. He tastes the cool water of your mouth, drinks from you deeply. You cup his cheek and spill into him, quenching something deep inside.
Khaslana settles over you, the weight of him spreading your legs. You hook one around his hip as you press harder into the kiss.
Something gleams above your head. Khaslana closes his eyes.
—
The Black Tide spills faster across Amphoreus in the next cycle, a frothing sea.
The sword falls.
Your town burns before Khaslana reaches it.
—
Phainon holds the crescent sword against his chest.
It will end this time. Khaslana is sure of it. The cycle will shatter, and the true sun will rise over Amphoreus.
The blade sinks into his flesh.
The memory of you will have to be enough for Phainon.
For Amphoreus' true dawn, the sword must always fall.
