'•.¸♡ bakery owner!choso x university student!reader
bakery owner!choso who practically falls in love with you with you as soon as you walk into his shop. you're dressed much like a pastry yourself, wearing a cream coloured sweater and a brown plaid skirt, paired with white leg warmers and brown uggs. he makes small talk with you as you're ordering, watchin your cute face light up when you recieve your order. he watches you walk away, hoping with all his heart that you'll come back again.
bakery owner!choso who wakes up everyday with the hope that you might walk into his shop. he couldn't be happier when you become a regular, blessing him with your presence at least three times a week. he absolutely beams whenever you come in and will even sit down and hang out with you if there aren't many customers.
bakery owner!choso who suddenly feels like the backbreaking work and financial stress of running a bakery is nothing if it means he gets to see your face glowing with excitement at the sight of him and his pastries - the sight of you stuffing your pretty face full of his food enough to make it all worth it.
bakery owner!choso who immediately notices your teary eyed face when you come in just before the store closes one day. he gives you two slices of opera cake you free, and a free hot chocolate. choso lets you stay inside after closing time, listening intently as you rant tearfully about how your exams went. he places his hand over yours as you talk, rubbing soothing circles into your skin. choso gives you his number so that you can call him any time, whether you just want to talk or to let him know you're coming by so he can set aside a treat just for you.
bakery owner!choso who has no idea that his shop has become your safe place - the place you visit to cheer yourself up and the place you're most happy in. whenever you end up staying awake till 4am you text choso to ask if he's awake - and if he is, you'll head over to his shop to watch him set up for the day, sitting on the countertop and chatting with him as you watch his big hands move elegantly through the dough.
bakery owner!choso starts using you as both an advisor and taste tester for now menu items, letting you stay behind way after closing time so you can help him think up new recipes and bake them with him. he'll stand behind you with his arms around your body, guiding your hands as he shows you how to laminate the dough he'll use for tomorrows batch of croissants.
bakery owner!choso who you have an enormous crush on at this point. despite how heavenly his pastries were, you couldn't honestly say that they were your reason for going anymore. there was nothing you looked forward to more than going to see choso for a sweet treat and spending the rest of the evening with him, laughing and chatting together as you bake.
a/n: i wanna turn this into a fic so bad even tho i hate dessert
dating someone who owns a bakery sounds soo cutee
maybe i'll change it to food reviewer! reader x bakery owner!choso
warnings: implied female reader in one ss but otherwise gender neutral, message screenshots, random character mix, use of pet names, quick post (not really this was over the span of a few days,) ooc?
notes: thank you for the likes on my last 2 posts (tokyo revengers and yakuza) :) im making a introductory / pinned post soon, let me know any feedback in inbox .✦ ݁˖
i just need you to lay your head, in the little thing that beats for you in my chest.
akaashi keiji x f!reader
“fake” dating with keiji, or at least that’s what you think.
it had been seven hundred and thirty days since you had scrubbed that man out of your life like a stubborn grease stain on a favorite white tee. two years. in that time, you had learned how to brew the perfect cup of coffee, mastered the art of parallel parking without crying, and developed a soul-crushing, heart-palpitating crush on akaashi.
and yet, here was the stain, back for a second coat.
your ex was less of a human being at this point and more of a persistent pop-up ad for a product you never wanted to buy again. he was currently cornering you near the gym entrance, his face twisted into that specific brand of ‘reformed’ puppy-dog eyes that made you want to launch yourself into the nearest sun.
“i’ve changed, i really have,” he pleaded, his voice hitting a nasal frequency that could probably shatter glass or, at the very least, your patience. he reached for your hand, and you recoiled so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. “just one dinner. for old times’ sake? i’m sure you still have that sweater i liked.”
“i burned that sweater in a ceremonial bonfire two winters ago,” you lied—mostly because it sounded more dramatic than telling him you donated it to a thrift store. “and i’m busy. for the rest of my life. forever.”
“you’re not busy, you’re just scared of how much we still click,” he said, sounding like a budget self-help book.
it was exhausting. it was a marathon of annoyance, and you were running it in lead boots. you needed a shield. you needed a fortress. you needed a god.
or, failing that, you needed the vice-captain of the fukurodani volleyball team who was currently walking toward the equipment shed with a stride so graceful it felt like he was mocking the very concept of gravity.
akaashi was, in your humble and very biased opinion, the pinnacle of human evolution. he was a calm sea in a world of hurricanes. he was the quiet ‘click’ of a light switch in a dark room. he was also the man who had been the protagonist of every single one of your daydreams for the last six months.
he looked up, his sharp, intelligent eyes catching yours. there was a flicker of something there—a subtle tightening of his jaw, a momentary lapse in his perfect composure—whenever he saw you. you usually chalked it up to him being tired of your presence, but today, you were desperate.
your ex stepped closer, his shadow looming over you like a particularly unwelcome rain cloud. “come on, just give me five minutes to explain—”
“i have a boyfriend!” you blurted out, the lie tasted like copper and panic.
your ex paused, one eyebrow arching in a way that screamed ‘prove it.’ “oh yeah? since when? i haven’t seen anyone.”
your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. you scanned the horizon, and there he was. akaashi. beautiful, stoic, potentially-willing-to-help akaashi.
you needed to ask him. you needed him to play along just long enough to send this human equivalent of a damp sock packing. you just had to phrase it perfectly. a simple request for a fake relationship to act as a deterrent. easy.
except, as you started walking toward him, your brain decided to melt into a puddle of prehistoric sludge.
𝒶.𝓴.
the air in the gym hallway felt approximately ten times thicker than usual, like you were trying to sprint through a swimming pool filled with honey. your heart was performing a drum solo that could be heard from space. behind you, the ‘human equivalent of a mosquito’ was still hovering, his skepticism practically radiating off him in waves of unearned confidence.
akaashi was standing by the equipment shed, adjusting the strap of his sports bag with the kind of meticulous precision that usually made you want to write poetry about his fingers. he looked up as you approached, and for a split second, his entire posture shifted. his shoulders dropped, his gaze softened, and the typical stoic mask he wore for the world crumbled into something dangerously close to adoration.
it was now or never. you had to sell this.
“akaashi!” you chirped, your voice hitting a pitch you didn’t know you possessed.
he blinked, his dark eyes widening just a fraction. “y/n? is everything alright? you look a bit… distressed.”
you reached him, your lungs suddenly deciding that breathing was an optional hobby. you leaned in close—close enough to smell the faint scent of laundry detergent and cool mint that always clung to him like a second skin. it was a scent that usually made your knees feel like they were made of overcooked noodles.
“akaashi, could you be my fake boyfriend? my ex keeps bothering me,” you whispered, the words tumbling out of your mouth in a frantic, tangled rush.
except, in the chaotic theater of your mind, a very specific thing happened. as you said ‘fake,’ a heavy metal cart full of volleyballs rattled loudly across the gym floor behind you—bang—swallowing the most important syllable of your entire life.
to akaashi, the sentence he had spent the last six months dreaming about, praying for, and losing sleep over finally manifested in reality. he didn’t hear a request for a protective ruse. he heard a confession. he heard:
‘akaashi, could you be my boyfriend? my ex keeps bothering me.’
for a moment, time simply stopped. the universe ceased its expansion. akaashi’s brain, usually a high-functioning supercomputer capable of calculating the trajectory of a volleyball in milliseconds, completely short-circuited. blue screen of death. system reboot required.
his grip on his bag tightened until his knuckles turned a ghostly white. a boyfriend? your boyfriend? the concept hit him like a physical blow to the solar plexus. he had spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if he’d ever be brave enough to ask you for your phone number, and here you were, offering him the keys to the kingdom because some pathetic ghost from your past was trying to haunt you.
he didn’t care about the ex. he didn’t care about the context. he only cared about the ‘yes’ he was going to say.
“yes,” he said, the word leaving his lips before he could even process the breath required to speak it.
you blinked, a wave of relief washing over you. “really? you don’t mind? i know it’s a lot to ask on such short notice, but he just won’t—”
“i don’t mind,” akaashi interrupted, his voice dropping an octave into a register that was far too intimate for a ‘fake’ arrangement. he stepped toward you, closing the gap until you were forced to look up at him. his gaze was predatory in its devotion, a quiet fire burning behind his pupils.
he reached out, his hand hovering near your waist for a heartbeat before he settled it firmly against the small of your back. the heat of his palm seared through your shirt, sending a bolt of electricity straight to your toes.
“in fact,” he murmured, his eyes flicking over your shoulder to where your ex was standing, “i should have stepped in sooner. i apologize for being so unobservant of my own partner’s discomfort.”
‘partner?’ you thought, your brain lagging. ‘wow, he’s really committing to the bit. he’s like the meryl streep of fukurodani.’
your ex approached, looking confused and slightly intimidated by the sheer aura of competence radiating off the boy next to you. “wait, what? you’re… with him?”
akaashi observed him with the detached clinical interest a scientist might show a particularly dull specimen of mold. then, with a smoothness that felt like silk over a blade, he drew you closer until your side was pressed flush against his chest. you could feel the steady, thudding rhythm of his heart. it was fast. incredibly fast.
“we’ve been together for a while now,” akaashi lied with the straightest face you had ever seen in your life. he sounded so convincing that for a split second, you actually searched your memory for a first date you might have forgotten. “i’m surprised y/n hasn’t mentioned it, but then again, she tends to not tell anyone things to people that aren’t important.”
the jab at your ex was so subtle, so sharp, that you almost wanted to cheer.
“look, man,” your ex started, stepping forward. “i just wanted to talk to her—”
akaashi’s hand on your back shifted, his fingers splaying out possessively. he took a single step forward, shielding most of your body with his own. he wasn’t a loud person, but the sheer, concentrated intensity of his stare was enough to make the air turn cold.
“she’s expressed that she isn’t interested in talking,” akaashi said, his voice a low, dangerous hum. “as her boyfriend, it’s my responsibility to ensure her wishes are respected. if you continue to disregard them, i’ll have to consider this harassment. and i’m very protective of what belongs to me.”
the word belongs made your brain do a backflip. he was really going for the ‘obsessive protector’ trope, wasn’t he? you looked up at him, intending to give him a ‘thanks, you’re doing great’ look, but when your eyes met his, you froze.
akaashi wasn’t looking at your ex anymore. he was looking down at you, and the expression on his face was so tender, so desperately devoted, that it felt like you were intruding on something private. his thumb began to stroke the fabric of your shirt in a slow, rhythmic circle. it wasn’t the gesture of a fake boyfriend. it was the gesture of a man who had finally found the missing piece of his soul and intended to weld it to him forever.
“are you okay, darling?” he asked, the pet name rolling off his tongue like it had been living there for years.
your ex, realizing he was currently fighting a losing battle against a man who looked like he would gladly go to war over a misplaced hair on your head, took a stumble-step back. “whatever. i get it. fine.”
he turned and scurried away, finally disappearing through the gym doors.
you let out a huge breath of relief, your shoulders sagging. “oh my god, akaashi, thank you. you’re a lifesaver. i thought he’d never leave. you really nailed the ‘boyfriend’ thing. the ‘darling’ was a bit much, but hey, it worked!”
you started to pull away, expecting him to let go and return to his usual stoic self.
except, his hand didn’t move. if anything, his grip tightened.
akaashi looked down at you, a tiny, confused crease forming between his brows. “nailed it? y/n, why would i be acting?”
you paused, your heart stopping for the second time in five minutes. “wait, what?”
“i know the circumstances of the confession were a bit hurried because of him,” akaashi said, his voice regaining that terrifyingly soft, devoted edge as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. his fingers lingered against your skin, warm and steady. “but i promise to be the best boyfriend you’ve ever had. i’ve actually had a three-year plan for our eventual cohabitation drafted in my notebooks, though i suppose we can go through the dating phase first if you’d prefer.”
your jaw hit the floor. “akaashi… three-year plan? cohabitation?”
“well, yes,” he said, looking at you like you were the sun, the moon, and all the stars in the galaxy combined. “i’ve been waiting for you to ask me for six months, two weeks, and four days. i’m just glad we’re finally on the same page.”
he then leaned down and pressed a lingering, soft kiss to your forehead, his eyes closing in what looked like pure, unadulterated ecstasy.
you were still standing there, frozen, realizing that while you were playing checkers, akaashi had just claimed victory in a game of chess you didn’t even know you were playing.
𝒶.𝓴.
the air in the hallway was suddenly very thin, and you were pretty sure your brain had just experienced a total system crash. akaashi was still holding you, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a reverence usually reserved for ancient, priceless artifacts. he wasn’t just “playing” a role; he was looking at you like you were the answer to a question he’d been asking the universe since the dawn of time.
“akaashi,” you squeaked, your voice sounding like a flute being stepped on. “when i asked you to be my boyfriend... back there... i meant fake. like, a pretend boyfriend. to scare him off.”
the silence that followed was heavy, weighted with the sound of your own frantic pulse. akaashi’s hand stilled. his expression didn’t crumble—that would be too simple. instead, his eyes darkened, a swirling vortex of calculations and intense, simmering devotion. he didn’t pull away. if anything, he leaned closer, his shadow swallowing you whole.
“fake?” he repeated. the word sounded foreign on his tongue, like he was trying to pronounce a dead language. “y/n, i don’t think you understand. i don’t do anything ‘fake.’ especially not when it comes to you.”
he took a step forward, forcing you to back up against the cool brick wall of the gym. he didn’t trap you—he didn’t have to—his presence was a cage made of velvet and steel.
“i have spent every practice for the last six months tracking your location in the stands,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, melodic hum that vibrated in your very marrow. “i know which vending machine juice you buy when you’re stressed. i know that you bite your lip when you’re concentrating on your homework. i have memorized the exact frequency of your laugh.”
your heart was trying to escape your chest and hand itself over to him on a silver platter. “that’s... a lot of data, akaashi.”
“it’s not data,” he corrected softly, his face inches from yours. “it’s a map. and today, you finally invited me to follow it. do you really think i’d let a ‘fake’ label stop me now?”
just then, the ghost of your past—your ex—decided to make one final, catastrophic mistake. he appeared at the end of the hallway, having regained some semblance of his ego.
“hey! i thought about it, and there’s no way you two are actually—”
akaashi didn’t even turn his head. he didn’t need to. he simply shifted his weight, shielding you completely from the ex’s view, his hand sliding from your jaw to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair with a possessive heat that made your knees turn to jelly.
“leave,” akaashi said. it wasn’t a shout. it was a command, cold and absolute, the kind of tone that could stop a heart mid-beat.
the ex turned pale, scrambled backward, and finally, mercifully, vanished for good.
the silence returned, but it was different now—charged with a frantic, sweet electricity. you looked up at akaashi, your breath hitching. he looked exhausted, like the sheer effort of containing his affection for you was starting to fray his composure.
“he’s gone,” you whispered, unsure of what else to say. “you can stop now.”
akaashi let out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “i told you. i’m not stopping. i’ve been waiting for this for so long that my chest actually hurts when you’re not in my line of sight.”
he took your hand and guided it upward, pressing your palm flat against the center of his chest. beneath the thin fabric of his fukurodani jersey, his heart was thundering—wild, erratic, and completely undone. it was a rhythmic franticness that mirrored your own.
“i don’t care if you started this as a game to get rid of him,” he whispered, his eyes searching yours with a raw, terrifying honesty. “i’m making it real. all i need is for you to lay your head on the little thing that beats for you in my chest, and tell me you feel it too.”
you didn’t have a choice. your body moved on its own, guided by the gravitational pull of a man who was clearly, hopelessly, and beautifully devoted to you. you tucked your head under his chin, pressing your ear against his chest.
thump-thump. thump-thump.
it was the most honest sound you had ever heard. it sounded like a home you hadn’t realized you were looking for. you wrapped your arms around his waist, feeling the way his entire body shuddered in relief, his arms winding around you so tightly it felt like he was trying to merge your two souls into one.
“okay,” you breathed into his chest, the scent of mint and pure keiji filling your senses. “no faking. i think i’ve been down bad for you just as long, akaashi.”
he let out a soft, triumphant sound—half-laugh, half-sob—and buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a lingering, worshipful kiss there.
“good,” he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with a desperate, wholesome kind of hunger. “because i’ve already picked out the curtains for our apartment, and it would be very difficult to return them now.”
you couldn’t even find it in yourself to be surprised. you just squeezed him tighter, realizing that being ‘claimed’ by akaashi keiji was the best thing that had ever happened to you.
n: well, there goes my ideas. i’ve been getting a lot of asks asking me to uhh do them from the back..? people who follow me in insta have been watching me break down over those.
you start your text to kuroo with the most beautiful array of words a 22-year-old can muster.
you busy rn?
no, he sends, quicker than you’d expected. what’s up?
sometimes, you expect him to finally block your number, or ignore your texts, or throw his phone in a river, but he never does. you’ve been broken up for months now and, somehow, every time your dryer breaks, or your windshield cracks, or you have a day so horribly terribly bad that you just can’t breathe, you still have tetsurou on speed dial.
you’re not complaining, of course, but the evil of it isn't lost on you. he should move on, and so should you—it’s your fault that doesn’t happen.
can't i just be curious? you ask.
no, he replies. not your thing.
you chuckle a little at that, mostly because you can imagine him saying it. he's got a smile on his face, pulled up towards his eyes from his cheeks. the image makes you miss him in the stark, white kind of way—empty, but whole.
you start typing out a response (i'm bored..........) until the ellipsis gets so long you have to delete it. you start again (i think you left a coat at my apartment? do you wanna come-), but you're lying, so you delete it again. before you can think about it too hard, you swipe your fingers over the call button.
"you okay?" he asks after three rings. you don't usually do this sort of thing—texting has always suited you well enough—but the sound of his voice makes your legs feel weak and you feel a little bit like the world was going to collapse if you didn’t hear his voice, so you're calling it a worthy endeavor.
"i miss you," you say. It's quick—a little to loud and a little too forward—but it rolls off your tongue so naturally that you let it hang in the air, giving the words a little grace.
a beat, and then, "yeah?"
“yeah,” you say, a soft pause, almost finalized but not quite there yet. you can hear his breath—a mechanical rattle, just a little.
a laugh bleeds through the phone and then, “how much?”
if you were better—as over him as you tell everyone you are—you would have better resolve. you’d say a little, not too much, just sometimes when i’m bored or lonely or especially horny or scared. instead, you chew on the side of your lip for a second and say, “enough.”
“enough to call me?”
your laughter breathes out of you sort of thoughtlessly. you imagine saying, enough that sometimes it aches. like there’s a piece of me that always feels cut off at the stem—my phantom limb, my missing piece.
instead, you say, “i guess so,” a little too quickly and quietly.
a beat of silence and you can hear his breath through the receiver. he’s not panting, but he’s moving enough that the sound leaves your phone in steady heaves.
“are you—running?” you ask.
“a little.” you can hear him grin. “just around the neighborhood.”
“mine or yours?”
a pause, and then he breathes, “does it matter?”
you sink your teeth into your bottom lip. if you know kuroo like you think you do—and oh do you, all nearly-six-and-a-half-feet of him—he’s wearing some tiny little athletic shorts he bought in college that, admittedly, should probably be illegal to wear outside. if weather’s permitting, there’s a fifty-fifty chance he’s in a t-shirt he doesn’t usually wear anymore or no shirt at all. it’s dusk, but it was ninety-two today—dead of august summer heat—so you would bet the latter.
“it does,” you say, suddenly struck by the ex-boyfriend shaped mental image swirling around your head. “just for curiosity’s sake.”
“curiosity? you want me to run by your window?” he huffs, presumably jumping off of a sidewalk, or over a patch of grass, or down the staircase leading into the park next door. “let you decide whether or not i still entice you?”
instinctively, you draw your way towards your living room window. four stories up, south-facing for the light. you can see the street below you and the sort-of-evil part of you hopes to he’s there. the sidewalk is glaringly empty, baked by the heat.
“very funny,” you say.
“i’m serious!” he replies. “sort of.”
you chuckle, resting your forehead against the glass. you can feel the weather fighting it’s way into your apartment and, if the utility bill wasn’t already sort of a nightmare, you would open the window just a crack—let the air bridge the gap between your world and his.
you wonder if you’d be able to sense him out there somehow. if the air would smell different or the breeze would stall or if his presence would be so heavy you’d feel his gravitational pull down the block.
“can i ask you something kind of fucked up?” you say, and there’s a pause on the other line. quick hesitation, and a slow reply.
“sure?” he drags the ‘u’ a little.
“when i broke up with you,” you start, pressing the phone to your ear a little too hard. “who did you call first?”
you don’t really know why you’re asking him this right now, if you’re being completely honest. maybe to think about the look on his face, or the way his breath sounds when he’s nervous. maybe it’s the reassurance that he didn’t call some other girl he used to see, or a friend who said you guys were bad match, or—
“my dad,” he says suddenly, clicking his tongue against his teeth. the crackling of the wind stops for a second and you imagine him standing at the edge of the sidewalk, dragging his free hand through his hair.
you breathe, “what’d you tell him?”
he’s walking again. you can just barely hear his feet against the ground. they’re slow, steady steps. something crunches under his feet like gravel.
your eyes dart out to the naked pavement again. you can nearly see yourself, standing there like a ghost. it’s almost midnight; he’s telling you he loves you; you’re telling him it’s hard; he’s quiet, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching at the bridge of his nose; you’re telling him you’ve never felt this way before and that it scares you; you’re telling him that the world feels too big.
“you really wanna get into this?” he asks.
your tongue almost feels too big for your mouth. in your head, you say, i want you to tell me i fucked up so bad that you never want to speak to me again so i can get over this. i want you to say that you’re tired of answering my texts—that i’m exhausting, that this is exhausting.
“not—over the phone, i guess,” rolls across your pallet in one big blob of words and spit instead.
“okay,” he says, sort of absently. “fuck, okay. give me a sec.”
he’s moving again—your phone is making that staticky noise that sounds like he stuck his speaker into a fishbowl. you can hear him breathe (in and then out).
i miss sleeping next to you. sometimes, i can feel the weight of you stirring on the other side of the bed and i wonder if i’m psychic or just insane. remember that time we hooked up in college? before you told me you loved me and before you got that new tattoo and i took that shitty job that made us both miserable? remember how hot it was that night? the ac was broken and we were both so fucking sweaty but i think i know the feeling of your tongue in your mouth more than i know my own name.
“tetsurou?”
it’s quiet on the other end. you watch him cross into view from your window and you stand there, kind of stupid and hopeless. every once in a while, you see him somewhere out in the wild (your favorite coffee shop downtown on a sunday, when it’s almost too packed in there to breathe; at the park, drawn across the grass, looking up at the sun; in a bar, cheeks flushed, eyes wide, grin big and toothy) and you’re reminded of the fact that he is, in fact, real, and looks up at your window from the sidewalk, panting and out of breath.
you hold his gaze from three stories up, not thinking about it too much when you hang up the phone—instinct more than anything else. the silence in your apartment is nearly deafening. you swear you can hear him as his chest rises and falls.
by the time you slide your shoes on, drifting your way towards the elevator without locking your front door, your eyes have glazed over. your out-of-body feeling doesn’t fade until you’re leaving the building, a disgusting rush of humid air hitting you head on. you’re not usually prone to freezing up like this, but you stand there, just outside the exit, staring again.
he is shirtless (points for you), but he’s standing with an uncomfortable hunch to his shoulders, like the whole thing feels off. it does, you’ll note. for as long as you’ve known kuroo you’ve been playing this horrible game of cat and mouse. you’ve wanted him so badly so many times, but you’ve wanted him to chase you even more. you tease him, you tell him you like your alone time, you never let him stay for longer than the night. you make for a horrible girlfriend, and an even worse ex.
“hi,” you say, finally. you’re standing a little too far for it to come out normal.
“hi,” he replies. a smile peeks out from behind his lips—a flash of shining teeth.
do you ever think about that time you bit my inner thigh so hard that it left a long, spiraling bruise across my leg? you were so apologetic about the whole thing, but i remember being fascinated—more that my body could produce such dark shades of purple than anything else. i remember running my hands along it, thinking i should have felt it in some way or another, but, by touch, it was like it wasn’t even there. were we even a couple yet? you always did have such sharp teeth.
“you didn’t have to come all the way over here, y’know.” you’re smiling, but half of you means it and half of you is sort of begging for him to invite himself inside.
“it’s fine. i was at the park.” he bobs his head to the side, gesturing towards the big patch of grass across the road. the construction finished last spring, just as it got too hot to really enjoy it.
“oh.” you feel kind of foreign in yourself—stiff. “did you like it?”
he eyes you, “seriously?”
kuroo steps forward, over the sidewalk and onto the concrete slab in front of the exit. you consider closing the gap—only a foot or two between you—but you hesitate. he smells like sweat, and skin, and whatever cologne he picked out this morning. you know he’s never been able to settle on just one, switching back and forth between some cheap shit he picked up on vacation and a birthday present from his grandfather, based entirely on a whim.
he’s just so—familiar. for as strange as making eye contract with your ex-boyfriend can be, he knows how you have to hide you phone charger from your cat so he doesn’t chew it, how you take your coffee, how you love to cook, even when you don’t want to. you know he still sends birthday cards to his friends from highschool; you know he hasn’t talked to his mom in months; you know his favorite songs, the spots where he’s the most ticklish, how his worst fear is falling so far behind that he can’t get back up.
you’re awestruck, almost, every time you see him. for how much you can pretend you don’t want him anymore (that you never did in the first place), he’s magnetic. you’re drawn to him in a way that you have never, and probably will never understand.
sometimes your sister still calls me when you’re especially upset. i don’t know if you’ve told her that we broke up, but i don’t fill in any missing pieces for both of our sakes. is it wrong to ask you if you’ve talked to her lately when i already know the answer? did your shitty roommate ever move out? did you ever donate that stuffed animal from your mom that you don’t like looking at? i like to wonder if you know about the nooks and crannies of my life the way i still know about yours. i think already know the answer anyway.
“did you wanna come up?” you ask. i love you. “i can get you something to drink” i love you.
“i shouldn’t,” he replies.
“i know.”
i’ve only ever woken up before you once. you drool in your sleep, y’know. just a little. for a while that morning, i watched you snore with your head stuffed in between my pillows. there was something sort of exciting about it—like i knew i was never gonna see it again. when you woke up, i rolled over, pretending i was still asleep so i could hear the way you yawn, and stretch, and crack your back before you get out of bed. i think about someone else getting to wake up next to you one day and i feel sick with myself. i hope so badly that they deserve you.
“i miss you,” you say. you run your tongue along the back of your teeth.
“so i’ve heard,” he grins.
“i know.”
it was such a pleasure to love you. i’m sorry i took it for granted. can you come inside? can we talk it through? you can tell me how bad i fucked up (you won’t) and i can nod along, looking down at the floor so i don’t have to meet your eyes, and then we can go back to doing whatever we did before this, even if that’s nothing at all.
he wraps his hands around the railing next to the door, shifting all of of his weight back and forth between his heels and his toes. it’s so brutally humid that he looks hazy while he does it, like the air is lagging a second behind his movements.
“when i called my dad,” he starts, his gaze shifting in your direction. “i told him that i asked you to move in with me, and i told him that you looked fucking petrified. you hadn’t broken up with me just yet, but i could tell it was coming.”
(you can see it again—that night on the sidewalk in front of your apartment. he’s scrolling through apartment listings, showing you different ones in the area. do you want a one bedroom or two? the one bed is cheaper, obviously, but i think we can make the other one work if you really want it. he flicks through one picture and then another. you feel dizzy. you’re both a little drunk—not enough to be completely out of your mind, but enough that he walked you home to make sure you made it all the way. his tolerance for that type of shit has always been so much higher than yours.
my lease isn’t ending until july, so we can think about it for a while if you want. he grins, and you start counting his teeth. he asks you something about uhauls and moving out, but all you can think about is how fucking cold it is. january’s almost over but you have your coat buttoned all the way up, and you’re ducking your nose into the collar to avoid the wind. he asks you something else, you don’t hear him. he asks if you’re alright; his eyes get wide and the smile drops off of his face. you wave him off and tell him it’s time for you to go inside. you love him, you tell him, you’re sure you do. you’ll see him tomorrow, you smile, but you can feel the way it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.)
“what’d he tell you?” you ask. it comes out sort of flat and dead.
kuroo laughs, in a dry, humorless sort of way.
“that he taught me better than to try and predict the future. worst fucking advice ever.”
you snort, “seriously.”
silence swells between you again, tipping between warm and awkward. a bike flies by about a street over with a speaker in the basket, playing a song you liked a lot when you were fourteen or fifteen but don’t much care for now. for a half second, you think about how funny it is that the people around you are conscious and living too. they, for all you know, don’t yearn for people right in front of them. kuroo links his hands together, cracking each of his knuckles.
have you been on any dates lately? i went on one, about a month ago. i sat across from a guy at a bar and i knew my makeup was fucked up because my hands had been trembling the whole time i was getting ready and he just wouldn’t stop staring at me. we ate shitty bar food and made shitty conversation and then split the check afterwards. i went home and thought about the inside of your mouth. when i looked in the mirror, there were three big blobs of mascara on different parts of my face.
“did you call him after i did it—tell him you were right?” you smile a little sloppily, and he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, shaking his head.
“didn’t have the stomach for it.”
can we start over? all the way—like, i tell you my name and where i’m from and that my mom and i don’t get along like we should, because that always seems to come up first. you can tell me how tall you are, how you know a fantastic fucking thai place that i need to try and we can sit across from each other, picking up food and telling the other one to try it because it’s just too good to pass up. i’ll pretend i don’t know which t-shirt of yours is the most comfortable and you can pretend you don’t know what the inside of my body feels like. we’ll be decent about it because we’re decent people who have never fucked on the first date and have never broken up because one of us had never known commitment like this before and was scared to know what it feels like.
you move your toes around in your shoes uncomfortably. kuroo leans forward on the railing again, hanging nearly half his body into the patch of garden below the exit’s stoop. you think for a second about how pretty he is, and then about what an asshole you are for thinking about him like that in the first place.
“you didn’t deserve what i did to you,” you say, stark and sudden. you barely recognize your voice out of your own mouth. “i don’t know if i’ve said that before, but you didn’t.”
“i moved too fast,” he hums, not moving from his half-up-half-down position. “i knew you were scared, but i kept pushing and pushing and pushing because i thought if i could just get you over the hump it would be okay.”
“it might’ve been.”
he shakes his head, “you know better than that.”
your fingers twitch, and you reach a hand towards his back, sliding it up the curve of his spine. his skin is warm—you can feel goosebumps work their way up towards his shoulders. the familiarity of it makes you feel like throwing up.
“do you remember that one campus bar where you lost your id?” he asks. he’s leaning back toward your hand as he speaks—you can feel the ripple of his skin across your fingers. “we spent all night looking under tables and asking people if they’d seen it—“
“just to find out it was in your wallet,” you grin.
“because you left it at the bar,” he says.
“and you were too drunk to remember you grabbed it,” you reply.
he pushes himself up from the railing and you pull you hand away, rubbing your fingers together to strip the magnetic feeling out of them.
“you thought it was so funny after we found it.” he’s looking at you, but you can see the way his eyes are starting to glaze over, stuck in another moment in time.
“because it was,” you laugh. “i’d never seen you so apologetic.”
you held my hands and said “baby if i knew i would’ve given it you, you know that right? like, i didn’t know it was in there—i didn’t even know i brought my wallet inside.” you could barely get the words out you were so bombed. i held your face between my fingers and told you that i loved you, and i loved you, and i loved you, and that that you were one of the funniest people i had ever met.
“when i went home that night and laid in bed, all i could think about is how bad i wanted you there—how bad i always wanted you there.” he chews on the inside of his cheek. you can see the indent of his teeth moving back and forth. “you ever think we were meant to be together?’
“constantly,” you say, a little smile working its way up your face.
he rubs his hands up and down his thigh, the weird synthetic material of his shorts making that horrid crinkling sound each time he moves.
can you be here all the time? can you come fix my sink and lie in my bed and tell me how pretty i am every time i need to hear it most? can you talk to my mom when i don’t want to? can you tell me about your favorite movies? can you fall asleep next to me and let me complain about your snoring all night long? can i promise you that i’ll try my best for you? that i won’t dive head first but i’ll get as close to the water as i can? can that be enough for us? just for a little while?
“can i come up, actually?” he says. “i’m thinking maybe i really need that water.”
you grin, a little wider than you intend to. “yeah, yeah you can.”
thank you sososo much to all of you, for all the support! comments, likes, asks and reblogs are always appreciated !! thank you for reading, hope you liked it <3
hajime headcanons on a scale of canon compliant to totally unhinged
so there's this guy...
canon compliant/widely accepted
big guy. big guy. big big guy. big guy spongebob pants okay. yeah he’s pretty huge. says he isn’t but that’s because his literal job is being around bigger guys.
filipino (MORENO) on his mother’s side
super athletic. like we been knew this
pokemon fan. he’d be so excited if you asked “hajime, if you were a gym leader, what pokemon type would you specialize in?” he will LIGHT up. “SO i actually have this written down, i have like, a whole team set up and everything—” ummm spoilers it's rock or bug
can cut an apple with his bare hands (ripping it apart with sheer force)
guess i'll add rich since no one talks about the fact that he went to a private school and then stays in california for uni (+ grad school)
canon to personal territory
runs hot, doesn’t get cold easily. he's a literal heater
he's got a socal accent when speaking english. no, like, for real!
romantic!!! and a hopeless one at that
carries a photo of both you and oikawa in his wallet
lets you win whenever you challenge him to an arm wrestling competition
uses earbuds. he exercises and runs, so he likes that he can just stick it in his pocket. doesn’t really care about sound quality either
not a jewelry guy. he uses his hands a lot and he's usually courtside for his job, so it gets in the way. but! will tuck a necklace under his collar if it meant a lot to him....and maybe perhaps wear one ring on a particular finger on a certain hand...
skateboards, surfs, and snowboards
career focused. don't expect to get married in college
where did that even come from
nerds gummy cluster whore. claims it’s “only for hikes, runs, and cycling, okay?”
he needs glasses but doesn’t wear them for reasons unknown (i’m turning into ilya rozanov as we speak) just kidding the reason is that they get in the way! they fog up! they fall down! they spin around when he's laying on his side! they get dirty every day! he believes there are no benefits to his glasses except seeing. and he CAN see. he can see JUST fine.
has teeny little dimples when he smiles real wide
clingy drunk
shitter. nasty farts, even nastier shits. has thrown up maybe twice in his life and both were in infancy
unfortunately doesn’t know how to answer dumb hypotheticals because it has literally never occurred to him that you would ever turn into a worm
doesn’t know how to wrap gifts. he tries but it’s not good. it's the problem of too much tape, not enough wrapping paper
he's dogshit at video games. you’d think with all that kinesthetic intelligence he’d be able to press buttons on a controller or keyboard but no
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