These are both very useful and detailed documents that include all sorts of ways to get involved in making a change, even if you can’t go out and protest. Sign petitions, donate money, or just spread awareness in any way you can.
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- It’s too early for this kind of attention, but apparently, fate doesn’t care.
- You’re standing in the parking lot outside the MSBY gym—coffee in one hand, clipboard in the other, sunglasses perched on the bridge of your nose like you’re about to close a million-dollar deal. Your crisp white, pinstriped blouse is tucked neatly into your black slacks, the red bottoms of your glossy black heels clicking against the asphalt. Everything about you screams business.
- Which is exactly why Atsumu, leaning against his Jeep, sunglasses pushed into his blonde hair like he’s starring in some cheap cologne commercial, is watching you like you’ve just descended from the heavens. One leg bent, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his golden eyes track every little thing you do. The steam curling from the lid of your coffee as your lips touch it, the way your slicked back bun doesn’t dare let a hair escape, the hypnotic sway of your hips. And your ass—dear God, your ass is fucking perfect.
- Atsumu swears the world slows when he sees you. He’s already picturing your wedding.
- Then—you drop your keys. He mutters to himself: “This is my fuckin’ chance.”
- And just as you bend down, his mouth betrays him. Loud enough to echo across the lot:
- “Fuck—holy ass. Wow—you have a great ass.”
Your spin. You turn slowly, lowering your sunglasses like the villainess in a drama.
“Excuse me?” Calm, sharp, dangerous.
Atsumu panics. “I said, uh—do ya need help with that?”
- “That’s not what you said.”
-“…It wasn’t?” His eyes dart like a guilty kid.
- You scoff, shoving your shades up onto your head.
- “No. You said ‘you have a great ass.”
- His soul LEAVES his body.
- He stumbles, red-faced, waving his hands like he can erase the moment from history.
- “I—Oh, god—“ he’s mortified “shit—I didn’t mean—well, I did mean—but not like—fuck—”
- You don’t even reply. Just turn on your heel with enough attitude to knock the air out of him. And Atsumu? He watches the love of his life abandon him in the parking lot like a tragic, heartbroken protagonist of a bad romcom.
⸻
Locker Room, 8:10 AM
- Atsumu slams his bag down, a cloud of pure misery hanging over him. He looks like he aged ten years in the past 20 minutes.
- Bokuto spots him sulking in the corner, groaning like his world just ended.
- “Hey, man—what the hell’s wrong with you?”
- Atsumu clutches his chest like he’s nursing a mortal wound. “I fumbled. I fumbled so bad.”
- “What did you do this time? Miss breakfast?” Sakusa mutters without looking up.
- “NO! Worse!” Atsumu cries, dropping to sit on the bench dramatically. “I fumbled the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen-I just lost the love of my life.”
- Bokuto’s eyes widen. “WHAT?! Already?! It’s not even nine in the morning—wait. You don’t even have a girlfriend!”
- “Ugh—please don’t remind me of that right now.” Atsumu breathes a labored, frantic sigh. “She was fuckin’ perfect, Bo. She was a goddess,” Atsumu moans, throwing himself backward onto the bench, one arm over his eyes. “The sunglasses, the clipboard, the coffee—all classy, all put-together, like some kind of angel sent from PR heaven. She dropped her damn keys—and what did I do? What did I say to this ethereal creature?”
- Bokuto tilts his head. “…What?”
- “I told her she had a great ass!” Atsumu wails, clutching his chest with both hands like he’s physically in pain. “Bo, I could see her soul leave her body when she turned around. I ruined my one shot at true love!”
- Bokuto literally chokes. Hinata starts cackling. Sakusa mutters “disgusting” under his breath.
- “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!” Bokuto shouts, half horrified, half impressed.
- Atsumu throws his head back in agony. “I wasn’t! My mouth moved on its own! I—fuck—I ruined my one chance at happiness!”
⸻
Conference Room, 8:30 AM
- The Black Jackals file into the meeting room, half-awake and slumped in their seats. Atsumu drags his feet like a man walking to the gallows, sighing dramatically every few steps. He’s still ranting in a whisper to Bokuto about “the woman who got away.”
- “She had the walk, dude. Like—an angel who also probably does Pilates,” he mutters, flopping into his chair. “And I ruined it. I can’t believe I said she had a great ass—I mean she does but like—ugh.”
- Bokuto leans in, whispering way too loudly, “Bro—it’s gonna be fine. Swear.”
- “Swear what? That she’ll forget I sexually harassed her before 9 AM?” Atsumu groans, face buried in his hands.
- “Bro—it’s gonna be fine. Swear.” Bokuto says, trying to hype him up.
- The coach clears his throat, slicing through the chatter. Instantly, the team straightens like schoolboys caught passing notes.
- “Gentlemen,” the coach begins, pacing slowly at the front. “There are some changes to address before practice. The head of PR has been replaced.”
- They all exchange a look of confusion.
- “We’d like you all to meet the new PR manager for the Black Jackals.”
- The door opens. Heels click against the tile with sharp precision, each step commanding attention. Clipboard in hand, sunglasses tucked neatly into your blouse, you stride in like you own the room.
- Atsumu’s jaw hits the fucking floor. His soul leaves his body for the second time that morning.
- “Good morning.” You smile politely at the room, cool and professional. “It’s nice to meet you all. My name is y/n, I’m looking forward to working with you.”
- Polite nods ripple around the table. A few “nice to meet you’s” mumble back.
- Your eyes scan the room quickly—measured, professional, cataloguing each player in turn. When they finally land on Atsumu, he feels it like a spike straight through the chest.
- He straightens in his chair so fast it squeaks. His brain short-circuits. She’s looking at me. Oh god, she’s looking at me.
- Atsumu grips Bokuto’s arm so hard it leaves marks. He hisses under his breath:
- “That’s her. That’s her. The love of my life. I’m so fucked.”
⸻
HOW HE ASKS YOU OUT ON A DATE
It’s been a few weeks since that first fateful encounter in the parking lot—you know, the one where you bent down to grab your keys and he, in a moment of catastrophic idiocy, verbally cat-called the woman who, unbeknownst to him, is now the head of PR. He’s replayed it in his head every single day since. Every. Single. Day. The memory torments him like a relentless nightmare. She’s perfect. She’s perfect. She’s perfect, and I told her she had a great ass.
The locker room has been a warzone for him internally. Every time he sees you at a meeting, or passing through the gym, or even just standing by the coffee machine—he freezes. Words totally betray him. Awkward chuckles, panicked blinks, and wild, desperate attempts at small talk have become his signature moves.
Today though, he decides that enough is enough. He has to fix this somehow and what’s his solution? He’s just gonna ask you out—what’s the harm in that?
It’s early-morning. The gym is loud, the players are opening practice, the sound of shoes scuffing against the court echoed off the padded gym walls. You’re walking along the court, coffee in one hand, cupboard in the other, observing each player carefully, unreadable expression he finds simultaneously terrifying and intoxicating. He watches you for a beat too long, then bolts forward like a man possessed.
“Y/N! Hey,” he calls, voice a little too loud, cracking slightly. You glance up from your clipboard, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes?” You say, measured, professional, utterly calm.
Atsumu’s brain is melting, a million thoughts racing through his mind. You need to chill out. She’s perfect. You’re a fucking idiot. Her hair looks great today. Oh god. Don’t fuck this up.
He swallows, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Uh… so, um… coffee? I mean—like, sometime? I want to—uh—maybe apologize for… you know…” His hands flail, nearly dropping the duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
Your eyebrow quirks up, skeptical but polite. “Apologize for what exactly?”
He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “For being a total idiot in the parking lot a few weeks ago. For—you know. Screwing up my one shot at talking to the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen without embarrassing myself. I want a redo. A clean slate. Coffee, just the two of us. Please.”
You tilt your head, lips pressed together. He notices the faintest twitch of a smile, and his heart threatens to explode. He’s never been more terrified or more exhilarated in his entire life.
“You want to get coffee with me?” you say sweetly, voice still calm, still collected.
“Just coffee—I swear.” He blurts, holding up one hand in a gesture of desperate enthusiasm. “Just…coffee. No pressure. It’s on me of course—not like I’d let you pay—I mean unless you wanted to because y’know, you’re an independent woman—and that’s fine! I just didn’t— “ he stops, realizing he’s rambling.
You finally allow a small, amused smile to play at your lips, a sweet laugh escaping. “Alright,” you say, tilting your head ever so slightly. “Coffee sounds great. I expect this to be a better first impression than the first time I met you.”
Atsumu’s entire body relaxes, and then immediately tightens again because—oh god—she smiled. She smiled. SHE LAUGHED. “Oh my god—Yes, of course! Thank you! I promise, no comments about…uh…your assets. I’ll behave. Probably. Maybe. Definitely.”
You shake your head, amused, and turn back to your clipboard, leaving him standing there, internally combusting. He watches you go, chest heaving, heart thundering, already thinking about what he’s going to wear, how he’s going to act, what cologne he should wear, and how he’s absolutely going to make you laugh before the coffee cup even hits the table.
Because he’s Atsumu Miya, and he never does anything halfway. And he is so very, very determined to make sure he doesn’t ruin this chance again.
⸻
YOUR FIRST DATE
Atsumu shows up thirty minutes early. Bokuto told him that’s what “serious men” do, but all it really means is that he sits in his Jeep panicking for a half an hour, cycling through Spotify playlists tryna gas himself up, spritzing himself with way too much cologne, and practicing opening lines in the rearview mirror.
“Hey.” No, too lame.
“Wow, you look gorgeous.” Too much.
“The weather is fabulous today and so are you.” What the fuck is he even saying right now?
By the time you arrive, he’s so worked up that when he tries to get out of his Jeep, he almost fucking trips and falls on his ass.
He watches you step out of your car, you’re calm, effortlessly put together and you look absolutely beautiful. He feels like a middle schooler at his first dance. He actually forgets how to breathe for a full three seconds, until you catch him staring and raise one eyebrow like you’re silently asking, You gonna keep staring at me or say hi?
“H-hey—I’m glad you showed up! I mean— I’m not gonna lie, I didn’t think you would.”he blurts. Which, to be fair, is not wrong, but is also not the smoothest greeting. He already fucking this up, isn’t he?
You sigh, amused, and nod toward the door to the café. “You promised me coffee, of course I was going to come.” You smiled softly.
He rushes to hold the door open for you, then hovers behind you like a lost puppy until you step up to order. He already knows what he wants (a caramel latte, extra shot, because he needs the courage), but he insists on letting you go first.
When you say your order, he jumps in— “I’ll pay for that!”—with the speed of a man trying to win a prize at an auction. The barista gives him a weird look, but he doesn’t care. He’s practically glowing when he hands over his card.
You find a small corner table. Atsumu sits down, knees bouncing under the table, fingers tapping the paper cup. His whole body buzzes like he’s taken a shot of alcohol too fast.
Conversation is… rocky at first. He stumbles through small talk, tells you three different times that your job must be “really impressive,” and almost knocks over his latte gesturing too wildly.
But then—you laugh. It bursts out of you when he confesses the time he got too hyped after a game in the locker room and accidentally shattered a light trying to see if he could touch it.
“Bo was watchin’, hypin’ me up, right? I go for it—smack the light dead-on, shatter the bulb. Glass everywhere. Whole place goes dark, alarms go off—Hinata’s screamin’, Bo’s yellin’ and Sakusa’s just standin’ there—like he’s fed up with my shit. And me? I’m bleedin’ from the hand and tryin’ to act like I meant to do it.”
Your laugh escapes so suddenly you nearly choke on your coffee. Atsumu freezes for half a second—like he just won the lottery—before leaning in, golden eyes blazing with mischief now that he’s cracked you open. Words tumble out faster, wilder, every gesture bigger, because suddenly he’s not panicking anymore—he’s performing for the best audience he’s ever had.
“I’m real sorry about the parking lot, by the way,” he admits eventually, face warm but sincere. “Ya deserved better than me starin’ at ya like I just saw an angel and then runnin’ my mouth like an idiot.”
You tilt your cup toward him, lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “It was memorable, at least.”
Atsumu nearly dies on the spot. “Memorable’s good, right?!”
You laugh again, and this time—it’s easier. The tension loosens, your posture relaxes, and you actually start leaning into the table as you talk with him.
By the time the coffee cups are empty, Atsumu realizes he’s done it—he’s made you laugh, kept you talking, and gotten through an entire hour without mortifying himself. (Well—only a little mortifying.)
Walking you out, he tries not to trip over himself offering to hold the door, walk you to your car, something to prolong the moment.
You thank him for coffee, and as you’re about to leave, he panics—blurts: “Wait—can I see you again? Like—dinner next time? Or lunch? Or whatever ya like—I’ll bring the coffee, you bring the clipboard?”
You smirk, sliding your sunglasses back on like you’re already halfway back into boss mode. “We’ll see, Miya. I’ll have to keep my schedule open.”
He stands in the parking lot, watching you go, heart thundering like he just survived the most intense match of his life. The second you’re out of sight, he pumps both fists in the air. “YES! I FUCKIN’ NAILED THAT SHIT.”
⸻
YOUR SECOND DATE
Atsumu goes all out planning this one. None of this “winging it” shit—no sir. He’s booked reservations at this beautiful, upscale restaurant down town, he’s researched the entire menu, asked Osamu which wines pair best with certain dishes—he’s really serious about this.
Osamu teases him mercilessly the whole time he’s getting ready. “Ya look like yer about to propose to her, ‘Tsumu.”
“Bro, Shut up! This is important—this is like the first real date I’m going on with her!”
“Ya took her for coffee, that is a real date.”
“No—ya know what I mean. This is the first real date after I redeemed myself.”
He shows up in a fitted black button-up rolled up to his elbows and straight black slacks—and he knows he looks good. His hair is styled just enough to look effortless, though you both know he spent way too long on it.
You notice him immediately, the glint of the silver watch on his wrist as he checks the time, the way his neck cranes as he’s looking for you, waiting for you outside of the restaurant. And he looks good.
He’s jittery waiting for you to arrive, playing with the hem on his sleeve, but the second you walk up to him, he lights up like someone flipped a switch.
“Wow.” It slips out before he can stop himself. God you look perfect, you always do. And now he’s just staring again, scrambling for words. “Uh—I mean—you look…Gorgeous. You look absolutely gorgeous.”
You give him that look. That small, amused tilt of your lips that says, you’re trying way too hard, but it’s kind of cute.
Once you’re seated, he surprises you. He’s still a little chaotic, yes, but he’s actually…charming. He asks questions about you, listens intently, keeps the jokes light and stupid just enough to make you laugh. The nerves are still there, but he’s channeling them into energy now instead of total meltdown.
When the waiter comes, he politely offers the wine menu. And of course, Atsumu, in all his idiotic glory, orders the most expensive wine on the menu—by the fucking bottle.
When the wine arrives, it’s poured into two glasses, you take the first sip and Atsumu can’t help but watch as you lift the glass to your lips, your lipstick smearing the edge of the glass.
Atsumu swirls the wine in his glass. He’s watching you. Memorizing you. He’s absolutely taken by you. He can’t take his eyes off you as he the glass of wine to his lips, taking his first sip and—
“Oh—What the fuck—I thought this was supposed to be sweet?!” Why is it bitter—.”
You laugh. That warm, genuine laugh that makes him forget every screw-up in his life. “Well yeah, it’s Bordeaux, T’sumu. It’s not supposed to be sweet.”
You giggled softly, raising your glass to take another sip. “I thought you knew that.”
“What? Why would I know that?! And why does it have to be so…aggressive?!”
The two of you laugh, filling each others glasses throughout the night and at some point, the conversation turns toward volleyball and he’s glowing. Animated hands, wide grin, telling you stories about matches, rivalries, Bokuto’s antics. He’s passionate, magnetic—you can see why people love him on the court.
You tease him once, offhandedly “You really do talk a lot, don’t you?”
And he just grins, cocky but soft. “Only ‘cause I finally got ya listenin’ to me. That’s all I needed.”
When dessert comes, he insists you try a bite of his—holding the spoon out across the table. You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “What are you doing?”
“Sharin’,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “C’mon, have a bite.” You roll your eyes, but you lean in anyway, and he nearly combusts watching you take the bite.
He pays for dinner of course, and he leaves a generous tip to the waiter and shakes his hand as a thank you. He helps you put on your coat like any gentleman should and he gets a whiff of your perfume— it’s intoxicatingly sweet, absolutely delicious.
He walks you out, he’s nervous again, fidgeting, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, I…uh. I had a really…good time tonight.”
You smile a gentle smile, stepping closer just enough to make his breath hitch. “So did I. Thank you for this, it was really lovely.”
His heart’s pounding so hard he swears you can hear it. And when his eyes meet yours, it’s electric, you can feel the sparks fly and your entire body feels like it’s on fire. “Can I kiss you? Or is it too soon?”
You pause—just long enough to make him sweat—then tilt your head slightly, lips curving. “Please,”
He kisses you—soft at first, tentative, almost reverent. And then when you don’t pull away, he deepens it just enough to let you feel the warmth of him, the promise that he’s not playing around.
When you finally pull back, he’s dazed. Absolutely wrecked. “God,” he mutters softly against your lips. grinning like an idiot. “Just one more,”
You feel his hand slide to the back of your neck and pull you into another kiss—this time it’s messier, it’s raw, it’s needy. His lips are soft, they’re sweet and addictive. He moans softly into your mouth, his fingers tugging on your hair slightly. You break the kiss, pulling away, your chest heaving slightly as he strokes your cheek with his thumbs.
“That’s all I wanted.” He say resting his forehead against yours. “Have I redeemed myself yet?”
You giggle, your lips brushing his to tease him a little. You take a step back, your eyes never leaving his. “We’ll see, Miya. You’ll have to take me on another date.”
He stands there in the glow of the streetlamp, watching you go, buzzing like he just won a championship.
The second you’re gone, he pulls out his phone and texts Bokuto in all caps: I KISSED HER. HOLY SHIT I KISSED HER.
⸻
HOW HE ASKS YOU TO BE HIS GIRLFRIEND
Atsumu spends weeks overthinking it. To him, you’re already his girlfriend—he just hasn’t said it out loud yet. He texts you every night and every morning, takes you to coffee every Sunday morning, he sneaks you snacks during PR meetings and always shoots you a wink from across the room, and he never turns down a late night date with you. But still, the word “girlfriend” hangs over his head and he wants to throw up anytime someone asks him: “so…are you guys dating now or what?”
The plan (that he absolutely overcomplicates):
He asks Osamu for advice.
Osamu tells him, “Just ask her, dumbass. She’s stayed for this long—must mean somethin’.”
Bokuto tells him to “make a big sign or something—girls love signs!”
Sakusa rolls his eyes and says, “You’re unbearable. Don’t ask her—it’s for her own good.”
Atsumu takes all this as: “I need to make it perfect.”
What actually happens:
He lasts maybe three more dates before he cracks. You’re both walking back to your cars after grabbing dinner—nothing fancy, just a casual weeknight meal together after work. You’re laughing at something he said, he’s buzzing with nerves just from hearing your voice, hearing your laugh, and his hands shoved deep in his pockets, like he keeps wanting to say something, then cuts himself off before he can embarrass himself.
You notice immediately. “Hey” there’s a playfulness in your voice. “You’re weirdly quiet tonight, T’sumu. What’s going on?”
He groans. “See, that’s exactly why I’m freakin’ out—I always talk too much, but the one time I shut up, ya think I’m actin’ suspicious.”
“You are suspicious. This just isn’t like you.” you deadpan.
He stops dead in the middle of the parking lot, spins to face you, and blurts: ”Okay—I can’t keep doin’ this.”
Your heart just shatters. “Oh…”
“You’re not just…someone I’m takin’ out for coffee or dinner or whatever. You and me—we’re dating. You’re my girlfriend. There—I said it. You’re my girlfriend—I mean, unless you don’t wanna be.”
He says it so fast it’s almost one breath. His ears are red, he’s erratic, frantic, and he looks like he’s either about to faint or sprint a marathon.
You stare at him for a second, lips twitching, just to watch him squirm. Then you finally say, cool and collected as ever:
“Atsumu… we’ve gone on, what, eight—maybe ten dates? I already thought I was your girlfriend.”
He short circuits. “WHAT—wait—ya mean I’ve been stressin’ over this shit for weeks and you already thought—oh my god. I’m an idiot.”
You laugh, your head tilling back, a snort is drawn out of you, and he immediately points at you like he’s been vindicated. “See—that! That’s why I wanted to make it official. Because that laugh? That smile? I want it to be mine. Like—permanently. So yeah. You’re mine now.“
You step closer, kiss him softly just to shut him up, and murmur against his lips:
“I’ve been yours—since the first time we met.”
He nearly lifts you off your feet hugging you, and the second you’re in your own car, his group chat is blowing up with all caps:
ATSUMU: BOYS SHE’S MY GIRLFRIEND HOLY SHIT I DID IT
BOKUTO: LET’S GOOOOOOOOO
OSAMU: Took ya long enough
HINATA: Does this mean I can stop hearing about “the clipboard goddess” 24/7?
ATSUMU: NO. SHE’S MY GIRLFRIEND. MY. GIRLFRIEND. PREPARE TO BE SICK OF ME
⸻
★ SAKUSA KIYOOMI
HOW YOU MET
The monsoon season in Tokyo was unforgiving. The downpour of rain blurred the parking lot into a mirage of neon lights glistening in the puddles. The sound of rain crashing onto the pavement below was violent, resentful against the summer heat. Your slacks and blouse were already soaked through when you sprinted from the bus stop, clutching your umbrella like a broken shield, your purse bouncing with every step. Your car was in the shop this morning—something about your transmission needing work? You were lucky to live in the city, otherwise you wouldn’t have had a ride to work this morning.
The MSBY gym loomed ahead, warm fluorescent lights glowing against the storm. Relief washed over you—that was until the roar of an engine tore through the downpour. A car whipped out of the parking lot too fast, tires slicing through a puddle so wide you didn’t even stand a chance.
Cold water hit you like a wave and a gasp tore through your lungs in shock. Head to toe, absolutely drenched. Your blouse clung uncomfortably to your skin, mascara stinging your eyes as it bled down your cheeks. You stood frozen in shock, dripping, umbrella hanging useless in your hand.
It’s your fourth week on the job. How embarrassing. That’s when you realized your white blouse was completely see through—
“Oh. My. God.”
That’s when you heard a car door click shut.
Across the lot, a sleek black vehicle had been parked in the far corner. Its driver—tall, broad-shouldered, masked—was watching. Sakusa Kiyoomi. He didn’t hesitate long. With that familiar economy of movement, he grabbed something from his gym bag and strode toward you, rain streaming off his hood.
Wordlessly, he held out a towel for you. Crisp, clean, folded with precision.
“You okay?” He said.
You blinked up at him, shivering, too stunned to speak. “Absolutely not.” you managed, clutching it to your face. It smelled faintly of laundry soap and cologne.
“Here,” He said as he grabbed a spare jacket from his bag, draping it around your shoulders.
“Wait—! Did you see my b—“
“—No,” he said calmly “I didn’t see anything.”
“Come on,” he said simply, voice low but firm. He tilted his head toward the entrance. “You’ll get sick standing out here.”
Inside, the warmth of the gym welcomed you with open arms. He steered you past curious stares of the players without a flicker of hesitation, straight into the staff lounge. You were still dripping on the tile when he set his gym bag down, moving like he already knew exactly what to do.
From the corner of your eye, you saw him at the counter. Pouring water. Setting a kettle. His hands precise, methodical, like the tiniest routine had weight. Minutes later, he placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of you.
“Drink,” he instructed, tone flat—but the quiet attention in his eyes betrayed him.
Your hands shook slightly as you wrapped them around the mug. “You didn’t have to—”
“I did.” His reply was immediate. Almost clipped. Then, softer, “People don’t… prepare for weather like this. You clearly weren’t dressed for it.”
Something about the way he said it made your chest twist. He wasn’t mocking. He was worried, though you doubted he’d admit it. You gripped the jacket around yourself shoulders tighter, seeking its warmth.
You met his gaze over the rim of the mug, mascara streaked slightly from the rain, strands of hair clinging to your cheeks. For the first time, you saw him really look at you. Not a casual glance, not polite acknowledgment—he was studying you, unflinching.
“I feel like I owe you an apology,” he said, voice low, measured.
Your brow quirked as you took a slow sip of the coffee. “Oh? And what for exactly?”
“I… haven’t really spoken to you properly since you joined the team,” he admitted, hands curled around his own mug, knuckles white from holding it too tight.
You tilted your head, faintly amused. “That… doesn’t need an apology. I didn’t expect anything different.”
His eyes flicked to yours again, sharper this time, and for a moment the storm outside seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you in that small staff lounge. Wrapped in the towel he’d handed you, held by the jacket he draped over your shoulders, warmed by the coffee he’d made, you felt—somehow—anchored. Safe. Not just from the rain, but from everything else.
He didn’t argue. Instead, his eyes lingered on yours a beat longer than necessary, careful, calculating. “Still. I thought I should.”
The storm outside hammered against the windows, but inside the staff lounge, the air was quieter. He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t soften. He simply remained there—standing, watching, aware of you more than anyone else had been allowed to.
“Noted,” you said, setting your mug down. Your voice was calm, but your pulse quickened at the weight behind his gaze.
He gave the tiniest nod. “Then that’s it. I’ll leave you to it.”
Without another word, he turned, jacket sliding neatly over his shoulder, eyes scanning the room for his next move. No pleasantries. No small talk. Just presence. And as he left, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he had said more with what he didn’t say than with anything he could ever put into words.
The storm had passed outside, but something unspoken remained, sharp and undeniable, hanging between you.
⸻
HOW HE ASKS YOU OUT ON A DATE
You’d been carrying his jacket around in your tote bag all week, waiting for the right moment to return it to him. You had a busy week, the team was preparing for huge game and you were too busy working on marketing campaigns for the team and meeting with sponsors all week. His jacket had been washed, folded with neat precision, slipped into a paper bag to keep it clean. Still, the faint trace of your detergent clung to the fabric, fresh and warm.
When you stepped into the gym that afternoon, the rain still pouring—it had been all week. The sound of shoes squeaking against polished wood filled the air, your heels clicked against the court, alerting the boys you’d finally made it out of your conference with the sponsors. The team was wrapping up practice—Atsumu shouting something obnoxious across the court, Bokuto’s laugh echoing off the walls. Sakusa stood a little apart, towel around his shoulders, water bottle dangling loosely from one hand.
You caught his eye before you even called out.
“Hey,” you said softly, lifting the bag a little. “I wanted to return this. Thanks again… for the other day, I really appreciated it.”
He blinked, surprise flickering across his expression before he masked it with that same calm neutrality. Still, his steps carried him toward you, slow but deliberate. He took the bag, fingers brushing yours for a fraction of a second, and then glanced inside.
Folded. Fresh. Crisp. Clean.
“…You didn’t have to do all this,” he murmured, voice lower now that he was standing so close.
“I know,” you admitted, shrugging lightly. “But I wanted to and I thought you’d appreciate it.”
He paused, fingertips grazing the clean fabric as though reluctant to pull it out in front of you. His brows softened almost imperceptibly, and he let out a quiet breath. “It looks better than when I lent it to you.”
You smiled. “Then it’s a fair trade.”
For a moment, neither of you moved. The noise of the gym seemed to fade into the background—the banter, the shouts, the rhythmic bounce of a stray volleyball. His gaze lingered a little longer than necessary, steady and unreadable, before he gave a small nod.
“Thank you,” he said simply. But the weight behind it was heavier than the words themselves.
The storm outside surged, wind rattling against the doors, and for a moment neither of you moved. You were aware of the other players drifting out, their voices fading as they disappeared into the rain. Sakusa lingered near his bag, adjusting the strap on his shoulder, but he didn’t turn away just yet.
“You don’t like the rain, do you?” His voice broke the quiet, not exactly a question but not entirely a statement either.
You huffed a laugh, tucking your coat closer around yourself. “It’s not that I don’t like the rain, I just don’t like monsoon season. Makes me want to hibernate. I almost stayed home today, honestly.”
That earned the faintest tug of his mouth upward—so subtle you might have missed it if you weren’t looking. “Understandable.” He shifted, slinging his bag higher on his shoulder, and for once it seemed like he wasn’t in any hurry to walk off.
The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It was… suspended. The storm filled it, rain pounding steady as a heartbeat.
You slipped on your coat, smoothing it down, and that small motion caught his attention again. He hesitated—an almost imperceptible pause—before his voice came, quieter this time.
“I’m heading to the café down the street,” he said, casual in tone but deliberate in timing. “They stay open pretty late. I usually stop there after practice… for coffee.”
You blinked, looking up at him. His gaze didn’t waver.
“Would you like to join me?”
The words weren’t dressed up, weren’t anything grand. Practical. Straightforward. But there was something in the way he said it—the faint restraint, the way his eyes held yours—that made it clear this wasn’t just about coffee.
The storm cracked outside, thunder rolling low, and you found yourself smiling despite the weather. “Sure, I’d like that.”
His nod was small, almost imperceptible, but the corner of his mouth tilted just slightly, like your answer had smoothed out something he’d been holding too tightly.
⸻
YOUR FIRST DATE
The storm followed you down the street, the two of you sharing the same pace without needing to discuss it. The café sat tucked into the corner of the block, its windows fogged from the warmth inside, amber light spilling out onto the wet sidewalk. The kind of place that looked almost too soft against the storm—like a pocket of calm carved out of the chaos.
When Sakusa pushed the door open, a bell chimed low overhead. The air was instantly warmer, filled with the rich scent of coffee grounds and faint sweetness of baked pastries. You exhaled in relief, brushing stray raindrops from your coat while he held the door just long enough for you to step in first.
It was late. Only a couple of tables were occupied—students hunched over laptops, a man by the window scrolling on his phone. The quiet buzz of the espresso machine filled the silence.
Sakusa ordered black coffee without hesitation, voice even, then stepped aside for you to place yours. You caught the way his hand lingered briefly at the small of your back as you moved to the counter—barely a touch, more a suggestion than a gesture, but enough that your skin prickled with awareness.
When the drinks were ready, he carried both to a corner table. Of course he’d choose the farthest one, a seat with his back to the wall and the rest of the room within view. You slid into the chair across from him, the storm a muted roar against the fogged glass.
For a while, the two of you didn’t speak. The silence wasn’t empty—it was measured. He sipped his coffee slowly, his hands curling around the cup as though grounding himself in the warmth. You mirrored him, taking your first sip, the heat curling pleasantly in your chest.
Finally, his eyes lifted. Dark, steady.
“You’ve never come here before, have you?”
You shook your head. “No, I haven’t actually. It’s my first time. I didn’t even know this place stayed open late.”
“Yeah, they open pretty early as well. It’s always quiet,” he said, glancing briefly toward the other patrons before his gaze returned to you. “It’s always predictable. That’s why I like it.”
You smiled faintly at that. “That… sounds very you.”
The corner of his mouth tugged upward, the barest flicker of amusement in his expression. “And what does that mean?”
“That you probably have a mental list of every café in the city ranked by lighting, noise level, and how close the tables are together.”
He didn’t deny it. Instead, he set his cup down, leaning back slightly in his chair. “You wouldn’t be wrong.”
The admission startled a laugh out of you, soft and low. It earned you another flicker of that rare expression—Sakusa’s mouth curving into something not quite a smile, but warmer than neutrality.
The rain surged outside, thunder rolling faintly in the distance, and for a long stretch of minutes, conversation wove between the two of you like threads stitched carefully in place. It wasn’t about volleyball, not entirely—though practice and matches surfaced briefly. It was about smaller things: the smell of the rain on concrete, the way the city looked different when it was drenched, the books you hadn’t had time to finish.
Every time your eyes met across the table, it lingered a second too long. Neither of you named it. Neither of you needed to.
When your cup was nearly empty, you traced your thumb along the rim, feeling the warmth fade. “So,” you said softly, “do you always invite people for coffee after practice, or am I special?”
The question slipped out before you could pull it back, half-teasing, half-searching.
Sakusa’s gaze fixed on you, unwavering. His silence stretched just long enough to make you shift in your seat, but then—
“I don’t usually ask anyone,” he said quietly.
The words landed heavier than you expected, weight settling in your chest. You didn’t look away. Neither did he.
Outside, the rain eased into something softer, steady but less violent, as though the storm itself had finally calmed.
You realized then, with a quiet certainty, that this wasn’t just about coffee.
⸻
YOUR SCOND DATE
The city outside had quieted down after practice. Rain streaked the streets, soft now, the thunder reduced to a distant grumble. The hum of traffic barely reached the top floors of Sakusa’s apartment building, leaving the two of you alone in the warmth of his space.
Normally, he’d never invite anyone into his space—but you were different. There was something about you that he wanted, that he needed. He liked your company, looked forward to seeing you every day. Grabbing coffee with you became a routine, it became part of both of your schedules and you never thought twice about it.
He opened the door before you could knock, holding it just long enough for you to slip inside, shaking off your coat. The faint scent of cedar and faintly brewed tea lingered in the air.
“You can leave your bag there,” he said, nodding toward a small corner near the entrance. His voice was calm, even, but there was an ease now that hadn’t existed on the first date—a quiet rhythm to being near him.
You hung your coat carefully on the rack, noticing how precise everything was in the apartment: shoes aligned, a towel folded perfectly on the sofa arm, books stacked in ascending order. He had a system. He had everything in order. And somehow, it wasn’t cold—it was comforting.
He moved to the small kitchen, beginning to prepare something with deliberate care. You leaned against the counter, watching him.
“I thought I’d make something quick since it’s been a long day,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Pasta. Garlic, olive oil, chili flakes. Something simple. Maybe some coffee?”
You nodded, smiling. “Simple’s perfect and coffee sounds like a necessity right now.”
The apartment smelled delicious, like fresh pasta, garlic, and herbs. You watched him, noticing details you hadn’t before: the way his brows furrowed just slightly when he focused, how his sleeves were rolled perfectly to the elbow, revealing smooth, pale skin.
He set two plates on the table, steam rising from the food. “Sit,” he instructed, voice calm but authoritative. You obeyed, taking in the small, quiet space he inhabited.
The first bites were careful. He watched you, not intrusive, but attentive—the faintest tilt of his head, eyes tracking your reaction. You weren’t sure what you’d expected from a second date, but this—this quiet, attentive focus—felt different.
“You don’t talk much,” you observed softly, glancing up from your plate.
“I prefer listening,” he replied simply, not defensive. “You tend to talk enough for both of us.”
You laughed softly, warmth creeping into your chest despite the rain outside. “Maybe I just like having someone actually pay attention to what I say.
His gaze flickered briefly, sharp and steady. “I pay attention, I’d like to think sometimes too much.”
You swallowed a bite, heart quickening. It wasn’t just the food—it was how he said it, the quiet certainty in his tone. You hadn’t realized how much that mattered.
Dinner passed in gentle conversation: small jokes, teasing about the team, murmured observations about the city beyond the window. No grand gestures, no dramatic declarations—just the two of you, navigating space and time as if this routine was meant to exist.
When you finished, he gestured to the couch. “Coffee?” His movements were simple but precise. You smiled, nodding to him as he stood up. brewing two mugs and handing one to you. The warmth seeped into your hands, the rich aroma filling the room.
You settled beside him, knees brushing. Neither of you spoke at first, letting the quiet stretch. Outside, the rain had slowed to a mist, tapping against the window panes.
“You ever think about how quiet this city gets during storms?” you asked softly, leaning slightly toward him.
“Sometimes,” he replied, voice low. “It’s… predictable. No one wants to get caught in the rain.”
You smirked. “Everything about you is predictable.”
His gaze met yours over the rim of his mug, dark and unflinching. There was no amusement in his expression—just presence. “And yet you still come around,” he said.
“I like predictability,” you teased lightly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Especially when it comes with pasta and coffee.”
His mouth quirked just slightly—something between acknowledgment and a smile—but he didn’t elaborate. He never needed to. The tension wasn’t loud; it was quiet, contained, and heavy with everything unspoken.
After a few more sips, you shifted slightly, letting your shoulder brush his. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand found the edge of the sofa, close enough that your fingers nearly touched. Not reaching, just… close.
And in that quiet apartment, with the city muted outside and the storm fading to drizzle, you realized that these simple routines—the pasta, the coffee, the subtle presence—were becoming something you didn’t want to end.
He made no dramatic gestures, no grand declarations. Yet the way he observed you, quietly, deliberately, made you feel seen in a way no one else had managed.
And you knew, as you traced the rim of your coffee cup, that something was changing. That this wasn’t just coffee after practice anymore. That in the quiet, subtle, steady way Sakusa Kiyoomi moved through the world, he was claiming space for you in it.
And maybe, just maybe, you were letting him.
⸻
HOW HE ASKS YOU TO BE HIS GIRLFRIEND
The city had cooled after a long week of practice. The rain had returned, soft and steady, but you’d managed to stay dry this time—umbrella in hand, scarf wrapped tightly, heels clicking against the wet sidewalk.
Sakusa was already waiting at the bottom of the stairs to his apartment, hands in the pockets of his coat, gaze fixed on you. He didn’t wave, didn’t call out. Just stood there, tall and calm, as if he had been waiting for this exact moment all week.
You stepped onto the landing, heart quickening—not from the rain, but from the quiet presence of the man who had slowly become a part of your world. Four months. You’d spent countless evenings here: cooking together, laughing quietly over takeout, trading books and coffee recommendations. Even sitting in companionable silence had become a kind of intimacy.
“You’re late,” he said, voice low, almost teasing.
“Traffic,” you lied with a small smirk, brushing raindrops from your hair.
He tilted his head slightly, eyes dark and unreadable. “Hmm.”
Inside, his apartment smelled faintly of dinner—garlic, herbs, and something warm and comforting. He’d made dinner again, it’s a ritual at this point. He’s always made weeknight dinners and sent you home with meal preps. You set your bag down by the entrance, and he gestured toward the kitchen.
“You’re making coffee?” you asked, recognizing the quiet ritual that had become part of your evenings together.
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he moved past you to the counter, hands already measuring beans into the grinder. The familiar rhythm of his movements was soothing. He brewed two mugs, the rich aroma curling around you like a blanket.
When he set one in front of you, his gaze lingered over the rim of his own cup, dark and deliberate. “I thought maybe you’d appreciate the sentiment. You’re quiet tonight.”” he observed, voice even.
“I’m just really tired,” you said softly. But there was something in the way he studied you—a patient, unwavering presence—that made you pause.
“Hmm well,” he said after a beat. “I like it when you’re quiet.”
You tilted your head at him, skeptical. “Really? Is that so.”
“Mhmm.” His response was minimal, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. He didn’t need to elaborate. He never did.
You sipped your coffee, warmth spreading through your chest. After a moment, you set the mug down and looked at him directly. For the first time that evening, you let the words form.
“I like being here,” you said quietly. “With you. It always just feels… easy.”
His eyes flickered, the faintest twitch of a mouth, before he looked away to the window. Rain streaked the glass, the world outside blurred and muted. He set his cup down and finally turned to you, gaze sharp and intentional.
“Easy?” he echoed, voice low. “You mean… comfortable.”
“Well yes,” you admitted, shrugging lightly. “I don’t know how to explain it. But it feels… like home. You always feel like home.”
The pause that followed wasn’t empty. It was full, charged with the months of moments—the dinners, the walks, the quiet evenings, the coffee rituals. He took a step closer, deliberately small, careful.
“I… think I’ve wanted to hear that for a while,” he said finally, voice steady but deliberate, hands loosely at his sides. “Not easy, not casual. I mean… me, with you. I like it. I like it a lot. And…”
He exhaled, almost silently, as if he’d been holding the words in for months. “…I want more. I want things between us to be official. If… you want that too.”
Your heart thumped, chest tightening. Four months of subtle, slow-burn intimacy had led here: quiet evenings, shared rituals, stolen glances, and now, this moment.
“I…I would love that,” you said softly, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I think I’ve been hoping you’d ask. I knew we were exclusive, but I’m glad you wanted something more.”
The faintest trace of a smile finally curved his mouth. He stepped closer, careful, deliberate, until you could feel the warmth radiating from him. Hands brushing briefly before he settled them at his sides again.
“I’ve thought about it for a while. You being mine. It just sounded right.” he said quietly, low enough that the words were almost a secret between the two of you.
You leaned in, brushing your lips against his, soft, tentative, and then, when he didn’t pull away, deepening just slightly.
The city continued its rain-soaked rhythm outside, but inside his apartment, four months of quiet moments had built something steady, deliberate, and undeniable. You were together now—not in whispers or glances, but officially.
And for the first time, Sakusa Kiyoomi allowed himself to exhale fully, letting the quiet weight of four months lift, replaced with something simple, raw, and entirely his own.
⸻
★ OSAMU MIYA
HOW YOU MET
The mornings on Hyōgo’s backstreets were always the same—dim sky, dew on the sidewalks, and the scrape of Osamu’s keys in Onigiri Miya’s front lock.
Except lately, they hadn’t been just the same.
Across the street, the coffee shop lights flickered on every morning before his. And every morning, he saw her. Apron tied at the waist, hair pulled back, chalk-stained fingers steady as she bent over the little sandwich board menu. Sometimes she chewed her lip as she wrote, sometimes she hummed softly, and sometimes she laughed to herself, shaking her head as if the chalk had betrayed her with a misspelled word.
Osamu had been watching for weeks, telling himself it was nothing. Just a neighbor, just another shop owner starting their day.
But that morning, instead of turning the lock and heading inside, he lingered. And then—before he could talk himself out of it—he stepped off the curb and crossed the street.
“Ya always up earlier than me, huh?” His drawl carried easily in the quiet morning. She looked up, startled, then smiled.
He nodded toward the chalkboard she was finishing. “Figured I should finally learn the name of the one beatin’ me at openin’ shop.”
She blinked at him, then wiped her chalk-streaked fingers on her apron.
“Coffee shops usually open earlier than a rice ball shop. Not much of a competition.”
Osamu’s mouth tipped into the smallest grin. “Still counts. I’ve been losin’ every morning, and I don’t take losin’ lightly.”
Her laugh came quick, warm in the stillness of the street. “Sounds like someone’s a sore loser.”
“Maybe,” he admitted, tucking his hands into his pockets. “But I like t’think of it as motivation.”
She raised a brow, curious. “Motivation for what?”
His gaze slid to the chalkboard, then back to her. Up close, she was even prettier than he’d let himself notice from across the road. “For walkin’ over here instead of watchin’ ya from my window again.”
That earned him a flush of color in her cheeks, and Osamu felt the strange satisfaction of landing a good serve.
“So,” he continued, tilting his head. “What’s your name, neighbor?”
“Y/n,” she answered, smoothing her apron like she needed something to do with her hands. “And you’re…?”
“Miya Osamu,” he said easily. “I own the Onigiri shop across the street.”
Her lips curved. “Oh, I know. You’ve got people lined up out the door most afternoons. Hard not to notice.”
“Guess we’ve both been noticin’ each other, then.” He leaned just slightly closer, the grin tugging at his mouth more genuine this time.
That pulled another laugh out of her, quick and a little nervous. She shook her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, Miya Osamu, good luck opening up. Try not to burn the rice.”
“Darlin’, I could cook rice in my sleep.” He tipped an invisible cap at her before heading back across the street.
Still, when he slid his key into the lock, he found himself glancing over his shoulder just in time to catch her watching him with the faintest smile.
And for the first time in weeks, it felt like maybe she’d noticed him too.
⸻
HOW HE ASKS YOU OUT ON A DATE
The rhythm of their mornings settled in after that. Everything was always the same, always something they looked forward to.
Sometimes she’d wave at him through the glass in the morning as he set the tables outside the shop. Sometimes he’d wander over with a tray balanced in one hand, trading a warm onigiri for her newest coffee experiment. They started lingering a little longer, leaning against the doorway with cups in hand, conversations spilling past safe topics like business hours and weather. Her company soon became something he looked forward to every day.
“You don’t ever get sick of rice?” she asked one morning, blowing on her coffee.
Osamu smirked. “Don’t ever get sick of coffee, do ya?”
She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. “Okay, you have a very fair point.”
Another day, she handed him a latte with a foam heart floating in the middle. He raised a brow at it.
“Don’t read too much into it,” she warned, biting back a grin.
“Too late,” he said, and took a slow sip.
It was like that—teasing, easy, each encounter pulling them a little closer.
Until one evening, just as she was locking up the cafe, Osamu appeared across the street with two steaming takeout boxes in hand.
“Figured you’d skip dinner if I didn’t intervene,” he said, offering one over.
She laughed, balancing the box against her hip. “What are you spying on me now?”
“Not spyin’,” he said smoothly, “just observin’. And makin’ sure ya eat. You’re gettin’ thin.”
They sat on the curb together, the glow of both shops dim behind them, sharing food and stories until the street went quiet.
And that’s when Osamu leaned back on his hands, giving her a sidelong glance.
“Ya ever sit on the other side of the counter?” His tone was casual, but his eyes held steady on her. “Let me take ya out sometime—show ya how someone else cooks for a change.
⸻
FIRST DATE
Osamu didn’t pick someplace flashy. Of course he didn’t. That wasn’t his style.
Instead, he led her down a narrow side street she’d never noticed, paper lanterns swaying in the night breeze. At the end sat a tiny izakaya tucked between shuttered shops, its windows glowing amber against the dark.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” she said, eyeing the doorway as Osamu pushed it open.
“Wouldn’t do for just anyone,” he replied, voice easy as always. “Figured you’d appreciate good food without the fuss.”
Inside, the air smelled of grilled yakitori and miso, the faint clatter of dishes filling the background. The owner greeted Osamu like an old friend, waving them toward a booth in the back. It was cozy, tucked away—close enough that their knees brushed under the table when they sat.
“You really do know all the best spots,” she said, tracing her finger along the table’s worn edge.
He smirked, leaning forward on his arms. “Perks of bein’ in the food business. Can’t exactly take ya somewhere half-decent and ruin my reputation.”
“Is this a date,” she teased, “or a sales pitch?”
His grin turned slow, steady. “Who says it can’t be both?”
When the skewers arrived, she reached for one, only for his hand to slide it closer instead. Their fingers brushed.
“Careful. It’s hot.”
She arched a brow, but her cheeks warmed. “You always this protective?”
“Only when I like someone,” he said without missing a beat.
That silenced her more effectively than any clever retort.
The food was good, but the conversation was better. They drifted from playful banter to something deeper—Osamu lighting up when he spoke about Onigiri Miya, about the satisfaction of seeing customers lined up outside.
“And you?” he asked after a while, tipping his chin at her. “What got you runnin’ a coffee shop?”
She hesitated, then shrugged. “Guess I just wanted a place where people could come in tired and leave feelin’ a little better.”
Osamu’s gaze lingered, steady and thoughtful. “Think you’re doin’ a damn good job of that.”
Her stomach flipped. She laughed softly, fiddling with her chopsticks. “Careful, Miya. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Almost?” His grin widened. “Guess I’ll have to try harder next time.”
They lingered long after the plates were cleared, neither in a hurry to let the night end.
Outside, the streets were hushed, lanterns swaying in the breeze. Their steps fell in rhythm as he walked her home, the quiet between them charged, heavy with the things neither said aloud.
At her door, she turned, keys in hand. “Thanks, Osamu. Tonight was…” She trailed off, cheeks heating.
“Good,” he finished for her, voice low. “It was good.”
Their eyes caught, holding just a little too long. He didn’t kiss her—not yet. But the look he gave her was steady, deliberate. A promise.
Finally, he shifted his weight, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. “Don’t forget—you owe me another round. Gotta prove coffee can beat rice.”
She smiled, soft and breathless. “Guess I’ll just have to let you try again.”
And the grin that spread across his face—slow, genuine, all Osamu—was worth more than any kiss could’ve been.
The days after their first date fell into a rhythm that wasn’t quite the same as before.
Osamu still caught glimpses of her setting out her chalkboard in the mornings, but now she paused mid-stroke to wave when she saw him watching. And he didn’t just bring her onigiri anymore—sometimes he dropped by with a miso soup tucked in a thermos, or a skewer wrapped in foil. In return, she slipped him lattes during his busiest rushes, pressed into his hand with a grin and a “Don’t say I never take care of ya.”
One afternoon, she crossed the street herself, balancing two iced coffees. Osamu was out front with a crate of produce, sleeves rolled up, the late sun gilding his skin.
“Peace offering,” she announced, holding one out.
He squinted at her over the crate. “Peace for what?”
“For beating you to opening again this morning.”
A chuckle rumbled low in his chest as he took the drink. “Ya think I don’t notice, but I let ya win sometimes.”
“Sure you do,” she said, fighting a smile.
Another night, when her shop lights flickered out later than usual, Osamu appeared at her door, leaning against the frame.
“You gotta stop workin’ yourself to death,” he drawled.
She arched a brow. “And what exactly are you doing still awake?”
“Quality control,” he deadpanned. “Making sure my neighbor across the street doesn’t keel over.”
She laughed, but the warmth in her chest lingered long after he walked her home.
The shift between them was subtle, but it was there—in the way his gaze lingered a beat too long, in the way she caught herself looking for him through her shop window, in the easy slide of banter that felt less like neighbors and more like… something else.
So when Osamu finally leaned against her counter one quiet afternoon, arms folded and that easy grin tugging at his mouth, she wasn’t surprised when he said, “Ya busy tomorrow night?”
She tilted her head, pretending to think. “Depends. Why?”
“Thought we’d switch things up,” he said, voice steady but eyes sharp, watching her reaction. “Maybe let ya see what my kitchen looks like after hours.”
Her heart flipped, but she only smiled, playing it cool. “Are you asking me to cook with you?”
“Somethin’ like that,” he said, pushing off the counter. “Figure it’s about time I let ya in on a few secrets.”
⸻
SECOND DATE + HE ASKS YOU TO BE HIS GIRLFRIEND
The streets were quiet when she pushed open the door to Onigiri Miya. The sign was flipped to “Closed,” but the warm glow of the kitchen lights spilled out from the back.
“Back here,” Osamu’s voice called, low and easy.
She found him at the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair pushed back, hands already working rice between his palms. Bowls of fillings were spread out around him—salmon, pickled plum, bonito flakes—everything laid out like a painter’s palette.
“Figured I’d give ya the full tour,” he said, glancing up with a grin. “And maybe a test. See if ya can handle the art of onigiri.”
She laughed, slipping off her jacket. “So this is a cooking lesson?”
“Somethin’ like that,” he said, sliding a bowl toward her. “Go on then. Show me what ya got.”
Her first attempt was clumsy, rice sticking to her fingers. Osamu chuckled, stepping closer. “Here—ya gotta be gentle, but firm. Like this.”
His hands brushed hers as he guided her movements, his chest almost brushing her shoulder. The warmth of him, the steady cadence of his voice, made her heartbeat stutter.
“Not bad,” he murmured when she managed a somewhat-lopsided triangle. “Ugly as sin, but edible.”
She smacked his arm lightly, laughing. “Don’t quit your day job, comedian.”
They kept at it until the counter filled with their creations—some neat, some barely holding together. By the time they sat down to eat, the kitchen smelled like warm rice and roasted seaweed.
“This is nice,” she said softly, taking a bite.
Osamu leaned back in his chair, watching her with that steady gaze of his. “Yeah. It is.”
The silence stretched—not awkward, but weighted, threaded with something unspoken.
He set down his chopsticks. “Been thinkin’,” he started, voice even, though there was something in his tone that made her look up. “Don’t really want this to just be… casual.”
Her breath caught.
His eyes held hers, unwavering. “I like havin’ ya here. Like seein’ ya in the mornings, hearin’ ya laugh, watchin’ ya try—” he glanced at her misshapen onigiri, a grin tugging at his mouth “—an’ fail miserably at cookin’ rice.”
She laughed, cheeks warm, but her chest tightened at the raw honesty beneath his words.
Osamu leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. “So what do ya say? Ya wanna be mine?”
Her lips parted, but no words came at first. Instead, she smiled—slow, wide, a little breathless. “Yeah, Osamu. I do.”
The grin that spread across his face was small but sure, his shoulders easing like he’d been holding the question longer than he let on.
“Good,” he murmured, reaching across the table to brush his thumb against her flour-dusted knuckles. “’Cause I wasn’t plannin’ on sharin’ ya anyway.”
⸻
★BOKUTO KOUTARO
HOW YOU MET
The parking lot outside the MSBY gym was already buzzing when she walked out, her tote bag slung over her shoulder, mind running through the list of emails waiting on her laptop. The season was heating up, and as marketing director, her days were full of brand meetings, PR pitches, and putting out little fires before they ever reached the court.
What she didn’t expect was to nearly get taken out by Bokuto Koutarou’s car.
The bass of whatever song he was blasting with the windows down could be heard before she even spotted his car. Atsumu’s blond hair was visible in the passenger seat, laughing at something, and then—
SMACK.
Her steps froze. Her car—a perfectly respectable little Kia—rocked under the impact as Bokuto’s front bumper smacked it a little too aggressively.
Her jaw dropped. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“OH FUCK!” Bokuto’s voice was immediate, loud even over the music. The car screeched to a halt, and before she could blink, he was half out of the driver’s seat, hair mussed, wide golden eyes brimming with panic.
“I’M SO SORRY!” he shouted, as if volume would fix it. “I swear I didn’t see—Atsumu was distracting me—”
“Hey! I was not!” Atsumu called from the passenger seat, still laughing like this was the funniest thing he’d seen all week.
“You literally told me to gun it out of the lot!”Bokuto argued, then whirled back to her, hands out like he was facing down a wild animal. “Please don’t be mad, I’ll fix it, I’ll totally fix it!”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, forcing a deep breath before she exploded. “You hit my fucking car, Bokuto.”
“I know! I know I hit your fucking car—I’m sorry!” His voice cracked with guilt. “I’m the worst! But I’ll make it up to you, I promise. There’s a mechanic three blocks down, and I’ll pay for everything! Please don’t fire me from the team.”
Her glare sharpened. “I’m the marketing director, not your coach. I couldn’t fucking fire you even if iI wanted to!”
“Right!” He winced. “Then please don’t fire me from…marketing? I mean like—please don’t start a smear campaign against me for hitting your car!”
Atsumu leaned out the window, still grinning. “Ya gotta admit, this is a fine way to meet a lady, heh?”
Both she and Bokuto shouted in unison: “Shut up, Atsumu!
True to his word, Bokuto followed her to the shop three blocks away, practically jogging at her side as if proximity might soften her fury. He handled everything—talked to the mechanic, handed over his credit card, signed the forms—while she stood with her arms crossed, unimpressed.
“See?” he said brightly, glancing over at her. “All fixed. Well, it will be fixed. Soon. Totally fine.”
She arched a brow. “You realize this doesn’t undo the fact that you slammed into my car like you were in a nascar driver, right?”
His face crumpled. “I know. I’m so sorry. I really wasn’t trying to—” He broke off, ruffling his own hair like a restless bird. “Let me make it up to you. Like, properly.”
She gave him a long, skeptical look. “You’re already paying for the damage.”
“No, no, I mean—” His eyes lit up with sudden determination. “I owe you more than this. Let me take you to lunch—no arguments.”
“Lunch?”
“Yes, lunch. Totally non-negotiable. You can yell at me the whole time if you want.”
She blinked at him. “You want me to yell at you over food?”
“If it means you’ll let me make this right, then yeah!” He gave her a sheepish grin, scratching the back of his neck. “Besides, I kinda owe you a proper first impression. Not… you know…” He gestured vaguely at her poor, dented car.
Despite herself, the corner of her mouth twitched. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“I sure do!” Bokuto’s grin spread, bright and triumphant. “So it’s a yes?”
And just like that, against all logic, she found herself agreeing.
⸻
FIRST DATE
[The Not-Date Lunch]
The diner he dragged her to wasn’t anything fancy. Just a cozy little place a few streets away, the kind of spot with cracked red vinyl booths and laminated menus that stuck together at the edges. Bokuto looked entirely at home there, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he held the door open with a flourish.
“After you!” he said, grinning like this was the best idea he’d ever had.
She stepped inside with a sigh, half-exasperated, half… amused. He really is impossible.
Once they slid into a booth, Bokuto grabbed two menus and handed one over with all the enthusiasm of a kid offering a prize. “They’ve got the best pancakes in the city. Or burgers. Or milkshakes. Honestly, everything’s the best.”
“You sound very unbiased,” she deadpanned, setting her bag on the seat beside her.
“I am unbiased!” he insisted. “I’ve eaten here like… twenty times. Maybe more. Atsumu and I come after late practices sometimes. One time he tried to order six milkshakes and the waitress threatened to kick us out—”
She smothered a laugh behind her hand, shaking her head. “You’re both ridiculous.”
His eyes lit up at the sound. “See? You’re already smiling. I’d say that’s a good start.”
When the waitress came, he ordered with confidence: pancakes the size of his head and a chocolate milkshake, because of course he did. She stuck to something simple, and Bokuto immediately leaned across the table like he was sharing a secret.
“I’m paying, so you could’ve ordered something bigger, you know.”
“I don’t need pancakes the size of the fucking planet to prove a point,” she replied, arching a brow.
“Your loss,” he said with a grin, though his gaze lingered just a moment longer, softer this time.
As the food arrived, Bokuto kept the conversation buzzing—practice stories, wild tales of MSBY’s travel games, little comments about the posters she’d designed for the team that he’d actually noticed.
“You did the one with me mid-spike, right? That’s my favorite. You made me look way cooler than I felt that game.”
She blinked, surprised. Most of the guys barely paid attention to marketing unless it affected their schedules. “You really remember that?”
“Of course I do!” He said it like it was obvious. “You put so much work into all that. It’s like—you’re part of the team, even if you’re not on the court. And you’re really good at it.”
Her chest went warm, unexpected and sharp. She tried to cover it with a sip of water, but his words stuck, settling somewhere deeper than she meant them to.
By the time they were scraping up the last bites of food, she realized she hadn’t thought about her dented car in over an hour.
“See?” Bokuto leaned back with a satisfied smile. “I told you I’d make it up to you.”
“You’re still paying for the repair,” she reminded him.
“Gladly,” he said, flashing a grin that was brighter than the midday sun. “Especially if it means I get to do this again.”
Her heart gave a traitorous flutter. Not a date, she told herself firmly. And yet…
⸻
SECOND DATE + HOW HE ASKS YOU OUT
It started small.
The morning after their “not-date,” Bokuto bounded into the gym with his usual hurricane energy. But when he spotted her by the side doors, coffee in hand, his grin doubled in wattage.
“Good morning!” he boomed, waving so enthusiastically it nearly cost him his duffel bag.
She blinked, surprised at his volume before 9 a.m. “You’re too loud for this hour.”
“You totally like it,” he shot back without hesitation, before jogging onto the court.
⸻
She was reviewing proofs for the next campaign when she heard his voice behind her.
“Need a model?”
Bokuto leaned in the doorway, sweat still drying on his temples from practice, arms crossed but smile easy. She rolled her eyes.
“Pretty sure we’ve got more than enough shots of you.”
“Not like this, though.” He puffed out his chest dramatically, flexing his biceps, then cracked into a laugh when she tried not to smile. “C’mon, you’re good at this. You make us look like superheroes.”
“You already look like superheroes,” she muttered, flipping through photos.
He tilted his head, softer now. “I think you’re the one who makes us look that way.”
The words landed heavier than she expected, and before she could come up with a response, he was gone—back to the court, leaving her staring at the door with her pulse quickened.
⸻
It was late, most of the staff already gone, when she stepped outside to find Bokuto sitting on the hood of his car, scrolling on his phone.
“You waiting for someone?” she asked.
He looked up, hair wild under the glow of the parking lot lights. “Yeah. You.”
Her brows shot up. “Me?”
“Yep! Parking lots can be creepy at night. Figured I’d walk you to your car.” He hopped down easily, landing with a grin. “Chivalry’s not dead, y’know.”
The words were playful, but the thoughtfulness behind them made her chest squeeze. She didn’t argue when he fell into step beside her.
It happened a week later, after another long day. She was heading out when Bokuto caught up, his energy unusually nervous, almost… careful.
“Hey,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. “So… the other day? Lunch? That was fun.”
She smirked. “You mean when you bribed me with pancakes after wrecking my car?”
He groaned, dramatic, then laughed. “Yes, that. But—seriously. I liked hanging out with you. And I was thinking maybe… we could do it again. But, like… an actual date this time.”
Her steps faltered. He looked at her like a golden retriever waiting for permission to jump on the couch—hopeful, earnest, and a little too bright to turn down.
She should’ve said no. Should’ve reminded herself this was reckless, that he was loud and chaotic and not at all the kind of man she planned for.
Instead, she heard herself say: “Alright, Bokuto. One date.”
His grin nearly split his face in two. “Yes! You won’t regret it, I promise.”
⸻
Bokuto had insisted on picking her up. Which, in hindsight, was probably a mistake—because from the moment she stepped outside, he was leaning against his car like he was in some bad teen drama, arms crossed, grin so wide it practically split his face.
“You look amazing,” he said, no hesitation, no stumble, just plain fact.
She rolled her eyes, tugging her jacket tighter around herself. “We’re going to dinner, Bokuto. Not the red carpet.”
“Still amazing,” he said again, softer this time, and for a split second his grin faltered into something gentler.
⸻
The restaurant was warm and low-lit, nothing fancy but charming in that tucked-away kind of way. Bokuto was loud at first, buzzing with energy like he was playing a match instead of sitting at a table, but as the meal stretched on, something shifted.
He asked questions. Real ones. About how she ended up in marketing. About her favorite projects. About why she always had her coffee with oat milk instead of cream.
“You pay attention to that?” she asked, surprised.
“’Course I do,” he replied, leaning forward on his elbows. “I notice stuff. Especially about you.”
Her pulse stuttered.
Halfway through dinner, he made her laugh so hard she almost dropped her fork. He was telling some wild story about Atsumu trying to sneak a volleyball into a movie theater, complete with gestures that nearly knocked over his water glass.
“You’re impossible,” she said between laughter, cheeks aching.
“Yeah,” he agreed, grinning. “But I’m fun, right?”
“Unfortunately.”
The way his face lit up at that—like she’d handed him the sun—made her throat feel tight.
When dinner ended, he didn’t take her straight home. Instead, he parked near a small park a few blocks away, the kind with string lights wrapped around trees and a pond that reflected the glow. They walked slowly, side by side, the air cool enough for her to tuck her hands into her jacket.
Bokuto noticed. Without a word, he shrugged out of his hoodie and draped it over her shoulders.
She started to protest, but he just shook his head. “I run hot. You don’t.”
It was such a simple thing, but the quiet in his voice undid her more than his loudest laugh ever could.
They stopped near the pond, watching the water ripple under the lights. For once, Bokuto wasn’t filling the silence with words. He just stood there, close enough that his sleeve brushed hers, his warmth seeping through.
“This is nice,” she admitted softly.
His head turned, and his smile was smaller now, more private. “Told you you wouldn’t regret it.”
And for the first time since that dented car in the parking lot, she realized he might’ve been right.
⸻
HE ASKS YOU TO BE HIS GIRLFRIEND
After the park date, something shifted between them.
It wasn’t dramatic—no big speeches, no fireworks—but little things. Bokuto waiting for her after work, leaning against the wall outside the office with two smoothies in hand. Bokuto dropping by her desk mid-day with a grin and a dumb joke that somehow made her laugh every time. Bokuto texting her pictures of the team’s chaos, followed by a simple: made me think of you.
She told herself it was casual. Friendly. But the warmth in her chest whenever he looked at her like she was the only person in the room said otherwise.
It was a Friday night when they found themselves caught in the rain leaving the gym. She cursed under her breath, clutching her bag to her chest as droplets soaked through her jacket.
Then a hand tugged her sideways, under the broad canopy of his umbrella.
“You’re gonna drown out here,” Bokuto said, laughing. His hair was already plastered to his forehead, water dripping down his temples.
“You look ridiculous,” she said, biting back a smile.
“You look gorgeous,” he shot back instantly, no shame, no hesitation. Just the truth.
The silence that followed was heavier than the rain.
A week later, he invited her over. “Movie night,” he’d said, like it was the most casual thing in the world. Except nothing about it was casual once she realized how close the couch made them sit.
He was warm, and loud with his commentary, but when she leaned against the armrest, fighting a yawn, he immediately shifted—lifting his arm, giving her space to tuck against him.
She didn’t mean to fall asleep there. Didn’t mean to wake up tangled in his hoodie, his heartbeat steady under her cheek. But when she stirred, he didn’t tease her. Just brushed her hair back with one impossibly gentle hand and whispered, “Go back to sleep.”
⸻
The moment came a few nights later. They’d gone for a walk after dinner, circling the block near her apartment. He was quieter than usual, hands stuffed in his pockets, grin a little too soft around the edges.
When they stopped at her door, he hesitated. Rocked on his heels like a nervous kid.
“Hey,” he said finally, eyes flicking to hers. “So, um… I’ve been thinking.”
She arched a brow. “That sounds dangerous.”
He laughed, the sound a little shaky. “Yeah, maybe. But… look. I like hanging out with you. A lot. Like, a lot a lot.”
Her heart thudded.
“And I know I’m not—” he gestured vaguely at himself, “—the smoothest guy. Or the calmest. Or the… y’know, most serious one. But I really like you. And I don’t just wanna be the guy who wrecked your car and bought you pancakes.” His grin softened into something vulnerable. “I wanna be your boyfriend.”
For once, she was the one who couldn’t find words. All she could do was stare at him—this big, loud, ridiculous man—while her chest pulled tight in the best way.
And then she smiled. “Honestly, I never thought you’d ask.”
The way his entire face lit up, like he’d just won the biggest game of his life, made her wonder if maybe—just maybe—she was the one who’d actually won.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This took me fucking forever to write and I am so sorry for being MIA. Life smacked me in the face and I lost all motivation to write something. The writers block was real and I’m still feeling that way.
you convince osamu to let you film a thirst trap tiktok of him cooking at onigiri miya.
a/n: inspired by that one line i wrote in my ongoing osamu series. and kenny song, ofc.
"So get yer MSBY special at Onigiri Miya today! 'Cause the only thing hotter than our winnin' streak? Is this onigiri."
"...and cut!" You step back from the DSLR you'd mounted onto your tripod with a self-satisfied smirk. "I think we got it that time!"
"Thank fuck," Atsumu sighs, rolling out his neck as he tosses the basket of onigiri onto the table with a dull thud. "Can I eat now? I'm 'bout to pass out."
From behind the bar, Osamu folds his arms and snorts. "Ya would've finished earlier if ya didn't need so many takes."
"I — it's hard bein' an influencer, okay?" his brother snaps, fixing his blonde hair in the reflection of the window. "Gotta give the people what they want."
"Yeah? And what exactly do the people want?"
"I dunno. Smiles. A lil' muscle."
"Sex appeal," you deadpan, eyes never leaving the viewfinder of your camera. Atsumu's face splits into a wide, shit-eating grin.
"What?" he laughs as Osamu shoots the two of you a disgusted look. "She said it, not me!"
You merely shake your head as the twins continue bickering in the middle of the empty restaurant, your lights and camera equipment occupying nearly half the dining room. You and Atsumu had spent the past hour filming content for an upcoming collaboration between the MSBY Black Jackals and Onigiri Miya, and while it isn't your first choice to spend your Saturday morning at work, you're determined to market this delicious limited-time meal to hell.
Even if that means convincing the chef to do the one thing he detests.
"Oh, no," Osamu warns as you approach him with your expensive camera and wide, puppy-dog eyes. "Ya already convinced me to let ya in here before openin'. Yer not gettin' me on camera, too."
"But why?" You pout. It takes every fiber of your being not to stamp your foot into the ground like a child. "Imagine the comments when MSBY fans realize there are two Miyas?"
"Imagine the shame I'll feel when my employees see me shakin' ass on the Internet?"
"I wouldn't make you shake ass!" you guffaw, ignoring the one million viral trends that flood your mind like text notifications. "Not yet, at least."
The glare Osamu gives you makes your cheeks flush pink.
"Look," you tell him, schooling your expression. "I'm not going to make you dance or recite a corny script. You don't even need to talk! Just...let me take a couple shots of you cooking the MSBY special, and I'll be on my way."
Osamu's features darken in suspicion as he considers your seemingly harmless request.
"Just do it, jackass," Atsumu says around a mouthful of onigiri, teriyaki sauce already folding into the corner of his mouth. "Whoever gets the most views gets free dinner."
The chef massages the inner corners of his eyes and sighs. So much for being the chronically offline twin.
"Fine," he says, your excited squeal making his chest twinge against his will. "Just...let me change my shirt first. I look like I just rolled out of bed."
"You look like a million bucks, baby," you coo, already reaching for the power cords of your studio lights.
The shoot goes surprisingly well. In fact, as you watch Osamu in the viewfinder of your camera, you find it criminal that he's kept himself off the Internet for so long. He guides his knife through a green onion with syncopated chops, whisks the teriyaki sauce with near-surgical precision. His biceps are flexing against his black t-shirt, and you try not to notice the way his veins strain against his large hands...
"Somethin' the matter?" Osamu asks, wiping his brow with the back of his hand once you'd stopped recording.
"...huh?" You look up from the tight shot you'd just taken with wide, unassuming eyes.
He snorts. "Ya look like you've just seen a ghost."
"No! No, I just..." You gesture vaguely to the camera in your hands, suddenly forgetting how to string together sentences. "Just admiring the food, is all."
You can't muster the pride to tell him what you were really admiring.
Or what you plan to do with the footage later that night.
"Ya made a thirst trap edit of me?!" Osamu balks at your laptop in horror.
"It's not my fault you look like that!" you snap, gesturing to the video you'd spent four hours editing on Adobe Premiere Pro last night. "I just — I couldn't help myself, okay? I reached a flow state!"
"Yeah, if by flow state you mean ovulation," Atsumu mutters as his brother's forearms take up half the screen.
At your murderous glare, he blurts, "What? Ya sure as hell don't edit me like that!"
Osamu drags a hand down his face. It's not that he's entirely put off by your edit of him. If anything, he's impressed by how you brought out the colors of his ingredients, synced the sounds of his knife to the beat of the song. He's just...he's flattered. Is this how you see him?
“I’m sorry.” You wince. This is more embarrassing than when the twins found your TikTok dedicated to hot athlete fan edits. It was actually how you landed this job. "I don't need to post it if you don't want me to."
"No! No, I just..." Osamu recoils as he's seen extending the MSBY special toward the camera with a smirk. "Ya clearly worked hard on this, and I don't want that to go to waste, so just...post it and never show it to me again, okay?"
"...okay."
You watch his brain short-circuit as he stands up and wanders back into the kitchen. He nearly slips on a freshly mopped patch of floor on the way there.
As if to redeem yourself from the depths of hell, you add, "I promise I'm not ovulating!"
Once he's out of earshot, you bury your face into your arms atop the counter and groan. "I totally am."
Atsumu takes a bite of what has to be his fifth MSBY special this week and says, "I didn't realize chefs were yer type."
"They're not."
"Yeah?" He hits the space bar of your laptop as several color-corrected clips of Osamu's hands flash across the screen.
You want nothing more than to melt into the tiles and have Osamu mop up your remains.
The video performs well — over four million likes on TikTok alone. Later that week, Atsumu asks Osamu what he wants for his free dinner. Osamu pretends not to hear him. You thumb through comments in the back corner of the restaurant, unsure of what you've just unleashed.
volleybabe87: HE HAS A TWIN??
msby_wifey: oh to be a riceball...
respectfullyferal: u know msby's social media manager is down bad
It takes every fiber of your self-restraint not to delete that last comment. Especially as Osamu serves you a steaming plate of food, blushing furiously.
I like when delivery people ask you to sign their tiny shitty screen with your finger like alright sure we can do some free drawing I guess. Some random strokes that evoke the essence of a signature. Looking me dead in the eyes while I play fruit ninja on this blank screen. Why not.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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~In which your childhood best friend, Isagi Yoichi, uses his saved up goal points to buy a phone at blue lock so he can keep in touch with you while he’s gone-
Warnings: Not adherent to canon timeline at ALL. Set back in team Z days. This is purely for funsies as I have not read the manga and am only up to ep 18 of the anime. Fluff, use of curse words, mutual pining, multiple pairings, slightly suggestive themes if you squint.
proofread kind of (it’s 2:30 am and i don’t wanna wait to post this)
It was in the wee hours of a Saturday morning, drifting off amidst the lull of a nature documentary, that you received an oddly familiar message from an unknown number. 10 Digits of mystery floated at the top of your phone screen for a moment, before sliding up into your notification history. Bloodshot eyes strained to read the numbers, trying to make sense of the arrangement before you promptly gave up to acknowledge the message attached.
(Unknown):
U up?
A frown settles over your features. Did someone get a digit wrong in their haste to make a booty call? It certainly seemed to be the case.
(_______):
I think you have the wrong number.
Three dots pop up at the bottom of the screen as you stare blankly, eyes closing in a slow blink.
(Unknown):
wait.
this isn’t _______?
Once droopy eyes laced with sleep snap open to full attention. Who on earth had your number?
(_______):
no YOU wait.
just who tf is this???
(Unknown):
I asked you first.
(______):
idgaf you’re the one who texted ME.
YOU introduce yourself FIRST mf.
(unknown):
It’s Isagi? Isagi Yoichi??
(_______):
WHY ARE YOU SAYING THAT LIKE ITS OBVIOUS
hOW ARE YOH EVEN AVLE TO TEXT ME ANYEAYS?
i thought you weren’t able to have phones??
(Unknown):
You can trade goal points for privileges
like phones
to text people with
You scan the message, the baritone of isagi’s voice rattling around in your skull as you stare through narrowed lids. You can hear the shit eating grin on his face, expression so palpable in your minds eye that you could practically reach out and squeeze his cheeks between your thumb and forefinger. Isagi had always been sassy, you are aware of this, however his tone is almost smug - cocky, even.
Whatever. You can fix that.
(_______):
alright
go text someone then
i’m going to bed.
(Unknown):
WAIT
______ please
talk to me
(_______):
how are you so sure you’re speaking to this _____ person, hm??
(Unknown):
you wouldn’t be responding to me otherwise
besides i know how you text
i got it locked in
(_______):
yea right okay
come to think of it
(Unknown):
?
(_______):
this is a new phone right?
(Unknown):
yea
completely new
only one contact allowed
i gotta win more to get more slots
(________):
so
you just
have my phone number memorized?
(Unknown):
…
yes
(______):
AWWWWWWW
yoichi!!!
are you embarrassed???
You watch as the three dots at the bottom of the chat bubble up, only to disappear and then reappear with a simple;
(yoichi):
maybe.
(______):
NOOOOOOOO
it’s cute that you have it memorized
AND i’m the only contact you have? i’m so flattered, Ichi.
Isagi let’s out a heaving sigh as he throws his arm across his eyes. It really was between you and his mom, but he doesn’t want his mom bombarding him with questions. Not to mention she probably isn’t awake at this hour either.
Ichi. You used to call him that when you both were real little. His first name was ‘too many syllables,’ apparently, your old reasoning still not making much sense ten years later. Still, it never failed to make his heart flutter in his chest when you addressed him by his childhood nickname.
“Who’s gotcha all worked up, hm?” A sing song voice chirps over his shoulder. Big yellow eyes stare inquisitively at the phone screen, glinting amongst the dark.
“Bachira!” Isagi whisper yells, jolting in his futon.
“Yeeesss?”
Isagi’s eyes narrow at the brunette, but he chooses to say nothing further to scold him, only locking the phone and placing it atop his chest.
“You gotta girlfriend or somethin?” Bachira pries, unrelenting.
“Go back to sleep. Please.”
“How can I do that now that I’m intrigued?”
“Unintrigue yourself.”
Isagi rolls to his side, bringing his phone in front of his face. He has yet to type a reply, feeling slightly intimidated now that he has an audience.
How ironic, he thinks.
His thumbs hover over the keyboard, rosy cheek caught between his teeth.
Amidst his contemplation however, a devious Bachira sat plotting.
With a heaving sigh, Bachira feigns disappointment, shuffling in his bedding as if preparing to go back to sleep.
“Fine then, if you won’t tell me then I’ll just…” The moment he sees Isagi’s shoulders relax at the notion of being left alone, Bachira makes his move, “have to figure it out myself!”
With deadly efficiency, Bachira reaches around Isagi’s shoulder’s to snatch the phone from his hands. He’s quick to burrow himself back underneath the zip up covers, hoarding his prize.
Muffled protests come from outside, but Bachira merely ignores them, opting to snap a quick, up close and personal selfie, and press send.
(yoichi):
heyyyyyyyy
An undignified snort escapes you when the photo loads. Two large eyes stare at you from your phone screen, distorted by the lack of distance from the camera. It’s mostly forehead if you’re being honest, but you can make out an impish smile on the stranger’s doll like features.
(______):
LOL
Hi there
(Yoichi):
So
eho is thid
Isagos gf or smthn???
This time an audible laugh escapes you as you flip over on your side.
(______):
Isago? im not familiar with this… isago?
An imaginary friend of yours perhaps?
(yoichi):
no
issgi is real
osagi
sagi
I
SA
GO
**GI
ISAGI
REAL
You’re wheezing into your hand at this point, vision blurred with tears.
(______):
Ohhhhh ISAGI !!
yea i know that guy
(Yoichi):
So you ARE his gf then
(______):
Hmm no, i am not
sorry to disappoint
(Yoichi):
You coulf never fisappoint me ______, pinky pomise ;)
(_______):
whoah are we on a first name basis already?
moving a little fast aren’t we?
(yoichi):
well if you’re not isagi’s gf then you can be MY gf and i’ll b YOUR gf
and we can make him jealous bc we’re gfs and hes nobody’s gf
(______):
hmmmmm
u kno what
you’ve convinced me
what’s your name gf?
(yoichi):
meguru
(______):
is that ur first name, meguru?
(yoichi & meguru):
mhm
i gotta go now tho
isgi’s gettin mad cuz i nabbed his phone
he’s trying to fet me unfer yhe cuvers
(______):
tell him ur my gf and he can’t have u
(yoichi & meguru):
ok.
You giggle at the sudden shift in tone, his punctuation making the ordeal seem so much more serious than it really was.
Three dots bubble up at the corner of the screen once again and you wonder who’s in control of the phone this time.
(yoichi & meguru):
HES RLLY MAD _______
IM NOT SURE HOW MUCH LONGER I HAVe
TLK T O YO U LA TERB YEGF
The chat goes dead after that, and you’re left wondering if you’ll get another text from your new friend or his assailant the rest of the night.
Soon enough you have your answer as the dots pop up again, this time in a much more familiar cadence.
(yoichi & meguru):
jesus fucking christ
(_______):
HAHAHAHAHAHA
(yoichi & meguru):
seriously.
(_______):
everything ok over there???
how’s your victim? is he breathing?? does he still have a pulse???
(yoichi & meguru):
he is NOT a victim he is a conVICT.
(_______):
GASP
don’t talk about my gf like that he’s sensitive
(yoichi & meguru):
WTF
GROSS
dONT TYPE OUT GASP YOU FUCKING LOSER WHAT
(______):
your j mad u arnt gfs like me n meguru
(yoichi & meguru):
yk what
(______):
no
tell me
Isagi rolls his eyes, shifting underneath the covers of his futon.
(yoichi & meguru):
I don’t need this. I’m going to bed.
(______):
awwwwwww okay
goodnight, miss you lots
can’t wait for you to come home a big soccer star
(yoichi & meguru):
yeah yeah
reluctantly
i miss you too
You smile groggily at your phone, a pang of sadness hitting your chest. You’re proud of him, you really are, but you miss your best friend more than anything right now.
(______):
hehehe
talk to you later, ichi <3
I’ll be cheering you on as always!!
‘Man, you really aren’t being fair,’ He thinks to himself.
(yoichi & meguru)
yea, thanks <3
talk to you later
(______):
OH
BEFORE YOU GO !!
(yoichi & meguru):
yeah?
(______):
give my gf a smooch goodnight for me, k?
that’s all ur the greatest gn !!
And just like that’s it’s back to antics.
Isagi can’t help the annoyed groan the escapes him, followed by a mischievous giggle from the space behind him.
“Holy fucking hell, shut the fuck up.” Three spaces over, Raichi lays with his pillow shoved over his head, “If I’m not at my ‘A’ game tomorrow because the two of you were up gossiping all night I’m going to make it your goddamn problem, got it? Now go to fucking sleep or I’ll make you.”
“Ooooo, so scary.” Naruhaya pipes up from opposite the disgruntled striker. “Seriously though guys? with all due respect? Shut up.”
‘Message received.’ Isagi thinks, finally shifting into a comfortable position for the night.
I'm not trying to be disrespectful, but you need to stop tagging your fics under "xreader" when they're clearly "xblack!reader". You're clogging the tag with it. "xreader" is for non-bipoc. Just tag your things and leave "xreader" out of it, please. Thanks.
And exactly what do you think "non-bipoc" means? Exactly, WHITE PEOPLE. Y'all have been excluding BIPOC from your fics for DECADES, literal decades, telling us that your fics are inclusive when the most inclusivity you have is not explicitly naming hair color so that some white girl can imagine the reader as blonde or brunette. "He ran his hands through my hair" and "My pale skin glistened" are not inclusive.
You do not own the x reader tag. That tag should be meant for inclusivity, therefore readers of all races, sexualities, genders, etc. should be able to find fics under it as well. Everybody should have space in the x reader tag. Also, notice how I tag my fics as x reader as well as x black reader/x black!reader? That is so that people can look in both tags and find themselves and so that assholes like you can just scroll past my work if you think you're too good to read a story revolving around a black character when we've been stomaching your lack of representation for years. White people need to be tagging their works as x white reader since y'all want to blatantly describe your characters as white. Put your works in both tags, I don't care, but don't you dare act like you're entitled to the x reader tag.
White is not the default. Just because you've pushed everyone out of your spaces and forced us to create our own does not give you entitlement to that tag. BIPOC are just as entitled to be in fanfic spaces as y'all are, so shut the hell up and stop acting like you have the right to try and push us away. We're done with y'all thinking you can just dominate and exclude us without any push back. We're pushing back and we're going to make ourselves heard in the spaces you exclude us from as well as the spaces we create for ourselves.
Edit: Did you know guys - I actually wrote this horrible thing: here’s the first chapter.
I know that my jokes are painfully unfunny, but there’s no stopping me when I get a stupid idea like this. I tried to make it look more cartoony to save me some time - didn’t work, still spent 3 days drawing it.
For anyone with sense of humor as broken as mine, here is my pitch of an FMA School AU - 80s teen movie style (because that’s all I watched as a kid):
Students:
Ed Elric - the angsty, edgy kid who draws horns and pentagrams on school desks, never wears proper uniform and gets into fights with Principal Mustang, about to discover a great conspiracy
Al Elric - diligent student who skipped one year, generally tries to follow rules but constantly gets involved in his brother’s trouble
Winry - secretly reads automail catalogues in class, teachers pressure her to go to a university, but she’d like to work in a workshop instead
Lin Yao & Lan Fan - exchange students from a far away land, they seem nice, but mysterious and keep to themselves - they seem to have a secret agenda… Also, they keep stealing other people’s food
Paninya - Winry’s best friend and a trouble child, who’s had run ins with the law in the past
Envy - the emo kid who hates everyone and is prone to mean pranks, Ed’s sworn enemy
Younger kids in the lower grades: Mei Chang (also exchange student), Selim Bradley (mayor’s son), Nina Tucker (I had to guys, don’t hate me)
Staff:
Roy Mustang - the principal, who wants to reign in the rebelious students by all means possible, dreams of becoming the mayor
Riza Hawkeye - principal’s secretary and assistant, the only person taking care of all the paperwork and school records
Olivier Armstrong - the ruthless PE teacher, who tortures her students with insane routines, her motto is ‘survival of the fittest‘
Alex Armstrong - the art teacher, who loves all his students and seems oblivious to the fact that they all hate him
Solf J. Kimblee - crazy science teacher, who blows things up and endangers students on regular basis, yet always gets away with it - no one knows how
Tim Marcoh - kind-hearted biology teacher, who had a horrible accident that damaged his face, and since kids are the nicest of humans, they tell each other horror stories about the teacher’s supposed criminal past
Vato Falman - history teacher, literally no one knows what his teaching is like, because everyone is either asleep or not listening - he tries really hard though
Sheshka - school librarian, she can never get the students to return books on time, always lost in her reading
Others:
King Bradley - the towns mayor, who advocates for the school to become more elitist and get rid of all the problem children, has some dark secrets
Shou Tucker - former biology teacher at the school, fired for unethical behavior - secretly plots revenge
Scar - wanted criminal on the run, comes to town to settle things with the people who framed him, gets help from students who uncover a conspiracy and some characters’ dark past
Maes Hughes - local sherif and Mustang’s old friend, he suspects that the Mayor is plotting something and manipulating the police force for his own purposes
I can think of more - like Greed running a local motorcycle gang, for example. Or how about the urban legend about Barry The Chopper? Hey, my imagination knows no shame :D
Bonus doodle: Ms Armstrong teaching class. As you can see, I have some unresolved trauma ;<
Parings; Jason Todd x Female Reader
(1) Pride and Prejudice and Hair
(2) Seven-Eleven Karens and Pinky Promises at 3 AM
(3) Google and Hand Holding
(4)Cookies and The Butler and The Girlfriend
(5)Push-Ups and Hoodies
(6) Slushies and Happiness and Pizza
(7)Book Recommendations and Jane Austen
(8) Gotham Mornings and Daydreaming
9- Text Messages and Older Brothers
Hey, Honeybee, won’t be home tonight, but stop by my apartment because I left you a surprise in the kitchen!
Jason was sitting with Nightwing on the top of Wayne Enterprises when he got the text. A solid ‘ding’ in brooding silence was enough to make the black and blue vigilante glance over. Knowing his brother’s intrusiveness, Jason moved to the other side of the rooftop to read what you had sent him.
He was lucky he had been wearing his helmet because the smile that crossed his face couldn’t be helped. Then, when you sent him a picture of you in a cute outfit that you were wearing for family night, he promptly saved it.
“Who ya texting, Jaybird?” Jason didn’t even hear his brother creep up on him and answered by elbowing him in the stomach. Or attempting to. Dick ducked under his arm before reaching for his phone.
The moment Nightwing was hopping away with the phone in his hand, the Red Hood was almost foaming at the mouth to get it back. No, those texts were for him. Not for Dick to see and poke fun at.
“Give me my fucking phone, Dick,” Jason demanded, voice loud. “That’s none of your fucking business.”
“You have a girlfriend, Honeybee?” The question echoed on the rooftop.
Frantic, Jason reached Dick as he was walking along the edge and pulled him down, slamming him on the ground. He didn’t know why he was so angry, and it wasn’t like he didn’t want his brother to know about you. Maybe it was because he wanted to tell Dick in his own time instead of having the news ripped out of him forcefully. If he could, Jason would have told his older brother about you sooner. He trusted Dick, second only to Alfred.
Holding his hands up, Nightwing surrendered. “Hey, it’s great if you do, Jay.”
Letting go, Jason sighed. “Just…Just keep your mouth shut about it.”
“Will do, will do,” Dick climbed to his feet, staring at his younger brother before asking, “What’s her name?”
After a moment of thinking about whether or not to tell him, Jason relented. Then, he asked another question, but, instead of answering anymore, the Red Hood disappeared off the rooftop. Too much information had been divulged anyway.
It never took Jason long to get to your apartment, and he climbed through the window with great diligence to make sure Nightwing didn’t follow. Everything was dark in your home, a sign for most burglars that the home was empty and could be robbed, so he doubled checked that everything was locked correctly. You had been robbed once before, on the street, and Jason could still remember the angry tears on your face--He didn’t want to see that again.
Jason felt comfortable enough in your apartment to take off his mask and use your bathroom, but, still, a bit awkward since he was all alone. You had reassured him through texts after you had left him alone there before, your home could always be considered a second home to him.
After checking that everything was squared away--and taking back a hoodie you had stolen from him-- he went to the kitchen. Switching on the light, Jason grinned. On the counter next to the fridge you were the little red Robin Tupperware. Next to it, orange pop in the glass bottle--His favorite one.
He was opening the Tupperware when he felt Dick walk up behind him. Rolling his eyes, Jason turned to him. “Get the fuck out.”
Dick held up his hands like earlier, indicating surrender. “Hey, I just wanted to see what the surprise was.”
Jason narrowed his eyes before slowly moving to hold out the Tupperware toward his brother. “Take a cookie and get out. Last time I’m telling you before I tell Damien it was you who wrecked that painting he did.”
Dick gasped, hand still going to take a cookie anyway. “You’re lying.”
“Fuck around and find out.”
Nightwing put the cookie in his mouth as Jason walked him to your apartment window, and paused to praise your work. “They taste just like Alfred’s!”
Jason pushed his brother out onto the fire escape , bribing him with another cookie to keep his mouth shut. Dick started to leave before pausing, turning to his baby brother. “Jason, I won’t tell anyone, I promise. I would like to meet her, though, or for you to tell me more about her.”
Red Hood stared at him, pondering on what to say, before just nodding. That seemed enough for Dick as he swung away from the apartment building, leaving his younger to continue eating his cookies and drinking his soda in peace. Fuck, Jason thought, he was going to have to introduce you to his family one day. Not something he was looking forward to.
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You're the unlucky one chosen to be Bonten's unoffical tattoo artist.
More parts to follow.
Characters: Mikey x gn Reader
Warnings: None
Your boss was the one who usually dealt with what he liked to call the 'big clients'.
It wasn't because he doubted your skill or wanted to hide who these people were, you were a very talented and capable artist who knew the less than savory occupations of the customers, it was just that he knew how difficult some of these people could be and his years of experince meant dealing with them was much easier.
The first time you met a member of the gang you later found out to be known as Bonten, they were indeed booked in to be seen by the boss, however the out of place looking blonde came in on a quiet evening and decided he'd much rather spend the hour with you.
There was nothing sinister about his request, nothing that suggested he chose you for any other reason than 'she seems nice'.
Any objections were short lived when it seemed this man who was only in the diary as 'Sano', could get what he wanted without even raising his voice.
You should have felt intimidated when you took a seat on the black leather couch opposite him, placing a sketchpad and pen on the coffee table seperating you both, but despite knowing he was powerful, something about him was oddly child-like and it was hard to be nervous when faced with that.
"So," you smiled. "What would you like?"
It was rare anything was pre-drawn with these clients. Confidentiality was a big deal and so was hiding any potential association with the world of organised crime. You just hoped it wasn't anything too extreme for the time of day.
'Sano' took a small piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to you.
You unfolded what turned out to be a convenience store receipt with an questionable amount of pastries on it, however on the back was a rushed, minimalistic pen drawing. It wasn't something you'd usually do but you had to admit it was a nice concept and atleast it would be easy.
"Just this?" You ask.
He nodded.
"Okay, I'll draw it up out the back. Just give me five minutes."
-
The room where you tattooed was small and cosy, no windows but bright due to the light overhead, and the walls were scattered with designs you drew and art from some of your friends. Something about it seemed to appeal to your customer who told you to call him Mikey, as he stared at the figure collection by the door whilst you were half way through his tattoo.
"My sister liked that show." He said quietly, pointing to an enthusatic figure with blonde hair and a short green dress.
"Oh really?" You said glancing up. "To be honest I've never actually seen it.. I just thought it looked nice."
He hummed in reply. "She thought she looked a bit like her."
"She must be pretty then."
"She was."
You gathered by his response that his sister probably wasn't around anymore but his statement didn't create an awkward silence, infact you got the feeling that he had enjoyed talking about her. You'd gotten very good at reading people in this job although Mikey was more on the challenging side. He didn't really seem to speak unless spoken to but when you could engage him in conversation he'd participate fully, almost a little like he was desperate for it.
"Where did you get this design from by the way?" You asked, wiping some of the ink off of the back of his neck.
"..someone I knew when I was younger."
"I like it. It suits you."
"What do you mean?"
You stopped the machine for a moment, thinking of the best way to phrase your thoughts. "Well, ignoring the placement, I think it seems like a good representation of you. On the outside it looks quite simple but there's probably a deeper meaning or something more going on beneath the surface.."
Mikey liked to think he had crafted a personality that was enough to scare people away, never getting close enough to find out the slightest bit of information about him, but there he was, being easily and perfectly analysed by you.
He also liked to think that the reason you were putting him at ease and he found himself engaging and actually enjoying your company was because you genuinely liked him, and not because you were just good at your job.
He certainly (and unexpectedly) liked you.
Either way, the rest of the session went relatively quickly. He enjoyed listening to you talk about your life outside of work and strange tattoo requests you had, and in return you would get vague retellings of simpler times in Toman.
-
"So you're all done." You smiled at Mikey.
He had seemed pleased with the tattoo when he finally saw it, not based on his expression which was unchanged from the moment he walked into the shop, but the way he spoke. He sounded a little lighter.
"I need to clean up in here but my boss is the one that deals with the money anyway so you can just go back out and speak to him."
Mikey hovered by the door, hesistant to leave your company because once he stepped outside the shop he wasn't your customer anymore, he was the head of Bonten.
"Thank you.." He said, two words that you didn't know rarely passed his lips.
"You're welcome, it was fun. It was nice to meet you Mikey!"
He bowed slightly, any earlier confidence in your presence quickly diminishing . "You too.."
-
Sanzu: Car's coming! :)
Mikey rolled his eyes as he put the phone back in his pocket. Despite the time the street was still fairly busy and he didn't really want to be waiting around any longer than necessary. He leant against the side of a cafe whilst he waited for the car in an attempt to avoid getting shoved in the crowds. He was tired. He'd actually found the process of the tattoo somewhat meditative and now it was over the fact he hadn't slept for the past three days was catching up with him.
"Hey! Mikey!" He turned round to look down the street, surprised to see you running up to him. "Damn, I'm so unfit." You laughed, bending over slightly and trying to catch your breath.
"Are you okay?" He asked, confused by your reapperance.
You nodded, blushing slightly. "Yea uhm.. now I think about it this might actually be a bad idea but uh.. do you want this?" You stood up and held out a small blue bag you'd been carrying.
Mikey hestinantly took the bag from you and opened it, the smiling face of the figure from your shelf staring up at him.
"I'm not particiularly attached to it and I dunno maybe she'll have a better home with you.. I'm sorry if it's inappropriate I didn't really think this through.."
That night Mikey finally slept well, watched over by the photo of Emma next to his bed and the toy he'd told her he was given by a new friend.
-
It had been a couple of weeks since you had seen Mikey, the regular flow of customers keeping you too busy to really dwell on previous clients but a large box that had been left on the front desk was sent to make sure you wouldn't be forgetting him.
"What's this?" You called out to your boss as he walked into another room.
"Dunno, delivery driver dropped it off for ya~"
The dark blue box was from what you knew to be a high-end confectionary shop in Ginza, although you'd never been there and certainly hadn't placed any orders. When you opened it up you were greeted by a large assortment of dorayaki and a rather childish drawing of the sender on the message card inside.
Sorry for what's to come. - Mikey
You were a little confused by the statement and slightly concerned considering the business you guessed he was involved in but half an hour (and three dorayaki) later, the door opened and a tall man with short pink hair walked in and over to you at the counter.
"I believe you're the one I need to speak too, right?" He grinned, holding out a tatty recipt with a simple deisgn you had a strange feeling you would be seeing alot more of. "I'm Ran."
You were completely aware of Sero’s condition, however, try as you might, you were never able to figure out who was the cause of it.
It came as a shock to you, when you found out about his condition in the first place.
It was a typical weeknight, the two of you sitting in his dorm studying - you on the hammock and him on the bed - when all of a sudden he started to cough. At first, you thought that he got a popcorn kernel stuck in his throat, but when the coughs started to sound violent and he rushed to the bathroom, you realized something was seriously wrong.
When you managed to stumble your way out of the hammock and over to the restroom, all you could see was a flourish of soft pink rose petals decorating the floor and your best friend hunched over the garbage, struggling to breathe through the plants obstructing his windpipe.
Unsure of just what, exactly, you should do in the situation, you swiftly turned to make your way out of the bathroom to find help, only stopping when Sero managed to utter the word ‘wait’ followed by another flurry of coughs and petals.
The look in his eyes pleaded for you to stay, pleaded you not to tell a soul. And despite your better judgment, you did just that - staying right beside him, with what you hoped was a comforting hand on his back for the rest of the fit. It dissipated a short time after, but you were left with the knowledge that this must’ve been a common occurrence for him to be able to have handled it so calmly.
Since then, you’ve tried to convince him to talk to someone, get prescribed special medicine that helped soften the petals, or to just get the surgery to have them removed permanently. Much to your dismay, he refused every single one of your suggestions, saying that he didn’t need to talk to anyone because he had you, that he didn’t want to rely on medicines with countless side effects that could hinder his ability to perform, and lastly that the recovery time for such an insignificant surgery would take away from training time and set him back.
It hurt you, knowing that you couldn’t do anything to help him, that he was dealing with feelings that you couldn’t even comprehend, though knowing this you doubted your pain could hold a candle to his.
Lately, it had been bothering you more than usual.
He was losing sleep, that much you could tell by the bags under his eyes and the way he was constantly dozing off in class. He struggled to hold a conversation, often losing focus and sometimes even falling asleep.
It was one of those typical nights, where you sat comfortably on the hammock and Sero across from you on his bed as the two of you went back and forth with review questions for the upcoming test, a bowl of popcorn and an answer key somewhere in the space between you. However, your study partner was being less than diligent, to say the least. It wasn’t the first time tonight that he had dozed off during your study session, but it would certainly be the last.
You almost didn’t want to wake him, he looked so peaceful - well as peaceful as one could look while sleeping in an upright position - but if you let him stay like that it would compile neck problems on top of all the things he had to worry about.
“Sero?”
The only response you got was a light snore.
“Sero.”
“Hm!”
You sigh when Sero snaps up, dazed and confused while trying to blink away the bleariness in his eyes.
“I think we should call it a night.” You conclude, flipping your binder closed and collecting the answer key from where it lay in front of you.
“What, why?”
“You can’t keep your eyes open for more than a few minutes and your attention span is even worse. I think you should try and get some rest.”
Sero frowned as he watched you collect your things and rise to leave. It wasn’t just the fact that you were leaving, something seemed to be bothering you by the look on your face and he didn’t want you to go before he got it out of you.
“Night, see you in the morning.” You called over your shoulder, glancing back just in time to watch as Sero’s hand wrapped around your wrist.
You sigh. You feel like you’ve been doing that a lot lately. Turning to face him, you can no longer mask your worry behind an indifferent expression. You part your lips, mulling over your words.
However, your train of thought comes to a screeching halt when you see Sero’s face morph with discomfort as his free hand reached up to clutch at his chest.
“Dammit.”
He quickly rushed past you to the bathroom and the realization set in. You feel the panic rise up inside you only to force it back down. You’re about to follow after him when you hear the first fit of coughs and you’re stopped in your tracks. They sounded different from when you had first heard them all that time ago.
They sounded worse. Much worse.
When you tried to move again, your legs felt as if they were made of lead, slowly dragging along the ground toward the bathroom. Toward Sero. The room seemed to elongate with every step, but it didn’t matter, you needed to make sure he was going to be okay.
When you reached the bathroom, the sight before you rendered you motionless.
Petals were strewn across the floor, like before, but this time they were accompanied by full flowers, stem, leaves and all. In the middle of it was Sero, hunched over drool and streaks of red running down his chin while tears cascaded down his cheeks. The same red smeared on his chin was dotted on the pink rose petals as well as the spiky stems. You felt the color drain from your face as the realization hit you.
His blood. It was his blood.
“Oh my god.”
You were aware that it had gotten worse but… you could’ve never imagined this.
Sero’s eyes cut to where you stood in the doorway, your expression nothing short of horrified. He once again feels the stabbing pain in his chest as he heaves out another fit of coughs, blood speckling out as he feels a particularly thick stem force it’s way up his esophagus.
You notice quickly that this one is different than the others spread about the room. This one’s longer, the stem thicker, and the thorns sharper. You have to cover your mouth and force the urge to sob back down and before you’re even aware of what you’re doing, you’re right beside him, carding your shaky hands through his hair and gently pulling it back so it no longer sticks to his face.
At the moment, you weren’t sure if you were helping or hurting, but the desperation yanking on your heartstrings was threatening to rip you to shreds if you continued to stand there and do nothing.
With a final heave as well as a small cluster of petals, the entire flower dislodged itself from Sero’s throat. Once you were certain that it was over, you let his hair fall from in between your fingers and sagged down beside him.
Sero slowly leaned away from the garbage, his entire body fatigued from the ordeal. His breathing is ragged and his throat raw, he focused on taking slow even breaths, as to not agitate his throat further.
Your head falls limply on his shoulder, the stinging behind your eyes suddenly becoming too difficult to suppress any longer. Silent tears drip down your cheeks, plopping onto the petals below you.
“You’re so stupid.”
Shocked by your choice of words, Sero turns his head in your direction to see your head resting on his shoulder, your own shoulders noticeably trembling.
“___-“
“Has it ever occurred to you, that you could die from this someday? That you could be one damn rose petal away from ending not only your career but your life?” Bracing yourself, you lift your head from his shoulder and stare straight into his eyes.
“Say what you want, Hanta, but you can’t live like this for the rest of your life - however long that may be, at the rate you’re going!”
Sero opens his mouth to respond, but you quickly cut him off.
“I know it’s selfish of me to say this, especially when you’re going through what you’re going through, but… do you- do you even realize how much it hurts to see you like this? To know that you’re going through this and I can’t- I can’t do a single damn thing to help you?”
Your hands had found their way to his shoulders and you were kneeling in front of him now, instead of beside him, fingers digging in so hard there would be bruises there the next day. You were a teary, snotty mess at this point, your face was blotchy and red, your voice thick with emotion, and he was so blurred that you couldn’t even see his stupid, wonderful face anymore, but you held firm and stared him down through your tears.
“Please, just do something because it hurts too much to know that someone I love has to live through this.”
Silence hung in the air as Sero stared at you, his expression unreadable through your blurred vision. The tears slowly came to a stop as you fell forward, gently wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in his neck.
“Please, Hanta.”
Your voice is so quiet, but somehow it’s enough to snap him out of the trance he was in, the echo of one word bouncing around in his brain.
‘Someone I love’ you had said.
Could it be that maybe…?
No, there was no way. Not a chance. You loved him, but not in that way.
But, what if? What if he took a chance? What was the worst that could happen? He would continue to live through this, but at least he would have closure.
Maybe he would even take your advice.
But he couldn’t think about that now.
Sero’s heart pounded in his chest, as he silently, slowly, wrapped his arms around your waist and brought your bodies together, resting his chin on your shoulder.
He was so close that you could feel each breath by your ear and a small shiver ran down your spine at the sensation. Anticipation bubbled up inside you, but you weren’t sure as to why.
“I…”
Sero feels his throat tighten and his mouth go dry. He was absolutely terrified. Terrified of you confirming what he already knew, terrified that he would end up ruining a friendship that he valued with everything he had. But he wanted - needed to tell you. Not only because he needed closure, but because you deserved to know.
“…I’m in love with you.”
He feels your entire body stiffen in his hold and immediately fears the worst.
What he doesn’t expect, is for you to start crying all over again. Your tears drip from your eyes and onto his neck, where your face was buried.
“_-____?”
Sero hastily removes his arms from around your waist to pry your arms off him. He gently guides you away from him so that he can see your face.
“So you’re telling me that I’m the reason that you- that it’s my fault you-!”
The more you try to force the words out, the heavier the tears flow and any sounds that make their way out of your mouth are embarrassing gibberish.
“H-hey, hey, hey,” Sero reaches up to cup your face and brushes away your tears, momentarily forgetting himself. “None of this is your fault, okay? My emotions aren’t your responsibility.”
“B-but-“
“‘But’ nothing, now just try to focus on breathing.”
Giving him one last look of wariness, you close your eyes hesitantly, focusing on taking oxygen in through your nose and out through your mouth.
Sero watches as your brow slowly becomes unfurrowed, noting that your shoulders are still tense. He slowly glides his hands down from your face to rest on your shoulders, just above your bicep. Shaky breaths escape from your swollen lips
Once he sees you relax completely, he lets his hands fall from you altogether.
Silence falls over you, and for a while, neither speaks.
Your eyes open just slightly, sore and dry from tears shed. You see Sero’s larger hands resting right next to yours, the white cotton of his loose pajama pants, and the soft pink of the petals scattered about the floor.
“So, is it true?”
“Is what true?”
Your lips press together as you struggle to collect your thoughts. You didn’t want to outright repeat what he had told you - in all honesty, you didn’t think you could handle that right now. You were so overwhelmed at the moment that you could barely piece together proper sentences.
“What you said- that you, well-”
“That I’m in love with you? Yes, I was telling the truth.”
Your face flushed as his words echoed in your brain
Sero was… in love with you?
Since when?
For how long?
Thoughts and questions began racing through your head so fast you became dizzy. You leaned forward, planting your head on Sero’s shoulder for some much-needed balance. You had never thought of him that way, he had been in your life for so long as a friend that it was just what you were used to. But when you did think about it, maybe being more than friends was just the next step in your relationship. Images of you holding hands, going on dates, and kissing flashed through your mind… and it felt right.
“Okay.”
Yes, it was pathetic, but it was all you could bring yourself to say at the moment.
“Okay? Does that mean… you feel the same?”
“… I’m not really sure, but… I want to give it a try.” You take in a deep breath and raise your head to look Sero square in the eye. “Besides, who would make a better boyfriend than your best friend, right?”
A dry chuckle escapes Sero as he pulls you against him once more, resting his chin on top of your head.
“My thoughts exactly.”
……………………………………………………………………………………
OK I KNOW WHAT I SAID ABOUT BEING BURNT OUT WITH BNHA BUT THIS HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY DRAFTS FOR LITERAL YEARS AND IM PRETTY PROUD OF IT SO HERE YOU GO
going as each other's ''platonic'' date to a mutual friend's wedding
agreeing to kiss each other ''just to see what it's like''
punching the guy who broke your best friend's heart at prom
refusing to admit your feelings but making up ridiculous excuses to spend time together
''i'm not in love with my best friend'' but everyone knows you're full of shit
there's only one bed, we decide to share it (we lowkey been waiting for this moment)
friends and family thinks we're dating because we're always acting like a couple
sharing clothes — you're just that comfortable with each other
accidentally blurting out ''i love you'' during a random conversation
“i’ll kiss you right now to prove i don’t feel anything for you” but the kiss does the exact opposite
knowing your best friend inside out, everything from their favorite song, to what they named their favorite stuffed animal in second grade...
hiding your feelings to not ruin the friendship, even going as far as avoiding each other completely, yet somehow always ending up sharing an intimate moment
the first kiss and the realization of ''it's always been you''
starting to see each other in a different light
i'm watching you date all these other people and it's definitely not jealousy i'm feeling
complimenting your best friend for small things they do that realistically only someone who's in love with a person would notice
holding hands for the first time
first official hug after going exclusive, it feels very different from all our previous hugs
that ''oh shit'' moment when you realize you're in love with your best friend
the first official ''date'' which isn't really a date but it feels like one
showing up at each other's house late at night
your best friend's upset and disappears for a couple hours, you're the only one who knows where to find them (aka at the location you always used to hang out at as children)
one has come to terms with their feelings, maybe even dropping hints, the other one is completely oblivious
hearing your best friend say you're nothing more than friends and dying a little on the inside because you want to be so much more than that
family and friends constantly pointing out how compatible you are with each other
Help yes it was an event req LMFOAOSOAS anyways less hyper this time💀💀
Neck kisses w scaramouche and xiao :DDD
summary; neck kissses <33
pairings; scaramouche, xiao x reader (no pronouns used)
warnings; a bit suggestive! nothing explicit or too crazy tho, lots of kissies, no beta
notes; HEY MO <33 i have not stopped thinking abt this since u req this so i'm poking my head out of my hiatus just to write this rq <33 xiao's is a little shorter bc i got so carried away with scaras but anyway i hope u enjoy this my love !! and i loved this so much that i wrote drabbles instead of hcs omfg my brain (also this song is so hot it multiplied the brainrot x 1000)
song; so beautiful; DPR IAN | 300 event !
reblogs are highly appreciated <3
you have scaramouche trapped. he glares up from under you, his knuckles going white by how hard he's gripping the desk you cornered him against, his tense posture and heavy breaths betraying him. you hum, fingers only barely brushing his skin as they travel up the length of his free arm to lace between his, keeping both of you steady as you continue your assault against his neck.
your pointer finger lazily drags his shirt collar down, his breath hitching as your soft lips brush against the base of his neck, pressing soft, sweet kisses until you find his collar bone, a small swipe of your tongue earning yourself a surprised groan from your lover.
his fingers grip yours a little tighter as his breathless voice dips down to your ear.
"you're being so good for me."
you hum again against his skin, your attempt to hide your flustered face making him chuckle.
you make your way back up his neck, relishing in his delicious reactions to each open-mouthed kiss. as you get back to that one spot by the corner of his jaw, you remember his words prior to your steamy little session:
"no hickeys."
you briefly wonder if it's worth the trouble, but your foggy mind is only telling you yes.
the second you bite down the absolutely sweet sound he makes sends proud tingles through your limbs, but the moment is short lived, as suddenly his hand is in your hair, roughly pulling you off of him. his other hand grips your hip roughly, spinning the two of you so you could take his place cornered against his work desk.
"you think that's funny, don't you?" your chin is gripped firmly between his slender fingers, his face so close he was almost speaking into your lips. your mind was hazy, feeling hypersensitive to his tight grip on your wrist and his hand tangled in your hair, aggressively pulling to the side to better expose your neck.
"well, darling," he said the name almost mockingly, but you can't help the way it makes you shiver. "don't think i'm going to let you off for not following my instructions."
xiao is almost never prepared for your random bouts of of affection, and this time is no different. he grips your hips tightly, his head is bowed, hiding his completely flustered face into your neck as you attack his own, each kiss sending shivers through his entire body.
with one of your hands gripping his nape and the other holding his arm for dear life, you place kiss after kiss against your boyfriend's neck, savoring each grunt and groan he makes with a smile.
your aim was to take things slow, not wanting to push him out of his comfort zone. but on the other hand, you weren't sure how long you could restrain yourself.
not when you know how his little muffled growls sound when your teeth graze against his skin, or how his breath hitches when your lips meet certain places. every time he presses himself impossibly closer, your resolve breaks just a little more.
so you continue with the same rhythm, taking things as slow and steady as you could, the barrage of lingering, soft kisses never-ending.
but suddenly, the hands that were so rigid against your hips slid up to your arms, his hidden face leaving the safety of the curve of your neck.
"stop teasing me," he breathed, leaving a kiss against your ear as he spoke. you froze in surprise, blinking up at his incredibly red, but determined face.
"w-what-" you choked out, stammering as he dipped down to your jaw, mimicking your previous actions as you were left a flustered mess.
"you know you want to," he murmured between kisses, his hand coming up to hold your opposite cheek lovingly.
when he bit down you were sure you were dreaming, clinging to his shoulder as you breathed heavily, knees feeling weak.
"a...are you sure," you managed, hiding your own face against xiao's shoulder.
"yes," he said firmly. "i want..."
he drew a way slightly, tilting your chin to so you could meet his eyes.
Genshin men and why they would be good (or bad) In a relationship: From worst to Best
(in my personal opinion)
Coming in last place is: Xiao!
reasons: Doesn’t want a relationship. Has “too many demons”. Emotionally unavailable.
Following Xiao is: Diluc!
Reasons: Daddy issues. Broods way too much, literally mondstat’s batman.
Following Diluc is: Albedo!
Reasons: Doesn’t show emotion. Cannot communicate for shit.
Following Albedo is: Kaeya!
Reasons: Fears Commitment. Kaen’riah’s last hope. A bit of a man whore.
Following Kaeya is: Venti!
Reasons: Broke. Drunk. Will impersonate you after your death. Sings you songs he made about you.
Following Venti is: Dainsleif!
Reasons: Wouldn’t mind having a partner to adventure with, but would constantly friend zone you. “Two people one bed” trope.
Following Dainsleif is: Childe!
Reasons: Cooks for you. Buys you things that remind him of you. Likes arguing way too much.
Following Childe is: Thoma!
Reasons: Always makes sure your needs are met. Prioritizes other people’s problems before your relationship problems. Will try to “fix” you.
Following Thoma is: Zhongli!
Reasons: Absolutely adores you. Has all the time in the world to spend with you. But he’s broke. Slightly disappointed you don’t share the memory of osmanthus wine. old.
After Zhongli is: Baizhu!
Reasons: Takes care of you when your sick. Makes great tea. Shady.
And at the top of the list is: Kazuha!
Reasons: In tune with his emotions. Great communicator. Knows how to comfort you. Soothing. Just a tad traumatized. Slightly over protective.
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♡ 𝐚/𝐧: this took me so so so long <3 | like/rb if you liked this!
ITTO is super blushy! head in hands, his hands act like a shield for the vulnerability he feels. it's so soft, and so sweet at the same time! it's genuinely adorable. i think he's a rather cuddly guy, even though he protests – he'd simply melt into your arms. itto likes your kisses a lot, but he might have to bend down or he'd carry you just so that you could kiss him. he's rather tall, right? you could punch him in the stomach to make him double over for you to kiss him XD
ZHONGLI is a tad embarrassed. but he thinks it's adorable, and he lets you kiss him all the time. you usually have to tip-toe because he's so tall, or he'd bend down just for you. zhongli loves your kisses, and you kiss you right back without hesitation. how could he be embarrassed when it was his perfect lover that was kissing him? he definitely holds your hand or something and swings it right after. it's very cute.
CHILDE is grinning like a madman; he's so in love with you! he leans over to kiss you back as well, then brings you into a soft hug. he loves all your kisses and physical touches – anything to do with you makes him happy. he's like an excited puppy, wagging his tail for more! it's quite adorable and silly how he's down for kisses all the time, if i'm being honest. it's cute. he's also rather tall, so he might need to bend down for you!
DILUC is embarrassed, but he would ask for more! he actually does likes it, but he wouldn't openly admit... it might take a few more kisses to get him to admit it. diluc genuinely likes your touch, he's soft for it! he'd bend down and tap his cheek, signalling you to give him a kiss, or he would lay his head on your shoulder to hint at the physical touch he needs. it's quite cute to be honest. he can melt at your touch. also, don't tell kaeya – this man can be snuggly when he wants to.
KAEYA leans down for more. he taps his cheek, asking for more kisses as you laugh and oblige. he cuddles you right after, snuggling into his precious lover. he loves and soaks up every bit of your touch, and would probably hold your hand and swing it around or something. it's very endearing to see him act.. looser, in a sense. there's a quiet contentment within his eyes, a look so soft you kiss him over and over again. very cute, very recommended.
XIAO is embarrassed, and he looks away – but he longs for more of your touch. you can see it. he's like a little cat, snuggly, but would never admit it! it's cute. he hints to you about wanting the kisses again, a soft blush forming on his face. he melts into your arms quietly, soaking up all the affection he can get from you. of course, you notice it right away, and you're more than willing to give him the affection he needs and wants. that's what lovers are for, anyway.
SCARAMOUCHE is... well... do i even have to say it? XD scaramouche is embarrassed! he shies away, but seeing your crestfallen face... he inches a liiiiiittle closer. just a teensy, little, insignificant amount that in no way shows that he wants your kisses. nope, zilch, nada. he hints to you as well, but it's not that obvious. you know he wants it, but you gotta make him work for it, yknow? he ends up blushing and asking for it anyways. very cute. would cuddle you right after!
THOMA blushes a lot, but he's absolutely okay with it! he loves every bit of your touch, anyways. he leans in to get more, and you oblige, peppering his face with kisses. it's actually very cute. please give him more and more kisses each day. i think thoma would be one to very not-subtly hint to you that he wants it >< he's very sweet about it as well! kind of lays his head on your shoulder, or presses his cheek against yours. they're all small gestures, but you get the hint, and he gets what he wants. XD
aaaaa i hope you all liked these >< let's try to get this past 200! i'm trying this out to see if we can get it past 1000 notes again.. XD | like and reblog if you liked it!!
who: genshin impact. tohma x f!reader. brothers best friend!au.
info: 4.515k words. smut + light hurt/comfort.
kinks protective!tohma, dom!tohma, pussydrunk!tohma, crybaby!reader, consent kink, enthusiastic consent, reassurance kink, praise kink, pet names (sweet girl, pretty girl, sweetheart, and more), size kink, corruption kink if you squint, squirting, dirty talk, dacryphilia if u squint
— this is dedicated to @2dboys @kaexin and @killerkyou for helpin me write it and also screaming to give ideas so this could be born 😩
+ this blog contains dark content!
He was someone who you had always known. He was your older brother’s best friend, always hanging around your house. But he was kind, reliable.
You kept your secret pining over sweet, handsome Tohma a secret ever since your brother first brought him home. You were sure that he would never see you as anything but his best friend’s little sister.
But still, he was the first person you thought to call. Your brother himself was out of the question, you knew he would just tease you and make you feel even worse than you already did. It was a little past 3 in the morning when you called him, his raspy, drowsy voice immediately picking up with a soft call of your name.
“Everythin’ alright, darlin’?” he asks, making the floodgates open. You try to get out what the problem was but all you could do was mumble his name and string together some semblance of needing help. You heard a sharp rustle of movement over the line before he spoke again, sounding much more alert, “Tell me where you are now, sweetheart, I’ll come get you.”
You take a breath and quickly relay your location before you both hang up so he can drive.
By the time he shows up, you’re sitting on the curb, hands stuffed between your thighs as you shiver from the cold air. When he gets out of the car, his hair is messy and pushed back, like he has run his fingers through it over and over again.
He wears a pair of loose gray sweatpants and you want to laugh at the sight of his t-shirt on inside out, clearly thrown on without a second’s hesitation. He rushes over to you, crouching beside you, hand on your back.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he pants, “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”
