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Fukurodani Awkward Family Pictures

My Konoha Akinori Headcanons :)

I think Akinori would be easy to get along with, so he'd likely be chilling w a few of the players on other teams sometimes

In a GC w some of the players from Seijoh, Nekoma, and (surprisingly) Nohebi [More specifically the other people are: Makki, Mattsun, Daishou, Hiroo, Kenma, Inuoka, Sarukui, and Komi]

There's a large age gap between Akinori and his older brother, leading to them not being very close. On the other hand, his sister is only a year younger than Akinori so he has a much better relationship with her

Mildly allergic to dogs, which is sad bc Akinori likes dogs :( but he isn't allergic to cats so it isn't all bad

Doesn't particularly like the "Master of None" part of his title; it makes him insecure about his abilities as a player and kind of follows him outside of volleyball too

Opinions/Relationships (only for some people)

Bokuto

Their relationship started off pretty rocky because Akinori could not even fathom that this overly emotional, kind of unaware of anything outside of volleyball guy could be a reliable ace. It was to a point where Akinori was pretty hostile toward him during their first year, but things got better during their second year when Akaashi joined the team. It was during their second year that Akinori started to respect Bokuto more and view him as a more dependable ace, leading up to the well-oiled machine that Fukurodani is during their third year.

Sarukui

They went to the same middle school alongside Komi. Akinori only really became friends with him at first because their younger sisters were friends. Sarukui accompanied Akinori for a lot of the practice that would build up the skills he would become known for at Fukurodani, which also contributes to Sarukui's own prowess because of the role he played in Akinori's practice.

Washio

Washio's intimidating stature was quite effective on Akinori at first, so being around him made Akinori nervous. The fear was quickly gotten over once Akinori got a glimpse inside of Washio's locker and saw a bunch of Sailer Moon memorabilia. Getting past the gruff exterior, they became fast friends. Akinori would easily consider Washio to be one of the most dependable friends he has, in spite of Washio's quiet nature. Akinori keeps a tally of children that don't end up crying upon seeing Washio

Komi

Komi and Akinori were practically raised together because their mothers are best friends. They've been inseparable, and Sarukui was quickly roped into their little group when they got into middle school. Akinori used to have a crush on Komi's older sister, but never pursued it because A) he was 11 and she was 19, B) she's a lesbian, and C) it just seemed a little weird because he's such close friends with Komi

Akaashi

Akinori felt bad that he and all the other third years were going to be leaving Akaashi basically alone with the responsibilities of captainship. He does also feel grateful to Akaashi, attributing the fact that he no longer disliked Bokuto to Akaashi's methods for handling Bokuto's mood swings. Akinori does think that Akaashi's weirdness matches Bokuto's quite well.

Hoping to sell this Fukurodani Bundle!

Asking for $45 shipped in the US

Otherwise

Akaashi Finger Puppet (Used) $10

Akaashi MochiTsum (Displayed but still in bag) $12

Akaashi Keychains $7 each

Konoha Rubber Strap $5

Shipping within the US starts at $7. Feel free to message me with any questions or concerns before purchase!

Fukurodani Boys — Awkward First Steps Into Parenthood

(timeskip era, fluff / humor / slice of life) Includes Bokuto, Akaashi, Komi, Washio, and Onaga.

│ they thought having a baby would be all giggles and gentle naps — nobody warned them about the diapers, the sleep deprivation, or the chaos they’d love anyway.

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

Bokuto Kōtarō

you walk into the living room and immediately stop in your tracks.

bokuto’s sitting on the couch, shirtless, hair sticking up in every direction, baby cradled in one arm, chugging away at a bottle — and a dumbbell in his other hand.

he’s sweating. the baby’s cooing. the TV’s playing Baby Einstein.

“...kōtarō,” you start slowly, “what are you doing?”

he looks up, face bright. “multitasking!”

“you’re what?”

“feeding and training!” he says proudly, grinning like he just discovered fire. “gotta stay in shape and bond at the same time!”

you blink. “you’re lifting weights while holding our newborn.”

“i’m being careful!” he insists, gently rocking the baby as he starts another curl with his free arm. “see? form’s perfect!”

you stare at him, torn between horror and laughter. “you’re gonna drop something.”

“no, no, no,” he says quickly, “i’ve got great grip strength!” he beams down at the baby. “right, little owl? daddy’s strong, huh?”

the baby kicks happily, letting out a gurgly sound that makes him melt on the spot.

“see? she said yes.”

you sigh, sitting down beside him. “that was not a yes.”

“it was in baby language.”

before you can reply, the baby pulls away from the bottle — and then it happens.

a tiny burp. followed by a not-so-tiny spit-up.

straight down bokuto’s chest.

he freezes mid-curl, eyes wide, mouth open.

“...she got me.”

you clap a hand over your mouth, trying not to laugh.

“she got me!” he repeats, voice breaking between horror and pride. “that was a direct hit!”

you’re wheezing now. “you had it coming.”

he looks down at her, still in disbelief. “she waited. she waited until I was confident.”

“that’s parenting, babe.”

he sets the dumbbell aside, laughing despite himself. “okay, okay, no more curls while feeding. lesson learned.”

“good idea.”

he wipes at himself with a towel, leaning back with the baby on his chest, sighing contentedly.

“you know,” he says softly, smiling down at her, “she’s gonna grow up strong too. we’re gonna do push-ups together someday.”

“maybe start with tummy time.”

“tummy time push-ups!”

“no.”

“fine, tummy time core training!”

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as he kisses the top of the baby’s head.

“you’re ridiculous,” you murmur.

“yeah,” he grins, “but I’m a dad, so it’s okay.”

and honestly, it really is.

Washio Tatsuki

you wake up to the sound of drawers opening and closing.

soft at first — methodical — then progressively faster.

by the time you sit up, washio’s standing by the dresser, holding up two identical baby onesies like he’s weighing life and death.

“...what are you doing?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.

he doesn’t look up. “it’s cold.”

“it’s three in the morning.”

“the thermostat says twenty-two.”

“celsius or fahrenheit?”

“does it matter?” he mutters, opening another drawer. “babies can’t regulate temperature. i read that somewhere.”

you rub your eyes, already fighting a laugh. “you’re overthinking it.”

“no, i’m not,” he says seriously, turning toward the crib. “look at her. she’s tiny. she doesn’t even have hair.”

“she’s not bald, tatsuki, she’s a baby.”

“babies get cold.”

you groan, flopping back onto the bed. “so pick an outfit.”

“that’s the problem,” he sighs, holding up a fuzzy sleeper. “this one’s too warm.” then he holds up another. “this one’s too thin.”

“you could use a blanket.”

“what if she suffocates?”

you sit up again, biting your lip to stop from laughing. “you’re spiraling.”

he runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “maybe i should turn on the heater.”

“it’s spring.”

“just low, then.”

you pat the bed beside you. “come back to sleep.”

he looks at you, then back at the baby, still asleep and perfectly fine. “...she’s not shivering.”

“because she’s fine.”

he hesitates another moment, then finally climbs back into bed, still frowning toward the crib.

you rest your head on his shoulder. “you’re doing great, you know.”

“am i?” he whispers. “i feel like i’ve checked her temperature every twenty minutes since she was born.”

“that’s called being a dad.”

he hums quietly, eyes half-closed. “she should have a thermostat built in.”

you chuckle, kissing his arm. “good luck inventing that.”

he sighs softly, already drifting off. “maybe i will.”

and just before he falls asleep, you hear him mumble, “...still think she needs socks.”

Akaashi Keiji

it starts beautifully.

the lights are dim, the baby’s bundled in her blanket, and akaashi is sitting on the edge of the bed with a book open in one hand — posture perfect, voice low and soothing.

he’s reading Goodnight Moon like it’s Shakespeare.

“goodnight stars,” he murmurs gently. “goodnight air. goodnight noises everywhere.”

you’re leaning against the doorway, smiling. it’s calm, peaceful — the kind of moment that makes your chest ache a little with love.

then, halfway through the next page, the baby lets out a sharp, angry cry.

akaashi freezes mid-sentence. “...oh.”

you walk closer, biting your lip to keep from laughing. “maybe she’s not a fan of poetry yet.”

“she liked it yesterday,” he says softly, looking genuinely concerned. “she listened the whole time.”

“babies are unpredictable, love.”

he blinks down at the book, lost in thought. “maybe she didn’t like the tone shift.”

“the what?”

“the pacing changes here,” he explains earnestly, pointing to the paragraph. “it’s jarring if you’re used to rhythm.”

you can’t help it — you laugh. “she’s three months old, keiji.”

“she’s perceptive,” he says, serious but gentle, standing to rock her in his arms. “maybe I should’ve gone with Seuss. he’s more… dynamic.”

“she’s not critiquing you.”

“she cried,” he insists quietly, bouncing her a little. “that’s feedback.”

the baby hiccups, still fussy but already calming in his arms. he sighs softly, pressing his cheek against her hair.

“i just wanted her to enjoy it,” he says, voice low. “stories make people feel safe. they always made me feel safe.”

you step closer, resting a hand on his arm. “and she will,” you whisper. “but right now, she just wants her dad’s voice, not the metaphors.”

he smiles faintly, looking down at her sleepy face. “no metaphors. got it.”

a few seconds later, he starts over — no book this time, just soft humming.

and she goes completely still.

you watch him for a moment, heart full.

“you know,” you say quietly, “you’re still her favorite author.”

he chuckles under his breath, eyes soft and shining. “i’ll try not to let the reviews get to me.”

Konoha Akinori

you hear him talking before you see him.

not cooing. not baby talk. talking.

“you had one job,” he says flatly from the nursery. “just one.”

you stop in the doorway. he’s standing over the changing table, completely serious, holding a fresh diaper in one hand and staring down at your baby like he’s been betrayed.

“akinori,” you say slowly, “are you… negotiating with her?”

“trying to,” he says, glancing up with the dead-eyed look of a man who’s seen too much. “it’s not going well.”

you walk closer, biting back a laugh. “what happened?”

“i changed her,” he says, voice perfectly level. “it was a flawless execution. and then—” he gestures vaguely, “—she did it again. immediately. while looking me in the eye.”

you’re laughing before he even finishes. “it’s not personal.”

“it felt personal,” he says. “she waited. she waited until I said, ‘all done.’”

“babies don’t have a concept of timing.”

“then how do you explain the smirk?”

“she can’t smirk, honey.”

he narrows his eyes at the baby, who kicks her legs and coos in what could absolutely be interpreted as smugness. “we’ll see about that.”

you can’t breathe, laughing so hard you have to grab the crib for balance.

“you think this is funny,” he mutters, expertly changing her again, “but this is psychological warfare.”

“you’re arguing with someone who can’t talk.”

“exactly,” he says, snapping the new diaper in place with grim determination. “she doesn’t need to talk. she acts.”

the baby lets out a little squeal, grabbing his finger with her tiny hand. his entire expression softens instantly.

“...she’s manipulating me,” he whispers, dazed.

“probably.”

he sighs, utterly defeated, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “you win. again.”

you grin. “she’s got you wrapped around her finger.”

“it’s not my fault,” he says, shrugging helplessly. “she’s cute and terrifying.”

you laugh, brushing his arm. “welcome to parenthood.”

he glances down at her, still smiling despite himself. “guess I should get used to losing arguments.”

“starting early, huh?”

“yeah,” he says, smiling softly. “might as well prepare for the teenage years now.”

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

FUKURODANI BOYS — When It Clicked

(timeskip era, fluff / introspection) Includes Bokuto, Washio, Akaashi, and Konoha.

│ it didn’t happen all at once — just a quiet moment, a small laugh, and suddenly it all made sense.

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

bokuto koutarou

he’s halfway through a story — something loud, full of hand gestures, probably exaggerated — when you interrupt him mid-sentence to fix the collar of his shirt. he stops talking instantly, blinking down at you like you just rewired his brain. what? you ask, laughing at his face. nothing, he says, too quickly, cheeks a little pink. you smooth the fabric, step back, and he just watches you for a second, grin tugging at his mouth. all the noise fades, replaced by this quiet hum in his chest that feels new and certain. he’s never been good at sitting still, but with you, it suddenly feels easy.

~

you find him sitting outside after practice, hair damp, head tilted back to look at the sky. he’s not pouting — not really — but you know that look, the one he gets when he’s doubting himself. you sit beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushes his. you okay? you ask. he shrugs, still staring at the clouds. yeah. just thinking. you hum softly, resting your head against his arm. he doesn’t move away. a long moment passes before he sighs, his voice low and steady. thanks for coming anyway. you smile. you didn’t even ask me to. yeah, he says, finally looking at you, eyes warm. but you still did.

washio tatsuki

he’s not a man of many words — you learned that early. it’s late, the two of you in the kitchen, washing dishes side by side. you hum under your breath, soft and tuneless, and he glances over, the corner of his mouth twitching. you’re off-key, he says, deadpan, and you bump his shoulder with yours. he pretends to sigh, but when you laugh, the sound fills the whole room. he looks at you — really looks — and feels the smallest, quietest click in his chest. it’s simple, unannounced, but solid. it fits.

~

he’s reading on the couch when you come in, hair damp from your shower, still in an oversized shirt. you drop down beside him, curling your legs up, your knee brushing his thigh. what’re you reading? you ask, leaning closer. something boring, he murmurs, setting the book aside. you rest your head on his shoulder, and he lifts an arm automatically, settling it around you. it’s instinctive, practiced, and somehow brand new all at once. he feels your breathing even out, your weight pressing comfortably against him, and he exhales — long, quiet, content. it’s the easiest thing in the world to hold you there.

akaashi keiji

you’re sitting together in the park, him with a notebook open on his knee, you rambling about something you saw earlier. he’s listening — mostly — but the sun catches your face mid-sentence, and suddenly, his mind drifts. he watches you talk, animated, hands moving as you tell the story, and the thought comes uninvited but sure: this feels like home. he doesn’t even write it down — doesn’t need to. it’s already there, tucked somewhere between one heartbeat and the next.

~

you come home to find him asleep at the table, pen still in hand, paper full of half-written thoughts. you set your bag down quietly, slide the notebook away before his ink smudges, and brush his hair out of his face. he stirs a little, eyes blinking open. you’re back, he murmurs, voice rough. you fell asleep working again, you tease. he hums, already drifting off again, and you watch him for a moment — all sharp edges softened, the weight of the day finally gone. you press a kiss to his temple, whisper something against his skin that he’ll never fully wake up to. i missed you too.

konoha akinori

it’s the end of a long day, the kind that leaves both of you laughing just to keep from crying. you’re sitting on the floor surrounded by takeout containers, him telling stories about old teammates while you sip from a shared drink. he gestures too much, almost knocks it over, and you catch it with a reflex that makes him pause mid-sentence. nice save, he says with a grin. i learned from the best. his laugh fills the room, bright and easy, and the look he gives you after — open and unguarded — makes your pulse skip. that’s when he realizes it’s been this simple all along.

~

you wake up to the sound of the shower running, soft music playing from his phone. he emerges a few minutes later, towel draped around his shoulders, hair dripping, wearing that lazy morning smile that makes everything else fade. morning, he says, voice still scratchy, and leans down to press a quick kiss to your forehead. it’s automatic, casual, like muscle memory. you watch him pad into the kitchen, humming along to the song, and it hits you slow and steady — this isn’t fleeting. it’s the kind of love that builds itself quietly into every morning.

FUKURODANI BOYS — How You Guys Met

(timeskip era, fluff / humor) Includes Bokuto, Washio, Akaashi, and Konoha.

│ it wasn’t love at first sight, but it was close enough to count.

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

Bokuto Koutarou

you’re pretty sure this hill is trying to kill you.

it’s too early, the air’s too cold, and whoever said morning jogs were “refreshing” clearly had better lungs than you. you’re about two seconds from turning back when someone sprints past—a flash of grey hoodie, dark hair streaked with silver, and energy that should be illegal at sunrise.

he’s fast. way too fast.

you’re still glaring at his retreating figure when, a few minutes later, he slows down—then turns around completely, jogging backward until he’s facing you with an easy grin.

“hey! you got this!”

you blink. “...what?”

“the hill!” he says, pointing ahead like it’s a battlefield. “don’t stop now! you’re almost there!”

“you don’t even know me,” you gasp, half-laughing, half-dying.

“doesn’t matter!” he laughs back. “you’re doing great!”

you can’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “you’re insane.”

“motivated!” he corrects, flashing a grin. “come on, run with me!”

you consider refusing—just for your pride—but something about his excitement is infectious. he slows his pace, keeping stride beside you, calling out encouragement every few steps.

“see? not so bad, right?”

“i can’t—breathe,” you manage.

“that’s the spirit!”

by the time you reach the top, you’re bent over, wheezing, and he’s barely winded, hands on his hips, beaming at you like you just won a medal.

“you did it!”

you look up at him, incredulous. “you say that like i climbed everest.”

“same energy,” he says with a laugh, offering you his water bottle. “you earned it.”

you take it, still catching your breath. “do you… cheer on random strangers often?”

“only the cool ones,” he says, grinning again. then, softer, “but seriously—good job. most people give up halfway.”

you smile, warmth spreading through your chest despite the chill in the air. “thanks, coach.”

he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “bokuto koutarou,” he says. “i run here every morning—usually solo, but…” he glances at you, hopeful. “wanna join me sometime?”

you raise an eyebrow. “you planning on yelling at me every time i slow down?”

“yep,” he says immediately. “but i’ll buy breakfast after.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “fine, but only if there’s coffee.”

“deal!” he says, smiling so wide it’s impossible not to smile back.

and that’s how your mornings change—from quiet runs to shared laughter, bad jokes, and the steady rhythm of his encouragement beside you.

turns out, running’s not so bad when someone believes in you like that.

Washio Tatsuki

you first notice him because he’s always there.

same corner table, same coffee order, same quiet presence—every morning like clockwork. he sits near the window, book in one hand, coffee in the other, expression calm and unreadable.

the first few times, you only glance his way. the café’s small, the regular crowd familiar, but something about him stands out. he never stares at his phone. never rushes. just… exists quietly in a way that makes the world around him seem slower.

on a particularly busy morning, there are no open seats left. the barista glances at you apologetically, and before you can decide between leaving or awkwardly hovering, a quiet voice calls from the corner.

“you can sit here.”

you turn, surprised. it’s him—Washio, though you don’t know his name yet—gesturing to the empty chair across from him.

“are you sure?”

he nods once, calm and certain.

you thank him, sitting down with your drink. it’s a little awkward at first—two strangers, both pretending to focus on their own things—but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. if anything, it feels… peaceful.

after a while, he looks up from his book. “they usually open a second register around eight-thirty,” he says. “it’s less crowded then.”

you smile. “so you do talk.”

a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “sometimes.”

the next day, he’s there again. so are you.

it becomes routine—same time, same table, quiet company. sometimes you talk about books, sometimes you don’t talk at all. but every morning, when you walk in, he looks up, gives a small nod, and pushes your usual chair out just slightly, like he was expecting you.

one morning, he isn’t there. his table’s empty, and you feel a surprising pang of disappointment. you still order, still sit down, trying not to overthink it.

you’re halfway through your drink when the barista walks over and sets a cup in front of you.

“uh— I didn’t order this,” you say.

“it’s paid for,” she replies, smiling. “guy with dark hair. said to give it to you.”

there’s a small note tucked under the cup:

‘meeting ran late. thought you might still want your usual. —washio.’

you catch yourself smiling before you even finish reading.

the next morning, he’s there again, and you set his drink down before he can order.

“figured I’d return the favor,” you say.

he looks up at you, that faint, knowing smile on his face again. “then I guess I’ll have to buy tomorrow’s.”

and just like that, it’s no longer a coincidence.

Akaashi Keiji

the bookstore’s quiet—soft music, the rustle of pages, the faint smell of paper and coffee. you’re wandering through the literature section when you spot the last copy of the new poetry collection you’ve been waiting for.

you reach for it.

so does someone else.

your hands bump.

you both freeze.

“ah—sorry,” you blurt, stepping back quickly. “you can have it.”

the man beside you looks up, a calm expression and dark hair falling neatly into place. his eyes are sharp but kind, and when he speaks, his voice is smooth, measured.

“we could share,” he says lightly. “unless you’re a slow reader.”

you blink, caught off guard. “what—are you challenging me?”

a hint of amusement flickers in his eyes. “only if you’re up for it.”

you grin despite yourself. “fine. i’ll finish it first.”

“bold,” he says, lips twitching. “but i respect that.”

he lets you take the book, and you walk away with a smile still tugging at your mouth.

a week later, you’re back at the same bookstore, this time sitting in the café corner flipping through another novel. you glance up when someone stops beside your table.

it’s him.

he’s holding the same poetry collection, expression calm as ever. “did you win?”

you blink. “win what?”

“the race,” he says, setting the book on the table. “i figured i’d check if you actually finished it.”

you laugh softly. “i did. and you?”

“twice,” he says, deadpan.

“show-off.”

he smiles then—small but genuine—and gestures toward the chair across from you. “mind if i join you?”

you shake your head, sliding the book toward him. “fine. but you’re buying the coffee.”

“deal,” he says easily, sitting down.

you spend the next hour reading side by side, exchanging quiet comments and half-hidden smiles. he never asks for your name until the very end, when you’re packing up to leave.

“i’m Akaashi,” he says simply.

you tell him yours, and he repeats it softly, as if testing how it sounds.

“i’ll see you next week?” he asks.

you raise a brow. “are we starting another race?”

“maybe,” he says, that faint smile returning. “but this time, i don’t mind losing.”

Konoha Akinori

you only stopped at the juice bar because you were tired, hot, and too dehydrated to make a real decision. the place was small—half a dozen stools, warm lighting, soft music—and behind the counter stood a barista who looked one laugh away from quitting thanks to the man in front of him.

“come on, man,” the customer was saying, leaning on the counter. “you know i didn’t order spinach last time. you’re sabotaging me.”

the barista deadpanned. “you ordered the ‘green goddess.’ it literally says spinach.”

the man blinked. “oh. then never mind. sabotage withdrawn.”

you were still trying not to laugh when he turned slightly, meeting your eyes for the first time—bright grin, light brown hair, easy charm.

“hey, don’t judge me,” he said. “spinach has no business in a drink.”

“you’re the one who ordered it,” you shot back.

“in my defense, the word ‘goddess’ was misleading.”

that earned a laugh out of you, and he looked far too pleased about it.

you ordered your drink—something absurdly complicated involving mango, honey, and two different kinds of milk substitutes. he raised an eyebrow as you rattled it off.

“wow. i take back everything i said. you’re the juice bar menace.”

you smirked. “at least mine tastes good.”

he chuckled, stepping aside to wait for his drink. “guess I’ll have to take your word for it, mystery scientist.”

you rolled your eyes, but the nickname stuck.

the next afternoon, you came back. you weren’t expecting to see him again—he didn’t look like the kind of guy who made a habit of showing up at the same place twice. but there he was, sitting at the counter, talking to the same barista like they’d been friends for years.

“hey, scientist!” he called when he saw you, grinning.

you blinked. “you remembered me?”

“hard to forget someone who orders a potion,” he said.

you went to order, but the barista stopped you, already sliding a drink across the counter.

“it’s taken care of,” he said. “your friend here insisted.”

you frowned, looking at Konoha. “you didn’t have to do that.”

he shrugged, sipping his smoothie. “I know. but it’s worth it just to see if your potion actually works.”

you laughed, taking a sip. “tastes amazing, actually.”

“so you’re saying you’re a genius and you have good taste,” he said, mock-serious. “dangerous combo.”

you smiled. “you flirt with everyone who drinks fruit, or just me?”

“depends,” he said, meeting your eyes, grin softening. “how often are you planning to come back here?”

“daily, apparently,” you said. “now that I’ve been bribed with free juice.”

“perfect,” he said. “then I’ll see you tomorrow, scientist.”

and you did—again and again, until “your usual” became a shared one.

FUKURODANI BOYS — Meeting Your “Little Baby”

(timeskip era, fluff / humor) Includes Bokuto, Washio, Akaashi, and Konoha.

│ they thought your ‘little baby’ was a toy poodle. they were wrong.

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

Bokuto Koutarou

the doorbell doesn’t just ring — it’s pounded on.

“BABY, I’M HERE!”

you open the door, already smiling, to find bokuto standing there with the biggest grin known to man, a bouquet clutched in one hand and pure sunshine radiating off him.

“hi,” you laugh. “you didn’t have to bring flowers.”

“of course i did!” he declares proudly, thrusting them toward you. “you said i was finally meeting your dog — this is a big deal! i had to make a good first impression.”

“you realize he’s a dog, right?”

“a dog with taste,” bokuto says seriously. “and i plan to impress him.”

you shake your head, ushering him inside. “you’re ridiculous.”

“ridiculously charming,” he corrects, leaning in to kiss your cheek — warm, quick, and confident — before turning expectantly toward the hallway. “okay, where is he? where’s my future best friend?”

you grin. “in the bedroom. lemme just—”

too late. your alaskan malamute pads out of the hallway like he’s the reigning monarch of the house, fur gleaming, expression completely unimpressed. he stops a few feet from bokuto, tilts his head slightly, and sniffs the air.

“hey there, champ!” bokuto says immediately, crouching down with the biggest, friendliest smile. “i’m bokuto! i’ve heard so much about you. i brought flowers for your mom, but i can get you treats next time. we’re gonna be best friends, yeah?”

the dog steps forward, sniffs his knee once — and then gives a long, bored huff.

before bokuto can recover, the dog turns around and walks away.

straight down the hall. into your bedroom. door half-shut behind him.

the silence that follows is devastating.

“…did—did he just leave?” bokuto whispers, frozen in a crouch.

you bite your lip, trying not to laugh. “he’s… uh. independent.”

“independent? he just rejected me! i didn’t even get a chance to show him my handshake!”

you cover your mouth, shoulders shaking. “he’s not usually like that.”

“no, it’s fine,” bokuto says quickly, standing up and forcing a grin that’s way too dramatic to be genuine. “it’s fine! happens all the time. dogs sense greatness, and sometimes it’s just… overwhelming.”

you lose it — laughter spilling out uncontrollably as he pouts, hand over his heart.

“you’re laughing at my pain!” he gasps. “do you know how long i practiced my friendly crouch pose?!”

“your what?”

“the friendly crouch pose! i googled it!”

you’re wheezing now, tears forming at the corners of your eyes. “you did not—”

“i did!” he insists, completely serious. “i wanted him to like me! i wanted to be the fun dad!”

you reach for him, still giggling. “you’re ridiculous.”

he sighs dramatically, leaning into your touch with a defeated grin. “guess i’ll just have to win him over the old-fashioned way.”

“treats and patience?” you ask.

“no,” he says, perking back up, grin wide again. “by making you love me so much, he has to accept me.”

“bokuto, he already—”

“no, no,” he interrupts, finger raised in mock determination. “don’t ruin my arc. this is my redemption story.”

from down the hall, a single low woof echoes — short, unimpressed.

bokuto straightens, glaring playfully. “yeah, you keep talkin’, fluffy guy. i’ll win you over yet.”

you shake your head, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. “you’re insane.”

“insanely lovable,” he corrects, flashing you that dazzling grin again.

and even though the dog’s still ignoring him, you can’t help but think he’s absolutely right.

Tatsuki Washio

you open the door to a calm, polite knock—and there he is: tall, composed, the quiet type whose presence spreads reassurance in a way that doesn’t need loud words. he holds his coat in one hand, shoes neatly placed, eyes catching the soft light of your living room.

“hey,” he says softly, stepping inside. “thanks for inviting me.”

“of course,” you smile. “come in—i’ve got snacks and we can just relax tonight.”

he nods, glancing around. “nice place.” his tone isn’t flashy, but there’s genuine warmth. “so… your “little baby.””

and from the hallway comes a rumbling shuffle. your giant bernese mountain dog pads into view—massive, steady, calm—fur sweeping the floor, eyes mild but watchful.

washio stops, taking a careful step forward. “wow,” he breathes. “that is a dog.”

“meet ottis,” you say quietly. “he likes quiet, so you’re off to a good start.”

ottis leans in, head low, and nudges washio’s hand with his massive snout. washio crouches slowly, placing his hand on ottis’s shoulder. “thanks… ottis.”

you fetch drinks and sit down; washio settles beside you, ottis lying across the floor between your legs. the dog’s great weight presses gently against washio’s side, and he adjusts with a calm grace.

you grin. “he’s good company.”

washio turns to you, quietly: “yeah. he knows when to just… be.”

in the soft hum of the room, ottis lets out a long, contented sigh, tail thumping. washio glances at him, then at you. “i’m glad i came.”

you look back, smiling softly. “me too.”

(and ottis? he remains the silent giant, guardian of the couch, letting you both talk and laugh without needing to shout.)

Akinori Konoha

you weren’t expecting the call -- a casual text, “hey, dropping by later if that’s okay,” and you laughed, told him of course. you figured it’d be low-key, quiet; his tone had that “i’ll help you unpack your books or something” vibe.

when he arrives, he’s neat and composed, hair brushed back, shirt tucked, shoes by the door. “thanks,” he says simply, stepping in. “nice place.”

“thanks,” you say, waving him in. “make yourself at home.”

he glances around, taking in the décor with mild curiosity. “so… your ‘little baby’ you mentioned,” he says quietly, “is he… around?”

you nod. “down the hall. he’s been pacing—i blame the new sunflowers in the yard.”

the dog appears then: a newfoundland the size of a small deer, fur dark and thick, tail wagging slow but steady. he stops short of Konoha, head tilting.

Konoha freezes. “wow,” he murmurs. “that’s… not quite what i imagined when you say 'little baby'.”

“meet grizzly,” you say. “he’s mellow but massive.”

he crouches, hand out. grizzly sniffs—once, twice—then unexpectedly plops beside him, almost like he’s chosen that spot. the couch is two-seaters; grizzly is nearly as long as it across the cushions.

“okay,” Konoha says, voice soft but warm. “this is… nice.” he leans back, grizzly leaning into him, body heavy but somehow comfortable.

you sit beside them, hand finding Konoha’s as you settle. “he likes you,” you whisper.

Konoha glances down, the hint of a smile breaking through. “good,” he says quietly. “i like him.”

grizzly emits a low rumble and thumps his tail. Konoha’s fingers move automatically—stroking thick fur, brushing ears. his posture relaxes, shoulders lowering for the first time tonight.

you lean closer. “thanks for coming by.”

he turns, eyes meeting yours. “i’m glad i did,” he says. “and uh… thanks for letting me hang out with two of the coolest guys i know.”

grizzly sighs in agreement, tail sweeping one slow arc.

and in that quiet room, with the big dog draped across Konoha and you holding his hand, you realize this was anything but a quiet drop-in. it was… exactly right.

Akaashi Keiji

he arrives right on time — neat, composed, and carrying that worn leather notebook like it’s a sacred artifact. his hair’s a little windswept from the train, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and when you open the door, his whole face softens.

“hey,” he says quietly, voice low and warm. “i brought the edits. shouldn’t take long, if that’s okay?”

“of course,” you say, smiling as you step aside. “though you know you don’t have to sound so formal. we’re not in the office.”

he chuckles faintly. “force of habit.”

it’s all calm and easy at first — the two of you sitting side by side on the couch, your knees brushing every so often, papers spread across the coffee table. he talks softly, explaining margins and pacing, the way your latest chapter “flows beautifully, but could use just one more heartbeat before the ending.” it’s all so him — thoughtful, steady, deliberate.

and then, out of nowhere, there’s a sound. a shuffle. the faint jingle of a collar.

“...was that—”

you don’t even have time to answer before a streak of golden fur barrels through the room, tail wagging like a weapon. your golden retriever, comet, pauses for exactly two seconds to make eye contact with you — then clamps his jaws around akaashi’s open notebook and bolts.

“comet!” you yelp, scrambling to your feet.

akaashi blinks, frozen for half a second. then, with the quietest sigh imaginable, he stands too. “ah,” he says dryly. “of course.”

you’re already chasing the dog through the kitchen, socked feet slipping on the tile. “he does this sometimes! he thinks it’s a game!”

“he seems very dedicated,” akaashi observes as he follows, voice calm even as comet darts past him, tail smacking his leg.

“comet, drop it!” you plead, grabbing for the notebook. comet dodges with Olympic precision, tail thumping wildly as he loops around the couch again.

akaashi exhales — the kind of long, patient breath that says this is fine, everything’s fine, this is my life now. then he crouches slightly, voice even and low. “comet.”

the dog freezes.

“come here, buddy,” he says softly, hand out, tone practiced — calm, steady, gentle authority. comet hesitates… then trots over and drops the notebook directly into his hand.

akaashi blinks down at him, a little surprised. “...thank you.”

you’re breathless from laughing, leaning against the wall. “how did you do that?”

“editorial tone,” he says, lips twitching. “works on both writers and dogs.”

you roll your eyes, still giggling as you take the notebook back. “i’m so sorry. he’s usually—”

“perfect,” akaashi finishes for you, smiling now — genuinely, fondly. “i can tell.”

you’re both still catching your breath, standing there in the middle of the living room surrounded by scattered papers and dog hair, and when your eyes meet, you both just laugh.

the kind of laughter that melts all the tension out of your shoulders.

“well,” he says softly, “that was… surprisingly nice.”

“you mean chaotic?” you tease.

“chaotic,” he agrees. “but… nice.”

comet, having decided his work here is done, flops dramatically onto the floor beside you, tail sweeping lazily against the carpet.

akaashi looks at him, then at you. “he’s got great timing,” he murmurs.

“he’s a menace.”

“he’s the reason i get to see you like this,” he says quietly — and that warmth in his voice makes your cheeks go hot.

you nudge him with your shoulder. “sap.”

he smiles, tilting his head toward you. “hopeless,” he admits. “but at least I’m in good company.”

and when comet sighs contentedly between you both, you can’t help but think he’s right.

Japan-ifying my backpack one owl at a time.

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