𝔻𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕥 𝕂𝕚𝕥𝕒

This platinum almost out grown roots mean sits across from your desk. The bank today is filled with a few applicants and others doing their daily errands. After reading his letter of recommendations along with the deed of an older arcade going out business, you make sure you cleared every check box for this young entrepreneur. Ok, maybe not so young, you two seem to be of the same age, yet for lack of better understanding, you keep that comment to yourself.

You clear your throat and say between clicking and typing on your end, “You’re that onigiri guy I’ve been seeing at the local street vendor days in the park, right?”

His ears perk up and then turn a soft shade of peach. He’s a bit pale, but you could tell he used to be out in the sun for a while working on his tan…and onigiri of course. Nodding he hums.

“Ya been to the stand before?” He nervously chuckles as you hum.

“Killer combos dude and that umami?! To die for!” You smile.

A few more seconds go by as you’re viewing the final paperwork. He rubs his hands together silently praying for approval for his first ever shop. You excuse yourself to pick up the printed contract for the business loan, asking your work-senpai to re-read this document to see if there were any errors.

Luckily there were none and you breathe a sigh of relief.

“He looked so sad and nervous coming in,” you explain, straightening out your suit. “I guess he never really had much success trying to get approved…”

You don’t know that Miya Osamu, nearly 27 years old by now, has tried for the past two years to get a business loan. He’s been stuck selling his onigiri out of his truck and or motorbike since his early 20s or at least setting up a small table in the night markets. You’re just lucky you got everyone in your department at the bank to get hooked on his cooking.

Your work-senpai, Ms Miri, hums agreeing.

“In a post pandemic world it’s harder for family owned businesses to stay afloat, but boy did he try his best to save up how much…holy shit!”

She whispers her surprised expression when she sees just how much Osamu is putting down.

“I believe in him. He’ll do well!”

You practically are beaming as you return to your cubicle.

You knock to grab his attention and you wave the papers. He stands, wiping his hands on his pants, holding his hat apprehensively chewing his cheek like he’s pouting.

“Cute,” he hears me quietly say that.

You hide behind the stack of papers clearly embarrassed since you realize what you had said before clearing your throat.

“Ahem, Mr. Miya Osamu?”

“Yes Mx Shinkai?”

You pass him the papers. “I’m elated to report that your business loan and business credit line is now approved. Congratulations and thank for choosing Raiden-Bank to start your ventures.”

He drops his hat as he reaches for the papers.

You pull out a pen with a cap on it, “it’s all there. All you need to do is sign here.”

***short time skip***

Onigiri Miya night before opening day has finally arrived. You are the first person outside of family and friends that is invited to the mock service. The invitation said to only bring yourself, so that is what you did on your late afternoon from work.

You knock on the door and you see that Osamu is alone tonight—his staff probably sent home early to prepare for the grand opening tomorrow.

Osamu spots you at the door and unlocks it for you.

“Come in,” he says as he locks the door behind you.

“Woah, this looks so great!”

You settle into a booth you notice is set up for two. You take your time glancing around the interior. Blowing out a low whistle complimenting him on a job well done. There are various pictures of him and friends and his famous twin brother. Then, there’s one of you on a Polaroid frame eating one of his test creations earlier last month as your friend bloomed.

“Out of all these guys on here, I like this one the most,” he says. Then he has a drafted agreement in his hands.

“And I’m hoping since they believed in me and my onigiri that they’d be co-founder with me? Sign here if ya like.”

regardless, it is now the end of another proper autumnal night. the stars in the hemisphere have finally shifted as you pull the chord gently to shut off the "open" neon sign hanging at the front window. the feeling of someone's third eye on you is one which made you feel dreadful once now makes you want to embrace the being who is too shy to show their face. your only clue? a grain of rice. in your candy shop. that you bought from an old classmate.

"i know you're out there, somewhere," you murmur. "i'm here, looking for you."

a small vobo-chan, worn and wrinkled through the years sits next to a fox keychain from new year's day when you were still a child of 17. the person who gifted them to you as a sign of friendship (only now you realize it was a part of their love language they showed you), is gone. gone where? well, when you arrive to the kita farm household donning deep purple like the wisteria he coughed up two days ago, you hear him breathe a sigh of pretentious relief.

"yn-san," kita shinsuke's voice revels in the surprise visit while the quiet breeze when he opens his door.

"found you," you show him the small grain in the setting sun, a smile on your lips.

"...won't you come in for a while? the kitsune are about to wake."

and beyond your peer's shoulder, the eyes of a gray fox shine with a sinister knowledgeable smile. the human who runs the candy shop is gifted in seeing her love transform into the yokai of old follows his keeper.

"welcome home, 'samu."

the last time he cut his hair was maybe six months ago, and you’ve watched it slowly but surely reach a perfect length.

it lets you make little horns when you shampoo his hair as he holds you against him,

it looks stupidly good when he combs it back for special occasions,

it falls in his face just enough that it’s brought you the gift of keiji with his blue light glasses, cat slippers, and a little sprout ponytail on top of his head, tied with a little fruit hair tie, as he works away late into the night.

and he’s allowed to cut it. he is, but at the same time—

“this is serious! keiji, please- i’ll get on my knees and beg, look, please.” 

the apartment isn’t big; your spot in the kitchen is just a few meters away. it takes all but three seconds to leave the fruit you’ve cut for him and jog over with your arms wide open.

keiji holds his out to stop you. “what? no—”

“please, please, please, please, please,”—you dodge and slide to the floor, wrapping your arms around his legs—“please, my angel, my beautiful boyfriend, love of my life who i love so much, please—”

“i’m—” he snorts while you laugh between desperate pleas, muffled against the cotton of his pajamas, “i didn’t want to cut it, i was just wondering.”

and you sigh, loosen the grip around his pajamas, now slightly wrinkled. “oh thank god.”

keiji snickers and moves his hand to rest on your head. it travels down to hold your jaw, tilting your face to look at his. “is cutting my hair really that awful of an idea?”

you lean into his touch. “i mean, no, you look good no matter what. but they’re not joking when they say every time a boy with perfect hair cuts it too short an angel dies.”

he hums, his thumb rubbing against your cheek. “so are you the angel in this case?”

“am—” you almost parrot the question, caught in place by the amusement on his face. “shut up.”

“because if you’re the angel then i definitely can’t cut my hair.”

“oh my god.” the hair in question falls in front of his eyes again, and you take the opportunity to stand up while he fixes it. “whatever, i’m leaving, you nerd. go back to editing or whatever it is you do,” you huff with a smile and pinch to his cheek.

his soft laughter fills the room while you move to let him work, (swearing when you remember his tea you promised to make,)

but your leg is caught by one of his, and a hand is suddenly holding yours against his face.

keiji shoots you a smug smile, keeps you near just a little longer, just so he can say one more thing—

“okay, angel.”

forgot i wrote this months ago. hey

The land was a dark and cruel world-filled with reddened earth and volcanic sand. Quite barbaric, yet you seemed to have thrived. Evolutionary lines occur like normal, until the paranormal begins to develop along side it.

Centuries later, as time would have it, you did come to be born in this world. You were dubbed a ghost-royal. Your family had failed to successfully hide you as they were mere peasants. Peasants in the outer kingdom of a peculiar ring of the cursed world. Being a mortal here is a taboo, yet here you were with your parents' initial regenerative gene.

Over time, you grew into an adult, wild and free in your choices. This attracts the attention of curses. They report back to the oddities of your hobbies. In your mortal life, wars break out every now and then, you somehow out maneuver the enemy invaders most of the time. Skills like you being a keen strategist has you catching the eye of a king.

This king, this tyrant, chooses to send his cursed minions after you.

You've been quick with your wit, strategies, and whatnot can only get you so far. Mortal short-sightedness has now led you to be on your knees, chained up like a criminal. The king of curses sits on his throne of skulls. He leaves you with a choice: join him as a mortal eye or have your line end with you.

"As long as you don't have a loving bone in your body, my allegiance lies with you," your eyes are determined. "Whatever keeps me alive."

And alive it has made you. Body modifications, surgeries, etc. Time progressed around you and you had turned 30 years old according to the mortal realm. Your books in the tower carved out for you in the palace has left you bored. You can't keep reading the same books of witchcraft, myths, and legends especially if you are one yourself. Dubbed the Ghost Royal, you were seen by many of the king's men as a pet, a most valued concubine, or just a mortal milking the fascination of the king.

Regardless, one night, in the middle of the king satisfying his woman of choice, you make a bold move as you were told to merely watch. Watch as he kisses her, holds her, fucks her forwards and backwards, moaning in elicit pleasure when all four arms and stomach tongue entertain her. You are curious if you could even make those sounds, those faces, so you boldly ask at the height of their ecstasy:

"Lord Sukuna? Let me visit the surface world...it's for research purposes," your voice is background noise after a particularly loud moan coming from the woman.

A grunt of acknowledgment is heard from your lord and master, so you make it out like a thief in the night.

Summer's eve has come to pass. You break out of the mausoleum the last stairs that Charon guided you to. Death has a place in all religions and creed, even myths die, yet you press the golden coins to the old boat driver. The world you've read so much about is modernized. You walk around in old robes with singed threads. Many of the people who see you walk out of the cemetery give you weird stares. Either they are in awe of you, or the fact you speak a language no one can barely understand makes things a bit complicated.

Things become more tumultuous when you see a man, around six feet tall, cerulean spectacles, sharp features, hone in on you. He has someone with him. A gray haired annoyingly talkative friend, perhaps? When the first one sees you, he nods to his friend who also gives you a look of acknowledgement. Are they sorcerers like you? Or are the foes who fight against the tyranny of the king you serve.

Needless to say, they both approach you. With one on either side, they gently grab your arm and lead you down a close alleyway.

"What do we do?" the white haired one asks. "We can't just leave a fine person here on her own. They did come up to the surface..."

"Gojo," the one on your right is thoroughly annoyed. You might not understand what a 'Gojo' is, but you understand the distasteful tone. "They are a curse. Look at how they're dressed. Must've come from Sukuna's hellscape."

You must've seemed terrified or rather your features relaxed, bowing your head in defeat for being found out.

"Look, Nanamin, ya made 'em deflate," the one you new was called Gojo now speaks.

"Do we exorcise it?" Nanami does not hesitate, gripping the handle of his cleaver.

You glance up tilt your head to the side before you open your mouth to speak. You're trying to say no in every conceivable language, attempting to plead your case why they shouldn't. However, you should know your master's reach is a far one. Mahito, the one he sends after you, enters the cemetery and soon finds your location.

Things were about to get worse before they got better.

"Oh, it's you," your ears know that voice anywhere.

Sighing you pick up the wilted flowers you replaced. You glance up at the shaded tree, recalling how once upon a time, you came here with those two human sorcerers who taught you how all life-cursed or not-is precious. How you saw past their entertaining banter makes you smile while you let Mahito go on and on about his latest adventures with the one they all fear: Kenjaku. Needless to say, Mahito turns to leave and right before he is rightfully beheaded, you give him a warning:

"Mahito, watch where you're going. I hear Malaysia's got a present waiting for you."

On the eve of the local Tanabata Festival, you are called over to the house of one of your former classmates. The Miya house has seen it's fair share of arguments, fights, and to balance that out, there were movie nights, game nights, etc. It's the summer after high school graduation and to be honest, the time to act before university comes to separate the old band of friends has arrived.

This will be the last summer you spend with your friends since the fourth grade. Sure, you've prepared yourself and even cried a little with Aran and Kita leaving to pursue their dreams elsewhere, thus entrusting their team of unruly foxes to a person whom could keep them in line. You were voted in by the team as the manager for this past year and you did your job well. You fulfilled your duties by breaking up many a sibling squabble, scolded SunaRin for wanting to post the *most* unflattering pics of the team on their social media page, and quite frankly you stood up for the guys when you heard other teams underestimate them. You might have not played the game on a court in person before, but hell hath no fury like you when you overheard some would be losers badmouth the boys who dedicated themselves to not leaving any memories behind.

As you pass by the familiar campus grounds, you see there are some kids from the middle school next door practicing some passes and bumps in the now empty courtyard. You mutter to yourself they ought to enjoy what team bonds they do have because before they know it, three years will go by in a flash,

"It most certainly did for us," you mumble with a smile.

A few minutes later, you hang a right to the familiar neighborhood several bus stops from yours. You see the familiar hanging plants of the Miya matriarch hanging off from the side of the porch. To be honest, you were surprised Osamu was the one to call you over. Then again, you remember hearing whispers of Atsumu finally going on that date with Nakamura-chan from the drama club.

Luckily for you, it was just Osamu at home for the hour since his mom did step out for some grocery shopping. You walk up to the door and knock, surprised to see Osamu with a cross expression. It seemed you weren't there in time to break up another sibling squabble.

"Are you ok?" you ask, tilting his face this way and that, making sure all cuts or scrapes are with a bandage. "Why didn't you call me sooner?"

"Because I didn't want you to ask, don't ask," he says gruffly.

"Fine, fine, I won't, but holy shit," I let his face go. "How many hits did you get on Atsumu if you look like this?"

At that remark, Osamu chuckles. "He asked me to hit him where his date wouldn't be ruined, so I popped him in the ribs before I tackled him to the ground."

"Attaboy," I chuckle. "So...you called me over? Do you need help changing the bandages?"

Silence fills the air as Osamu, who usually has a smart remark, stays relatively quiet. He says he's appreciative of your concern, yet if you could hear how loud, how fast his heart is beating, you might think he'd have a conniption.

“Osamu? Are you disassociating again?”

Your voice pulls him out of the space he’s staring off into and he clears his throat to apologize.

“What’s gotten into you lately? You’ve been spacing out for seconds, minutes at a time, then when you come back, you can’t look me in the eye… did I do something?”

Modesty isn’t a thing most Miyas knew about, so Osamu just blurts out:

"I can't stop thinking about kissing you."

For a moment, you give him this curious look. It’s as if you couldn’t believe he just blurted it out, but you remember who you’re talking to. Smiling you tilt your head to one side and walk up to him. Looping arms around his shoulders, hearing his breathing stutter a little, you coyly ask:

“And what are you going to do about that that?”

"You called me," you said to your friend who was sitting on the floor next to his bed. It seemed he had a rough day ever since he was told to give the sport he loved a rest or risk losing whatever is left of the cartilage in his knee. Jumper's knee was a thing you thought couldn’t ruin a promising career in sports, hence why you encourage your friend, now back home due to said injuries over time, to continue playing until it was time to quit.

So here you were, spare key in pocket and all, glancing down at the once proud “Great King.” He’s a bit older now, a few strands of his auburn hair feathering off into grays. The years abroad had been kind to him and his physique. You do check him out every once in a while, today your gaze was a little softer than normal. 

Extending a hand to him, he turns to look at you, debonair smile and all.

"And you really came,” he lightly chuckles as he takes your hand.

You help pull him up to his feet and he breathes a word of thanks. He sits on the edge of the bed patting the space next to him. His hand doesn’t leave yours as you sit next to him.

“Remember when I said I wasn’t going to let an injury get me down?” he asks. There is a nostalgic glint in his chestnut brown eyes. The lamp is dim in his room, the rest of his apartment is dark this time of night.

“Yeah,” you smile and give his hand a squeeze. “And you kept playing–for years. Became one of the greats even if you were half a world away.”

You and him look around the collection of trophies and medals each with a year engraved in them. A few even had Olympic rings stitched on to the chords to hold the medals up. Others had the South American League stitched on them too.

“Proud of you, Oikawa Tooru,” you nudge him with your shoulder. You hear him hum. “Oh, and one more thing.”

You let go of his hand, turn to face him once you stand up with a charming grin on your face. He has a curious look on his face.

Thinking back on your high school days could pose a problem for you. You're attending your reunion and are amongst friends who are filling you in on their lives: who got married to who, who's adding to their family, and who's dating who. You realize as they talk you become more and more disassociated in the conversation. It's not like you had any juicy gossip to offer--you weren't dating anyone with the prospect of marriage on the way and you definitely weren't expecting an addition to your family except for maybe adopting another kitten to go along with the two year old cat you have waiting for you at home.

As the night progressed, you enjoy a few more drinks and light snacks at your end of the table. That is until you see him. Him, the young man from your past Japanese literature class with stunning gun-blue metal eyes, soft charcoal hair, and quiet nature. His best friend was the loud and often cheery captain of the volleyball team. You remember him as a gentle soul, after all he was much taller than you then. Nowadays, as you over hear of his publishing successes, you are shy to say to you have read many of his publishing house's manga. Your collection is massive, yet no one here would think you were an avid fan.

Until one member of your side of the table brings up a highly popular josei manga title. Your ears perk up as you enter the conversation saying you are an avid fan and reader of the title. A few things to note: the title was published online independently, second, when the copyright was up for renewal, a new publishing company bought it to have the author continue the story, third said author was attending is high school reunion in the pub where you seemed to be gushing over their work.

Whatever you said caused Akashi Keiji to confidently stride up to you and hang out at your end of the table.

"I take it you like that work," he says. "You're, yln yn,m right? Shared a desk with you in Japanese literature."

He seems amused. You seem a bit flustered as you swirl your empty water cup in your hands. You were trying to be a little less drunk before calling it a night.

"You remember me?" you say with a slight scoff. "It's usually hard for people outside of my friend circle here to recognize me. Nice to see you too Akaashi-kun."

He laughs as he clinks glasses with you. As the night progresses, you two become more and more acquainted past the "what happened after university" and the "where/what do you do now" questions.

You were pleased to know he landed a publishing job much like he was impressed your hobby of photography landed you a few lead exposes for National Geographic. Regardless of the years spent apart from that one classroom in Fukurodani, Akaashi lets you in on a little secret.

"You know," he begins. There is a small curl of his lips. "Sitting next to you inspired me to start drawing a little."

"Really? Now that you're a publisher, I didn't think you'd have to be the artist behind the manga," you reply.

"True, but my first manga heroine? She was inspired by you," he said this casually as he pulls out his phone to show you a very rough sketch of a short, limited series run of a manga you read online.

"N-no way," you gasp. You start to see little coincidences of you in the character when you re-read the first few pages and you glance back at Akaashi.

"I was too shy and reserved back then to ask, but," he starts when you hand him his phone back. "Would you like to go out with me sometime? I have a deadline to meet next Thursday, but Friday I am free."

And without missing a beat, you reply.