✧ickenma5

₍ ⌨ ᶻᶻᶻ ickenma5 is typing ... ₎

˚ ༘♡ ·˚꒰wakatoshi ushijima x reader꒱ ₊˚ˑ༄

The first thing you notice about Wakatoshi Ushijima is that he doesn’t hesitate.

Not in the way most people do there’s no visible pause, no flicker of uncertainty before he speaks or acts. He moves with a kind of quiet certainty, as if the world has already arranged itself into something understandable, something steady.

It’s… grounding.

And, occasionally, a little intimidating.

“You’re staring again.”

You blink, pulled from your thoughts as Ushijima’s voice cuts through the quiet of the campus gym. He stands across from you, volleyball in hand, posture as composed as ever.

“I’m not staring,” you say.

“You are,” he replies.

“…Observing,” you correct.

“That’s the same thing.”

“It’s not.”

He considers that for a moment just long enough to acknowledge it, not long enough to argue.

Then, simply “Continue.”

You huff a quiet breath, shaking your head slightly.

Evenings in the gym feel different when it’s just the two of you.

Without the noise of a full team, everything sharpens the echo of the ball against the floor, the steady rhythm of movement, the quiet exchanges that don’t need to be filled with anything more than presence.

You toss the ball toward him.

Ushijima receives it effortlessly, the motion precise, controlled. When he returns it, it lands exactly where you expect it to like he’s already anticipated your position before you’ve fully settled into it.

“You’re improving,” he says.

You catch the ball, raising an eyebrow. “That sounded like a compliment.”

“It was.”

“I’m surprised.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

You smile slightly. “I usually have to work harder for those.”

“You’ve been working,” he says. “So I acknowledged it.”

Simple.

Direct.

Entirely him.

Being around Ushijima means learning to trust what he says.

He doesn’t exaggerate. Doesn’t soften things unnecessarily or dress them up in language meant to reassure without meaning it. When he speaks, it’s because he believes what he’s saying.

Which makes moments like this

“I thought about you today.”

You blink.

“…Okay.”

It’s not that the statement is unusual.

It’s the way he says it.

Calm.

Certain.

Like it’s as ordinary as mentioning the weather.

“You say that like you’re telling me the time,” you add.

“I am informing you,” he replies.

“That’s not how most people”

“I am not most people.”

You pause.

“…That’s true.”

Ushijima nods once, as if the matter is settled.

You sit together after practice, the air in the gym cooling as the evening deepens outside. The windows catch the last traces of sunlight, casting long shadows across the floor.

Ushijima sits beside you—not close enough to crowd, but near enough that his presence is unmistakable.

“I noticed something,” he says after a moment.

You glance at him. “Should I be concerned?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“You tend to hesitate before responding to personal questions.”

You stare at him.

“That sounds like an observation you’ve been holding onto.”

“I have,” he confirms.

“…Why?”

“I wanted to confirm it was consistent.”

You exhale softly, somewhere between amused and incredulous.

“And?”

“It is.”

You shake your head slightly. “You really do analyze everything, don’t you?”

“Not everything,” he says. “Just what matters.”

The words settle quietly between you.

You don’t respond right away.

Because you’re not entirely sure what to do with that.

“What made you think about me?” you ask instead.

Ushijima doesn’t hesitate.

“You weren’t there.”

You blink. “That’s your answer?”

“Yes.”

“That’s… vague.”

“It is accurate.”

You wait, sensing there’s more.

After a moment, he continues.

“I am accustomed to your presence,” he says. “When it is absent, I notice.”

Your chest feels unexpectedly tight.

“That sounds like something you should have said sooner,” you murmur.

“I am saying it now.”

Again simple. Direct.

No apology for the timing. No hesitation in the delivery.

Just truth.

You lean back slightly, resting your hands against the floor.

“You’re not very subtle,” you say.

“I am not attempting to be.”

“That’s obvious.”

He glances at you, expression unchanged but attention focused.

“Would you prefer subtlety?”

You consider that.

Then shake your head.

“No.”

“Then this is sufficient.”

It shouldn’t be as reassuring as it is.

But it is.

The silence that follows isn’t empty.

It’s steady.

Comfortable in a way that feels unfamiliar at first like you’re used to filling quiet spaces with words, with movement, with something to keep things from feeling incomplete.

But here

It doesn’t feel incomplete.

It feels… enough.

After a moment, Ushijima speaks again.

“I will be away this weekend.”

You glance at him. “For a match?”

“Yes.”

You nod. “You’ll win.”

“That is the intention.”

You smile faintly. “You sound very confident.”

“I am prepared.”

A pause.

“I will think about you again,” he adds.

The words are quiet.

Not dramatic.

Not embellished.

Just… certain.

You look at him.

“…You say things like that so easily,” you say.

“They are easy to say.”

“Most people would struggle with that.”

“I do not see the benefit in withholding accurate statements.”

You huff a soft laugh.

“Of course you don’t.”

You stand after a while, brushing your hands off lightly as you gather your things. Ushijima follows, movements just as composed as ever.

“I’ll walk you,” he says.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

There’s no room to argue with that.

Not really.

So you don’t.

The campus is quieter now, the evening settling into something softer, more subdued. Streetlights flicker on one by one, casting a gentle glow along the path.

You walk side by side, your steps naturally falling into sync.

After a moment, you speak.

“You really mean it, don’t you?”

He glances at you. “Mean what?”

“Everything you say.”

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

No doubt.

You nod slowly, taking that in.

“…That’s rare.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“Maybe not,” you admit. “But it is.”

Another pause.

“I like that you think about me,” you say, a little quieter now.

Ushijima’s gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than usual.

“I do more than think about you,” he says.

Your breath catches.

“…Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t elaborate immediately.

Doesn’t rush to fill the space.

He simply continues walking beside you, presence steady, attention unwavering.

And somehow

That says more than anything else could.

When you reach the point where your paths split, you slow.

“This is me,” you say.

He nods.

“I know.”

Of course he does.

You hesitate just briefly.

“I’ll miss you this weekend.”

The words feel small compared to everything he’s said.

But they’re honest.

And that seems to matter.

Ushijima studies you for a moment, something softer settling into his expression not obvious, not exaggerated, but there.

“I will return,” he says.

“I know.”

A pause.

Then, quieter

“And I will come find you.”

Your chest tightens again, but this time it’s warmer.

Lighter.

“…Okay.”

He nods once.

Satisfied.

And as you turn to leave, the quiet of the evening wrapping around you once more, there’s a certainty that lingers

Not loud.

Not overwhelming.

Just steady.

Just sure.

Like him.

Like this.

Like something that doesn’t need to be questioned

Only felt.

₍ ⌨ ᶻᶻᶻ ickenma5 is typing ... ₎

˚ ༘♡ ·˚꒰tobio kageyama x reader꒱ ₊˚ˑ

The first thing you learn about Tobio Kageyama is that he doesn’t know how to say things the easy way.

Not when it matters.

On the court, he’s precise every movement deliberate, every decision sharp and calculated. His sets land exactly where they need to, like he’s already seen the outcome before anyone else has even moved.

Off the court, though

Words don’t come as cleanly.

“You’re going to be late,” you say, watching him adjust the strap of his bag for the third time.

“I’m not,” Kageyama replies immediately.

“You are,” you insist. “You’ve been standing there for five minutes.”

“I’m thinking.”

“You’re stalling.”

He frowns slightly, like the distinction matters more than the truth of it.

“I’m not stalling.”

“You are.”

There’s a brief pause.

“…A little,” he admits.

You smile faintly. “I figured.”

It’s become something of a pattern.

Kageyama shows up on time, always on time and then lingers, just long enough to make it seem like he might not leave at all. Like there’s something unfinished holding him there, something he hasn’t quite figured out how to say.

You don’t push.

You’ve learned not to.

Instead, you let the silence exist, settling between you in a way that doesn’t feel uncomfortable just… incomplete.

“So,” you say lightly, breaking it just enough, “practice today?”

“Yeah.”

“Long?”

“Probably.”

You nod. “You’ll be tired.”

“I won’t.”

“You always say that.”

“And I’m right.”

“You’re not.”

“…Sometimes.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

Being around Kageyama means learning how to read what isn’t said.

He doesn’t offer explanations easily. Doesn’t dress things up in softer language or easier expressions. But there’s a kind of honesty in him that makes up for it—something direct, even when it’s clumsy.

You see it in the way he watches you.

Not casually.

Not passively.

But with a focus that feels almost… intentional. Like he’s trying to memorize something he doesn’t fully understand yet.

“You’re staring again,” you say.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m thinking.”

“That’s not a defense.”

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

He exhales quietly, looking away for a moment before his gaze drifts back.

“…You move differently,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“When you’re talking,” he clarifies. “Your hands, your posture—it changes depending on what you’re saying.”

You stare at him.

“That’s what you were thinking about?”

“Yes.”

“…That’s kind of weird.”

“It’s not weird,” he says, frowning slightly. “It’s observation.”

You shake your head, but there’s a small smile pulling at your expression.

“Only you would call that observation.”

The thing about Kageyama is that he notices everything.

Just not in the ways people expect.

He remembers how you take your coffee not because you told him, but because he saw you hesitate once before choosing. He notices when your voice shifts, when your energy dips, when something is off even if you haven’t said a word.

But when it comes to saying something himself

He struggles.

“You should go,” you say after a while, glancing at the time.

He nods.

Doesn’t move.

“…Kageyama.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

“I’ll see you later,” he says.

“Yeah,” you reply. “You will.”

He nods again.

Still doesn’t move.

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you waiting for something?”

“…No.”

“Yes, you are.”

A beat.

Then, reluctantly

“…Maybe.”

You fold your arms, studying him.

“What is it?”

He hesitates.

You can see it—the way his thoughts shift, the way he tries to organize something that doesn’t quite fit into words.

Then

“Nothing,” he says.

You sigh softly. “You’re impossible.”

“I know.”

It’s later when it happens.

Not planned.

Not rehearsed.

Just… inevitable.

You’re sitting together, the day winding down into something quieter, the earlier energy of the world settling into a softer rhythm. Kageyama is beside you, closer than usual, though neither of you has acknowledged it.

You’re talking about nothing important, about things that don’t require much thought and then you stop.

Because he’s looking at you again.

Not like before.

Not just observing.

Something else.

“…What?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he shifts slightly, turning toward you more fully, his attention narrowing in a way that feels deliberate.

“I don’t know how to say it,” he admits.

You tilt your head. “Say what?”

He exhales, frustrated not at you, but at himself.

“This,” he says.

“That’s not helpful.”

“I know.”

You wait.

Because you know he needs it.

The space.

The time.

Kageyama’s hands flex slightly at his sides, like he’s trying to steady himself.

“I keep noticing things,” he says finally. “About you.”

You blink. “Okay…”

“And it doesn’t stop,” he continues. “It’s not just when you’re here. It’s all the time.”

Your breath catches, just slightly.

“I’ll be at practice,” he says, voice steadier now, “and I’ll think about something you said. Or how you looked at something. Or—” he stops, searching for the right words, “—how it felt when you were there.”

The world feels quieter.

Smaller.

Focused.

“I don’t think that’s normal,” he adds.

You almost laugh.

“…Kageyama.”

“But I don’t want it to stop,” he says quickly.

That stops you.

Completely.

“I don’t want it to stop,” he repeats, more certain now. “I don’t want to not think about you. I don’t want to not notice you.”

Your chest feels tight in a way that isn’t uncomfortable just… full.

“You’re really bad at this,” you say softly.

“I know,” he replies immediately.

“But”

You step a little closer.

Just enough.

“It makes sense,” you finish.

He looks at you, something shifting in his expression—relief, maybe. Or something close to it.

“…Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“I want to be someone you rely on,” he says, quieter now. “Not just sometimes. All the time.”

Your breath stutters.

“I want to be the person you go to first,” he continues. “The one you think of. The one you—” he stops again, but this time not because he can’t find the words.

Because he already has.

“…belong with,” he finishes.

The words settle between you.

Not perfect.

Not polished.

But real.

Entirely him.

You don’t answer right away.

Not because you don’t know what to say.

But because you want to feel it for a moment longer.

Then—

“You already are,” you say.

Kageyama stills.

“…I am?”

“You are.”

The shift in him is subtle—but unmistakable.

His shoulders relax, just slightly. His gaze softens, just enough.

And for once

He doesn’t look like he’s searching for the right words.

He just

Stays.

Close.

Certain.

And as the quiet settles around you, no longer incomplete but full, it feels like something has finally aligned.

Not perfectly.

Not easily.

But honestly.

And somehow

That’s exactly what you wanted.

₍ ⌨ ᶻᶻᶻ ickenma5 is typing ... ₎

˚ ༘♡ ·˚꒰kotaro bokuto x reader꒱ ₊˚ˑ༄

The gym sounds different when it’s empty.

Not silent never silent—but quieter in a way that lets every small sound linger. The echo of rubber soles against polished wood. The soft, rhythmic thud of a volleyball being passed back and forth. The faint hum of overhead lights stretching across the wide, open space.

Kotaro Bokuto exhales as he tosses the ball lightly toward Keiji Akaashi, watching it arc through the air with a familiar ease.

“Man,” Bokuto says, stretching his arms briefly before readying himself again, “I missed this.”

Akaashi catches the ball cleanly, fingers absorbing the impact before sending it back with practiced precision. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true every time.”

“You also complain every time.”

“That’s different,” Bokuto insists. “That’s part of the experience.”

Akaashi doesn’t bother responding to that. He rarely does.

Instead, he studies Bokuto for a moment quiet, observant, the way he always has been.

“You’re distracted,” he says.

The ball hits Bokuto’s hands a little off-center. He fumbles it, barely catching it before it drops.

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I’m just rusty.”

“You’ve been talking nonstop since you got here,” Akaashi replies evenly. “And none of it has been about volleyball.”

Bokuto pauses.

“…Okay, maybe I’m a little distracted.”

Akaashi gestures lightly with his hand. “Go on.”

Bokuto tosses the ball up once, catches it again, then sighs longer than necessary, louder than necessary.

“It’s not a big deal,” he says.

“Then you wouldn’t be sighing like that.”

“It’s a medium deal.”

Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “That sounds worse.”

Bokuto groans, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, listen—I did something.”

“That narrows it down.”

“Not like that,” Bokuto says quickly. “It’s not bad. It’s just—” he pauses, searching for the right word, “—big.”

Akaashi waits.

Bokuto exhales again. “I made a spare key.”

“…To your apartment?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And it’s for Y/N,” Bokuto says, like that explains everything.

Akaashi considers that for a moment. “That seems reasonable.”

“I know it’s reasonable!” Bokuto says, a little too loudly. “That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

“I haven’t given it to them yet.”

Akaashi blinks. “Why not?”

Bokuto hesitates.

Then, quieter

“I got nervous.”

The admission sits strangely in the open air of the gym.

Bokuto, who throws himself into everything without hesitation, who feels everything loudly and fully

Nervous.

Akaashi’s expression doesn’t change much, but there’s a subtle shift in his gaze. Something more focused.

“You’ve been together for how long?” he asks.

“…Long enough,” Bokuto mutters.

“And you made the key,” Akaashi continues. “So you’ve already decided you want them to have it.”

“Yeah, but—what if it’s weird?”

“It’s not.”

“What if it feels like too much?”

“It won’t.”

“What if they think I’m being—” Bokuto gestures vaguely, “intense?”

Akaashi pauses.

Then, calmly“You are intense.”

“Hey.”

“But that’s not new,” Akaashi adds. “And it’s not something they’re unaware of.”

Bokuto opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“…Okay, yeah, that’s fair.”

Akaashi tosses the ball back to him. “Give it to them.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes.”

“No dramatic buildup?”

“No.”

“No speech?”

“No.”

Bokuto frowns. “But I had a whole speech planned.”

“I’m sure you did,” Akaashi says. “Don’t use it.”

“That feels wrong.”

“It’s not.”

Bokuto catches the ball, holding it loosely in his hands as he stares at the floor for a second.

Then—

“…Okay.”

Akaashi nods once. “Good.”

A beat.

Then, more firmly

“Do it today.”

By the time Bokuto gets home, the sky has already deepened into evening, the last traces of sunlight fading into a soft, muted blue. The apartment is quiet when he steps inside familiar, lived-in, but missing something.

You.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

A soft knock at the door pulls him back from his thoughts, and when he opens it, there you are exactly where he wanted you to be.

“Hey,” you say, stepping inside.

“Hey!” Bokuto brightens instantly, all earlier hesitation momentarily forgotten as he closes the door behind you.

“You look tired,” you add, glancing at him.

“I’m not tired,” he says. “I’m—” he pauses, searching, “—thinking.”

“That sounds more concerning.”

“It’s not,” he insists quickly. “It’s just… stuff.”

You hum lightly, setting your things down. “Alright.”

There’s an ease between you familiar, steady, something that doesn’t need to be questioned. You move through his space like it’s not unfamiliar, like it’s already halfway yours.

Bokuto notices that.

Of course he does.

“So,” you say, glancing at him, “we both have class tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re probably going to be late again,” you add.

“I’m not *that* late,” he says defensively.

“You were last time.”

“That was one time.”

“It was three times.”

“Okay, but this time is different.”

You smile slightly. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” he says, then hesitates. “Actually… I might be late again.”

You laugh softly. “Of course you are.”

“But,” he continues quickly, stepping a little closer, “I’d really like it if you were here when I get back.”

You pause.

“Here?”

“Yeah.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Bokuto, I wouldn’t have a way in.”

“Oh.”

“And if it’s trouble, it’s fine,” you add gently. “I can just—”

“No, wait,” he says quickly. “Don’t—just—hold on.”

He disappears down the hallway before you can respond.

You blink, caught off guard.

A moment later, he’s back—something small clutched in his hand.

He stops in front of you, suddenly… quieter.

Not unsure.

Just… careful.

“I was gonna give you this earlier,” he says, holding it out.

A key.

Your gaze flicks from it to him.

“…Bokuto?”

“I made it a while ago,” he continues, words coming a little faster now, like he’s trying to say them before he overthinks them again. “I just didn’t give it to you.”

“Why not?”

He hesitates.

Then, honest as always

“I got nervous.”

The admission is softer this time. Less loud. More real.

You take the key from his hand, fingers brushing his.

“It’s not weird?” he asks, watching you closely. “Or too much? Or—”

“It’s not,” you say gently.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Something in his shoulders loosens—just a little.

“I just…” he exhales, then laughs quietly at himself. “I kept thinking about coming home late and you already being here and—” he gestures vaguely, “—it made me feel all jumpy.”

“Jumpy?”

“In a good way,” he clarifies quickly. “Like happy. Like really happy.”

Your expression softens.

“That sounds nice.”

“It does, right?” he says, a small grin returning.

“It does.”

There’s a pause quiet, but full.

Then

“Use it,” he adds, a little more softly this time. “Whenever you want.”

You nod, closing your hand gently around the key.

“I will.”

Bokuto’s smile widens bright, unfiltered, unmistakably him.

And as he steps a little closer, that familiar warmth settling back into the space between you, it feels like something has shifted.

Not dramatically.

Not all at once.

Just enough.

Just enough to feel like something new

Something steady

Has quietly found its place.

₍ ⌨ ᶻᶻᶻ ickenma5 is typing ... ₎

˚ ༘♡ ·˚꒰toru oikawa x reader꒱ ₊˚ˑ༄

The first thing you learn about Toru Oikawa in Argentina is that he belongs everywhere at once.

On the court, he is magnetic commanding attention not just because of skill, but because of presence. Every serve, every set, every calculated glance feels intentional, like he understands not only the game, but the *people* watching it. Off the court, it doesn’t change much. There are always eyes on him. Voices calling his name. Admiration trailing behind him like something inevitable.

You had known that before you came here.

You just hadn’t realized how it would feel.

The gym is louder than usual today crowded, restless, filled with a kind of anticipation that hums beneath everything else. Practice has ended, but no one seems eager to leave. A cluster of fans lingers near the exit, phones in hand, voices pitched high with excitement.

Oikawa stands at the center of it.

Of course he does.

He laughs easily, effortlessly, responding to questions, signing things handed to him, slipping between languages with the same fluidity he uses on the court. Spanish rolls off his tongue smoothly, accented but confident, his smile widening with each interaction.

You watch from a distance.

Not intentionally.

You just… haven’t moved.

“Are you going over there?”

You glance at the voice beside you. A teammate tilts their head toward Oikawa, a knowing look on their face.

“I could,” you say.

But you don’t.

Instead, you stay where you are, arms loosely crossed, gaze fixed just long enough to feel something you’d rather not name.

It’s not jealousy.

Not exactly.

It’s something quieter.

A question.

Later, the streets are softer.

Buenos Aires at night carries its own rhythm slower than the gym, but no less alive. The air is warm, tinged with the faint scent of street food and distant music drifting from open cafés.

You walk without a clear destination.

You need the space.

The quiet.

The distance from the echo of voices that still lingers in your mind.

*Oikawa! Over here!*

*Can you sign this?*

*Just one picture—please!*

You exhale slowly.

It’s not that you don’t understand it.

You do.

He’s talented. Charismatic. Easy to admire.

Easy to want.

And you

You’re just… there.

A presence in the background of something much brighter.

“Hey.”

You stop.

“…You’re late,” you say instead.

“I had people to talk to,” Toru Oikawa replies, stepping into place beside you like he was always meant to be there. “You disappeared.”

“I didn’t disappear.”

“You didn’t come over.”

There’s no accusation in his tone.

Just observation.

You shrug slightly. “You were busy.”

“I’m always busy,” he says. “That’s not new.”

No.

It isn’t.

You resume walking, and after a moment, he falls into step beside you.

“You’re quiet,” he adds.

“You’re observant.”

“I have to be,” he says lightly. “It’s part of my charm.”

You don’t smile.

He notices.

Of course he does.

“…What’s wrong?” he asks, softer now.

You hesitate.

Then

“Do you ever get tired of it?”

He tilts his head. “Of what?”

“All of it,” you say. “The attention. The expectations. The people.”

A pause.

“No,” he says finally. “It’s part of what I chose.”

That makes sense.

“And you?” he asks.

You look ahead.

“I don’t know where I fit in that,” you admit.

The words feel smaller out loud.

Oikawa stops walking.

“You don’t think you fit?” he repeats.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

You exhale. “…I just don’t know if I’m part of it.”

He studies you, something quieter settling in his expression.

“You really don’t get it,” he says.

“That’s not helpful.”

“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”

He steps closer.

“You’re not something that has to fit into everything else,” he says. “You’re something separate.”

“You make it sound simple.”

“It is simple,” he replies. “You’re just overthinking it.”

The next day, the gym is louder.

A match this time.

The crowd surges with every point, every play, every movement Oikawa makes. He moves like the game bends to him precise, deliberate, untouchable.

You watch from the sidelines.

And still

That question lingers.

Until

The final point lands.

The whistle blows.

The crowd erupts.

Oikawa stands at the center of it.

Again.

But this time

He looks past it.

To you.

There’s no hesitation.

He moves, cutting through teammates, through noise, through expectation.

Straight to you.

“Oikawa—!” someone calls after him.

He doesn’t stop.

He stops in front of you.

Close.

Certain.

“There you are,” he says, like the rest of it never mattered.

“You’re supposed to be celebrating,” you say softly.

“I am.”

“With them.”

“With you,” he corrects.

Your breath catches.

“You asked where you fit,” he continues, voice steady. “You don’t fit into that.”

He gestures toward the crowd.

“You’re here.”

His hand finds yours warm, grounding.

“With me.”

The world feels quieter, even as the noise swells around you.

“Oikawa…” you start, but the words don’t quite come.

He watches you really watches you like he’s waiting for something you don’t quite know how to say.

So instead

You step closer.

Just slightly.

Enough.

His gaze softens, something shifting beneath the usual confidence.

“Is that clear enough?” he murmurs.

“Not yet,” you admit.

There’s a flicker of something in his expression amusement, fondness, something deeper.

“Greedy,” he says softly.

“Maybe.”

A pause.

Then

He lifts his hand from yours, fingers brushing lightly against your jaw, tilting your face just enough that you have to look at him.

There’s no rush in it.

No performance.

Just intention.

The same kind he carries into everything.

And then

He leans in.

The kiss is gentle at first—soft, careful, like he’s giving you space to pull away.

You don’t.

Your hand finds his shirt, grounding yourself in something real as the moment settles, deepens not overwhelming, not rushed, just… certain.

Like him.

Like this.

Like the answer you’d been searching for.

When he pulls back, it’s not far.

Just enough to look at you again.

To make sure.

To let it linger.

“That clear enough?” he asks quietly.

You nod, breath still uneven.

“…Yeah.”

His smile returns but softer now. Less performative. More yours.

“Good,” he says.

The crowd is still there.

The noise.

The attention.

Everything that once felt too big.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because his hand finds yours again—natural, unhesitating.

And this time

You don’t question where you belong.

Not when he’s already shown you.

₍ ⌨ ᶻᶻᶻ ickenma5 is typing ... ₎

˚ ༘♡ ·˚꒰shoyo hinata x reader꒱ ₊˚ˑ༄

The first thing you notice about Shoyo Hinata is that he moves like the world is something to be *met*, not endured.

There’s no hesitation in him. No pause before action, no second-guessing before joy. He exists in a kind of forward momentum that pulls everything around him into motion—bright, relentless, and impossible to ignore.

Which is exactly how you end up running.

“Wait—Hinata—!”

“Come on!” he calls over his shoulder, already halfway down the path, his laughter carrying easily through the late afternoon air. “You said you were free today!”

“I said I was free, not that I agreed to—this—!”

He slows just enough to glance back at you, jogging in place with an energy that feels entirely unnecessary.

“It’s the same thing!”

“It’s not!”

“It is,” he insists, grin widening. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

You are.

Somehow.

You don’t remember agreeing to a race—or a run—or whatever this has turned into. You only remember mentioning, casually, that you didn’t have plans for the afternoon.

Hinata had lit up immediately.

And now—

Now you’re chasing him down a campus path lined with trees just beginning to shift into warmer hues, your breath uneven, your pace nowhere near his.

“This is unfair!” you call.

“You’re just slow!”

“You’re just *fast!*”

“Exactly!”

He laughs again, bright and unrestrained, before finally slowing enough for you to catch up. When you do, slightly out of breath and more than a little exasperated, he doesn’t apologize.

He just beams at you.

“You made it!”

“I was already here,” you say, hands braced against your knees.

“Yeah, but now you’re *more* here.”

You stare at him.

“…That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does to me.”

Of course it does.

Being around Hinata means accepting that not everything will make sense right away.

Or maybe ever.

He lives in a kind of logic that prioritizes feeling over explanation momentum over structure. And somehow, despite yourself, you start to adjust to it.

You stop asking *why* quite as often.

You start asking *what’s next*.

“Okay,” he says, once you’ve both settled into a more manageable pace. “New plan.”

“There was an old plan?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Run. That part’s done.”

“That part was *your* plan.”

“And now we have a *shared* plan.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m concerned.”

“You shouldn’t be,” he says immediately. “It’s a good one.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

Hinata ignores that, already turning slightly to walk beside you instead of ahead.

“There’s this place,” he continues, “not far from here. It has really good food. And the owner gives extra portions if you look hungry.”

You glance at him. “You always look hungry.”

“Exactly,” he says, delighted. “It works out.”

You huff a quiet laugh despite yourself.

“Is that where we’re going?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Unless you have a better idea.”

You consider it for a moment.

Then shake your head.

“No. That’s fine.”

“Good,” he says. “Because I already started walking this way.”

The restaurant is small tucked between larger buildings, easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. Inside, it’s warm and a little crowded, the low hum of conversation blending with the clatter of dishes and the occasional burst of laughter.

Hinata greets the owner like they’ve known each other for years.

“Hey!” he says, waving enthusiastically. “We’re back!”

The owner laughs, shaking their head. “You’re always back.”

Hinata grins. “That’s because it’s good.”

You follow him to a table, watching as he slides into his seat with the same unfiltered ease he brings to everything else.

“This place is great,” he says, leaning forward slightly. “You’ll like it.”

“I trust your judgment,” you say.

“You should,” he replies immediately. “It’s excellent.”

The food is good.

Better than good.

You’re halfway through your meal when you realize you’ve stopped paying attention to anything else the conversation around you, the passing of time, even your own thoughts.

Hinata notices.

“You’re quiet,” he says, tilting his head slightly.

“I’m eating.”

“You can do both.”

“Not if I want to fully appreciate this,” you counter.

He laughs, clearly pleased.

“See? I told you.”

“You did.”

There’s a brief pause, comfortable and unforced.

Then—

“I like this,” he says.

You glance up. “The food?”

“That too,” he says. “But I meant this.”

He gestures vaguely between you.

“Being here. With you.”

The words are simple.

But they land with a kind of clarity that’s hard to ignore.

You set your fork down, considering him.

Hinata meets your gaze without hesitation open, sincere, entirely unguarded.

“…Me too,” you say.

His smile widens instantly, like the answer had been exactly what he was hoping for.

“Good,” he says.

By the time you step back outside, the sky has shifted into evening—soft blues fading into deeper tones, the air cooling just enough to be noticeable.

Hinata stretches his arms above his head, then glances at you.

“So,” he says, “what now?”

You look down the street, then back at him.

“…We could walk?”

“Yeah,” he says immediately. “Let’s walk.”

There’s no hesitation.

No overthinking.

Just movement.

You fall into step beside each other, the earlier energy of the day settling into something steadier, more relaxed. Hinata’s pace adjusts to yours without comment, his usual forward momentum softened but not diminished.

“You know,” he says after a moment, “you kept up better than I expected.”

You glance at him. “That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

“It is!” he insists. “I thought you’d give up halfway.”

“I almost did.”

“But you didn’t.”

You smile slightly. “No. I didn’t.”

“See?” he says. “That’s what I mean.”

There’s something in his tone not teasing this time, but genuine. Like he means it.

Like he notices.

As you walk, the conversation drifts—small things, easy things. Classes, random observations, things that don’t feel important but somehow are.

Hinata talks with the same energy he does everything else animated, expressive, occasionally jumping between topics without warning.

But he listens, too.

Really listens.

And when you speak, he looks at you like what you’re saying matters.

It’s a simple thing.

But it stays with you.

Eventually, you reach a point where your paths naturally diverge.

Hinata slows, stopping just before the turn.

“So this is you?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He nods, shifting his weight slightly.

“Okay.”

There’s a brief pause.

Not awkward.

Just… unfinished.

Then—

“Hey,” he says.

You look at him.

“Next time,” he continues, “we should do something else.”

“Something else?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I don’t know what yet. But something.”

You consider that.

Then nod.

“I’d like that.”

His expression brightens immediate, unmistakable.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Okay,” he says, grinning. “Then it’s a plan.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You just said you didn’t have one.”

“I have one now.”

“Which is?”

“Hang out with you again,” he says simply.

The answer is so straightforward it almost catches you off guard.

Almost.

You smile.

“Alright.”

“Alright,” he echoes.

You turn to leave, taking a few steps before glancing back.

Hinata is still there.

Watching.

Not in a way that feels heavy or uncertain just present.

Bright.

Like he always is.

And as you continue walking, the warmth of the afternoon lingering somewhere beneath the cooling evening air, you realize

Somewhere between the running and the laughter and the quiet moments in between

You’ve started looking forward to whatever comes next.

₍ ⌨ ᶻᶻᶻ ickenma5 is typing ... ₎

˚ ༘♡ ·˚꒰tetsuro kuroo x reader꒱ ₊˚ˑ༄

The lab always smelled faintly of ethanol and something sharper clean, almost metallic, like precision had a scent.

It lingered even after most students left.

You noticed it more now, standing near your station long after the rest of the class had filtered out, your notes spread in uneven stacks and your frustration quietly mounting. The problem wasn’t that you didn’t *try* it was that the concepts refused to settle, slipping through your understanding no matter how many times you rewrote them.

“You’re staring at it like it insulted you.”

You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

Tetsurō Kuroo leaned casually against the lab counter a few feet away, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest he’d been working though his expression carried that same familiar ease, like nothing here could overwhelm him.

“It might have,” you muttered. “I’m considering retaliation.”

“Bold strategy,” he said. “Chemistry tends to win those.”

You exhaled, dropping your pen onto the paper. “I don’t get it.”

Kuroo’s gaze flicked briefly to your notes, then back to you not dismissive, not impatient. Just attentive.

“Okay,” he said, pushing himself off the counter. “Show me what’s not clicking.”

He didn’t take over.

That was the first thing you noticed.

Instead of grabbing your pen or rewriting your work, Kuroo leaned slightly closer, bracing one hand on the table as he scanned your notes. His presence was… focused, but not overwhelming—like he was stepping into your pace rather than forcing you into his.

“You’ve got the formula right,” he said after a moment. “You’re just treating it like a set of steps instead of a system.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“It will be,” he said calmly. “Give me a second.”

He reached for a blank sheet of paper, sliding it toward you.

“Think of it like this,” he continued. “You’re not just solving for an answer you’re tracking how everything interacts. What changes, what stays consistent.”

You watched as he sketched out a simplified version of the problem—not rewriting yours, but reframing it.

“See?” he said, tapping the page lightly. “You’re focusing too much on the numbers. Look at the relationships instead.”

You frowned slightly, leaning in.

“…So this connects to this because—”

“Because the reaction depends on it,” he finished. “Exactly.”

There was a flicker of something small, but real as the pieces started to align.

“Oh.”

Kuroo’s mouth curved into a subtle smile. “There it is.”

Time moved differently after that.

The lab, once filled with scattered voices and movement, had settled into something quieter—just the hum of overhead lights and the occasional scratch of pen against paper. Outside the windows, the sky had shifted toward evening, the light softening into muted gold.

You didn’t notice how late it had gotten until Kuroo stepped back slightly, stretching his arms above his head.

“You’ve been at it for a while,” he said. “Still with me?”

You blinked, glancing down at your notes.

Not just notes *completed* problems.

“…I think so.”

“That’s progress,” he said.

You looked up at him, something lighter settling in your chest.

“Thanks.”

Kuroo shrugged, though there was a hint of satisfaction in his expression. “You did most of it.”

“Only because you explained it.”

“Only because you actually listened,” he countered.

You tilted your head. “Is that rare?”

“You’d be surprised,” he said dryly.

There was a pause then not awkward, just… still.

Kuroo glanced toward the window, then back at you.

“You know,” he said, “you’re not as bad at this as you think.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “That’s generous.”

“It’s accurate.”

“Based on what?”

He gestured lightly toward your work. “You’re not guessing anymore. You’re following the logic.”

You looked down again, tracing the lines of your own handwriting.

It did look different.

More certain.

“…It makes more sense now,” you admitted.

“Good,” Kuroo said. “Because chemistry isn’t supposed to feel random.”

He leaned back against the counter again, folding his arms loosely.

“It’s patterns,” he continued. “Reactions, balances, cause and effect. Once you see that, it’s a lot less intimidating.”

You glanced at him. “You really like this stuff, don’t you?”

He smiled easy, familiar.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

There was something in the way he said it not just interest, but genuine enjoyment. Like understanding the world in this way mattered to him.

You found yourself smiling back.

“I can tell.”

“Alright,” Kuroo said after a moment, pushing himself upright again. “One more.”

“One more?”

“Last problem,” he clarified. “Then we call it.”

You hesitated. “…Okay.”

He stepped closer again, this time standing just beside you rather than across the table. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence, but not so close that it distracted.

“Walk me through it,” he said.

You took a breath, eyes scanning the equation.

“Okay, so… first, I identify what’s changing,” you began slowly.

“Good.”

“Then I look at how it affects the rest of the reaction like, what depends on it.”

“Exactly.”

You continued, your voice gaining a little more confidence with each step. Kuroo didn’t interrupt—just listened, occasionally nodding, occasionally offering a quiet correction when needed.

By the time you reached the end, you paused.

“…That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

You stared at the paper.

Then, slowly

“I did that.”

Kuroo huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. You did.”

There was something undeniably satisfying about it not just getting the answer right, but *understanding* how you got there.

You looked up at him, a small smile forming.

“I think I get it now.”

“Told you,” he said.

The lab felt different as you packed up your things.

Lighter.

Less like a place of confusion and more like something… manageable.

Kuroo grabbed his bag, slinging it over one shoulder as he waited for you.

“You heading out?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” he said. “I’ll walk with you.”

You glanced at him. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

There was a brief pause.

Then you nodded.

“Okay.”

Outside, the evening air was cool, the campus quieting as the day settled into night. The streetlights flickered on, casting soft pools of light along the walkway.

You walked side by side, your steps gradually falling into sync.

After a moment, you spoke.

“…I’m probably going to need help again.”

Kuroo glanced down at you, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His smile returned—easy, familiar, but with something a little more deliberate beneath it.

“Good,” he said. “I was hoping you would.”

You blinked. “You were?”

“Of course,” he said. “You’re a good student.”

“That’s not why.”

“No,” he admitted, “it’s not.”

There was a brief pause just enough to notice.

Then he added, a little quieter—

“I just like being around you.”

The words settled softly between you.

You didn’t look away.

“…Yeah,” you said. “I figured.”

Kuroo’s smile softened—just slightly, but enough.

“Good,” he said.

And as you continued walking, the earlier frustration replaced with something steadier, something warmer, it felt like maybe—

Just maybe—

You were starting to understand more than just chemistry.

₍ ⌨ ᶻᶻᶻ ickenma5 is typing ... ₎

˚ ༘♡ ·˚꒰lev haiba x reader꒱ ₊˚ˑ༄

It was difficult to feel invisible around Lev Haiba.

Not because he demanded attention in any deliberate way, but because he *was* attention bright, uncontained, and impossible to ignore. He moved through the world like something unfiltered, all long limbs and easy laughter, his presence filling whatever space he entered without hesitation or apology.

And somehow, inexplicably, he had decided that you were part of that space.

You noticed it in small ways at first.

The way he would call your name across campus like it was the most natural thing in the world, voice carrying far louder than necessary. The way he waved enthusiastically, unmistakably even when you were only a few steps away. The way conversations with him never quite ended, only paused before picking up again as if no time had passed at all.

“Hey!” he called now, jogging toward you with that same unrestrained energy, backpack bouncing slightly against his shoulders. “I’ve been looking for you!”

You raised an eyebrow. “That sounds suspicious.”

“It’s not suspicious,” Lev said immediately, skidding to a stop in front of you. “It’s important.”

“Important how?”

He paused just long enough to suggest he hadn’t fully thought that part through.

“…I wanted to see you,” he said finally, as if that explained everything.

And with Lev, somehow, it did.

Being around him meant adjusting to a different kind of rhythm.

Your days became punctuated by his presence—unexpected but never unwelcome. He would appear beside you between classes, fall into step without asking, talk about everything and nothing in the same breath.

“You walk too quietly,” he said once, glancing down at you as you moved together across the quad.

“You’re just loud.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It kind of is.”

He grinned, undeterred. “Then you should be louder too.”

“I think the world can only handle one of you.”

Lev laughed at that bright, unguarded, the sound spilling out of him like it couldn’t be contained.

“Good,” he said. “Then I don’t have competition.”

You shook your head, but you were smiling.

There was something about him something easy.

He didn’t make you second guess yourself. Didn’t leave space for doubt to settle in. His attention, when he gave it, was complete and uncomplicated, like the idea of caring for someone had never needed to be analyzed.

It simply… was.

You saw it in the way he remembered small things.

Not always perfectly—details slipped past him sometimes, names and dates and specifics but the *important* parts stuck.

“You said you had that exam today,” he said one afternoon, appearing at your side with a look that was almost serious. “How was it?”

You blinked. “You remembered?”

“Of course I remembered,” he said, like it was obvious. “You were stressed about it.”

“I’m always stressed about something.”

“Yeah, but this was *specific* stress,” he insisted. “Different category.”

You laughed softly. “It went okay.”

“Okay is good,” Lev said immediately, relief flashing across his face as if the outcome mattered to him just as much as it had to you. “Okay is like… a solid win.”

“A solid win?”

“Yeah. Not the biggest win, but still a win.”

You considered that.

“…I’ll take it.”

“You should,” he said, nodding firmly. “I’m proud of you.”

The words landed softly but they lingered.

You weren’t sure he realized how easily he said things like that. How naturally encouragement came to him, like it was something he carried around and handed out without hesitation.

But you felt it.

Every time.

It was quieter, later, when you noticed the other side of him.

The softer one.

The one that didn’t fill space, but settled into it.

You were sitting together on a low concrete wall near campus, the evening stretching out around you in shades of gold and blue. Lev had gone uncharacteristically quiet, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his gaze drifting somewhere distant.

“Tired?” you asked.

“A little,” he admitted. “Practice was rough today.”

You glanced at him. “You don’t usually say that.”

He shrugged, one shoulder lifting slightly. “It happens.”

There was no frustration in his voice. No lingering irritation. Just a simple acknowledgment—like effort, even when it was difficult, was still something worth giving.

“You worked hard,” you said.

Lev looked at you then, something softer flickering across his expression.

“…Yeah,” he said, quieter this time. “I did.”

A pause.

Then, almost absently, he leaned just enough that his shoulder brushed against yours.

It wasn’t a dramatic gesture. Not the kind he usually made.

But it felt… intentional.

You didn’t move away.

Neither did he.

“Hey,” Lev said after a moment, voice a little lighter again. “Can I ask you something?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“How serious it is.”

He considered that. “…Medium serious.”

“Go ahead.”

He turned slightly toward you, his expression open in that way it always was—honest, unguarded.

“Do you ever think about how weird it is,” he said, “that out of all the people in the world, I ended up liking you the most?”

You blinked.

“…That’s your medium serious question?”

“Yeah.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “I don’t think that’s weird.”

“No?”

“No,” you said. “I think it makes sense.”

Lev’s eyes lit up bright, immediate, like you’d just told him something far more significant than you intended.

“It does?”

“It does.”

He leaned back slightly, looking oddly pleased with that answer.

“Good,” he said. “Because I don’t think it’s weird either.”

Another pause.

Then, with that same easy certainty he carried into everything

“I just wanted to check.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told that,” Lev said proudly.

“I don’t think it was meant as a compliment.”

“I’m choosing to take it as one.”

Of course he was.

The sky had deepened by the time you finally stood to leave, the last of the sunlight fading into something cooler, quieter.

Lev stood with you, stretching slightly before falling into step at your side.

“You’re walking this way, right?” he asked.

“I am.”

“Good,” he said. “Me too.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Convenient.”

“Very.”

He didn’t try to hide it.

Didn’t pretend it was coincidence.

And somehow, that made it better.

As you walked, your steps gradually syncing, Lev glanced down at you brief, but enough.

“You know,” he said, “I’m probably going to keep doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Finding you,” he said simply. “Walking with you. Talking to you.”

You looked at him.

“And?”

“And liking you,” he added, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

There was no hesitation in it. No uncertainty.

Just Lev.

Bright, steady, and entirely sincere.

You smiled.

“I figured.”

“Good,” he said, grinning. “Then we’re on the same page.”

The streetlights flickered on above you, casting soft light across the path ahead.

And as you continued walking—his presence warm and constant beside you it felt less like something unexpected…

And more like something you wouldn’t want to lose.

₍ ⌨ ᶻᶻᶻ ickenma5 is typing ... ₎

˚ ༘♡ ·˚꒰hitoka yachi x reader꒱ ₊˚ˑ༄

Weekend afternoons carried a different kind of quiet.

Not the silence of empty rooms or unfinished thoughts, but something softer like the world itself had exhaled and decided, briefly, to rest. The streets felt slower, sunlight warmer, and even the air seemed to hold onto moments just a little longer.

It was the kind of day that made small plans feel important.

Which was exactly why you had asked Hitoka Yachi to get ice cream with you.

You hadn’t expected her to say yes so quickly.

“W-with me?” she had asked, eyes widening slightly, as though the idea itself had startled her.

“Yeah,” you’d replied, trying to keep your tone casual. “Just something simple.”

She had hesitated just for a moment.

Then, softly, “Okay.”

The shop sat tucked into a quiet corner of town, its windows framed with pastel lettering and faint condensation from the steady hum of freezers inside. A small bell chimed as you stepped in, the scent of sugar and vanilla wrapping around you instantly.

Yachi hovered just behind you, hands clasped together in front of her.

“It’s… cute,” she said, voice barely above a murmur.

You glanced back at her. “You’ve never been here?”

She shook her head quickly. “N-not this one. I usually just—um—get something from the convenience store.”

“Then this is an upgrade.”

“That makes it sound important,” she said, a faint, nervous smile forming.

“It is,” you replied lightly. “We have to pick the perfect flavors.”

That seemed to fluster her more than it should have.

“P-perfect…?”

You stepped aside, letting her approach the display case. Rows of colors stretched out beneath the glass—soft pinks, pale greens, rich browns, bright yellows all labeled in careful script.

Yachi leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning each option like it was a test she hadn’t studied for.

“There’s so many…” she whispered.

“Take your time.”

She nodded, though her gaze darted quickly from one flavor to the next, as if worried she might be taking too long anyway.

“Um… strawberry looks safe,” she said after a moment.

“Safe?”

“It’s familiar,” she explained, fidgeting slightly. “I don’t want to pick something weird and then regret it.”

You considered that, then pointed to another tub beside it.

“What about that one? Strawberry cheesecake.”

Her eyes followed your hand, widening just a little.

“That sounds… more complicated.”

“Or better.”

Yachi hesitated.

Then, very carefully, “Maybe… I could try that one.”

You smiled. “Good choice.”

When it was your turn, you picked something different—something a little richer, just for contrast. The two of you stepped aside with your cones, moving toward the small seating area near the window.

For a moment, neither of you sat.

Yachi looked at her ice cream like it might disappear if she didn’t pay attention.

“…It looks really nice,” she said.

“You’re allowed to eat it.”

“Oh—right.”

She laughed softly, a quiet, breathy sound, before taking a small, cautious bite.

You watched her expression shift—uncertainty melting into something warmer, brighter.

“…It’s good,” she said, a little surprised. “Really good.”

“I told you.”

She nodded, then glanced at your cone.

“What did you get?”

You held it out slightly so she could see.

“That looks… fancy.”

“It’s just a different flavor.”

“But it looks more confident than mine,” she said, half-joking.

You tilted your head. “Do flavors have confidence now?”

“I think so,” she said, then immediately looked embarrassed. “S-sorry, that sounded strange.”

“It didn’t,” you said. “It fits.”

That seemed to ease her, just a little.

You both sat down.

The conversation came slowly at first.

Not because there was nothing to say—but because Yachi approached words the same way she approached everything else: carefully, thoughtfully, as if each one needed to be placed just right.

But once she started, it was easy to listen.

She talked about small things—her classes, things she found difficult, things she liked but didn’t always feel confident enough to share. There was a quiet sincerity in the way she spoke, like she wasn’t trying to impress you, only to be understood.

And you found yourself wanting to understand.

“You always seem so calm,” she said at one point, glancing at you over the edge of her cone.

You blinked. “Me?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Like… you don’t overthink things as much.”

You considered that.

“I think I just hide it better.”

“Oh.”

She looked down at her ice cream, thoughtful.

“I wish I could do that,” she admitted. “Sometimes my thoughts feel too loud.”

There was something vulnerable in the way she said it not heavy, but honest.

You leaned back slightly, letting the sunlight catch across the table between you.

“They don’t seem too loud right now.”

Yachi looked up.

“…Really?”

“Really.”

A small pause.

Then, slowly, she smiled.

By the time you stepped back outside, the afternoon had shifted toward evening. The light was softer now, casting long shadows across the pavement, the warmth lingering just enough to keep the air comfortable.

Yachi walked beside you, her steps light but slightly uneven, like she was still adjusting to the rhythm of being there.

“…Thank you,” she said after a while.

“For what?”

“For asking me,” she replied. “I don’t usually… go out like this.”

“I’m glad you did.”

She nodded, then glanced at you briefly before looking away again.

“…Me too.”

You walked a little further, the quiet between you settling into something easier less uncertain, more familiar.

After a moment, she spoke again.

“Next time,” she said, voice soft but a little more certain, “maybe I could pick the place.”

You looked over at her, a small smile forming.

“Next time?”

Her cheeks flushed slightly, but she didn’t take it back.

“…If you want to.”

“I do.”

That seemed to settle something.

Her shoulders relaxed just a fraction, her steps evening out as she matched your pace more naturally this time.

The streetlights flickered on one by one, glowing softly against the fading sky.

And as you walked together no longer quite as hesitant, no longer quite as unsure it felt like something had shifted.

Not in a dramatic way.

Just enough to notice.

Just enough to want more.

₍ ⌨ ᶻᶻᶻ ickenma5 is typing ... ₎

˚ ༘♡ ·˚꒰kei tsukishima x reader꒱ ₊༄

The first time you bought the extra strawberry milk, it wasn’t meant to become anything.

It had been an afterthought—an idle decision made in the lull between classes, standing in front of the convenience store fridge with its neat rows of pastel bottles. You reached in, grabbed one for yourself, hesitated, then grabbed another.

Mostly as a joke.

Mostly.

By the time you found Kei Tsukishima later that afternoon, leaning against the campus railing with that same familiar air of detached observation, the bottle had already begun to sweat lightly in your bag.

“You look like you’re thinking too hard,” he said as you approached, not bothering to glance up from his phone.

You stopped beside him, unimpressed. “I wasn’t.”

“Mm.” His tone suggested he didn’t believe you, or didn’t particularly care either way.

You pulled the second bottle out and held it toward him. “Peace offering.”

That got his attention.

Tsukishima’s gaze shifted first to the bottle, then to you. There was a flicker of something there, quick and unreadable, before his expression settled back into its usual mild disinterest.

“…What is this supposed to be?”

“Strawberry milk,” you said plainly. “Obviously.”

“I can see that.”

“Then why ask?”

He exhaled quietly, pushing himself off the railing just enough to take the bottle from your hand. His fingers brushed yours briefly cool, unhurried.

“I meant,” he said, turning the bottle over as if inspecting it for flaws, “why you’re giving it to me.”

You shrugged. “You look like someone who’d drink strawberry milk.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, predictably “That’s a terrible reason.”

“Are you giving it back?”

Tsukishima paused.

“…No.”

You smiled, small and satisfied, and leaned against the railing beside him.

He didn’t say thank you.

But he opened it.

It should have ended there.

A one-time exchange. A fleeting, slightly awkward moment that dissolved into routine.

Instead, it lingered.

A few days later, you found yourself in front of the same fridge again. This time, you didn’t hesitate.

Two bottles.

By the time you handed one to him, there was less ceremony. Less explanation.

He still raised an eyebrow.

“You’re doing this again?”

“You didn’t complain last time.”

“I’m complaining now.”

“Are you?”

“…Not enough to refuse it.”

You didn’t point out the contradiction. You didn’t have to.

He took it.

Again.

It became something unspoken after that.

Not daily. Not predictable enough to feel like obligation. Just… occasional.

You would show up, sometimes with two bottles, sometimes with one. Sometimes with none at all.

And Tsukishima would notice.

He never asked for it. Never hinted, never suggested.

But the days you didn’t bring one—

“You didn’t stop by the store?” he’d say, tone casual, eyes still fixed somewhere over your shoulder.

“Maybe I didn’t feel like it.”

“Mm.”

That was all.

But there was a subtle shift in him. A quiet awareness, like something expected had been gently removed.

You pretended not to see it.

The first time he returned the gesture, it caught you completely off guard.

It was late afternoon, the sky dimming into that soft gray-blue that came just before evening settled fully. You had arrived at your usual spot near the campus steps, expecting to find him already there.

He wasn’t.

You frowned slightly, checking the time.

Unusual.

You had just started to wonder if he’d left early when a voice spoke behind you.

“You’re early.”

You turned.

Tsukishima stood a few steps away, one hand tucked loosely into his pocket, the other holding—

A bottle.

Strawberry milk.

For a moment, you just stared.

He noticed, of course. He always noticed.

“What?” he said, expression flattening slightly. “You look surprised.”

“I am.”

“That’s inconvenient.”

“You bought that?”

He glanced down at the bottle as if seeing it for the first time. “…No. I stole it.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “For me?”

Tsukishima hesitated not long, but long enough.

“…You’ve been buying them,” he said finally. “It seemed inefficient to keep that one-sided.”

Inefficient.

You stepped closer, reaching out to take the bottle. Your fingers brushed his again, warmer this time.

“Thank you,” you said.

He looked away.

“…It’s just a drink.”

“Still.”

There was a faint flush at the tips of his ears so subtle you might have missed it if you weren’t looking directly at him.

You didn’t comment on it.

But you did smile.

After that, things shifted.

Not dramatically. Tsukishima wasn’t the type for that.

But in the small spaces in the quiet details something changed.

Sometimes he would show up first, a bottle already in hand. Sometimes you would.

Sometimes, without a word, he’d place one beside you before leaning back against the railing, as if it had always been meant to be there.

“You’re predictable,” he said once, watching you take a sip.

“You’re participating,” you replied.

“…Unfortunate.”

“And yet.”

He didn’t argue.

It was a simple thing.

Strawberry milk. A shared habit. A routine built out of nothing significant and somehow made meaningful anyway.

But it settled between you,easy, steady, familiar.

Like something that didn’t need to be named to exist.

One evening, as the campus lights flickered on and the air turned cooler, you found yourselves lingering longer than usual.

Neither of you moved to leave.

“You’re staying late,” you said, glancing sideways at him.

“So are you.”

“I asked first.”

“…I didn’t feel like going back yet.”

You nodded, accepting the answer for what it was and what it wasn’t.

After a moment, you held up your bottle slightly.

“To inefficient habits?”

Tsukishima looked at you, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

Then, quietly, he lifted his own.

“…Temporary ones.”

Your bottles tapped together softly.

But neither of you moved away.

And as the silence settled comfortable, unforced you had the distinct feeling that whatever this was…

Wasn’t temporary at all.

₍ ⌨ ᶻᶻᶻ ickenma5 is typing ... ₎

˚ ༘♡ ·˚꒰keiji akaashi x reader꒱ ₊˚ˑ༄

The email had been brief.

*Come by my office when you have time.*

No punctuation beyond that. No elaboration. And yet, you had stared at it for far longer than necessary, cursor blinking accusingly at the edge of your screen as if it, too, knew exactly why your pulse had quickened.

It wasn’t unusual for Keiji Akaashi to call you in. As your editor, it was his job expected, routine, clinical. He was known for his precision, for the way he dissected sentences with a quiet efficiency that never felt cruel, only exact. You respected him for it. Trusted him, even.

Which was precisely the problem.

Because this time this manuscript was different.

You knew it the moment you submitted it.

And apparently, so did he.

His office was as composed as he was.

Neat stacks of paper. A desk devoid of clutter. A single mug of coffee, untouched, as if even its existence had been carefully considered and then paused. The late afternoon light filtered in through the blinds, striping the room in soft gold and shadow.

He didn’t look up immediately when you entered.

“Close the door,” he said.

You did.

The click sounded louder than it should have.

Only then did his gaze lift to meet yours steady, unreadable, and far too attentive.

“Sit.”

You obeyed before thinking.

The manuscript lay on his desk, marked in familiar red ink. But there was something different about it this time. The notes were fewer. More selective. As if he had chosen his interventions carefully intentionally.

“I read your latest submission,” he said.

Your throat felt dry. “And?”

“It’s… focused.”

You blinked. “Focused?”

“Yes.” His fingers rested lightly against the edge of the pages, tapping once slow, deliberate. “Your previous work tends to disperse its attention. This doesn’t.”

There was a pause.

Then, almost idly, he added, “It centers itself around a single presence.”

Heat crept up your spine.

“I suppose it does,” you said, aiming for neutrality and missing it by just enough to matter.

His gaze didn’t waver.

“No need to be evasive,” he said calmly. “It’s not a criticism.”

The silence that followed stretched not uncomfortable, but charged. Like something waiting to be acknowledged.

He turned the manuscript slightly, sliding it across the desk toward you. A page had been marked, the corner folded with precise care.

“Page forty-three,” he said. “Read it.”

Your fingers hesitated before touching the paper. “Out loud?”

“Yes.”

There was no sharpness in his tone. No force. Just that same quiet certainty that made refusal feel… misplaced.

You found the passage immediately.

Of course you did.

You had rewritten it more times than you cared to admit.

Your voice, when it started, was steady controlled by habit more than confidence.

“They notice the way the room shifts when he enters,” you read, eyes fixed firmly on the page. “Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone else would recognize. But in the subtle rearrangement of attention, the quiet pull toward him, as if gravity had briefly altered—”

You faltered.

Not because of the words.

Because of the awareness.

Him.

Watching you.

“Continue,” Akaashi said.

Your grip tightened slightly on the paper.

“Their awareness becomes… inconvenient,” you went on, softer now. “They find themselves noticing things they shouldn’t—the cadence of his voice, the restraint in his movements, the way he occupies space without demanding it…”

Your breath caught, almost imperceptibly.

“…and how that restraint feels more deliberate the closer he stands.”

The room felt smaller.

Or maybe it was just the way his presence had sharpened subtle, but unmistakable.

You forced yourself to keep reading.

“They wonder, briefly, what it would be like if that control slipped. Not entirely. Just enough to reveal something underneath. Something quieter, but more dangerous for it.”

Silence.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t look up.

“You write observation well,” Akaashi said after a moment.

His voice was closer.

You hadn’t heard him stand.

A faint shift in the air told you he had moved around the desk, not away from it.

Your pulse stuttered.

“It’s one of your strengths,” he continued. “You notice patterns others overlook.”

A pause.

“Details.”

You swallowed.

“Thank you,” you managed.

“Mm.”

He stepped closer not enough to touch, but enough that you were suddenly, acutely aware of the space between you. The kind of awareness that turned distance into something tangible.

“Though,” he added, “this feels less like observation and more like… familiarity.”

Your eyes lifted, almost against your will.

He was looking at you the same way he always did composed, thoughtful.

But there was something else now.

Something quieter.

Sharper.

“You’ve constructed this character carefully,” he said. “But not from abstraction.”

It wasn’t a question.

Your silence answered anyway.

Akaashi’s gaze softened not in warmth, but in recognition. As if a conclusion had settled into place.

“I see,” he said.

The words were simple.

But they landed with weight.

You should have looked away.

You didn’t.

Another pause stretched between you—longer this time, heavier.

Then, almost absentmindedly, he reached past youbnot touching, but close enough that the movement brushed the air near your shoulder. He adjusted the page in your hands, tilting it slightly.

“Finish it,” he said.

Your breath hitched.

“You stopped mid-thought.”

You glanced back down at the manuscript, though the words had already etched themselves into your mind.

“They realize,” you read quietly, “that the restraint they admire isn’t distance.”

Your voice dropped further.

“It’s intention.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full.

Akaashi didn’t step back.

Didn’t speak immediately.

When he did, his voice was low measured, but not untouched.

“Intentions,” he said, “are rarely accidental.”

Your fingers tightened against the page.

“I know,” you said.

Another pause.

Then, finally subtly, almost imperceptibly he leaned away.

Not far.

Just enough to restore the space between you.

But it didn’t feel the same anymore.

“Revise the ending,” he said, returning to his usual tone with practiced ease. “It hesitates where it shouldn’t.”

You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself.

“…Alright.”

He moved back to his desk, composure settling over him like it had never left.

But as you gathered your manuscript, you felt it

That shift.

That awareness.

Not imagined.

Not one-sided.

And as you reached the door, hand pausing briefly against the handle, his voice stopped you once more.

“Next time,” Akaashi said, “don’t obscure your references so carefully.”

You turned slightly.

His gaze met yours calm, precise.

Knowing.

“It weakens the impact.”

A beat.

Then, softer

“And it’s unnecessary.”

The door closed behind you.

But the tension followed.

₍ ⌨ ᶻᶻᶻ ickenma5 is typing ... ₎

˚ ༘♡ ·˚꒰kenma kozume x reader꒱ ₊˚ˑ༄

The gym always sounded different at the end of practice.

Earlier, it was alive rubber soles squeaking, the sharp clap of hands meeting the ball, Tetsurō Kuroo’s voice cutting through the air with easy authority and teasing bite. Lev Haiba was louder, all raw enthusiasm and unrefined movement, his laughter echoing even when he missed. By the time the sun dipped low enough to spill gold across the polished floor, though, everything softened. The rhythm slowed. Conversations replaced drills.

That was when you usually arrived.

You never made a spectacle of it. The door creaked open, a quiet interruption, and you slipped inside with a canvas bag slung over your shoulder filled with things no one asked for but everyone, eventually, came to expect. Extra water bottles. Towels. A few snacks tucked into neat compartments.

“Ah, our savior,” Kuroo would say, flashing a grin that was half gratitude, half mischief. “I was just about to perish dramatically.”

“You say that every time,” you’d reply, already setting things down.

Lev would hover nearby, trying not to look too eager. “Do you have those crackers again?”

And you always did.

It became a small ritual unspoken, uncomplicated. You’d sit near the sidelines, occasionally offering a towel or a bottle, watching the team wind down.

And then there was Kenma Kozume.

He was easy to miss if you didn’t know what to look for. Quiet, slight, his attention drifting somewhere inward even while his hands moved automatically to set or receive. He played like he thought more than he spoke, like every motion was calculated three steps ahead.

Most days, he left early.

You noticed it the first time you came how he’d slip out before the others finished, a bag already slung over his shoulder, a quick murmur to Kuroo that sounded like an apology disguised as indifference. No one stopped him. It seemed understood: Kenma stayed as long as Kenma could.

So when he didn’t leave, you noticed that too.

The first time, you assumed it was coincidence.

You had arrived a little later than usual, the sky already deepening into evening. Practice was nearly over, the team scattered in loose clusters. You set your bag down, offered out water bottles, exchanged the usual light conversation.

Kenma was still there.

He sat against the wall, knees drawn slightly up, a towel draped loosely around his neck. His eyes flicked toward you brief, almost accidental before dropping back to the phone in his hands.

You didn’t think much of it. Maybe he just hadn’t gotten tired yet.

But the next day, it happened again.

And the day after that.

It was subtle, the pattern forming. He still drifted to the edges, still spoke little, still looked perpetually on the verge of leaving but he didn’t. Not until you started packing your things away.

“Kenma,” Kuroo called one evening, slinging an arm around his shoulders with familiar ease, “you’re staying longer these days. What, did volleyball suddenly become fun?”

Kenma didn’t look up. “No.”

“Then what is it?”

A pause. His thumb hovered over his screen, then resumed its slow, absent motion. “Just… timing.”

Kuroo’s eyes slid sideways, following Kenma’s line of sight past the court, past the benches, to where you were carefully folding a towel. His grin widened, sharp and knowing.

“Ah,” he said.

Kenma frowned slightly. “What?”

“Nothing,” Kuroo replied, too innocently. “Just interesting.”

You didn’t hear the rest of that conversation. You were too focused on gathering the last of your things, slipping empty bottles back into your bag, brushing invisible dust from your sleeves.

By the time you finished, the gym had nearly emptied.

Lev had already bounded out, shouting something about food. A couple of others lingered near the exit, their voices fading as they stepped into the evening air. Kuroo followed, pausing only long enough to toss a casual, “Lock up, yeah?” over his shoulder.

And then it was just you—and Kenma.

He stood near the doorway, bag slung over one shoulder, waiting.

You hesitated. “Are you heading out?”

“…Yeah.”

There was a brief, quiet space where neither of you moved. Then you adjusted your grip on your bag and stepped forward.

“Me too.”

Outside, the air was cooler, the kind that hinted at night without fully committing to it. Streetlights flickered on one by one, casting soft halos along the sidewalk.

You fell into step beside each other.

Kenma walked slightly behind at first, like he wasn’t entirely sure he was meant to be there. Then, gradually, he matched your pace.

“You always bring a lot,” he said after a while, voice low, almost blending into the hum of the evening.

You glanced over. “It helps, doesn’t it?”

“…Yeah.”

Another pause. Not uncomfortable just… quiet.

“I mean,” you added, “you all work hard. It feels like the least I can do.”

Kenma’s gaze shifted, lingering on you for a fraction longer than usual. “It’s not the least.”

You blinked, caught slightly off guard by the certainty in his tone.

“Oh.”

He looked away again, but something about his posture had softened like the words, once said, had taken some weight with them.

They became your routine after that.

Practice would end. You’d pack up. And Kenma would still be there, waiting near the door with that same quiet patience. You never asked him about it, and he never explained.

He didn’t need to.

It was in the way he adjusted his pace to match yours. In the way he’d occasionally glance over, as if checking you were still there. In the rare, small comments he offered about a game he was playing, or a class he found tedious.

In the silence, too.

Especially in the silence.

One evening, as you reached the familiar corner where your paths would usually split, you slowed.

“Good night, Kenma.”

“…Night.”

You took a step away, then paused. “You don’t have to stay late, you know. At practice.”

He shifted slightly, the strap of his bag creaking under his grip. For a moment, it seemed like he might retreat into that familiar non-answer, that careful deflection.

But then—

“I know.”

Another small pause.

“I want to.”

The words settled between you, soft and unassuming, but steady.

You smiled just a little.

And as you turned to leave, you had the distinct feeling that tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that

He’d still be there.