Luxinglan

Short fluff fic. Ushijima Wakatoshi has never really given romance a serious thought, but maybe it's about time he did.

Ushijima Wakatoshi has always been the stoic child. Not autistic—according to his mother—just a little bit different. Sometimes that difference helps him, like being a left-handed ace. Other times, it leads to negative results, like his reserved approach to relationships.

Of course, he has a few people he is close to. One of whom has held a very special place in his heart ever since he first met her outside his elementary school playground.

Ushijima didn't initially want to become friends with you. He mostly enjoyed being left alone. But if there is one thing he later comes to find—and eventually admire—about you, it’s your persistence.

“Why do you keep hanging around me?”

“Because I want cool friends.”

“You think I'm cool?”

“No. I think volleyball is cool, and I have a feeling you're going to be really good at it.”

That, he couldn't disagree with. And so, you found your first common ground. Volleyball is a cool sport. You wanted a cool friend, and he… well, he just couldn't get rid of you.

Eventually, he got used to your presence—your excited compliments and supportive smiles. In turn, no one dared to even send a frown your way, not when they knew who you had on your side.

He never really gave much thought to who you were to him. There wasn't much thought to give. You were just you, and you were his. His dear friend, his biggest fan, the person whose smile he loved to see most. The person whose voice he could recognize out of any crowd.

You did everything together. Elementary school, middle school, high school. You were pursuing a career as a sports manager, and he was pursuing a career as a professional athlete. It was a perfect match. It made sense when he always ensured you got the position as manager for his teams, vouching for you with enough confidence and determination to convince the coach.

It made sense when you hung out in the same gym, practiced together, left school together, walked back to the dorms together, studied together, won together, lost together, and celebrated together.

To him, you were what the sun is to the Earth: a permanent fixture, expected to be seen and felt every single day.

At least, that was how things were supposed to be. You were his sun, and he was your… wait, what was he to you? Probably the same thing you were to him, right?

So then why do things no longer make perfect sense? Why don't you leave together anymore? Win together? Celebrate together? Why aren't you smiling at just him—the way you do when you have something exciting to say and he can already tell? Or when you try your best to hide a surprise, you're terrible at it, and he's terrible at being able to tell until you reveal it and then you question his oblivion?

Why don't you hang out with him the most out of everyone anymore? Exchange gifts with him? Wish him a happy birthday with presents he carefully saves as long as they can be preserved? Why doesn't he get to gently pat your hair whenever you're angry? It never worked immediately to make you less angry, but he learned that the sooner you had an opportunity to let out your rage, the sooner you felt better. Even if he ended up as the target of that rage, he always willingly bears your burdens to make your life easier—just as you made his life brighter.

He doesn't see you at every single one of his games anymore. Like someone tired of long, cold nights spent carrying heavy weights, he decides it’s time to figure things out. To make things right. To answer the question: was there something more between you two that he had been oblivious to all along? He wants to get you back by his side. He wants to look up at the crowd or the bench after a win and see that familiar pride on your face.

Except he can't. Not anymore.

Not after you died while trying your best to make it to one of his games on time, only to be crushed in an accident.

And the worst part? It’s all his fault.

If you didn't have a surprise for him. If he didn't call to ask where you were. If he wasn't so anxious to have you there. If he hadn't wanted to feel your warmth so badly—only to lose it forever.

When people see your boyfriend, they tend to think he's the sweetest gentleman with the most innocent smile. If only they knew what sort of depravity lies under that smile behind closed doors.

"Too... Too much."

You croak with a crack in your tone. Your eyes are almost completely rolled back as you struggle to keep your face up, the rest of your torso pressed down into the sheets. Your knees ache from keeping your legs up. His hands on your thighs and hips squeeze tightly while he relentlessly thrusts into you from behind.

"Mphm, Hmph!!" you muffle, pressing your mouth into the pillow as you feel your walls clenching around his thick length.

It's so humid. The air is stuffed with heat and the smell of your body fluids mixed together. Sweat, arousal, precum, and all.

‘Why is he so intense today?’

"Ahh! I-If..."

He stutters from behind, his hips slowing down their pace as he presses down against you.

"I-If you squeeze me like that, I'm gonna... C-cum. Please... I don't want to cum. No... Not yet. This..."

Your eyes widen as his hands leave your hips, slipping in between your thighs to spread your legs apart, suddenly increasing his pace. His thrusts are faster and deeper, further increasing the lewd squelching sounds around you.

"It feels good. Haa! So... S-So fucking good. Hic..."

He straightens up, bringing his hands to your waist. He latches on tightly to force your ass to fuck him back. Both of you meet each other halfway. Skin slaps with contact.

"So good, so good. Agh, Ngh!"

He babbles incoherently, or maybe you're the one who can't hear him properly since you're too busy grabbing onto the sheets tightly for your dear life.

‘Fuck... He's lucky I'm letting him do this. When he's done though, he's gonna–’

"Mphm!"

The sound of surprise is muffled as his lips crash into yours. The hand that tilted your face up to the side is still holding your jaw in place as his long, heavy tongue slips into the warm, wet confines of your mouth.

"Mphm, Hmp, Mpm, Hmm."

He moans into your mouth, slowing down his pace to support how far he is leaning in.

With him going this slow, you can feel every inch of him. It feels so good, having his thick, long length coated in your fluids caressing your hot inner walls, pulsing with the sheer pleasure consuming his mind.

He nibbles against your lips, pulling back for you to stare at his face. His eyelids are swollen, lips bitten and parted open, drool leaking, irises completely dilated with lust.

"Y/n, you... Ngh, you're twitching inside. Ah, you're... you're gonna make me cum. No, please... Let me go a little longer."

"Wait—"

You yell, but not fast enough as he leans back and suddenly grabs your left leg, pulling out completely before flipping you onto your back. Your right leg is propped on his shoulder and your left leg is held in his hand, stretching you open.

You stare down at your bare, leaking, twitching pussy. His large, throbbing, pink, flushed cock is an inch away from it.

‘He's definitely going to...’

"Ha, wait just a sec—Hik!"

You throw your head back into the pillow, your eyes rolling back as he snugs himself back into you in one thrust.

He leans down to your face, mouth open with a smile as he resumes his thrusts. His hips move with a new rhythm: two short, one long. Two short, one long. Repeatedly.

"Haa, I'm sorry, Y/n. I just can't wait," he explains while shamelessly thrusting within you.

His left hand moves to take your left hand from his chest, bringing it up to his mouth where he plunges your index and middle finger inside. Depraved eyes stare down at you as he sucks on them, maintaining his pace inside your hole.

"Just do whatever you want to me later. You'll do it, right? Ahhhngh, I'm already looking forward to it."

He leans down, his weight pressing you into the sheets while you watch him bring your fingers out of his mouth. Positioning his tongue between them, he fucks you deep, his hips hitting your ass with every thrust—burying himself to the base and out, over and over and over again.

"You... You'll do dirty things to me later, right? Say it, say it, Y/n. Say you'll mess me up. Say it, say it!" he demands, rocking his hips at that pace. He wraps your left leg around his waist and lets go of your hand to grab your waist as he pounds his request into you, his speed long gone rapid.

‘Shit, this is why you don't let your boyfriend flip his freak switch on his own. Damn, it feels so damn good though.’

He leans in to kiss you, and you welcome him despite the ache in your right leg still propped on his shoulder as he presses down.

You bite down against his tongue, and he pushes it harder into your mouth, demanding more of you until you release him. He stares down at your face, his reddened tongue dripping with saliva.

"Fucking bastard," you curse at his face.

He seems unaware that he has stopped completely, or that you're clenching him in place. Seconds pass with his tongue hanging out and his eyes fixed down on you until his lips suddenly spread into a wild grin.

He grabs your right leg off his shoulder, hooking it around his waist as well to lock himself in while he lowers himself down, holding his weight up with his hands on either side of your breasts.

"Ha... Yes. I'm just a fucking bastard. Your horny boyfriend that gets to fuck you like this. Ah, ahhn.. Y/n. You... Hhn—"

He jerks his head back as he forces himself to move despite your clenching walls, the mixed fluids inside you making it slick enough for him to slide through.

"That's right. Swear at me. Tell me I'm no better than a dog—it turns me on."

He moans, biting his lip as he jerks his head up, eyes rolling to the back while his balls begin to draw up, heavy with his impending release.

His head jerks back down as he brightly smiles at you, still biting his lip.

"Fuck, I'm so fucking in love with you."

He suddenly leans down, not to kiss you, but rather to place his head beside your ear to moan.

"Ngh–Ah… Haa! Angh!!"

‘Crazy idiot, moaning into my ear like that. He knows how much that drives me crazy.’

Your legs reactively lock around his waist while your back arches off the bed, pressing your chest into his.

"This fucking bastard boyfriend of yours… Ah! Is going to cum inside you right now. Hngh–"

He announces with pride as he draws his hips back as far as your legs around his waist will allow.

You wrap your arms around his neck, holding him close. He stops, leaving his tip inside. Both of you throb with the wait for an achingly long number of seconds until he thrusts in once more, burying himself to the hilt.

"Nghn!"

He muffles against your neck while his balls spasm, hot ropes of cum shooting out of his throbbing cock. Your walls remain clenched around him as your abdomen tightens with your own impending release. You tighten your legs around him as it comes crashing down.

However, with the heat of his cum filling you up, your walls are unable to retain their grip around him. They relax into steady twitches, pumps of thick, hot cum sliding out of your hole while his satisfied cock softens inside it, still throbbing in after-release bliss in the pussy he just stuffed.

He collapses onto you, wrapping his arms around your waist as he rolls you over. He lets you lay down on his chest while you feel the results of his depravity obscenely leak out of you—warm, thick, and slow, staining the sheets—oblivious to how heavily you both breathe against each other's bodies.

You swear at him internally, feeling stuffed to the brim with how much he came, but you still bring your lips up to his for a warm, possessive kiss.

Kiyoomi Sakusa x Reader

Mystery stalker/Admirer..? Continued

Having discovered someone who secretly has an interest in you, with a high possibility of being a stalker, you decided to do what any other normal person would do: try to confirm your doubts and suspicions.

Is this person really a stalker, or perhaps someone who has some kind of severe social anxiety leading to a difficulty in approaching you directly?

One thing that was for sure: they knew what you liked. Exactly what you like.

Which made you suspect your friends first, but after some indirect probing here and there, you decided they weren't your mystery guy. And so you decided to wait and observe. Of course, none of the drinks or snacks you actually took; for all you know, they could be poisoned. Maybe you don't have a secret admirer or a stalker, but someone unhinged who really, really wants you dead, or out of school for a few days due to food poisoning.

And so, you tossed them, every single one. It hurt to waste them, but in modern society, it's much better to be safe than sorry, and eventually, the drinks stopped coming.

They must have given up; maybe it was just a prank being played on you. Until you once again came to class very early to find something else on your table.

Another drink, different from the one you've been used to, with a note attached to it. The first thing you did was check the hallways to see if you'd find the culprit sprinting off. The hallway was empty. Next, you checked the school grounds through the window as well—that was empty too.

Confirming that you arrived a little bit late, or the person was just that fast, you returned to your table and took a seat, carefully observing the drink without touching it.

‘There are no tears, no broken seals, no tiny holes patched anywhere, from what I can see… Maybe it hasn't been messed with?’

You pick up the drink slowly to pull the note off and read it. It was the same patiently written, elegant handwriting as the others, but the message had changed.

‘Do you not like them?’

A question. Just one line. With no clear emphasis on what you did not like, except they didn't need to outwardly state it. Both of you knew what was being talked about.

‘The drinks and snacks I've been throwing away. They know… Have they been watching me? Well, of course they've been watching me. How else did they know my favorite things in the first place?’

Your thumb gently brushes across the surface of the drink.

‘Is this supposed to be a substitute?’

They've been sending the same drinks and snacks day after day with the same note without fail. Suddenly they stopped, but now they give you this.

You weren't sure what you were supposed to feel. Concerned for your safety? Doesn't seem like they intentionally want to hurt you. Afraid? They haven't actually tried to directly reach out to you.

Maybe… touched…?

Whoever this person was, they were definitely dedicated to an almost obsessive extent. If they had something they were passionate about, you were pretty certain they'd excel at it.

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who had been having a quiet internal meltdown for days—unbeknownst to anyone. A personal anxiety that had been gnawing at him from the inside, clouding his thoughts when he tried to take a break.

‘She’s been throwing them away… Why? I thought she liked those things. I've always seen them in her hands whenever she comes over to the gym. Even Komori gets them for her sometimes from the snack bar for free and she happily eats them. So then why hasn't she been taking them?’

He silently paces outside the classroom door for a few minutes. He's developed a new routine of coming to school way earlier than he used to. He told his cousin that it's to get more private practice time at the gym, but that's only half the truth.

‘Should I just leave?’

His body physically disagrees with the thought, his head shaking and his legs coming to a stop directly in front of the door. Taking a deep breath, he finally pulls it open and steps in.

By now, he could make his way to the seat even if he was blindfolded. It's something he has done enough times to be familiar with.

He comes to a stop in front of it—in his hands, the new drink he got.

His logic? Maybe she wants something new. I just need to keep trying until I find what she wants.

To his surprise though, the desk wasn't empty. A new drink was sitting on it—one that he didn't put there himself.

Immediately, a wave of concern washes through him.

Someone beat him to it. He's not the only one who got the idea of leaving your favorite snacks for you in the morning to help boost your day and your mood.

‘Of course, I have competitors. Naturally, since she's… not so bad of a person.’

Stirring the jealousy with his own hands, he immediately moves to snatch up the drink, replace it with his, and toss it in the most discreet trash bin he can find.

There can only be one person worthy of putting a smile on your face early in the morning—even if you don't seem to be keen on receiving the gifts either. In which case, he'd be doing you a favor by getting rid of this new person's annoying tactics—His excuse.

His long, lean fingers relax over the body of the drink the moment his eyes spot the note on it.

‘For you.’

—Y/n

A tiny flutter spreads across his chest rapidly as he quickly realizes that the competitor was just the very person he wanted to make smile. Who in turn was now making him smile.

He expectantly raises his eyes to the door, the edge of his lips twitching as he tries to pull down his smile. Half of him wishing he'd find you walking in, and the other half of him dreading you’d walk in.

Slowly, he places it in his bag slung across his shoulder, ensuring it wouldn't be crushed in the slightest by the items in the bag, and then replaces the empty space on your desk with a new drink and a new note.

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who spends half of the day wondering if this is a good sign. Of course, he knows it doesn't mean that you now like him, but maybe, just maybe, it means you didn't mind his efforts after all.

It never crosses his mind that you might just be trying to poison him. Would that matter? When he's carefully studied your handwriting over 10 times like it's some ancient prayer tablet and he's a lucky archaeologist.

The note he left on the new drink wasn't the one he planned to leave, but a brand-new one he wrote on the spot. Which you could tell, considering how his handwriting didn't seem so composed like you were used to; it's almost like he was a little bit nervous, or a little bit excited.

Either way, the new note brought a small smile onto your face as you read it that morning.

Tetsuro Kuroo x Reader

A lot of the players in Nekoma are somewhat oblivious to the tension between their captain and manager. The layered words, the “comfortable” moments of silence, the fake smiles—but not Kenma. After all, he has seen it all before and is immune to it at this point.

‘They always get like that when they fight. It's annoying to watch.’

Even more annoying to watch is his best friend, Kuroo. One moment he acts like he can barely stand what comes out of her mouth, and the next he hangs on to every word she says like a fish on a hook out of water. In Kenma’s eyes, she's not even trying. He's just hooked on her and it's glaringly obvious, but it's unsure whether Kuroo doesn't see it or if he truly believes he's the one baiting her.

Kenma does wish him good luck, but if he has to guess, there are not going to be any surprises. Things are going to go how they always go.

For Kuroo, on the other hand, things are definitely not going to go how they always go. The cards are finally in his hands—in his opinion. He already suspected something was up when he didn't see you at school all day, but the moment Coach Nekomata announced to the team that you were down with a cold and needed a volunteer to check up on you and pass on the team's schedule, his hand immediately shot up before his brain could consciously decide what to do.

He managed to beat Yaku to it by explaining that it's the job of the captain to ensure that the manager is in good health, and he knows where you live. In his words: he's sure you'll be happy to see him standing in for the whole team.

He lied, of course. Standing in front of your house after school, he's completely certain that he's the last person you want to see from the whole team.

But it's not like you can turn him away immediately on sight. One way or another, you do need the printed schedule, and one way or another, he has to see you to make sure you're not… dead or something.

He nervously rings the doorbell and waits.

'It's a bit weird. Y/n is the kind of person who tries to fight a cold or brain-cell-killing migraines just to ensure she gets her work done. For her to suddenly skip school… she must be really sick. Knowing how stubborn she is, I doubt it's just a minor cold like she told the coach.'

A small frown creases his eyebrows as no answer comes from behind the door. No footsteps, no voices—dead silence.

The gnawing anxiety in his chest grows.

‘As expected. It's not just a minor cold. Y/n, seriously...!'

His long, lean fingers hesitate over the door’s keypad, but eventually, he types in the digits to unlock the door. It's not like you told him your password; he just never forgot your birthday.

He tries the first combination. A negative beep declines him. He immediately tries it again—backwards this time—and a positive beep answers a second later before the door clicks open.

He carefully steps in, locking it behind him. He takes his shoes off at the entrance hallway first before going further in.

The inside is exactly what he expects from a high-rise apartment. He knew your parents were rich, but it looks like they didn't get any poorer over the years. It also looks like there's no one else in the house.

“Y/n?” he calls softly, carefully placing the plastic bag he brought on top of the coffee table in the living room.

No one answers, so he calls again.

“Y/n?” A little louder this time, but there's still no response.

His gut feels twisted. He should have called you beforehand, but he knew if he did, you'd likely just ask him to hand the papers over to someone else, so he refrained.

If you were to come out and find him here, there's a big chance that you might kill him, but…

‘It’s better to see her angry face than to not see her at all. At least then I can rest at ease.’

Without wasting any more time, he begins his search for your wrath—curses, swears, hits, something thrown at him, or that sharp glare.

He quickly finds you, but without your wrath.

His feet move through the partly opened door before he can stop himself. His eyes scan your body tucked under your heavy double sheets while he places the back of his hand on your sweat-stricken forehead.

The warmth immediately courses through his skin while you try to bury yourself further into your sheets.

‘She’s burning up.’

His eyes shift to your face. Your eyes are shut. Your lips are slightly parted as you struggle to breathe through your mouth. Cold sweat drips down your face from your temple. Your hair is messily spread over your pillow, which your head is barely on, just hanging from the tilted edge.

The room isn't any better. Ignoring the multiple blankets you piled onto your bed for warmth, everything else would actually be considered passable, except the tissues lining the floor and your nightstand are not exactly easy to ignore.

Clicking his tongue in annoyance, he adjusts the pillow under your head, making sure your neck is comfortable before he takes off his jacket and leaves it on the edge of the bed.

Minutes later, he's out of the room in search of the kitchen to find water and heat up the soup he brought, moving quickly despite his unfamiliarity with the layout of the house.

Half an hour later, he comes back with the soup steaming in one hand and a basin of lukewarm water in the other.

The room is stifling. You’ve burrowed yourself under three blankets, cheeks flushed, sweat still beading at your temples even in sleep.

“Idiot,” he mutters, glaring at your face. “You’re going to cook yourself.”

He sets everything down and moves fast. First, he peels back two of the blankets. You make a small sound, frowning, and he immediately freezes, but luckily you don’t wake.

He wrings out the cool towel and presses it to your forehead. Your skin is burning. The cloth comes away warm seconds later.

“Just keep sleeping,” he whispers, switching it for a fresh one. “I know the moment you wake up you'll yell at me for being here, so be good for me just for a while, okay? Manager.”

He wants to call you by your name, but doesn't. It feels like he'd be crossing a line—one that is intimate enough to possibly wake you up by sheer annoyance and ire alone.

The thought briefly brings a smile to his face. He keeps one hand on your wrist while he works—checking your pulse, making sure you are still warm but not too warm. Every few minutes, he dabs at your neck and temples with the towel.

When you shiver, he immediately pulls one blanket back over you. When you sweat more, he takes it off again.

“You’re so stubborn, even when you're sick,” he chastises, grumbling in a low voice. “I can't even take care of you…”

The rest of his words get blocked when his dark eyes settle on yours. You suddenly open your eyes beneath the fresh, cool towel on your head.

A handful of seconds pass, and he waits with bated breath for you to act or say something—to immediately kick him out.

‘Either way, I'll have to make sure she has this soup before I go, even if I have to force-feed it to her—’

“Kuroo…” The sound of your voice is incredibly coarse as it hits his ears. “What are you doing here?”

You don't sound angry like he expected. Just how drained is your energy?

‘Even her eyes aren't glaring at me.’

“What does it look like?” he snaps back, a bit colder than he needs to.

You always tend to at least interact with him on a personal, informal level when he is as sharp as he can be.

Your hand shoots up to stop his hand from turning the towel on your head.

As nice as it is to have you finally holding his hand, it is obviously awkward between you two, and not just because of the conflicting temperatures of your skin—yours warm, and his cool with minor callouses.

Kuroo Tetsuro didn't think he'd be the one to use this line in this situation. His dark eyes never leave yours as his eyelids narrow down at your face.

“Hands off.”

It sounds more like an order than a suggestion or a request, and you don't like that. Who is he to be in your house ordering you about?

“I can handle it myself,” you snap back, not letting go of his hand. You know him too well; the moment you do, he'll continue with what he was after.

“No, you can't. Do you always have to be so stubborn?!”

A small wave of strength courses through your bones as you glare sharply at him.

“Do you always have to stick your nose in my business?!”

“Yeah? Well, who else will other than me? No one else can tolerate that shitty attitude of yours.”

“If I have such a shitty attitude, what does that make you, who dated me in the first place? Someone who runs a social charity?”

“No. It just makes me stupid.”

You open your mouth to say something back, but the look in his eyes stops you. Your tongue suddenly feels as heavy as lead. Maybe it's just the cold, or maybe it's just the things you never said that day, weighing down on you now.

‘What’s with that stupid look on his face, and why is he so quiet? Stop it, Kuroo. Stop making me think about the past, about my regrets. I don't have any. I don't. I do—’

You finally let go of his hand as a coughing fit breaks through your throat, feeling like gravel trying to crawl its way out.

When you finally stop coughing, now sitting upright and leaning forward on your bed, a warm spoon of soup appears in front of your face.

“Eat,” his voice reaches your ears, gentler than before.

“I'm not hungry.”

“I didn't ask if you were. You need to eat. Don't be difficult. I… I'll leave once you've finished eating.”

At the promise, you finally straighten your back, leaning against your bed's headboard. You open your lips slightly, allowing him to place the spoon in your mouth.

The soup is warm and actually tastes good. It feels like a heavenly remedy passing down your throat, making it feel a bit better with each spoonful.

Kuroo Tetsuro is quiet as he watches you calmly take spoonful after spoonful from him.

‘It looks like her parents aren't home. Did they go out for work? Leave her with instructions she couldn't follow, or leave her with no instructions at all? Or does she even live with them? I don't know anything. She never tells anyone anything. What would have happened if I didn't come over today? Well, knowing her, she would probably have found a way to fix things herself, just taking a few more days away from school.’

He is briefly interrupted from his thoughts when his eyes catch sight of the soup that spilled onto your lips. His hand quickly moves to clean it off before it drips down to your chin.

Only when your hand comes up to his, pausing a few inches below, does he realize what he did.

His dark eyes trace the outline of your lips, his gaze tender as he consciously moves his thumb just barely a centimeter inward from the edge of your lips.

‘Soft…’ he thinks quietly. They are the same lips he suddenly kissed barely two weeks ago. They still feel just as soft under his thumb as they did between his lips that day.

He presses his own lips together in what appears to be a frown.

‘I want to touch her lips more with my thumb. Trace every inch and burn it to memory before I repeat the process with my own lips and tongue. How would the soup taste from her lips? Sour? Bitter? Or sweeter than expected? Or maybe a mix of both. Bittersweet, just like the memories she left behind with me.’

He quickly detaches from his shifting thoughts, snapping his eyes back up to yours as he slowly pulls his hand back to grab the spoon in the bowl.

“What? Is your mouth leaking or something?” he questions, adding in a low murmur, “All that talk and you can't even eat properly, even with help.”

You ignore the coiling heat in your stomach.

This is precisely why you hate being sick. It makes you feel vulnerable—not just physically, but mentally and emotionally, too.

‘And of all people to feel vulnerable in front of, it has to be him. I'd feel better if he treated me harshly or coldly. I expect that. But when he acts this gentle with me... looks at me like that, touches me like that… it feels…’

“Aren't you the one with unsteady hands? If you're going to stick around to help, then at least do it properly,” you retort, and he smiles tightly at you with closed eyes. It's a smile you've seen many times: his fake, pleasing cover-up smile.

“Yes, Ms. Manager,” he replies, and continues feeding you quietly.

For all your complaints, you surprisingly fall asleep much quicker than he expected after you finish the soup.

His shoulders finally relax from a weight he didn't know he was carrying as he watches you sleep much more peacefully than when he first walked into the room. The fatigue of the day—from school to practice, and coming all the way here immediately afterward—crashes down on him. Your peaceful, pretty face is the last thing he sees before his eyes go black.

When you wake up, you can immediately feel your body in a much better state than before. The cold has reduced, your temperature isn't burning anymore, and you can breathe through your nose once again.

Excited, you are eager to sit upright, but a twitch against your palm brings your senses to the larger hand holding yours beside the bed. His fingers are gently interlocked with yours, his palm relaxed, but his wrist drawn away despite the connection as if reluctant to cross the invisible line completely.

Slowly, you turn your head to the side to find him still sitting in the chair beside your bed. His hand holds yours from the side while his head rests on the mattress, fast asleep.

You take a few seconds to stare at his face. Despite the ever-lingering rooster bedhead he can't seem to fix, it is undeniable that he has gotten more attractive over the years. A certain mature, masculine charm has grown onto him, one that will probably be even more striking the older he gets.

Your eyes move up to both of your hands. Listening to your calm heartbeat, you gently squeeze his hand without any real thought. A second later, he squeezes back, and your heart may or may not skip a beat.

You take your eyes back to his face to confirm if he is still asleep.

He is.

You want to kick him out. The dusky orange light streaking into the room tells you how late it has gotten.

Instead, you remain on the bed, letting him hold your hand while you spare him a few more minutes of rest. He deserves that much after his hard work. Even the used tissues that decorated your room are gone, the scent of sickness in the air replaced by hints of his scent mixed with yours. His large, comforting presence fills the space around you like a quiet, familiar cocoon—one that you don't hate nearly as much as you appear to, but one that brings a heavy brick of guilt, knowing very well you have no right to enjoy it.

Kiyoomi Sakusa x Reader

You've known your fair share of romantic relationships, or as close as it can get. You're no stranger to the ups and downs of catching feelings and the awkward navigation that happens between two people who like each other. You know what you like and what you don't. You have a type, but… is it him?

Behind your back, unknown to you, an investigation has been steadily building up between Itachiyama’s libero and ace.

An important question has yet to leave Kiyoomi Sakusa’s head, and it always annoys him when something is left unfinished or half-done. He decides that one way or another, he has to find out what your type is. Luckily for him, he might not be as close to you as he'd like, but he has a walking, talking, informative bridge: Komori.

But Komori proves just as annoying as the question that pops into his head whenever he sees you smiling at another guy. It wouldn't be too far off to say Sakusa hates you. Why? It's simple. Because you buzz around in his head all day like a blind fly that physically can't find its way out. Because he keeps finding himself subtly going out of his way to be a little bit nicer to you than everyone else. Because despite his interest, it's obvious that you're not exactly the most comfortable and excited person around him. Because whenever he sees you smiling at a guy, his whole body freezes, a quiet ache squeezing his heart over a probability that's never zero—that the person you're talking to might be your type, that you'll never smile at him so freely like that, that he could blink one moment and in the next, you're already with someone else.

As much as Sakusa claims he hates you or that he doesn't care, he cares very much. The fact that you also make him do and think about filthy things is just an accommodating secret that he'll die with. The last thing he needs is for you to add "perverted creep" to the list of flaws he probably has in your head. And yet, that is another reason why he hates you. He's by no means an insecure person with low self-esteem, but whenever you're involved, all of a sudden he's way too aware of how he appears, what he does, what he says, and what his good and bad points are.

And the worst part of it all? Your oblivion. You treat him just as well as you treat everyone else on the team, perhaps even more distantly. He's not blind; he can see it, and the problem is that he keeps seeing it.

Komori, of course, found it suspicious when Sakusa suddenly asked about your ex-boyfriend(s) while they were walking home after a late practice. It came out of nowhere, but then again, Sakusa isn't one to hide whatever he has to say. Although it seemed suspicious, Komori took the chance, no questions asked. Finally, a sign that you two might get along better and grow closer, just as he has long wished. It is already rare for Sakusa to even show interest in the personal information of anyone, so Komori told him what he knew.

To which Sakusa was disappointed. Not because he turned out to be far from what was decidedly your type, but because Kiyoomi himself couldn't even decipher what your type actually is.

However, although he is frowning on the outside, on the inside, it isn't so bad. If you don't have a clear type, then that means he might have a chance, right? Among the people you've been previously interested in, there must be something he has in common with them, or something he even surpasses them in. If only he could first get past the formal wall between you two.

But if he can't even connect with you directly without friction, then what's the point of having a stupid crush?

~. ~. ~.

The doors of the classroom slide shut as you gently close them behind you. You head straight to your locker at the back of the room to put away your bags. Your light footsteps are the only sound in the classroom. There is no background murmuring, random screaming, loud bickering, laughter, or the tired sighs of an overworked, underpaid homeroom teacher.

It is just you this early in the class because you have a report to submit—one which you haven't even finished and plan to quickly complete right now. Although Komori thought it was funny when you suddenly remembered it while having a conversation with him, you don't find it funny at all.

Because that's how stress piles up: one forgotten assignment over another, some procrastinated on purpose until you're drowning under the "things I should have done and now barely have time to do," work pile and waking up with dark circles heavy enough to make it seem like you've suddenly taken a part-time job at the morgue.

‘I’m probably the only student to have arrived at school this early, and it's not even because I'm trying to be a dedicated, model student for once,’ you ponder to yourself while fishing your pens and pencil case out of your bag.

Then, something catches your eye outside the window a foot away from you. Curious, you move closer to find someone else—probably an actual dedicated model student—also on school grounds this early in the morning.

It is hard to catch a good sight of them since they move quickly, but you recognize the bright yellow and green jacket of the boys' volleyball club and the curly dark hair that seems to carry an invisible dark cloud around it.

“Saku—”

You immediately stop yourself from calling the name out loud.

Who's to say it's really him? It wouldn't be weird if he were this early to practice alone at the gym, but it wouldn't be weird either if you called out and waved at him, only to have him turn around, glare, and then walk away, completely ignoring you.

A small smile forms on your face at the consideration of the expected, typical behavior from the ever-gloomy ace.

‘Not only would it not be weird if he acts like that, but it would also be incredibly embarrassing for me.’

Wincing at the thought, you quickly move away from the window to your desk, eager to get started before luck turns against you and you fall behind on time.

Your hands, holding the notebook, pause over your desk, held back by the space already claimed.

Sitting in the middle of your desk, along with a note stuck to it, is a carton of your favorite drink from the snack bar.

You quickly drop the notebook to the side and pick up the drink. The note is written neatly, in clean, straight, dark letters that carry careful consideration in each stroke.

“For you.”

Signed—

There is nothing next to the dash underneath the sentence, almost like the person wanted to leave their name or initials but then changed their mind.

So many thoughts run through your head—a short note with no signature? Your favorite drink from the snack bar right on your desk?—but only one of those thoughts surfaces clearly to the top of your head as a deathly curious question.

‘Do I have a stalker, or a crush?’

Ushijima Wakatoshi x Reader

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who has been on your mind lately for a lot of reasons, and none of them are particularly preferable.

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who genuinely has you surprised when he asks if you would like to be his girlfriend. Worse still, he keeps a straight face all through, which throws you off—because when does he ever not have a straight face?

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who is someone with whom you expected Tendō to pop out from wherever he was hiding in the library, laughing at whatever prank he just pulled on you two. But Tendō never shows up. It is real, and Ushijima is serious.

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who you of course, don't just jump up and say yes to. It is suspicious and completely out of the blue, so you ask him the same question you would ask yourself: why does he want to date you?

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who leaves you certain and satisfied by his silence that he isn't really interested in you. You figure this is just some impulse he acted on, but it is hard to accept that conclusion due to what you know about him. He isn't the kind of guy to act on impulse. He might miss the most basic social clues, but he can very much think for himself, and every action of his is well-thought-out.

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who seriously makes you wonder if he is possibly unaware of how ridiculous the proposal must seem from your point of view. The captain of Shiratorizawa’s boys' volleyball team and one of the top three aces in Japan is suddenly asking a random tutor to go out with him. A tutor who, by the way, has never confessed any romantic feelings, so it isn't even a case of him acting out of pity. The rumors and the gossip that will spread will officially ruin your calm, behind-the-spotlights, normal life.

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who has now become even harder for you to read.

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who leaves you certain that this must have been his plan all along: drop that random, sudden half–confession out of nowhere, and slowly watch you spiral internally during the rest of your lessons. He wants you to overthink everything he says and does, trying to read between the lines, getting distracted until you self-sabotage and he finally kicks you out of his tutoring position.

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who however, genuinely isn't cooking up any diabolical plans. He actually respects your work and is grateful for your efforts. He thinks you are the best tutor he has ever gotten, and the thought of having you replaced hasn't even crossed his mind since the first two weeks he met you.

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who catches you by surprise yet again. Unrelenting in his devious plan to somehow ruin your life, he takes his time and effort to come find you all the way at your class, just to return a pencil you forgot during your last lesson.

Naturally, his arrival is terribly timed. The classroom is full of students, and your homeroom teacher isn't really teaching anything, just telling jokes.

Of course, seeing him of all people there immediately draws the attention of your classmates and the teacher. Before you can even quickly get up to see what brought him there, Ushijima Wakatoshi surprises you for the third time in a row when he answers the teacher's joke with that straight-laced, dead-serious face of his.

“Hahaha, Ushijima, I didn't take you for the type to be a player," the teacher laughs. "Suddenly dropping by to return an irrelevant pencil. How lucky Y/n must be to be one of the girls you've pulled this trick on.”

Ushijima, who replies calmly while waiting for you to arrive at the entrance where he patiently stands.

“It is not irrelevant. It is her property, and I had the time to return it like I should. And it is not a trick I pull on girls, either.”

You are internally screaming in your head, your senses telling you this is about to take a wrong turn judging from the straightened position of your homeroom teacher and the whispering silence behind you.

‘It’s just a stupid pencil. You could have just given it to me the next time we have a lesson, or you could have sent someone else to bring it over!’

“Oh? So are you saying she's the only one you've done this kind of thing for? Is she… special?”

You suddenly lock eyes with him from where you stand at the front of the classroom.

‘It's a bait, it's a bait! It's a social bait! Don't take it!’

“There is no special reason. I just felt like I wanted to see her as soon as I could. Please excuse me,” he replies, stepping further into the classroom to meet you since you don't seem like you are moving to meet him first.

It feels like the whole classroom has gone silent—or maybe it is just your heart rapidly beating against your chest, too loud for you to hear anything else.

He stops right in front of you, his height towering over you intimidatingly, and yet his touch is surprisingly gentle as he takes your wrist. He turns your palm up, supporting it with his hand underneath yours.

“Here. You forgot this. Take better care of your things, Y/n. They could get stolen.”

You're screaming internally. What the hell is he doing?! In front of the whole class, holding your hand and softly returning a stupid, easily replaceable pencil? Even his voice sounds different, and so does yours as you close your fingers over the pencil and look up at him. Not sure if you are glaring or just staring, you state coarsely:

“You didn't have to bring it yourself.”

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who takes you by surprise yet again at the smile that spreads across his face, even reaching his olive-green eyes as he gazes down at you.

“I thought it was a good excuse to see you."

Inumaki Toge, who feels like the luckiest guy on earth to be in a relationship with you.

Inumaki Toge, who feels even luckier and completely overwhelmed with two kinds of bliss when you have sex: one that comes from the physical satisfaction of your soft, warm walls clamping down on his cock in a death grip, and the other from the knowledge that he's the person you chose to experience this with and not someone else.

Inumaki Toge, whose favorite hidden kink is seeing your lips tremble to suppress a moan whenever you two change positions.

Inumaki Toge, whose favorite unhidden kink is having you caress his tongue with your fingers while he strokes the depths of your sex in whatever way you like best.

Inumaki Toge, who knows exactly why he likes it. In a way, it almost feels like he is letting you defile a part of his clan. The snake-and-fang mark is a representation of the precious cursed technique of the Inumaki clan, protected and held on a pedestal for centuries.

Not to mention the thrill of you physically suppressing him from using his cursed technique during an act as intimate as that.

Inumaki Toge, who likes the warmth of your body a whole lot. The warmth inside you isn't enough, he needs to feel the warmth of every inch of your skin pressing into his, exchanging heat. He needs to feel every tremble and twitch without looking, knowing your body as well as he knows his own.

Inumaki Toge, who likes hugging you. Before sex, like he is never letting you go. After sex, like he is scared you'll leave. During sex, from the back or from the front, as long as the position allows it—and if he can't hug you…

Inumaki Toge, who holds hands with you instead. You can tell what his thrusts are going to be like just from how he holds your hands: gently or firmly, tight or loose, desperately or comfortably.

Inumaki Toge, who doesn't need you to tell him what to do in bed. Perhaps thanks to living with his cursed technique, he learns to read body language and unspoken words incredibly well, and his girlfriend is no exception. He reads how you grab his hair, how you clench around him, and even how you call his name.

Inumaki Toge, who genuinely likes it when you tell him how pretty he looks crying underneath you when you ride him until you are satisfied.

Sure, you might have some unique tastes, but so does he, and that doesn't make him any less lucky to be yours.

Inumaki Toge X Reader

College AU.

Inumaki Toge would have to look up the full, proper definition of stalking.

Yes, he knows every single social media account you have.

Yes, he keeps up with each one.

Yes, he follows each one with a secret account, each under a different name.

Yes, he knows the exact moment you post anything.

Yes, he also knows the socials of your friends and remembers every photo of theirs you show up in.

Yes, he may or may not even have your email.

But he's not liking every photo. He's not spamming you with messages—hasn’t even sent even one, in fact.

He's not saving every photo and video of yours. Well, except… the wallpaper on his laptop. The picture you took of your hands holding up your order from a trendy café.

But that is just for the aesthetic. The drink looks good, and the angle of the lighting and the firm grip of your hands around it make it seem like an ad too pretty to skip.

So yeah, he doesn't save every photo and video of yours, and his wallpaper doesn't even show your face. If anyone sees it, they'd assume he's just a fan of the drink and not the person holding it. And if you see it?... Well, what are the chances that you'll check his laptop, or that you'll somehow know the password is the exact date he first met you?

He only happens to know your address, but he has never been there nor followed you there. All he knows is when you usually go home at night, or if you're out with a friend or two, based entirely on whatever you post.

To be honest, he didn't even install a tracker on you or any of your devices.

So yeah, he's not stalking you. That would make you uncomfortable, and he would never do anything to make you uncomfortable.

The fact that he knows your favorite café? Coincidence.

The fact that he knows your regular order and sometimes gets it too just to match you? Coincidence.

The fact that he sometimes has the same extra credit class as you and always luckily has an open seat beside him? Coincidence.

The fact that he knows your middle name? Coincidence.

The fact that you end up as group partners for a class where the professor is known to assign pairs based on seatmates? Coincidence.

The fact that he's desperately trying his best to find out your birthday? Still a coincidence.

He could just ask, but then that might raise a lot of questions to which he'd have no answers.

Despite having an active social life, you are still expertly private about certain things. He's checked every social, every account, every photo, and every post; there is absolutely nothing about a birthday, a private gathering, or a party. Do you just not celebrate your birthday? Even running through your friends' socials proves to be completely useless.

But really, it's just honest effort on his part. How can he say he has a crush on the prettiest girl he knows, if he doesn't even know the day her mother gifted the world with her?

Tetsurō Kuroo x Reader

Tetsurō Kuroo hates to admit it, but it's true. Despite being the captain of the team, he's not on the best terms with his manager. Regardless of how smoothly things seem on the surface, the moment you two are alone, the ugly truth reears its head. You're both incredibly good at acting when there's an audience, but unprofessional amateurs without one.

But Tetsurō Kuroo, being the dependable amazing person that he is, knows the best way to fix things. And that is to date his manager—who also happens to be his past manager from middle school, and his ex-girlfriend.

Tetsurō Kuroo, who might admit that it's not the best plan he's ever had, but he has to fix it somehow. He has to fix the ego you bruised years ago and refuse to acknowledge years later.

Tetsurō Kuroo, whose plan is simple: enter a relationship with you again. Different this time. Better, more secure, more mature, and far more passionate. He'll win your affection, your trust, your comfort, and your attachment—and then, he will cut you off. Dump you, just like you dumped him.

Tetsurō Kuroo, who knows it's petty as fuck. But he doesn't care. He can be petty on and off the court, and he's allowed to be petty with someone like you, isn't he?

Tetsurō Kuroo, who is in for a harsh awakening. Not from the slap you give him when he kisses you—he fully expected that—but rather from the terrifying realization that although he has some light, lingering attachment to you, you might have nothing at all with him. You've moved on completely. There's nothing to bridge.

Tetsurō Kuroo, who tries to ignore that fact at first. But it weighs on him. It feels light and flimsy in the beginning, but gradually gains texture, pulling with an aggravating tug at his chest to regularly glance your way—and a heavy, crushing realization when he never finds you glancing back.

Tetsurō Kuroo, who claims his attachments are flimsy, little, light, and irrelevant—something he can ignore, snap, ignite, and burn to ash at any given moment. Yet, despite not catching you staring back at him even once, he keeps staring.

Tetsurō Kuroo, who finally considers admitting to himself that Kenma might be right. Maybe he really is just obsessed with a ghost from his past.

Tetsurō Kuroo, who painfully realizes the truth when he finally catches you staring at him one day during practice.

You might have moved on, but he hasn't.

Tetsurō Kuroo, who hasn't changed his ultimate goal, but has simply added a new step: to seduce you right into the palm of his hand.

A/N: Of all Haikyuu boys, Kuroo is the hardest for me to write 😭 He's just so... *Random frustrated hands movement* challenging, yeah let's use that word.

Someone asked for me to make this a series, it's worth considering since I'm taking a break from writing Miya Osamu, I need a new character to focus on, but who will it be? Kurro, Ushijima, or Sakusa??? I could just even go back to Inarizaki and do Kita 👾

@pjselee

Kiyoomi Sakusa x Reader

Kiyoomi Sakusa has a secret crush on you which he plans to take to his grave, or wait for it to fizzle out somehow. How is that plan going? Not well.

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who shows more interest in what Komori is talking about whenever your name is mentioned.

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who tends to glare at you silently whenever you hang out with Komori and he's around. His pitch-black aura appears to be even more soulless, bent on sucking the life out of you while he wonders when the hell you'll leave his sight.

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who in actuality isn't glaring, but rather just staring very intensely. He is completely unaware that he'd probably look less pissed if he just said something to you.

Kiyoomi Sakusa, whose case isn't that he has nothing to say. He has a lot.

When you have things to say?

“Do you always talk that much?”

“How many times a day do you go quiet, and can you share those times with me? I'd prefer to come across you then.”

“What would it take to get you to keep quiet for ten good minutes?”

And when you don't have much to say?

“What's with that stupid look on your face?”

“Did you not eat properly today?”

“Is there someone here you don't want to offend with your words?”

“Did someone finally tell you how annoying your voice can be?”

It annoys him when you don't stop talking, and it annoys him when you don't talk at all, too.

Everything about you—well, not everything, but most things about you—is annoying. And yet, he can't bring himself to say his thoughts out loud, not when you have that almost-cute smile on your face or that downcast look in your eyes.

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who often finds himself fiddling with the band-aids he uses on his hands. He doesn't get hurt often, but you gave him so many to compensate for his scratch after he caught you from that tree—or rather, fell with you when you crashed down on him.

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who often finds himself wondering if you couldn't have picked more neutral colors.

‘Were these the only ones she could find? Or did she pick them out on purpose to get under my skin, or to see if I'll refuse to use them?’

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who finds every opportunity to use them, from the tiniest scratch or bruise.

‘They're meant to be used, after all.’

‘And it's her fault that I got hurt. She did apologize and give them to me; the least I can do is make good use of them.’

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who couldn't help but notice you haven't said anything about the band-aids whenever you see them on his hands. It's not like they're hard to miss. Do you not have anything to say, or do you just not care?

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who finally says something while sitting down with you on the bench, resting after completing his set of the day's drills—completely oblivious to how awkward the atmosphere is and how firmly you are watching the others on the court, determined not to even glance at him lest he decides to snap at you like he usually does to anyone and everyone.

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who starts stare-glaring again, seemingly bent on drilling a hole through your skull for a full minute before clicking his tongue and bringing his mask down to address you.

“You're practically here everyday. Don't you have anything better to do?”

You internally wince.

‘Here it comes. He really can't address people like a normal, polite human being, can he?’

Smiling awkwardly, you turn your face to the right, partly holding his gaze as you answer.

“Not everyday. Just Wednesdays and Fridays when my club is free, sometimes Tuesdays too. It depends. I do have things to do. I'm also friends with Komori and I'm a fan of volleyball. I support the school and really want to see the team succeed in the upcoming…”

Kiyoomi Sakusa has mostly zoned out of the rest of the things you are saying.

‘Why is she telling me why she's supporting the team? I didn't ask. I don't really care, either.’

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who, although he didn't ask and doesn't care, can't seem to bring himself to interrupt you. So he just calmly turns his eyes back to the court, watching them and letting you drone on.

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who makes you breathe an internal sigh of relief when he seems to have lost interest in you. You know he probably thinks you talk too much like everyone else, but you can't help it.

When Komori first introduced you two, you thought he was the reclusive type and maybe a little bit depressed—hard not to think so with that deadpan stare. But you quickly learn his independence is a personal choice that stems from a preference to be away from people, and you respect it. Still, he has a way of making you feel awkward whenever he is near, especially without Komori to ease things out. An empty silence that leaves an invisible obligation to fill it with something—anything—to ease the heavy awkwardness.

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who suddenly turns around to face you after his ears pick up the silence beside him, the lack of your voice eager and dedicated to keeping his ears busy.

“That bird you saved from the tree… is it dead now?”

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who watches you stare at him in surprise, a hint of concern creasing your forehead.

“No! No, it's not dead, of course not. Why would you ask that? I took it to the nearest animal shelter I could find and they had its wing treated. It was actually free to fly and released four days ago. Thank you, by the way, for catching me.”

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who bites his inner cheeks as his eyelids lower, narrowing his gaze at you.

‘There it is again. That softness in her smile. Whatever I say next will probably just ruin it. To be honest, I'm aware she probably isn't comfortable being around me. Not many people are, and I don't care about any of them, but with her… I want to be a little bit nicer(?)…’

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who blinks at you for a few seconds before turning his head forward.

“You almost broke my hands. What were you going to do if you made the Ace of the team you care so much about temporarily unable to play or train from a serious injury?”

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who feels a pang of guilt as he listens to your rapid-fire torrent of sincere apologies.

‘I had no intention of getting more apologies from her. I just wanted to tell her she's welcome, but also that what she did was dangerous. She could have been the one to get hurt.’

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who finally has enough and snaps his head toward you.

“That's enough.”

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who feels an even stronger pang of guilt when you mutter an “okay” and hang your head—although the pang of guilt is temporarily overshadowed by something else, a frustration toward himself as he watches you anxiously bite your lip.

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who quickly turns his head away from you, positioning his body so he is facing the opposite side. He remains dead silent, until Iizuna calls you onto the court to show you something. You practically jump off your seat and run off to him and the others, probably eager to get as far and as quickly away from his presence as you can.

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who immediately brings his face mask back up and quietly watches you. Internally, he's decided that of everyone he's met, you deserve the title of the most annoying, the one who gets on his nerves the most, who stays in his head the most often, whom he secretly jerks off to at night, who still didn't notice or mention that he has one of those ridiculous band-aids on his left hand, on the back of his palm, and whom he might want to work a little bit on his social skills for.

Are you scared of him, or do you just dislike him?

Kiyoomi Sakusa, who is quietly wondering how much effort it would take to get you to become more comfortable around him.

A/N: One down, promise kept 👾

I feel kinda inspired to start a propaganda on Sakusa. Actually scratch that. I can't start what I can't finish 😭

Ushijima Wakatoshi x Reader

Ushijima Wakatoshi has decided there is one variable in his life he can't seem to control, and that variable is you—his impressively smart, dedicated, punctual, competent, and beautiful tutor.

Ushijima Wakatoshi has also decided—outside the “expertise” of Tendō, who is entirely too sure of what Wakatoshi's feelings are—that the best way to handle this variable is to enter an exclusive relationship with it. In other words, to date you.

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who turns out to be even more anxious than he thought about asking you out. He's actually a full day later than he planned, for a reason he cannot logically explain.

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who is even more shocked to be turned down. Politely, but a rejection nonetheless.

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who is slightly irritated by how amusing Tendō finds the story to be when Wakatoshi relates it word-for-word in their dorm later that day.

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who, after a little bit of thinking while Tendō's laughter echoes in the background, realizes it isn't just that the sound of Tendō’s cackling is annoying. It is that he feels like a hypocrite. Before asking you out, he already promised himself that whatever your answer might be, he would respect it, move on, and remain completely unaffected. But now, he realizes he seriously did not consider the possibility of failing. Rejection felt like a variable not even worth pondering due to how impossible it seemed.

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who painfully finds himself with absolutely nothing to say when—after you tell him that you are flattered but not interested and he asks you why—you return the question with: “Why do you want to date me?”

It's a really good question. And the answer should be that he likes you, but it isn't an answer he can give, because dating you was supposed to be the way to get that answer. Does he really like you romantically? And why?

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who spends that entire night unable to catch much sleep. You are on his mind, crowding every corner, claiming every single inch. Your question repeatedly echoes in his head:

“Why do you want to date me, Ushijima?”

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who even considers what Tendō said just to get under his skin:

“Maybe Y/N lied to you. Maybe she has someone she likes, and compared to them, you're just not good enough.”

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who absolutely cannot accept that possibility. Not the idea that you lied to him, but the fact that if there really is someone else, he somehow wouldn't compare to them. That he couldn't get your attention, your time, or your affection. That he wasn't worthy of it, but someone else was.

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who finally decides to clear his mind of all irrelevant thoughts, accept things for what they are, wish you well, and get what little hours of sleep he can salvage.

Ushijima Wakatoshi, who arrives late to your study session the next day. You have already started on the books without him, and the room is dead silent, even as he creeps up behind you.

He watches you turn back and lift your head to look at him when you finally notice his presence. A displeased expression crosses your face as you address the obvious.

“You're late.”

“I'm aware, and I apologize for my tardiness. The team strategy with the coach today ran longer than expected.”

He explains himself calmly, staring down at you with a quiet intensity. Combined with his looming position, the stare would have made anyone else unfamiliar with him squirm in their seat. Instead, you simply turn your back to him, returning your attention to your books.

“Well, take your seat. Let's continue where we left off.”

Ushijima Wakatoshi wants to move to his seat, but he stands fixed on the spot for a few seconds, staring at the back of your head. And when he finally does move, it isn't toward his own chair.

He takes a step forward to the back of your seat, slowly bringing his tall, broad frame down, completely casting a dark shadow over you and your books. He places his hands on either side of you, his palms flat against the wooden surface of the table as he brings his head down toward yours from behind.

Surprisingly, you don't flinch or appear affected despite him completely caging you in. That observation sends a light thrill of satisfaction and something else entirely up his spine, doubled by the sound of your voice reaching his ears—low, quiet, and cutting through the silence, almost intimate in it's tone.

He quietly notices how much smaller your hands look against his on the desk. A part of him wants to cover yours with his own just to see how much space would be left, but he wouldn't dare touch you without your permission.

“Ushijima Wakatoshi, do you have something to say?” you ask calmly, calling his full name and staring at a random line in your notebook, reading it repeatedly and yet going nowhere with that particular sentence.

The sound of his voice that close to your ears almost raises the hairs at the back of your neck. You wait for a question or a complaint. Maybe there is something you've been doing lately that isn't up to his high expectations. Maybe you made an obvious mistake in your last set of notes and he had to fix them himself—just another proof of how incompetent he expected you to be, and how soon he'll kick you out of your tutoring position. Or maybe he just doesn't like your handwriting. Does it strain his eyes to read? Will you have to rewrite whatever illegible things you've been giving him to decipher?

But rather than a complaint or a critique from the voice hovering right behind your ear, you get an unexpected question that surprises you just as much as it surprises him:

“Why wouldn't you want to date me, Y/N?”

Miya Osamu x Reader

Miya Osamu is admittedly more anxious than usual to be in the kitchen. Nothing has really changed; it is still the same kitchen in his house, and he didn't hit his head somewhere and completely forget how to cook. The only reason why his heart is beating a little faster than normal is because his girlfriend is finally there with him in person, rather than behind a screen, and your presence is proving a little bit more difficult to deal with than he thought. Not only does the space feel different to physically have you there, but there is also the status of a romantic relationship between you two that is constantly on his mind.

To his credit, though, his anxiety isn't obvious. Maybe because cooking has usually been a way to relieve stress, things go smoothly despite his troubled thoughts, which eventually shift from ‘I hope things don't feel too awkward for her’ to focusing mainly on his task at hand: baking something you'd find delicious on a warm, breezy Saturday.

On the other hand, you are calmly seated on the edge of the kitchen island counter, quietly watching him work. Usually, over the phone, you'd be talking or he'd be verbally explaining things while he works, but today he doesn't even bother to tell you what the ingredients are and strongly refuses your help in the kitchen. He almost looks so insulted and appalled that your ego is hurt, and you wonder why you even asked.

Apparently, you've become the kind of girlfriend that is better off just sitting still to watch while he does all the work, rather than risk even the slightest involvement from you.

Your betrayed eyes glare at his back from where you sit quietly.

‘I mean, it's not like offering to wash the fruits will result in turning them all to mush or ruining their taste. I know how to wash fruits. Seriously, confess you may or may not have made something bad enough to disturb the digestive system, and suddenly you're a high-risk subject that shouldn't even be allowed to touch a utensil.’

The glare in your eyes is slowly losing its intensity the more you watch him work. Rather than learning visually, though, you are too busy admiring him visually.

‘The obsession some people have with seeing their partners in an apron—I think I get it now. The duality is impressive. To look good in an athletic uniform and still look good in a cute apron such as that. Is he making a snack, or is he the snack?’

The thought subconsciously pulls up the corners of your lips, which you quickly hide as he moves over to the other side of the kitchen to place the washed fruits in a draining basket.

Earlier, you briefly considered what he was making and eventually gave up on guessing to just ask him instead. Apparently, he isn't just baking Shokupan (milk bread); that is just meant to be an ingredient in the main dish, a Fruit Sando, which explains the variety of fruits.

Did you watch the process closely firsthand? Yes.

Will you be able to recreate the whole thing to at least 50% on your own? Definitely not.

You might not be able to go through the very process you watched yourself, but you do know something just as important as remembering the recipe.

And that important thing is how good your boyfriend is at kneading dough. Especially with his sleeves rolled up, exposing his strong forearms, veins, and large yet surprisingly gentle hands. Which is harder to pull off: a perfect spike or a perfectly kneaded dough? And which one is responsible for—and to receive your gratitude for—the level of careful control in those hands despite the strength behind them?

Yeah, you can't make bread from scratch, but what does that matter when you can watch your hot boyfriend make it from scratch, and for free, too?

“Why are you smiling?”

The familiar voice interrupts your thoughts, snapping your attention to the person standing at the sink but now facing you, his calm grey eyes patiently watching you for who knows how long.

You quickly clear your throat, wiping the wide grin—which you didn't even know was there—off your face.

“I was just thinking about how lucky I am to get to learn this in person, and how excited I am to try making it on my own later as well.”

Miya Osamu narrows his eyes across at the one sitting on his kitchen island, his head slightly tilting to the side, calmly matching you as you purposely mirror the head tilt.

“Well, if you ever do, please refrain from bringing any to me,” he remarks bluntly, walking off to the oven to check up on the baking Shokupan, completely aware of your wounded ego.

“Hey, Samu, most guys would be so grateful and happy to have their girlfriend cook or bake something for them, you know,” you fiercely defend yourself, straightening your spine and head while your eyes follow him with a cold glare, arms crossed in front of you.

“Well, most guys would survive their girlfriend's cooking and not end up in an ICU,” he answers, lowering himself to check on the timer and temperature of the oven. “I love you, Y/n, but I'm not the biggest fan of diarrhea.”

“That was one time!” you snap back from where you sit, triggering a hidden smile on his face as he stands back up to his feet, brushing off the grin before turning back to face you.

“Exactly. The rest of your destructive potential has not fully been discovered. Who knows how much more damage you're capable of. I take food very seriously, you know.”

“Yeah? Well, I had no idea,” you snap back with dripping sarcasm, turning your head away with your arms even more tightly crossed, a permanent scowl etched on your face.

‘Just because he has the talent doesn't mean he should rub it in the faces of those who don't. It's ridiculous. Ego must run in the Miya family bloodline. There's Samu with his cooking, and then there's Sumu with being a setter. Like the rest of us don't have something impressive that we're good at. Hmph.’

A crossed, thoughtful expression momentarily interrupts your scowling as you replay what he just said in your head.

"I love you, Y/n..."

A funny sensation fills your stomach as you replay it again, confirming you didn't mishear things.

‘Love? Not like?’ You keep your head fixed on the floor rather than turning back to face him. Usually, Osamu expresses his feelings with actions better than words, and even with words, it has always been “like,” not “love.” It's not like you yourself think the distinction between the two words is something incredibly important; after all, you've never used the word “love” yourself. But he just did, and to think he just did so casually while taking a jab at something that would have possibly ensured you'd die single if you were born in a different time.

The funny feeling in your stomach grows heavier the more you think about it.

“I love you, Y/n, but I'm not the biggest fan of diarrhea.”

It is insulting and yet flattering at the same time, and it won't stop repeating itself in your head. It fell so naturally from his lips. Not like something he planned to confess, but more like something he has always known—like something he has always let you know, too. He didn't even falter or get awkward after saying it.

Does he not realize what he said? Or, more likely, is he aware but doesn't think too much of it? Because he has been showing it all this time in his actions, but maybe you are the one who didn't think too much of it?

“I love you, Y/n, but I'm not the biggest fan of diarrhea.”

‘His foul tongue will be the end of him one day. He has no idea how lucky he is that he has me to tolerate him as he is… How annoying.’

The back of your neck feels much warmer than it previously did. It is uncomfortable. The idiot isn't even flirting with you, and yet you are this affected. Usually, you are the one most comfortable with sharing your feelings, but since when did the tables turn without your awareness?

Your heart skips a startled beat as he suddenly appears in front of you.

“Besides, why would I need you to make something for me when I can just make something for you instead?” he asks seriously, placing either hand on the counter by your thighs and leaning forward to bring his height closer to yours.

It is rare for you not to have something to say back, but at this point, all you can think about is how handsome his face is up close, how closely his eyes are tracking yours, the serious tone of his voice, and the light, fluffy, sweet aroma of baking milk bread hanging on his clothes.

“I love you, Y/n, but I'm not the biggest fan of diarrhea.”

Miya Osamu lightly raises his left eyebrow at your face.

‘It’s very rare for her to have nothing to say. Is she hungry or angry now?’

But before he can open his mouth to speak, you finally snap back at him, your eyebrows drawing inward tightly enough for a light wrinkle to appear on your forehead.

“Who says I need it?”

He spends a moment blankly staring at you, considering the idea in his head before coming to a clear verdict that sparks an amused chuckle from him. It only ignites your annoyance further with how much it feels like you are the one being laughed at.

“You don't need my cooking?”

“I don't need it. I never did,” you answer quickly without missing a beat.

“Maybe that would be believable many months ago, but not anymore. Not when I've successfully seduced you into becoming my girlfriend with food. I always knew you were going to forever be a terrible student, by the way.”

Your jaw clenches lightly as you glare up at his face.

“You sound so confident.”

“I have you eating out of the palm of my hand, Y/n.”

“I could find someone else who cooks as well as you do, though,” you answer back, readily waiting for his response. The crease on your forehead flattens out when you see the clouding that quickly deepens on his face.

“You… ”

You subconsciously hold your breath, waiting for what he has to say, but his face suddenly goes blank before he takes his hands off the counter and returns to the oven.

‘What the hell? He's always so quick with his insults but so slow and annoyingly withdrawn with other things. It was just a joke. He does have me eating out of his hands, I was just trying to get under his skin as payback. Did he take it seriously?’

Miya Osamu can feel the quietness between them, but unlike the comfortable one from earlier, this feels heavier. It still doesn't physically disturb him from his work as he puts on the oven mitts before sliding the door open, filling the kitchen with the sweet, sweet aroma of the freshly baked bread.

It is easy to tell he is thinking about something from his face, but it is hard to tell what he is thinking about exactly.

‘She’s so cute and so annoying. Find someone as good as me? Where's she going to find someone like that?…’

He carefully checks the soft bread, confirming it is thoroughly baked, before he waits for it to cool. He moves on to the washed and drained fruits with a knife and chopping board to slice them into pieces.

‘Well, I guess if she puts her mind to it, she could. It's not like I'm irreplaceable; mostly everyone is. But… It's not the same for me. I don't think I could ever find a replacement for her… nor do I want to.’

The sharp sounds of his knife quickly cutting through the fruits keep you on edge, paired with his heavy silence. While admiring the movement of his back muscles as he works through the fruits, guilt eats at you from the inside.

Not guilt from what you said, but guilt from how quickly you'll have to take back your words thanks to the fact that you're already drooling over the bread.

Of course, you aren't exactly ignoring his silence, but at this point, you've finally realized—much like Atsumu—that it is best to leave Osamu alone whenever he is brooding about something in silence. If he is angry, he'll verbally express it, and if he is hurt, he will stop whatever he is doing to be alone.

‘He’s quiet, but still working, so what he's thinking about can't be that serious, right?’

Apparently, you have to take back your words when, minutes later, your boyfriend is personally feeding you the first cut of the fruit sandwich—a perfect square piece on a plate in his left hand and a fork in his right while he stands between your legs.

“Taste it.”

You hesitate, suspicious of his actions despite your earlier statement, but you can't resist reaching for the piece on the fork. His eyes carefully watch the expression of delight on your face as your taste buds dance in heavenly delight.

He grabs another piece with the fork, bringing it to your mouth where you take that as well, gently murmuring in approval. He waits until you swallow the second bite before he poses the question, carefully setting aside the plate and fork beside you on the counter.

“How is it? Is it good?”

“It's great,” you answer cheerfully, but that draws a subtle frown from him.

“You always think everything I make is great. Here, I'll just check it myself.”

He quickly swipes off leftover whipped cream from the fork with his index finger, painting it over your lips before drawing his head down to taste it off them.

His left hand slides to the back of your head, gently helping you keep your balance, guiding and keeping your head up as he greedily licks the cream off your lips, but he doesn't stop there. His lips part yours open to slide his tongue in.

“Mphm—”

Your right hand blindly reaches up to his shirt to grab it, your left hand gripping the edge of the counter as well to keep yourself stable as he slips his tongue further in, thoroughly rolling and intertwining it with yours, determined to taste every inch of his pastry in your mouth.

A light gasp leaves your chest as he breaks the kiss. Your widened eyes snap open to meet his clear grey ones. You softly part your lips, your right hand still clutching his shirt.

“It’s great. Feed me more.”

A pleased thrill runs down Osamu's spine, settling in his abdomen as he cuts off another piece with the fork and brings it to your lips.

‘I’m hungry, too,’ he mentally complains as he watches you enjoy the third bite. Unfortunately, you don't get to finish savoring the third bite like you did with the second before he brings his lips down on yours again.

His lips possessively hang on to yours, his tongue heavy and greedy as it brushes against every inch of your mouth. Even his hand behind your head is much firmer in its grasp.

Your suspicion was correct: he has been showing more than just "like" all this time, albeit with his actions. Every food he makes, even every lace he ties, every kiss he takes—you had just gotten so used to it that the change naturally slipped past your radar until now.

Your boyfriend is much simpler to read than he appears to be. Even now, as he breaks the kiss once more, keeping his forehead against yours, his breathing in sync with yours and his eyes firmly locked in, he asks in a lower, smoother voice:

“More?”

It is difficult to hide your smile while you ponder what exactly he is asking about—if you want more of the pastry, or if he's just greedily asking for more taste of you.

Ushijima Wakatoshi x Reader

His large hand suddenly grabs your wrist from behind, possessively pulling you to a stop, preventing you from going any further. You turn back, lifting your eyes up to his much taller form, a smile sparkling on your face while the edge of his lips twitches lightly in a slow, disapproving frown. His dark olive eyes pierce down at yours.

“Y/n, it's dangerous to walk off like that on your own. What if you had gotten lost?”

His concern etches itself on his full brows, drawing them closer.

‘It’s understandable that she's excited about the things she wants to buy, but she should be more cautious. That wouldn't bring any harm to her, would it?’

Your smile stretches as if you can read the thoughts going on in his head. It isn't too hard to piece together, considering the kind of person he is and the expression on his stoic face—an expression that doesn't scare or intimidate you as you take a tiny step back, fully turning to face him.

“If I did, then I would have just waited for my boyfriend to find me. I'm sure you wouldn't let me wander off alone for too long.”

It is almost imperceptible, but his eyebrows relax a little, though he keeps the frown on his face as his hand on your wrist skids down to firmly interlock your fingers together instead. His slightly rougher hand gently caresses yours as he purposely slides his fingers in-between yours and pulls your palm flat against his.

“I'd rather not have to find you at all, Y/n. I really can't take my eyes off you for even a second. Please be more careful, and from now on, don't let go of my hand.”

He gives the instructions with the same authority he gives his teammates on the court.

“Why? Are you uncertain about your finding skills? Did you not do well playing hide-and-seek when you were younger?” you pose the question as he leads you along to your mutual destination.

“What does playing hide-and-seek in my childhood have to do with my concern about your personal safety on our date?” he answers, keeping his gaze ahead as he smoothly navigates the sparse crowd on the upgraded mall floor.

“Nothing much, I guess. I'm just saying…” You pause, and he feels your hand gently squeeze his. “I'd always trust you to find me if we ever played hide-and-seek. And just so you know, I'm good at seeking, too. So if you're the one who gets lost, I'll find you easily in no time. Although considering how tall and imposing you are, it would be hard to lose you in the first place.”

You consider it thoughtfully, taking your eyes up his form as you climb onto the escalator together, still holding hands, while you nod in self-agreement.

“I see,” he responds, glancing toward you on his left. His face remains the same impassive mask, while his thoughts are more generous with his words.

‘I never played many games during my childhood, so I don't fully understand, but… I think what she's trying to say is that she trusts me.’

The thought makes a strange sensation briefly cloud his chest as he consciously takes note of the way your eyelashes flutter softly, perfectly framing your eyes from the side whenever you are deep in thought.

What are you thinking about? His capabilities in playing a game of hide-and-seek?

A part of him thinks it to be childishly ridiculous, and yet the competitive part of him wants to win if you ever play such a game—to prove that his height won't stop him from finding a sufficient hiding spot, and to keep your trust and live up to your expectations of easily finding you if he is the seeker.

You suddenly turn your face to the side, your thoughtful expression shifting to one of amusement as you catch his gaze—to be specific, catch him blankly staring at you like that.

“Am I too pretty to take your eyes off, Wakatoshi? Or is it just because I'm a handful to deal with?”

You are teasing him so blatantly, and yet his heart skips a tiny beat. Nothing too large, but definitely an unusual occurrence for him to take note of. He isn't in a game, and he isn't holding a ball. He is with someone in the mall, and his heart gets that same familiar reaction, but with a subtle yet unknown difference that makes him uncomfortable.

He wants to deny it, and at the same time, he wants to accept it.

It is true that you are a handful and much more lax with public safety than he prefers, but it is also true that you are pretty. In a way different from how he objectively acknowledges attractive people. In a way that makes his heart skip a tiny beat when you catch him staring off guard like that. In a way that makes him want to kiss that smart mouth of yours just to get you to stop teasing him.

He catches sight of your concerned, raised eyebrow at his long silence. He quickly opens his mouth to explain that he isn't annoyed or angry with your question, but instead of the words leaving his lips, he is instead jerked away so suddenly that your joined hands disconnect, his letting go of yours as the vision of your concerned face bleeds into an empty darkness.

Ushijima Wakatoshi opens his eyes to stare up at the ceiling of his dorm room. He doesn't need to look at his alarm clock to know it isn't time for his usual waking hour yet. He is dreaming again. Dreaming of his tutor.

It is weird how your influence over him has spread that far, that quickly. To frequently show up in his dreams—some of them cozy and ordinary, and the rest provocative enough to leave a painfully obvious bulge in his sweatpants that leaves him biting down on his lips and waiting for it to go down. He would never commit an act as disrespectful as relieving himself to the thoughts of you, although he might have given in to the act once. Just once. And rather than satisfying him, now he can't seem to get that one time out of his head.

It is unusual for him, and definitely isn't something he welcomes, and yet it seems it isn't something he can control either.

"Y/N L/N."

The things you're doing to him have to stop or be controlled in some way. He has to confirm what is really going on: a mere infatuation with his tutor soon to be dismissed, or a genuine hunger to possess you as his. To be the one you'd trust to find you, in a game of hide-and-seek.

A/N: There are two very different types of ushijima artists on Pinterest 😶‍🌫️

Inumaki Toge, admittedly, has conflicted feelings about being set up as your partner for the group project. On one hand, you two have barely exchanged more than five words, but on the other hand, it is finally an opportunity to get closer to his crush.

Inumaki Toge, who has pretty much memorized the back of your head from how much he stares at it during lectures. The moment he walks into a classroom, one glance from the back is all he needs to locate where you're seated.

Inumaki Toge, who could have, but has never ever taken the opportunity to sit beside you for a lecture. He tends to overthink the probability of things going terribly wrong; although he knows you're not going to bite his head off, the thought of you considering him to be off-putting in any way tends to paralyze his nerves.

Inumaki Toge, who once had the opportunity to approach you in the past to return a ruler that you accidentally left behind while packing your bags after a particularly long, draining lecture. You were in a hurry and it slipped off the table; he took note of it since he was watching you pack up, but before he could summon the courage to call for your attention, you were gone, leaving him to pick up the ruler in your stead.

Inumaki Toge, who keeps that ruler with the excuse of, “She might not need it anymore, but it would still be right to return it,” and now the thought of that ruler plagues him as he sits with you after class to discuss the execution of the project.

Have you already forgotten about the ruler?

And if you haven't, do you think you lost it? Or that it was stolen?

And if you think it was stolen, does that make him a thief?

Is he a thief even if he didn't intend to steal from you?

What would you think if you found out that he was the one who stole it?

Inumaki Toge, who somehow manages to keep a straight face despite his spiraling thoughts.

Inumaki Toge, who you wonder if he doesn't like you, considering how anxious he always seems in your presence and how quickly he leaves once you're done with your discussions.

Inumaki Toge, who has decisively accepted the identity of a thief and has promised to make up for it by ensuring you both get the highest score possible from the professor at the end of the project.

Inumaki Toge, whose given excuse whenever you mention how you seem to be slacking off compared to how much progress he's made is simply that he has some free time, that's all.

Inumaki Toge, who sometimes catches himself secretly staring at you while you're busy taking notes on the ideas. Part of your hair falls over the side of your face as you comfortably sit across from him at the table—part of that hair he stops himself from reaching out to brush back every single time.

Inumaki Toge, who tenses up the moment you mention his eyes. It's something he's often heard the people around him talk about multiple times, but hearing you just compliment them as a pretty color, rather than ask if it's a genetic inheritance or the result of some kind of disease, is something he isn't expecting at all.

Inumaki Toge, who successfully learns from you that he finds it very difficult to accept a genuine compliment. Though he's not sure if it's because it's coming from you, or if it's because it's coming from you.

Inumaki Toge, who tries his best to give compliments of his own in return, but they almost always come across as ordinary or somewhat suspicious.

“You take really good notes.”

You hope you do; after all, you've been doing that for years. It would be embarrassing if you didn't.

“You have a really nice smile.”

Does he have some kind of interest in your teeth?

“You're usually punctual.”

Wouldn't it be rude for you to arrive way later than someone who always arrives earlier than the agreed-upon time?

“Your nails are always well-kept.”

That one in particular leaves a long, awkward silence behind. He mentally berates himself about coming off as a creep with the awkward way he said it, like he has always been staring at your nails—although technically he does often stare at you while you write, hence taking note of your nails.

Inumaki Toge, who is immediately about to apologize and find a way to leave quickly, until you smile up at him, a spark of amusement dancing in your eyes at his self-imposed discomfort, before answering calmly:

“Thank you.”

Inumaki Toge, who has no idea that you always look forward to his compliments and sometimes leave those awkward silences between you two just to see how quickly he'll retract back into his personal shell.

Inumaki Toge, who doesn't realize how close and comfortable he's gotten with you until he finds himself accompanying you on a Saturday for ice cream.

Inumaki Toge, whose thought when he has that realization isn't whether it's a date or if his feelings have a chance, but rather if that means he has a chance of possibly becoming friends with you.

Inumaki Toge, who is too busy daydreaming and pondering about the chances of getting a friendship, doesn't realize you've been calling for his attention. He only snaps back to the present to find your face much closer to his than he remembers. Your left hand is holding his right wrist, and your eyes accidentally come up to meet his gaze as your tongue catches the path of the ice cream melting down from its cone onto his hand.

Inumaki Toge, whose brain short-circuits into a cold freeze while he watches you let go of his hand and step back, running your tongue over your lips as you smile up at him.

“Sorry. I just couldn't let it go to waste.”

Inumaki Toge, who can only stiffly nod his head, partly listening to what you are talking about as you continue walking, and partly dissecting the probability of the act being on purpose.

Was it accidental? Are you unaware of how dangerously intimate that came across? Do you do that just casually with anyone? When will his hand stop feeling hot? How warm did your tongue feel against his skin? And more importantly, how quickly does the project need to be finished before his snowballing crush gets discovered?

Ken Kaneki x Reader

Ken Kaneki doesn't believe what he's doing is a crime. Or maybe, deep down, he knows but is looking at it from a different, twisted angle of his own.

He's perfectly aware, though, that it's a fixation. A deep, dark fixation on the ordinary lady who walked into Anteiku three months ago on a warm, orange evening, a polite smile on your face as you gave your order. Still learning, he messed up and brewed the wrong thing. Despite the obvious tiredness you carried with you on your weary shoulders and in your strained eyes, you still smiled at him, accepted the coffee, and drank the whole thing while holding a small, casual conversation with him.

Were you too exhausted to complain or get angry, or were you just being polite? It was hard to tell, but he was grateful. You crossed his mind admittedly more than once after that evening, and he found himself pleasantly surprised the next week when the bell rang, announcing your arrival in the cafe with a similar smile on your face.

Once again, he can't perfectly nail your order, and once again you smile at him, interrupting his anxious apologies to reassure him that it is fine. Although he isn't yet at Yoshimura’s level, there is still something about his brews that you find charmingly unique.

It didn't start as a fixation. It began as a simple desire to make you a proper cup of coffee for once. With the aid of Yoshimura, he gets your usual orders and preferences, as you are a somewhat familiar customer of the cafe. And with the supervision of Yoshimura as his taste tester, he regularly practices making those orders, anticipating your next visit where you'll walk in with a smile to place an order.

It might have begun as a simple desire to live up to the skills of Anteiku, but the more you notice the improvement in his brews, the more he strives to perfect them, and the little things he begins to notice grow, too. The way you hold your coffee cup. What you drink depending on the weather. Your fashion style, your background life—information gathered from the little small talks you share with the staff while you're at the cafe—and the fragrance of your perfume and shampoo. Your different smiles. It is hard to pick up, but there are nuances. Some smiles reach your eyes, some don't, and some make your eyes sparkle for a brief moment. The rate of your heartbeat, which depends on how your day went. It gets to a point where he can sense your arrival in the cafe by just the familiar sound of your heartbeat even before you open the door.

It still doesn't occur to him that he is fixated. As if memorizing someone’s heartbeat and the differences when they are angry, sad, calm, or happy is a normal thing. It doesn't occur to him that he is getting fixated, either, when he can tell when you've changed your shampoo or perfume even before you sit down. It still doesn't occur to him, either, that it is a fixation when he subconsciously memorizes the schedule of your visits, counting down the days between them. Nor does it occur to him that it is a fixation when he acts outside his comfort zone and makes attempts to see you smile—not the polite ones you give, but the ones that reach your eyes and genuinely make them sparkle for a few seconds.

The pride he feels whenever you compliment the cup of the day; the pride he feels when he indirectly asks if something is wrong—already being able to tell from the sound of your heartbeat and the smile on your face or lack thereof—and turns out to be right, succeeding in getting you to open up to him as well. Or when you take his recommendations and end up pleased.

No, Ken Kaneki isn't fixated. He is just interested in you, from the tiny details to the major ones. Does that interest justify his regular habit of picking up your cups and plates when you are done and gone, taking them to the backroom to run his thumb over the part where you drank from the cup, the lingering warmth of that edge guiding the visualization of your lips? Probably not. And yet he does it every time. Sometimes, he even immediately reuses the same cup to make himself a brew and drinks from that exact spot when you are gone. Is that creepy? Probably, but yet it makes his heart skip a tiny bit, imagining he is one step closer to you with that secret intimacy.

Eventually, Ken Kaneki accepts that the interest might have grown into something darker when he begins stalking you as the One-Eyed Ghoul. No, not stalking you—just making sure you get home safe every night. With the killings going on, and his knowledge of the ones behind them, the neighborhood isn't the safest place, after all. The least he can do is try to keep you safe.

Is it still just a dark interest when he begins breaking into your house at night to watch you sleep? Who knows. He isn't there to steal anything, just to return the things you've lost and maybe look around a little to learn more about your life from your surroundings.

The little acts of turning off your lights, covering you with a blanket when you fall asleep at your desk, or carrying you to your bed so you can sleep more comfortably? That's just him being polite, like you're polite to him at the cafe.

And sometimes lingering in your room to listen to your heartbeat while he watches you sleep? He is just making sure that you won't die of a heart attack in your sleep. It is justified, considering the amount of stress you put yourself through. People die of heart attacks in their sleep all the time.

And even when you share your thoughts with the cafe staff, voicing a concern about a suspicion of having acquired a stalker, it doesn't even occur to him that he is the stalker. He quickly goes quiet, carefully pondering all the suspicious people he knows in your neighborhood and their threat levels. There are no ghouls; he made sure of that. It is probably just a human guy who won't take no for an answer and is creepily obsessed with you—too much of a coward to show his face out of the shadows, in Kaneki's opinion.

No, Ken Kaneki isn't obsessed with you. He just has to make sure that you don't wake up with dark circles under your eyes every morning and that you come to Anteiku regularly to share a cup of coffee with him, just for him to see that genuine smile on your face and that spark in your eyes.

Meanwhile, you did have a stalker before Kaneki—unknown to you and to him. Another ghoul, who swiftly gave up on his target the moment he realized a much stronger, far more dangerous ghoul had already claimed you as his. It was way more than he could handle, and he had no desire to touch the territory of a monster who watched your every step.

A ghoul who was, without a doubt, far freakier than he could ever be.

Shadow lord Alkaid x Reader

Inspired by the Phantom lamp glow event

The Shadow Lord of Bumei, who naturally feels pulled to you the moment you come by his tea shop looking for your cat.

The Shadow Lord of Bumei, who self-admittedly has selfish intentions helping you with your search. As much as all his aid is genuine to help you find your pet faster, it is also a genuine attempt to keep himself closer to you for as long as he can.

The Shadow Lord of Bumei, who just like the Gu master mentioned, has been keeping an eye on you through the talisman he gave you. It bears no negative intentions; he just forgot to mention that the longer it stays with you, the stronger the connection he shares with you becomes.

The Shadow Lord of Bumei, who does indeed feel lighter and more positive with your presence and support. Although his work can be daunting and heavy, you make everything feel much brighter and refreshing just by being by his side.

The Shadow Lord of Bumei, who was happy for you when you finally found your cat, but was then surprised when you told him you'd love to perform the tradition he mentioned of showing your devotion to him as a thank-you for his help.

The Shadow Lord of Bumei, who smiles mysteriously at you and tries to deter you from the subject. It wasn't that he was rejecting your sincerity; rather, it was the fact that the ways he is interested in you showing devotion aren't the typical ways of the souls in Bumei. Because of all the souls he has come across, you are the one he has been waiting for and longed to help the most.

The Shadow Lord of Bumei, who eventually agrees to let you do it on one condition: he chooses the way for you to show your devotion. It amuses you how easy it is to change his mind. Whether it is in Harp Island or a mystic city, it is still easy to get him to give in to your whims and demands.

The Shadow Lord of Bumei, who reserves a private tea room for just the two of you and gently takes off his outer robes to get to work. His chosen method? For you to return the favor by helping him practice his calligraphy to make more talismans. In truth, he doesn't need to practice his skill with the ink and brush; he is just curious to see how long he can push his luck before he scares the idea out of your head.

Alkaid gently places himself on the seat beside the table he asked you to sit on. He picks up the brush after carefully grinding the premium quality ink. Raising his clear green eyes to yours—at that moment, they seem very similar to the same green tea he offers weary souls and have the same calming effect on you—and yet the moment he raises your left leg onto his thigh on the chair, you feel a sudden energy disturb your calm, like the ripples on the surface of a shaken, filled teacup. You aren't going to spill; his warm grip at your ankle assures you of that, and yet the more he raises your clothes up to your thighs, the more those ripples grow bigger.

He starts small, at your ankle.

The brush feels cold and wet, almost ticklish as it draws simple lines over your skin. A cold drop of black ink runs past your ankle, making you chuckle a little bit.

Alkaid takes his eyes up to your face, his gaze soft and reassuring as he poses the question.

“Please inform me if it's uncomfortable in any way.”

You gently shake your head at him, your smile still on your face as you reassure him.

“It's not uncomfortable, just a little bit ticklish.”

He smiles back at you. The familiar sight of that specific warm smile of his sends a light flutter through your chest as his calming voice fills the space of the near-empty tea room.

“In that case, I'll continue.”

It is interesting to watch him work. Even in this new world, he still has that quiet intensity he pours into whatever activities he does, deeply focused and determined to bring the best out of what he is making, whether he is charting stars or developing the film of a photograph.

It is also rare to see him be the one holding the brush, but rather than using the brush and ink on a sheet of paper, you are the canvas, and the characters he is writing on your skin are the art.

Admittedly, you are almost too busy watching the confident way in which his hands move with his brush—like an artist watching another artist work. The characters are unfamiliar, and you wonder what they mean, but those wondering thoughts are kicked out of your head the moment you feel the warm softness of his palm slide past the side of your knee onto your thigh.

The Shadow Lord purposely slows down his movements now, taking his time to retouch the brush on the ink plate beside you on the table, leaving his other hand still on your thigh. His ears try to pick up the sound of your breathing or heartbeat, but it is hard to catch. You've gone completely quiet and have almost masked your presence, so quickly too, like it is a survival skill you've mastered. And yet, he can pick up the slight tension that slips into your thighs as well as vividly feel your gaze as he works. There is something about that gaze that is hard to put into words.

It feels familiar, heavy, and foreign at the same time, and yet it bears a tenderness within it. Was that tenderness the reason why you hadn't told him to stop? A part of him wishes you would—the part of him that knows how to be greedy and crafty with his greed when he wants to be, the part that can manipulate his way into getting a mile from an inch given. And yet the other part of him, so strongly drawn to you, wants you to tell him to continue, to guide his wrist and his strokes onto the parts of your body you want them the most. The parts only he is allowed to see, touch, kiss, and mark with his brush.

A light gasp leaves your lips as his brush draws further up your thigh, the connected stroke sliding into your inner thigh. Your hands grip the edge of the table as each inch carved under the cold, wet brush sends the realization that he is getting dangerously closer. But worse than that realization is the gradually increasing beating of your heart.

“It's a protection spell,” his voice suddenly breaks through the silence while he traces a vertical stroke up and repeats the same path down. “Usually written specifically on a white paper talisman with black or gold ink. Personally ground. While writing the spell, you should hold the name of the one it's intended for on your tongue, and their face in your heart.”

There was something about his voice. Usually so calm and comforting, now it feels light and seductive. Paired with the contrast of the cold ink on your inner thigh and the warmth rapidly building at the core of your stomach, it is hard to really listen to what he is saying or to even stare at his hands either. Your eyes are now fixed on his face.

“It's usually done between family members for those embarking on a long-distance journey, or…” His eyes leave your skin and gently rise to meet yours while his thumb smears the last curve of a small character. “…between separated lovers.”

He holds your gaze for a few more seconds before his eyes fall back down to your thigh, lingering on the ruined character with a small smile on his face.

“Hmm… just like I thought. I still need to work hard on my curved strokes.”

You press your lips together in silence, knowing very well that that wasn't an accident. You felt the pressure of his thumb knowingly brushing over your skin, smearing that curve while he distracted you with his voice.

A shaky breath leaves your lips as you watch his green eyes slide up to the untouched parts of your upper thigh. That heat in your stomach is slowly traveling down to the path in-between your legs. Silently, you take up the hem of your dress, raising it further up to fully expose your leg as well as the outline of your underwear.

A dangerous thrill runs down the Shadow Lord's spine. He briefly wonders if that thrill is similar to what the Taoists felt when they made their first dark spell and were successful.

He isn't a dark Taoist, and yet here he is, falling deeply for temptation all the same. Is he breaking a moral code as the Shadow Lord by doing this with you? Probably. But the secret heat traveling down his length underneath his robes is beginning to worsen and override any sense of an ideal image to keep. The desire to replace the brush and ink with his bare hands and tongue—tracing those patterns and strokes on your perfect flesh until he meets the clothed part of your yin gate and continues over it before slipping under that fabric—is getting harder to ignore, just like he is getting harder underneath those robes.

He hopes you won't notice and at the same time wishes you would.

Although from the look in your eyes staring down into his at the moment, you aren't really thinking about pure things either. The tea he took before he began is useless now.

“Pardon me.”

His hand gently slips under your thigh, suddenly lifting your leg up to place it over his shoulder.

“Alkaid.”

His name easily slips out of your mouth like a confessed yearning for more of his touch, his voice, his words—anything to soothe the hungry need to physically remind yourself that he is still yours. In the normal world and this one as well.

The Shadow Lord of Bumei, who silently takes his eyes up to yours, holding your gaze while he patiently returns the brush to its ink plate. He brings his right hand up to his face, parting his lips to grab onto his black glove with his teeth and pull it off entirely.

The Shadow Lord of Bumei, who perfectly lies without blinking an eye to the familiar lover he just drew a protection spell on.

“I forgot to mention previously that a devotion ritual goes two ways. Now that you've done yours, please allow me to do mine as well.”

The Shadow Lord of Bumei, who watches you nod your head silently, giving him permission to bring his head closer, parts of his long blond hair brushing against your inner thigh while his hand slips under your other leg and makes its way up your thighs as well.

The Shadow Lord of Bumei, who is silently glad he cast a privacy talisman over this room in advance and that you are generously offering him more than an inch. Hopefully, you'll generously offer him a mile as well while he kindly shows you how to return the devotion of a beloved.

Miya Osamu, the kind of boyfriend who…

Miya Osamu, who always carries heavy things the moment he sees them in your hands—bags, books, boxes, or files on the way to the teacher's lounge. He genuinely believes that helping out with heavy lifting makes him seem more manly in your eyes, hence winning him more affection points, but he's done it enough times now that it has eventually become a natural habit for him.

Miya Osamu, who picked up another natural habit: helping you out with your shoelaces on the days you wear sneakers. He's actually really good at tying his laces thanks to the repeated nagging he got from his captain, techniques which he now uses on you. It never occurs to him that you might actually be getting more careless on purpose because you know you have him there, or that you might even tie them messily just to see him kneel down to fix them.

Miya Osamu, who, on the day he automatically gets down to fix your laces while already prepared to reprimand you, stops when he realizes that you actually tied them perfectly that day. Unfortunately, though, he has already untied them. Sensing your knowing gaze on him, he won't let you point it out first. He simply mutters that he's just helping you out because he ties them better anyway, adding something about how, although it looks like you finally have the brains to tie them well today, he can't trust the quality due to your past record. For him to actually trust you, you'd have to keep up a new streak. Although he says all of that, a silent part of him wants you to stick to the old record—that way, he can continue the cozy, domestic routine he's gotten so used to.

Miya Osamu, who eventually stops grunting in disapproval whenever you pat his head to thank him for retying your laces. In fact, he's now the one who stares up at you expectantly on the bench, refusing to get up until you pat his head.

Miya Osamu, the kind of boyfriend who’s always outside your classroom even before the bell rings for lunch, confidently dragging you off to the cafeteria or begrudgingly waiting for you to finish up whatever you are doing. He could easily go alone and start without you, but he knows very well that his appetite wouldn't be the same without you there.

Miya Osamu, whose appetite seems to have gotten linked to yours at some point. Seeing you happily eat the things he makes spurs him to enjoy them as well, and on the days you have a low appetite, strangely, despite his deep love for food, he doesn't seem motivated to eat much either.

Miya Osamu, who doesn't realize how comfortable he's gotten with holding your hand—never failing to interlock his fingers with yours while walking to school, heading down the hallways, or even just sitting together—until you verbally point it out with a warm smile during lunch. This triggers a sudden blush on his face, and he turns away, muttering something under his breath. You chuckle in fond delight, expecting it to take him a while to regain his composure. But unexpectedly, you feel his large, warm, blushing hand cover yours on the bench and just stay there while he continues averting his face without a word. It’s a little funny, but for some reason, his obvious embarrassment makes you go silent, too, a slow heat creeping up the back of your neck while you keep your hand still under his.

Miya Osamu, who sometimes feeds you his favorite foods and fully expects you to feed him your favorite foods in return. He will also pout for the rest of lunch if you refuse his trade or don't return the favor. Before the end of the day, though, he completely forgets he was even annoyed—that is, until he sets his eyes on food again and is suddenly reminded.

Miya Osamu, who still overthinks every single emoji you send over text. Sometimes he takes them to 'Sumu—who got completely exhausted by it a long time ago—or he just straight-up Googles it. He gets highly annoyed with the conflicting answers he finds online, but he still reads through half of them anyway.

Miya Osamu, who thoroughly enjoys seeing his jacket on you, whether it's just hanging off your shoulders or fully zipped up. Not only do you look cute in the oversized clothing, but it also makes him feel like he's hanging out with you even when he isn't by your side. The icing on the cake is the fact that the fabric always catches some of your scent by the time you return it to him.

Miya Osamu, who never fails to show off more on the court whenever you are watching, be it an ordinary practice match between just Inarizaki team members, a scrimmage against another school, or an official tournament match. The more points he scores, the more praise he'll get from you later, and his team wins and is happy as well. It's a win-win-win situation.

Miya Osamu, who despite being an athlete used to injuries himself, gets overly worried whenever you get the slightest scratch. A paper cut, a minor scrape, or even biting your tongue or inner cheek while eating will have him endlessly scolding you like it was somehow your fault, before fussing over treating it properly and demanding to know how much it hurts. If you ever tell him it doesn't, he only gets more annoyed that you're lying to him. To him, even a tiny bit of discomfort still counts as pain.

Miya Osamu, who despite his secure status as your boyfriend, still finds his chest swelling with discomfort whenever the guys surround you—alone or in pairs—monopolizing your time when you come over to the gym. It's nice that you're there to watch him, but if you're there to watch him, shouldn't you focus on him instead of laughing at whatever joke Ginjima is sharing with you?

Miya Osamu, who vehemently denies it whenever his brother teases him about his blatant jealousy, especially when 'Sumu reminds him that if he ever lets you find out about how possessive he gets over minor things, you'd find him pathetic and possibly dump him.

Miya Osamu, who regularly switches between thinking he's the catch and that you're lucky to be dating him, to thinking you're the catch and he's incredibly lucky that you like him.

Miya Osamu, whose unique way of reassuring himself of your feelings was what he convinced you to save his name as on your phone:

Samu—The cutest.