Mai's Bookstore

“she’s not a middle schooler, iwa-chan! she’s an angel who happens to have impeccable taste in gel pens!” oikawa huffed, crossing his arms and waiting. he waited for the questions. he waited for the “eh? oikawa, do you have a girlfriend?” so he could smugly deny it, then drop another hint, spinning a web of mystery so complex it would rival a psychological thriller.

he wanted them to suffer through the agonizing riddle of who had managed to tame aoba johsai’s grand king. he wanted to breadcrumb them until they practically begged for her identity.

except, oikawa underestimated two things: his own complete inability to be subtle, and how aggressively observant matsukawa and hanamaki actually were when they wanted to cause problems.

two days later, oikawa was aggressively hydrating during a water break, eyes darting around the gym floor like a hawk. he cleared his throat, loud and completely unprompted. “my shoulders are so tight today. someone spent three hours braiding my hair last night while we watched retro horror movies, and i had to sit perfectly still on the floor so i wouldn’t mess up her sectioning. the things i do for love. truly, i’m a martyr.”

hanamaki paused, mid-stretch. he exchanged a slow, lethal look with mattsun.

“retro horror?” mattsun asked, tapping his chin. “like that vintage 80s slasher flick that only the indie theater downtown is showing this week?”

oikawa’s eyes lit up. the trap was set. “why, yes, mattsun! how did you guess? she’s quite the cinephile.”

“right,” hanamaki chimed in, a slow, terrifying smirk spreading across his face. “and the pink cat pen from tuesday. and the fact that you’ve suddenly stopped eating those terrible convenience store melon pans because someone’s baking you fresh strawberry tarts every thursday morning.”

“and,” mattsun added, leaning forward, “the fact that the girl from class 5 has been wearing an oversized aoba johsai volleyball hoodie all week—the one with the tiny snag on the left elbow. the exact snag you cried about three weeks ago.”

oikawa’s water bottle slipped from his hands, clattering against the polished gym floor. a puddle formed around his sneakers. his entire world view tilted on its axis.

“you…” oikawa choked out, clutching his chest as if he’d been struck by a physical arrow. “you know?”

“oikawa, a blind man could have connected those dots,” iwaizumi yelled from across the net. “you literally called her ‘my sweet little raspberry’ into your phone yesterday while the microphone was still connected to the gym’s bluetooth speaker!”

“i did not—that was an affectionate pet name spoken in confidence!” oikawa’s face turned a violent, sunburned shade of crimson. his master plan of psychological warfare was ruined. they weren’t mystified. they weren’t begging for answers. they had already solved the puzzle, framed it, and hung it on the wall.

but it got worse. infinitely worse.

because oikawa was not just a little bit in love. he was a puddle of melted ice cream on a hot sidewalk whenever you so much as breathed in his direction. his love for you was a physical weight, something he carried around like a golden trophy he wanted to shove into everyone’s faces, yet simultaneously lock away in a vault where no one else could even look at it. he wanted the world to know he was yours, but he hadn’t prepared for the world to actually like you back.

the following friday, you finally showed up to practice to drop off his forgotten knee pads.

oikawa had prepared himself to swoop in, catch you in his arms, and put on a display of boyfriend superiority that would strike fear into the hearts of his teammates. he wanted them to see how utterly whipped he was, but in a way that made him look like a benevolent ruler showing off his queen.

instead, the moment you stepped through the heavy metal gym doors, clutching the plastic grocery bag, you didn’t even make it three steps before hanamaki intercepted you.

“ah! the legendary tart baker!” hanamaki beamed, bowing with a level of respect he had never once shown his captain. “please tell me those are strawberry in the bag. if you ever need a replacement boyfriend who actually understands boundaries and doesn’t complain about hair braiding, my schedule is completely open.”

“makki!” oikawa shrieked, sprinting across the court so fast his sneakers shrieked against the floor. “get away from her! don’t look at her! your aura is too negative for her pure soul!”

you laughed, a bright, melodic sound that instantly turned oikawa’s knees to jelly. you handed the bag to hanamaki with a warm smile. “there’s actually a few lemon bars in there too. tōru mentioned you guys were working hard this week.”

mattsun materialized from the shadows like a tall, lanky demon, snatching a lemon bar with lightning speed. “you’re a saint. an absolute deity. how do you survive living in the same radius as his ego? if you ever need someone to walk you home who won’t spend forty minutes checking his reflection in shop windows, i’m your guy.”

“mattsun! i’ll bench you! i’ll destroy your lineage!” oikawa scrambled to put himself between you and his teammates, his long arms flailing as he tried to shield you from their sudden, aggressive adoration. he grabbed your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, burying his face into the crook of your neck with a desperate, whining whimper. “don’t listen to them, sweet girl. they’re vultures. they’re trying to steal my joy.”

you reached up, your fingers sliding naturally into the soft, brown curls at the back of his neck, gently scratching his scalp. the contrast between your small, gentle hands and his massive, athletic frame was enough to make a bystander faint from the romance of it. “they’re just being nice, tōru. you have lovely friends.”

“they aren’t being nice, they’re flirting! they’re actively courting my woman right in front of my face!” he wailed, tightening his grip around your waist until he was practically lifting you off your feet. he was inhaling the scent of your shampoo like a man dying of thirst in a desert. he was so desperately, absurdly consumed by you that even a friendly joke from his friends felt like an international crisis.

iwaizumi walked over, casually kicking oikawa’s shin. “let her breathe, you idiot. you’re suffocating her.”

“i’m holding her close because she’s my gravity, iwa-chan! if i let go, she might float away to a better school with a better volleyball captain!”

“honestly, shiratorizawa has a much nicer campus,” mattsun muttered around a mouthful of lemon bar.

oikawa’s eyes went wide with genuine horror. he looked down at you, his lower lip trembling with a level of dramatic flair that belonged in an opera house, yet his eyes were so intensely, deeply sincere it made your heart skip a beat. he looked like a giant, pathetic puppy who had just been told the park was closed forever.

“you wouldn’t leave me for ushijima, right?” he whispered, his voice cracking with a terrifyingly real vulnerability. “he doesn’t even know how to braid hair. his hands are like bricks. he’d ruin your sections. i’m the only one who can do it perfectly for you.”

you leaned up on your tiptoes, pressing a soft, lingering kiss right against his pouty lips. the entire gym went dead silent. hanamaki choked on his pastry. iwaizumi actually looked away out of secondhand embarrassment from how quickly oikawa completely dissolved under your touch.

oikawa’s eyes fluttered shut, his entire body going limp against you as he melted into the kiss, his hands trembling slightly where they rested on your hips. when you pulled back, he looked utterly dizzy, drunk on the simple reality that you chose him, every single day, despite how incredibly high-maintenance he was.

“i like my hair exactly how you do it,” you said softly, your voice a soothing balm to his frayed, possessive nerves. “and no one else gets the strawberry tarts.”

oikawa let out a sound that was half-sob, half-triumphant cheer. he threw his head back, glaring at his team with a smug, teary-eyed gring that practically screamed victory. “hear that? she loves me! she thinks you all are garbage! get your own bakers, you pathetic singletons!”

“she didn’t say any of that, shittykawa.” iwaizumi groaned, rubbing his temples. “alright, practice is over. get this lovesick dumbass out of my sight before i throw a volleyball at his annoyingly stupid face.”

as oikawa happily escorted you out of the gym, his arm glued securely around your shoulders, he kept glancing down at you every three seconds just to ensure you hadn’t magically vanished. he was unapologetically ruined by you, and as he tightly held your hand in the cool evening air, he made a mental note to never, ever drop hints again.

from now on, he was keeping you entirely to himself—even if he had to fight his entire team to do it. dear god, he was so in love with you.

n: i’m eternally grateful to each and everyone of you. thank you so much, everyone !! this is one of the best birthdays i’ve ever had :3

© showhay — don’t copy, repost, or translate without my permission. do not use/feed my works to AI.

"Never."

"I'm not."

Atsumu’s eyes drift past his brother and straight to you, taking in the simultaneous responses with a slight raise of his eyebrow.

You feel both of their eyes on you—one just staring, the other inquiring.

"I mean, I'm not his girlfriend. We're just friends," you explain to Atsumu, your body fully turning to the side to face him. It is partly to make your point clear, and partly in a desperate attempt to avoid seeing whatever expression Osamu has on his face. Boredom? Disgust? Insulted? You really don't want to know what he thinks of his twin’s outrageous assumption.

Atsumu's eyes leave your lowered head and flicker over to his brother, whose head is lowered as well, though his jaw is visibly more clenched than before.

The smirk that had briefly left Atsumu's face from your response immediately returns, accompanied by a mischievous glint in his eyes.

'Ohhh… So it's like that, huh?'

Osamu lifts his head, finally releasing the tension in his jaw to break the awkward silence that fills the space.

"Yeah… we're just friends. Got a problem, Sumu?" he deflects to his twin, practically daring him to say something stupid.

"Not at all. In fact…" Atsumu grins, raising his arm as he crosses the distance between the two of you. He stops right by your side, casually dropping his heavy hand across your shoulder. "Any friend of my dear brother is a friend of mine, as well."

You look up at the grinning setter, who is staring down at you with a sharp spark in his eyes. You don't need a fortune teller to put the pieces together.

'Ah… so this is what people mean when they say being caught in between the Miya twins is like throwing yourself into a storm. A chaotic one. Right now… this guy is just using me to mess with his brother.'

Your jaw sets and your eyebrows narrow, but before you can let the words to tell him off leave your mouth, a hand suddenly cuts between you two, roughly smacking the setter's arm off your shoulder.

"No decency as usual, Sumu. Going around touching strangers is rude."

You raise your head to stare at the familiar face in front of you. Osamu's face wears an expression you have only ever seen him wear on the volleyball court—an annoyed, intense focus when things aren't going his way. It feels strange, although this focus obviously isn't directed at you, seeing as his gaze is level with the person still standing right beside you.

"Oh? Strangers? I don't think so. We're friends, aren't we, y/n?"

The sound of your name draws your full attention. You had never given it to him while you were waiting. No… in the first place, he probably already knew exactly who you were before you even met.

'What exactly is his deal?'

Atsumu looks down at the girl beside him, noting the obvious glare on her face.

'Hmm… Is she triggered? I didn't say anything wrong, though.'

"We're not friends," you counter firmly. "And I don't like being touched like that."

"You heard her, Sumu," Osamu remarks to his twin, who instantly feigns a deeply hurt expression.

"Yeah, I heard her, and it breaks my heart. You're friends with my brother but you're not friends with me? Ouch. We're twins. You know we're practically the same person, right?" he croons, stubbornly refusing to step out of your personal space.

You respond by turning your head up to face him.

"Then, can you cook?"

"Huh?" Atsumu blinks at you.

'What is she talking about?'

"Can you cook? Half as well as he does?"

"Cooking? That's boring and stupid. Volleyball is much more interesting than cooking, don't you think?"

You feel a slight twitch at your temple but force your expression into a polite, sweet smile as you raise your head to look at him.

"Then you're not the same person. Even if you're twins. Volleyball is interesting and it's cool, but Osamu is good at both. It sounds like he already has a pretty big advantage over you."

A visible twitch appears at Atsumu's left temple.

'What the—? Is she… rage-baiting me right now?'

He returns your smile, though his is a little forced. "An advantage? I'm better at volleyball, though. Besides, I'm a setter. Do you know how cool setters are? And I'm much more fun than he is."

"Really? Good for you, but..."

Both guys watch as you suddenly raise your right hand, placing it flat against your chest to proudly declare: "As Samu’s designated food lab rat, my loyalty has already been thoroughly bought by him. Volleyball isn't going to feed my stomach, is it?!"

A long, grueling moment of silence passes. You can practically hear crickets chirping in the background. Shame suddenly floods your body in an uncomfortable wave of heat that creeps all the way up to your face as you realize the utter bullshit that you just proudly announced out loud.

Atsumu stares at you, perplexed, looking at you like you were an opposing team's setter he can't seem to figure out.

'What? Did she… just call herself a food lab rat???'

His bewildered thoughts are cut short by the sudden sound of laughter breaking the silence.

Osamu just can't contain it anymore. The sound of his hearty laughter breaks through the awkward atmosphere. His closed fist rises up to his mouth in a failed attempt to stifle it.

'Laughing… He's actually laughing right now. His laughter sounds so warm, like a heated blanket on a cold weekend… No, wait, that's not the important thing here! He's literally laughing at me right now, isn't he? This is so embarrassing!!! I have to fix this.'

"I mean… what I was trying to say is that… the onigiri… I just… we..." You try and utterly fail to offer a solid defense.

"That’s true, Sumu. I already bought her loyalty. I think you'll have to find someone else to fawn over you," Osamu intercepts, his gray eyes still sparkling with lingering amusement.

'Seriously though, "food lab rat?" Where did she even get that idea? Is she an idiot? Well… an adorable idiot, probably.'

Atsumu stares down at the two people in front of him. One is hiding her embarrassment by lowering her head, obviously wishing the ground would open up and swallow her whole, while the other is smugly flaunting his amusement with an annoying, goofy smile. A slow realization visibly creeps onto Atsumu's face.

'These two… are a pair of idiots, aren't they?'

However, before anyone else can add anything, a new voice interrupts the group.

"What are you two idiots doing here? Kita-San’s going to bury you alive."

His catlike green eyes drift toward the blond twin first. "Atsumu, weren't you supposed to find Osamu for the meeting with Coach Kurosu?"

Your eyes fall upon the new interruption, who stands with his arms crossed over his chest, visibly displeased. You recognize him immediately. One of the top scorers of the team, the number 10 middle blocker: Rintarō Suna.

"Kosaku-san and Ginjima-san are already at the gym. Not sure where Riseki-San went, though. Aran, too," Suna states, stopping in front of the three of you. He takes in the scene before him, giving a barely imperceptible tilt of his head as he regards you with slightly narrowed eyes.

'Who’s this? Don't think I've seen her around before. Well… even if I have, I probably forgot about it. She's hanging out with the Miya twins, though, which means she's either stupid enough to get herself involved in their antics—the unfortunate soul—or she's just another fangirl. Either way, I couldn't care less.'

His eyes leave you to fall on Osamu, who, for some reason, seems to be in a spectacularly good mood. That raises a subtle spark of interest in Suna's mind.

'Why is Idiot #1 smiling so much?'

"Ahhh. Right, Kita-san and the meeting. I totally forgot. My bad. Haha." Atsumu chuckles, scratching the back of his head with a thoroughly shallow display of guilt.

"Tsk. Let's go already. I don't want to spend the rest of the afternoon running penalty drills set by the captain," Suna snaps at him. He doesn't immediately turn around to leave, though; he has to make sure they actually follow him this time.

Osamu on the other hand, brings his attention back to the situation.

'Coach Kurosu called a meeting? Do we have a new practice match set up or something that he wants to announce? But this means I won't be able to have lunch with Y/N.'

He immediately turns back to you, the lingering smile on his face completely replaced by a small frown. "Sorry. We can't have lunch together today."

"Ah, no, no! Don't worry about it," you reassure him quickly. "Your coach called, that's way more important. I'll be totally fine!"

He nods at your response before lifting the bag that contained the bento box he has packed, waiting for you to take it.

"Then you'll have to eat this by yourself. I tried something new, so…" He subtly turns his head to the side, suddenly unable to meet your gaze directly as he mumbles out the rest of his message. "It was made carefully, so take your time to eat it. Don't rush and choke or something. I mean, I can't just go find a new food lab rat because I'm busy. And… you have to tell me what you think later."

Suna narrows his eyes, tracking the event displaying before him in real-time.

'Food lab rat? What the hell is that? Also, did he actually make a whole meal for her? Since when? Since when does Osamu ever share his food with other people?!! Is she his girlfriend? No, there's no way either of these idiots would be able to get a girlfriend this pretty to take them seriously.'

You eagerly take the package from his hands, your fingers briefly brushing past his as you do.

"Should I leave some for you?" you ask hopefully.

Osamu shakes his head. "You don't have to. I'm not hungry."

'Liar'

Suna and Atsumu think to themselves in perfect, synchronized unison.

'When are you ever not hungry? You're literally always thinking about food,' Atsumu ponders, watching his twin act like a total stranger.

"Okay, then… Thank you for the meal, and good luck with the volleyball club!"

"Yeah, sure," Osamu answers with as much of an air of nonchalance as he can possibly summon. He takes a step to leave, but then turns back around to add, "See you later."

He doesn't wait for a reply before he continues his exit, quickly walking down the hallway. Eager to leave the sight of the gathering before anyone notices the bright blush rapidly spreading across the back of his neck.

Atsumu quickly follows after him. "Bye-bye, Y/N-chan! I'll see you later!" he waves cheerfully before jogging off to meet up with his brother, immediately bumping into Osamu's shoulder. Osamu aggressively bumps him back, and Atsumu shoves him in return, instantly turning their walk into a petty shoulder-bumping contest.

"Those idiots," Suna mutters to himself, watching them display their typical brain-cell-sharing behavior. Realizing he is still standing there, he turns his head back to you, blankly scanning you from head to toe.

'Why is he staring like that? Does he have something to say to me?'

You question silently, waiting for a statement or a question that never comes.

Suna nods at you briefly—a minor, silent acknowledgment—before he turns around and walks away to follow after the twins.

'There’s no way, right...? There's no way they're actually dating.'

Meanwhile, Osamu strictly refrains from glancing back to look at you again, only relaxing once they finally turn the corner and leave your hallway behind.

'y/n… she's kinda cute… Maybe… I don't know… Who cares.'

...

…

...

'Would she like the bento box I made?... She better! After all… she's the one who told me that everything I make is really good.'

the one where akaashi keiji is your biggest fan, literally.

you know how they say ignorance is bliss?

yeah. well. they were right.

because today, out of all the possible things the universe could have cursed you with, you woke up with the ability to read minds. no instructions. no warning. no off-switch. just… one minute you’re brushing your teeth, and the next you’re hearing your neighbor’s internal panic about whether or not almond milk counts as dairy.

and you were fine. you were okay. it was manageable. you could ignore it.

until you saw akaashi keiji.

akaashi keiji, who—you were sure—hated your guts. akaashi keiji, setter of fukurodani, king of the resting bitch face, mr. "i am only polite to you because bokuto would kill me otherwise." akaashi keiji, whose brain you really didn’t want to wander into—

except, of course, you did. and that’s when your entire worldview shattered.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

you’re standing outside the gym, waiting for bokuto to finish his fifth water break, when you accidentally brush against akaashi. his arm. just for a second. and then—

‘oh my god. oh my god she touched me. i’m never washing this arm again. i’ll cut the sleeve off and frame it. i could cry. no. stay cool. don’t look at her. she’ll know. she always smells so good, what is that, vanilla? cinnamon? holy hell, marry me already.’

you freeze.

akaashi doesn’t. he just stands there, calm, cool, collected, expression neutral as ever.

except in his head, he’s a screaming, crying, shaking mess.

you blink. surely you misheard. maybe your brain powers are glitching. maybe—

‘look at her hair today. it’s so shiny. i want to run my hands through it. i want to braid it. i’d do it better than she could. she’d look so cute with little ribbons. oh god, imagine if she called me keiji while i braided her hair. i’d pass out. stop. stop thinking about it. don’t get a nosebleed. you’re a man, akaashi, have some dignity.’

you blink harder.

akaashi, still, does not blink at all.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

“you good?” bokuto asks, appearing at your side with two bottles of water balanced on his head.

“yep,” you squeak, voice about three octaves higher than normal. “totally fine. never been better.”

akaashi glances at you then, just once, with that infuriatingly unreadable face. except now you can read it. or, more specifically, you can read the psychotic mess behind it.

‘say something to her. no. don’t. she’ll know. she already hates you. wait—does she hate you? she must. she never talks to you unless bokuto’s there. god, i’m so pathetic. i wrote three thousand words of her comforting me after practice yesterday. i even added the author’s note that said "just a self-indulgent drabble lol." kill me. no, don’t. then i’d never see her smile again.’

you choke on air.

akaashi side-eyes you. “you okay?”

you nod violently. “fine! so fine!”

inside, you are anything but fine. the only thing fine here is akaashi.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the problem is, you’ve had a crush on akaashi since day one. because he’s pretty. disgustingly pretty. like, unfairly pretty. and also because he’s nice. not to you, of course—he’s always a little short with you, a little dismissive, a little too quiet—but to bokuto.

and you love bokuto, your best friend in the whole wide world, so you love anyone who treats him right. and akaashi treats him like he hung the moon.

so you spent months convincing yourself akaashi just didn’t like you, and that was okay, and you’d get over it.

except now you know he’s apparently been mentally writing fanfiction about you. and braiding your hair. and proposing marriage.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the next day, you test it again. you sit at the back of the classroom, and akaashi’s two rows ahead. you focus, just a little, and—

‘don’t turn around. she’s back there. i can feel it. she probably looks so cute, tapping her pencil like that. oh, she dropped it. should i pick it up? no, she’ll think i’m weird. god, her handwriting’s adorable. i could look at her notes all day. i’d laminate them. i’d put them in a scrapbook. wait, normal people don’t do that. stop. stop stop stop.’

your pencil rolls off your desk. akaashi catches it mid-air without looking, turns, hands it back to you with a polite nod.

“thanks,” you say.

“mo problem,” he says.

‘she spoke to me. she actually spoke to me. do i look sweaty? i’m sweaty. oh my god, her voice. play it at my funeral. engrave it on my tombstone. thanks. no problem. pathetic. you’re pathetic, keiji.’

you almost burst out laughing in the middle of math.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

it only gets worse from there.

because every time you’re near him, you hear it. the mental rambling. the unhinged devotion. the diary entries happening live in his head.

‘look at her tying her shoe. that’s the cutest knot i’ve ever seen.’

‘she said hi to me. that’s basically a marriage proposal.’

‘i memorized her schedule. not in a creepy way. okay, maybe a creepy way.’

‘bokuto, if you don’t move so i can see her, i swear to god—’

it’s insane. it’s overwhelming. it’s also… kind of flattering.

because, well. you like him. a lot. and knowing that the stoic, unbothered akaashi keiji is actually your number-one fan? yeah. it’s doing things to your heart.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the kicker, though—the absolute kicker—is the day you find out about the fanfics.

you’re at bokuto’s house, scrolling on his laptop while he showers, when you accidentally stumble onto a file labeled “akaashi’s stuff.”

and inside?

well.

it’s hundreds. literally hundreds. of word documents. all named things like “comfort fluff ver.7” and “domestic au FINAL FINAL edit.”

you open one. and immediately want to scream.

because it’s you. and akaashi. holding hands after practice. you patching him up. him kissing your forehead.

you slam the laptop shut so hard you almost break it. bokuto runs out of the shower in a towel, panicked.

“what happened? earthquake?”

“nope!” you squeak. “everything’s fine!”

except nothing is fine. because akaashi keiji writes fanfiction about you.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the next day, you corner him after practice.

“hey, akaashi,” you say, trying to act normal.

“hey,” he replies, normal as ever.

‘she’s talking to me. she cornered me. this is it. this is how i die. god, she’s so pretty when she’s sweaty. did i put deodorant on today? i did. okay. don’t panic. do i look weird? i look weird. i always look weird. marry me.’

you take a deep breath. “so. uh. i read something yesterday.”

he blinks. “okay?”

‘oh god. oh god. she found it. she found my fics. she hates me. she’ll never speak to me again. run. fake your death. move to canada. change your name. keiji who? never heard of him.’

“and i just wanted to say…” you pause, grin, lean in close— “…you’re a really good writer.”

akaashi keiji, the picture of composure, the king of neutrality, turns bright red.

‘what. what. WHAT. she LIKES them? she knows? she knows. i’m going to implode. this is the best and worst day of my life. holy shit.’

you laugh. you can’t help it. he looks so lost, so mortified, so utterly whipped. and maybe you’re just as whipped, because all you want to do is grab his stupid pretty face and kiss him.

so you do.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

akaashi’s brain short-circuits.

‘she kissed me. she kissed me. she kissed me. i’m in heaven. i’m dead. bury me in her handwriting. wait no, i want to live. i want to marry her. i want to buy her three cats and a house by the sea. i want to—’

you pull back, grinning. “you think i hate you, don’t you?”

he swallows. “…yes?”

“idiot,” you say fondly. “i’ve liked you since forever.”

he stares. then, very quietly, “oh.”

‘oh? that’s all you can say? she likes you. she LIKES you. do a backflip. no, don’t. you’ll die. smile. no, not like that, you’ll look creepy. stop staring. oh my god. she LIKES you.’

you laugh again, because he’s so painfully, stupidly gone for you. and maybe you’re just as gone for him. no, sweetie, he’s much worse than you think.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

and that’s how your mind reading curse turns into a blessing.

because you never stop hearing it. the devotion. the obsession. the constant stream of thoughts that range from “her handwriting could cure diseases” to “i’d kill for her, no hesitation.”

it should be concerning. honestly, it is concerning.

but it’s also the sweetest, most ridiculous thing in the world.

akaashi keiji, your boyfriend now, still looks perfectly calm on the outside.

but in his head?

‘she called me her boyfriend. holy shit. i’m framing this moment. i’m never letting her go. she’s mine. mine mine mine. forever. till death do us part. and even then i’ll haunt her.’

and you can’t stop smiling. because yeah, ignorance might be bliss—

but knowing akaashi keiji is hopelessly, terrifyingly, obsessively in love with you?

that’s even better.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

timeskip.

life with akaashi keiji as adults is almost offensively domestic.

you wake up, and there’s coffee already made. you get home late from work, and dinner’s waiting. you curl up on the couch, and he wordlessly drapes a blanket over you before sitting down to read.

and the whole time, he looks perfectly calm. perfectly collected.

except in his head.

‘she looks so cute in my hoodie. i’d let her ruin every single piece of clothing i own if it meant she’d wear it around the house.’

‘she left her mug on the table. don’t touch it. i’ll clean it. she deserves to rest.’

‘god, i want to kiss her until she forgets her own name. why is she looking at me like that? oh, right, because i’m staring. stop staring. no, don’t. she’s beautiful.’

same old akaashi. never outwardly showing it. inwardly? a walking, talking shrine to you.

and you… you’ve gotten used to it.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

sometimes you tease him.

like when he’s chopping vegetables: “i would look good with a knife, thanks for noticing.”

he pauses just a beat too long before replying, “…that’s not what i said.”

but you heard it. loud and clear.

‘look at her leaning against the counter like that. she could stab me with this knife and i’d thank her. why am i chopping onions, oh right, she should never have to cry, so i’ll do it for her.’

you giggle and steal a piece of carrot from the cutting board. he sighs, fond but exasperated.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

another day, you’re curled up on the couch with a book while he edits something on his laptop.

“stop overthinking,” you tell him casually.

he doesn’t look up. “i’m not.”

you grin. “you’re literally wondering if i’d prefer cats or dogs first when we move somewhere bigger.”

akaashi’s typing pauses. then resumes. “that’s a normal thought.”

‘she caught that? i should’ve thought quieter. no—she probably guessed. right? doesn’t matter. i’ll get her both. she deserves both. and a yard. and a garden. i’ll build her the garden myself if i have to.’

you shake your head. he has no idea.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡ goodluck.

it’s comforting, really.

the fact that after all these years, his thoughts haven’t changed. still simpy. still desperate. still so hopelessly wrapped up in you it’s almost ridiculous.

sometimes you wonder how he hides it so well. how he manages to keep that serene face when his brain is basically liveblogging his obsession 24/7.

but that’s just akaashi. unreadable outside, catastrophic inside.

and you love him for it.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

one night, you’re lying in bed together. the apartment is quiet, the city outside humming low through the windows. his arm is draped over you, steady, warm, grounding.

you’re drifting toward sleep, lulled by the rhythm of his breathing, when his voice threads into your mind.

‘oh i would kill for you. i would never ever let you go.’ you hum at his thought, not really minding that he referred to you as ‘you’ and not ‘her’.

‘you can hear me, right, my y/n?’

your eyes snap open.

slowly, you turn your head to look at him.

akaashi keiji is watching you. his face calm, unreadable as ever.

and then—deliberately, slowly—he smirks.

‘now, you’re never getting away from me.’

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a/n: GAWD I LOVE MYSELF, HOW DID I COME UP WITH THIS, I NEED TO GIVE MYSELF A SMOOCH

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

​“kenji,” you said, your voice flat but carrying that distinct, tired authority that only student council presidents possessed. “i did not say that. in fact, i haven’t spoken to you since yesterday when you tried to convince me that the volleyball club needed a budget increase specifically for ‘industrial-grade hair gel.’”

​futakuchi didn’t even flinch. he didn’t drop the first-year either, though he did loosen his grip slightly. instead, he turned his head slowly, flashing you a smile so bright and utterly shameles that it probably could have powered the entire school’s electrical grid for a week. it was a gorgeous smile, which was the worst part. his eyes, usually heavy-lidded and brimming with pure, unadulterated mischief, crinkled at the corners in a way that made your stomach do a stupid little flip that you fiercely ignored.

​“wow,” he said, his hand flying to his chest in a display of theatrical agony that would have made a drama club captain weep. “gaslighting me in public. in front of the children, y/n? after everything we’ve been through? my heart is practically in ribbons on this linoleum.”

​the first-year scrambled away the second futakuchi’s fingers relaxed. you sighed, shifting the heavy folders in your arms. “we haven’t ‘been through’ anything except me denying your request to replace the school bell with a recording of you laughing.”

​“it would boost morale!” he insisted, immediately closing the distance between you. he didn’t just walk over; he sort of looms-slouched, bending his massive frame down so he could look directly into your eyes. he smelled like clean laundry and a faint hint of peppermint gum, a combination that was infuriatingly pleasant. “the student body is depressed. my laughter is a tonic. a cure-all. and you told me at 8:15 this morning that you’d consider it. right after you said i looked exceptionally handsome in this cardigan.”

​“you aren’t wearing a cardigan, kenji. that’s a school blazer. and i was in a finance meeting at 8:15.”

​“details, details,” he waved a hand dismissively, his fingers brushing against the edge of your papers. “the point is, your mouth said ‘no’ but your pupils said ‘kenji, you are the sun around which my little planetary heart orbits.’ i’m just translating for the public.”

​you couldn’t help it. a tiny, breathless laugh escaped your nose, and the effect it had on him was instantaneous and terrifying.

​futakuchi’s entire demeanor shifted. the mock-arrogance evaporated, replaced by a look of such raw, unvarnished adoration that it felt illegal to witness in a public hallway. his pupils actually dilated. if he had tail, it would be knocking over fire extinguishers. he looked at you the way a starving Victorian orphan would look at a loaf of freshly baked sourdough.

​“there it is,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave into something dangerous and soft. “the laugh that keeps my blood pumping. do it again. i’ll give the first-year his bread back. i’ll give him my own bread. i’ll buy him a bakery.”

​“go to class, kenji,” you murmured, your cheeks heating up despite your best efforts to remain a stoic pillar of student democracy.

​“only if you promise to let me carry those heavy-ass folders after school,” he countered, leaning in just a fraction closer. a lock of his brown hair fell over his forehead, and it took every ounce of your self-control not to reach up and brush it back. “y/n said i’m the official student council pack mule. it’s the law.”

​“i never said that.”

​“there you go again,” he sighed, though his eyes were dancing with pure, liquid joy. “erasing our shared history. it’s a tragedy, really. a cinematic heartbreak.”

​the “y/n said so” rule quickly escalated from a mild annoyance to a full-blown school-wide religion.

​futakuchi was smart. he didn’t use your name to get out of trouble with teachers—he wasn’t that stupid, and he genuinely respected your position too much to actually get you in hot water. instead, he used your name to justify the most absurd, self-serving, and wildly romantic nonsense imaginable.

𓏵

​on tuesday, he took up an entire table in the library, sprawling his long legs across three chairs. when the librarian shushed him and told him to move, he solemnly claimed that you had prescribed him “aggressive leg-stretching therapy” to cure a sudden and life-threatening cramp, and that you had personally designated that specific table as a medical zone.

​when you marched into the library after hearing the rumors, ready to scold him, you found him actually studying. or, rather, attempting to study while drawing little caricatures of you in the margins of his notebook.

​“my leg is failing me, president,” he whined the moment you appeared at his side. he didn’t even look up from his drawing, where he was currently giving your cartoon self a tiny crown. “the doctor—you—said i need to keep it elevated. are you going to revoke my medical leave? in front of all these books? the literature will weep.”

​“get your feet off the chairs, you giant menace,” you whispered, though you pulled out the chair next to him and sat down anyway.

​he immediately complied, swinging his legs down with a speed that defied physics just so he could scoot his chair close enough that your shoulders touched. the contact sent a jolt of static electricity through your blazer, or maybe that was just your nervous system losing its absolute mind.

​“i knew you’d come check on your favorite patient,” he hummed, leaning his head sideways until it was resting on your shoulder. he was heavy, but you didn’t push him away. his hair was soft against your neck, tickling your skin. “did you bring the medicine? and by medicine, i mean the sweet, sweet sound of you telling me i’m doing a good job with these quadratic equations.”

​“you haven’t even started the quadratic equations, kenji. you’ve just drawn me with a cape.”

​“it’s a power cape,” he mumble-spoke against your blazer, his breath warm through the fabric. “because you hold the leash to my entire soul. that’s very powerful of you. highly commendable.”

​you felt a genuine, ridiculous bubble of warmth expand in your chest. it was impossible to be truly annoyed with him when he said things like that with such complete, unironic sincerity. he didn’t sound like he was mocking you. he sounded like he was stating a fundamental law of the universe. gravity exists, the earth is round, and futakuchi kenji belongs to you.

​“you are so dramatic,” you breathed, turning a page in your own textbook to hide the smile stretching across your face.

​“i am a man possessed by a vision of a future where you finally stop fighting destiny and go to the spring festival with me,” he said, his voice muffled by your shoulder. “y/n said i’m allowed to take her. she signed a permit. it was on pink paper. very official.”

​“i did no such thing.”

​“the gaslighting!” he gasped, lifting his head to look at you with wide, betrayed eyes. “it never ends! i am a victim of the system!”

𓏵

​by friday, the entire volleyball team had become accomplices to his madness.

​you walked into the gym to deliver the approved schedule for the upcoming practice matches, only to find the entire squad standing in a neat line. aone was at the end, looking politely neutral as always, while the others were grinning like sharks.

​futakuchi was in the center, spinning a volleyball on his finger, looking like he had just won the lottery.

​“ah, the commander-in-chief arrives,” futakuchi crooned, letting the ball bounce off his palm and catching it against his hip. “perfect timing. we were just discussing the new dress code you implemented.”

​you stopped dead in your tracks, eyebrows shooting toward your hairline. “the what?”

​“the rule where the captain gets to receive a high-five and a forehead kiss after every successful block,” moniwa piped up from the sidelines, looking halfway between amused and deeply apologetic for his successor’s behavior. “he says it’s for... aerodynamic efficiency?” he looks like he regrets visiting practice.

​“aerodynamics are crucial in high-level sports,” futakuchi said with a completely straight face. “and since the president is the ultimate authority on efficiency, she gave it the green light. didn’t you, my beloved leader?”

​you stared at him. he was bouncing on the balls of his feet, his eyes shining with a frantic, eager energy that made him look less like a cocky athlete and more like a massive puppy waiting for a treat. he was so completely transparent about how much he wanted your attention that it was honestly a little bit overwhelming. it was like standing too close to a furnace.

​“moniwa,” you said, looking past the smirking captain. “please tell me you don’t actually believe him.”

​“oh, we don’t,” moniwa laughed, waving a hand. “but he refuses to practice unless we play along. he said his motivation is tied directly to the public acknowledgement of your shared ‘pact.’”

​“it’s not a pact!” you turned back to futakuchi, who had now drifted closer, his large frame blocking the rest of the team from your view. “kenji, you can’t keep inventing school board mandates just to harass me.”

​“harass? i am showering you with the highest honors a peasant can bestow upon his queen,” he countered, dropping the volleyball and taking a step into your personal space. his hands came up, hovering just an inch away from your waist, as if he desperately wanted to touch you but was holding himself back by sheer force of will. “and i’m not inventing them. i’m manifesting them. there’s a difference. it’s spiritual.”

​“you are a menace to society.”

​“and you,” he said, his voice dropping to that melt-your-bones register again, “are the only reason i haven’t burned this school to the ground out of sheer boredom. look at me, y/n. i’m a changed man. i haven’t insulted a single rival captain in at least forty-eight hours—yes yes, we didn’t have a game for the last forty-eight hours, but who’s counting? not me—all because i want to make you proud. that has to be worth at least one pity date.”

​you looked at him. his hair was damp from practice, a few stray curls sticking to his temples. his cheeks were flushed, and his chest was heaving slightly from the exertion of drills. but more than that, his eyes were fixed on yours with a fierce, burning intensity that made everything else in the gym fade into white noise.

​he was pleading. behind all the snark and the ridiculous claims of gaslighting lay a boy who was so utterly, desperately crazy about you that he was willing to make a complete fool of himself in front of his peers just to get you to look at him a little bit longer.

​it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for you, and it was absolutely terrifying in its sincerity.

​“it wouldn’t be a pity date,” you said softly, the words slipping out before you could fully process them.

​futakuchi froze. the smirk that seemed permanently etched onto his face vanished in an instant, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. his hands, which had been hovering near your waist, actually twitched.

​“what?” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly.

​“i said it wouldn’t be a pity date,” you repeated, feeling a surge of bravery that definitely didn’t belong to a measured student council president. you reached out and gently took hold of his damp gym shirt, tugging him down just enough that he had to bend to your level. “if you want to take me to the spring festival, kenji, all you have to do is ask me like a normal human being. you don’t need to forge a decree from the student council.”

​for the first time in his entire life, futakuchi kenji was speechless. his mouth opened, closed, and then opened again. a bright, furious shade of crimson painted his neck and flooded his face, stretching all the way to the tips of his ears. it was a glorious sight.

​“i—” he gulped, his adam’s apple bobbing violently. “y/n. president. light of my life. ruler of my heart.”

​“kenji.”

​“will you please let me take you to the festival?” he asked, and for once, there wasn’t a single trace of mockery or sarcasm in his voice. it was raw and breathless and so sweet it made your teeth ache. “and maybe also let me hold your hand? and buy you those ridiculous giant candied apples? and tell everyone that you’re the best thing that ever happened to this miserable, grey school?”

​you smiled, a real, genuine smile that reached your eyes, and letting go of his shirt, your hand slid up to cup his jaw. his skin was warm, and he leaned into your touch instantly, closing his eyes like a cat basking in the sun.

​“yes,” you said quietly. “i think the student council can approve that.”

​he didn’t cheer. he didn’t gloat to his team. instead, he let out a long, shaky breath and folded himself forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck. his large arms came around you, locking at your waist and pulling you flush against his chest in a hug so tight it nearly squeezed the oxygen right out of your lungs. he was shaking just a little bit.

​“wow,” he mumbled into your collarbone, his voice thick with emotion. “she didn’t reject me. she actually likes me. moniwa, write this down. mark the calendar. this is the greatest day in human history.”

​“get back to practice, futakuchi!” moniwa yelled from across the gym, though he was smiling.

​futakuchi didn’t let go. if anything, he squeezed you tighter, resting his chin on your shoulder and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the side of your neck that sent shivers racing down your spine.

​“y/n said i can stay right here for the next twenty years,” he announced to the gym, his smugness returning at full force now that the panic had subsided. “it’s a new school regulation. direct order from the top. anyone who tries to pull us apart is committing treason.”

​you rolled your eyes, wrapping your arms around his broad back and hugging him right back. “i definitely didn’t say that.”

​“there she goes again,” he sighed happily, nuzzling your cheek. “the gaslighting is just endless. but god, i love it when you take charge.”

n: futakuchi’s so fine but i still want to strangle him sometimes.

kenji’s taglist

@cvntyandfasionable @averys-place @anzuuhoshi @rabbitcola @forgottensniper @katzline @michexoxo @han0vyc @depressinglyobsessed @ghostwifeyy @crystal-lilac @wensurr @suha-reads @olliesoxenfree @fiannee @eri0-0 @lazyruinsperson @sh0dor1 @palanggaaa @kuroofangirl67 @n1koolya @jjunnixzz @misasprout @estelleythegreat @thelittleshinybubble @oikawashairline @thebrokeperson101 @nigelology @shugochar

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners !

​“he’s been there for twenty minutes,” atsumu whispered, gesturing toward the ball cart where bokuto was currently trying to make himself small, which is physically impossible for a man built like a greek god made of boulders. “he’s sulking.”

​“it’s pathetic,” sakusa muttered, eyeing bokuto from a safe, ten-foot distance. “he thinks she’s dead. or worse, that she moved to brazil without telling him.”

​bokuto was convinced the universe had finally decided to punish him for his ‘emo modes’ by taking away his north star. by the second day of your absence, the ‘thick cloud of sadness’ had evolved into a localized weather system. he hadn’t spiked a single ball into the court. he’d missed every serve. he spent most of the morning staring at his phone, waiting for a text that never came because your migraine was so aggressive that even the thought of a blue-light screen felt like an ice pick to the brain.

​it wasn’t until sakusa—driven to the brink of insanity by the lack of structural integrity in the team—snapped and texted the coach.

​sakusa: where is the manager? bokuto is currently trying to merge with the floor tiles. ​coach foster: oh! right. she’s got a nasty flu. told her to take the week. forgot to mention it. my bad.

​when sakusa relayed the news, the transformation was instantaneous. bokuto detonated.

​“she’s sick?!” the roar echoed off the rafters. “she’s dying?! i have to go. omi-omi, i have to go right now.”

​he didn’t wait for permission. he was a white-and-black blur, bolting out of the gym with the frantic energy of a man who had just realized he left the stove on—if the stove was the love of his life and currently suffering from a 40°C fever.

𓏵

​the convenience store clerk had never seen a man move with such desperate, feral intent. bokuto was tossing things into a basket with the precision of a hawk: expensive honey-lemon tea, every flavor of jelly drink available, the softest tissues in the prefecture, and three different types of high-end porridge.

​then came the pharmacy. he stood in the aisle, looking like a deer in headlights, staring at a wall of cold medicine as if it were a complex offensive formation. naturally, he called the only person who could tether him to reality.

​“agaashiiii! if she has a headache but also a cough, do i get the blue box or the red box? does the red one taste bad? she likes peaches! is there a peach-flavored medicine for adults?!”

​“bokuto, please breathe,” came the weary, yet fond voice over the speaker. “get the standard tablets. and don’t give her caffeine. also, did you buy flowers?”

​“flowers. yes. strawberries too. she needs vitamins. i’m a genius, akaashi.”

𓏵

​when the doorbell rang at 2:00 pm, you were currently a cocoon of blankets, feeling like your brain had been replaced by wet cement. your eyes were puffy, your nose was a shade of pink that would rival a sunset, and your hair looked like a bird’s nest that had survived a hurricane.

​you shuffled to the door, peering through the peephole. all you saw was a giant bouquet of sunflowers and a mop of silver-and-black hair.

​the moment you turned the deadbolt, the door flew open—not with force, but with a desperate kind of urgency.

​“my favorite human!”

​bokuto lunged. for a split second, you braced for the impact of a 190-pound professional athlete, but he slowed down at the last centimeter. he caught you in a hug that was as light as a feather, his large hands hovering over your back as if you were made of the finest, most fragile porcelain.

​he pulled back, his golden eyes scanning your face with enough intensity to melt lead. “you look... you look...”

​you winced, expecting him to say ‘terrible.’

​“…absolutely stunning,” he breathed, his voice cracking. “even when you’re melting, you’re the prettiest thing i’ve ever seen. i thought you quit! i thought you hated me! i thought i did a spike so bad you decided to never look at me again!”

​his knees actually buckled a little. he looked like a kicked puppy who had just been offered a steak. before you could even protest that you were contagious, his arms were under your knees and behind your back. he swept you up in a bridal carry so smooth it felt like you were floating.

𓏵

​“bokuto, you’ll get sick,” you croaked, your voice sounding like a rusted gate.

​“i have the immune system of a mountain lion!” he declared, marching toward your bedroom. “and even if i catch it, then we can be sick together. it’ll be a team bonding exercise!”

​he settled you into bed with more care than he’d ever given a volleyball. then, the babbling started. it was as if two days of silenced thoughts were bursting out of him.

​“the gym was so quiet,” he whispered, tucking the duvet around your chin. “i kept looking at the spot where you stand. i even sat there for a while, just hoping i’d catch your scent or something. everyone told me to stop being weird, but they don’t understand. i can’t function without hearing your voice telling me my form is slightly off. i missed your voice so much it felt like my ears were broken.”

​he was peeling an orange for you, his large, calloused fingers working with surprising delicacy.

​“i even tried to hide in that little gap between the equipment shed and the wall,” he admitted, looking genuinely ashamed. “like a lost dog. hinata tried to lure me out with buns, but i wasn’t hungry. how can i eat when my manager—my favorite person in the whole wide world—is suffering alone?”

​he fed you the orange slices one by one. you were too tired to argue, and honestly, the way he was looking at you—like you were the center of his entire solar system—was doing more for your recovery than any pill could.

​when you mentioned you needed to freshen up, he went into full bodyguard mode. he prepped the bathroom, steamed it up just right, and then insisted on waiting right outside the door.

​“if you slip, just yell! i’m right here!”

​when you emerged, damp and shaky, he was sitting on the floor with a literal blindfold tied over his eyes.

​“bokuto... what are you doing?”

​“akaashi said i have to be a gentleman! i’m not looking! but i’m here if you need balance!”

​you laughed and he visibly brightened, his head whipping toward the sound of your voice. “that! i missed that! that’s the best sound in the league! forget the roar of the crowd, i want that on a loop!”

​he spent the next twenty minutes drying your hair. he used the lowest heat setting, his fingers combing through your strands with a gentleness that made your heart do backflips. he was so focused, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration, ensuring he didn’t pull a single hair.

​“there,” he whispered, kissing the top of your head once it was dry. “now, medicine time.”

​he watched you swallow the tablets with an expression of pure, unadulterated adoration. it was the look of a man who was completely and utterly gone for you. he was at the bottom of the ocean, and he didn’t want air.

𓏵

​by evening, the exhaustion of being a full-time nurse-slash-fanboy caught up to him. you were drifting off, the medicine finally kicking in, when you felt a weight settle on the side of your mattress.

​bokuto was sitting on the floor, his head resting on the edge of the bed, his hand firmly but carefully clutching yours. he looked so small in the dim light, the usual bravado replaced by a quiet, desperate need for proximity.

​you reached out, your fingers trembling slightly from the fever, and brushed a stray lock of silver hair away from his forehead.

​“i like you too, kōtarō,” you whispered into the quiet room, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to his brow. “so much.”

​you fell asleep shortly after, missing the way his eyelashes fluttered and the way his entire body went rigid the moment your lips touched his skin.

𓏵

​the next morning, the fever had broken. you woke up feeling lighter, the cement in your head having turned back into actual thoughts. however, there was a new weight—a very warm, very solid weight.

​bokuto was in the bed. he wasn’t technically under the covers, but he was on top of them, his arms wrapped around you in a protective, suffocatingly sweet embrace. he was staring at you with wide, awake eyes. he looked like he hadn’t slept a wink, but he also looked like he’d just won the olympic gold.

​“you’re awake!” he chirped, though his voice was uncharacteristically soft.

​“i feel much better,” you smiled, trying to shift, but his grip only tightened.

​“so...” he started, his lower lip trembling in a way that was almost tragically cute. “about last night. you said you liked me. and you kissed my head. and i’ve been thinking about it for six hours and twelve minutes.”

​he sat up, pulling you with him so you were sitting in his lap, encased in his warmth. he looked at you with such yearning, such raw, pathetic hope, that your heart felt like it was going to burst.

​“i already decided in my head that we’re dating,” he whispered, his face inches from yours. “i already told the group chat we’re ‘engaged in spirit.’ but... i should probably ask the official way, right?”

​he took a deep breath, his golden eyes shimmering with a mixture of devotion and sheer desperation. “would you let me be your boyfriend? i’ll take care of you every day. i’ll spike every ball for you. i’ll even let you have the last bite of my meat buns. please?”

​you didn’t even have time to get the ‘yes’ out before his face transformed. when you nodded, he looked completely discombobulated, his brain short-circuiting at the sheer joy of it.

​“really?! yes?! hey hey hey!”

​he peppered every single inch of your face with tiny, frantic kisses. your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your chin—he was like a heat-seeking missile of affection.

​“i’m gonna be the best boyfriend ever,” he promised, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his tail-wagging energy practically shaking the bed. “i’m never letting you get sick again. i’m banning germs. i’m fighting the flu with my bare hands!”

​as he pulled you back down into the pillows, refusing to let go for even a second, you realized that being managed by bokuto was going to be a lot more intense than managing him—and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

n: i love it when men are pathetically in love. yk? y’all get me? right? RIGHT??

kō’s taglist 1/3

@lsirria @cvntyandfasionable @the-bloopsters @nelinkythoughts @kukikoooo @sleepykeijiii @averys-place @reverd-ck @sxnnee @theflowerwower @anzuuhoshi @evilari111 @tetsurae @rabbitcola @nivabiva @eudaim0nia-a @forgottensniper @katzline @michexoxo @pelicanpizza @x3nafix @george-russell-defender @meikstv @depressinglyobsessed @buriedfifii @keiob @ghostwifeyy @bigdaddyyaoii @mptality @qardasngan @crystal-lilac @methiart @eri0-0 @fiannee @wensurr @alyriaschoenheit @rafsbeloved @suha-reads @sillylule @horanghaepaws @imjustanobody2024 @hibernatinghamster @olliesoxenfree @mitzukita

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners !

lev haiba was a cathedral of limbs and devotion; everything about him was built to worship you. his hands, his long spider-like legs, the way his ridiculous torso bent in two just to hear you talk about your day. and for a man who had been coached to be “the friendly giant” of every photo shoot, he’d never been good at moderation—especially when it came to you.

the internet knew lev as a rising athlete-turned-model, the kind of guy who wore designer suits like pajamas and pajamas like designer suits. but people didn’t know that before every shoot, in a dressing room that looked like a tornado of hair products and knee pads, lev would scroll through your selfies with such reverence it made his makeup artist whisper, “dear god, i think he’s praying.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

your phone lit up at 6 a.m. that morning with a cascade of notifications: hundreds of tags, DMs, and text messages from friends that read “girl. what.” and “congratulations???”. bleary-eyed, you rubbed your face, opened instagram, and there it was—lev’s official athlete account, verified blue tick and all, with a carousel of highly edited wedding photos of you and him.

in the first photo, you were in a sweeping gown (he had, apparently, gone with your favorite color); lev was in a cream tux, kneeling as though he were about to kiss your hand. the second slide featured the two of you mid-laugh, confetti raining down—an edit, of course, but so well done you could almost hear the distant church bells. and the caption:

“manifesting 🥰💍”

it had 400k likes in less than an hour.

the comments were a battlefield of confusion and memes.

@ kwhatnww: “uh sir are we… invited?”

@ yakuthetallguy: “lev this is photoshop, right??”

@ argnberto: “the PR manager typing their resignation letter rn 😭”

@ midoriya: “this is the softest hostage situation i’ve ever seen.”

your phone buzzed again; this time it was a call from lev himself. when you answered, his voice was bright and earnest, like he’d just done something very, very good.

“baby did you see it? i posted it. i posted us.”

“you… posted what, exactly?” you asked, sitting up.

“our wedding photos,” he said, as though it were obvious. “the ones i had edited. remember how you sent me that tiktok of the couple on the beach with the champagne and the veil blowing in the wind? i commissioned that guy. he made them of us. they’re perfect. i look so tall and you look like a princess.”

you blinked, speechless. “lev, we’re not married.”

“yet!” he said cheerfully. “i wrote ‘manifesting,’ didn’t i? it’s like, manifesting plus soft-launching plus pre-announcing.”

in the background, you could hear a voice—probably his PR manager—muttering something like “oh my god.”

“are you with your PR team right now?” you asked.

“mmhmm,” he hummed. “they’re being dramatic. they said something about ‘career suicide’ but i think it’s more like ‘career honeymoon.’”

“lev…” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face.

but the truth was, even as you scrolled through the comments, you couldn’t help laughing. the edits were ridiculous but breathtaking: lev lifting you bridal-style under a sakura tree, lev feeding you cake with a fork shaped like a volleyball, lev dipping you in a pose that looked like it belonged on a romance novel cover. you recognized your own photos—the selfie from your cousin’s wedding last summer, the candid he’d taken of you at the train station—but the way he’d merged them into something fairytale-level dramatic was almost sweet.

“i’m serious,” he went on, lowering his voice so it dipped into that husky register he only used with you. “i want to marry you for real. but i thought this was a good way to practice.”

“practice?”

“yeah, like pregame warm-ups,” he said earnestly. “this is like… emotional stretching. you know? so when the real wedding happens, i don’t cramp.”

you burst out laughing, clutching the phone. “lev, you’re insane.”

“insanely in love,” he corrected immediately, as though he’d been waiting for the setup.

on the other end of the call, his PR manager audibly groaned. “haiba,” the man hissed. “delete the post. now.”

“no,” lev said, sounding like a stubborn kid. “she hasn’t told me to delete it, so i’m not deleting it.”

you could imagine him sitting there: one hand holding the phone to his ear, the other draped protectively over it, his long legs sprawled out, his soft grey sweats bunched at his knees. you pictured the PR manager waving a clipboard around, muttering about brand deals.

“they’re saying they’ll quit,” lev added casually.

“they’ll actually quit?” you asked.

“mm. they said, and i quote, ‘if you keep using the official account to propose to your girlfriend i will quit.’”

your heart gave a weird, fond little thump. “girlfriend?”

“fiancée-in-training,” lev corrected again. “manifestée.”

and somehow, the word—the whole stupid situation—made your stomach flip.

“lev,” you said gently. “you can’t just post fake wedding photos. people are going to think—”

“good,” he cut in. “let them think. let the whole world think you’re mine. i want every guy scrolling at 3 a.m. to see your face and my hand on your waist and know they’re too late. i want the uncles at family reunions to whisper ‘did she really marry the giant?’ i want the cab drivers to point at billboards and say, ‘that’s the volleyball guy who worships his wife.’”

the line went quiet for a beat.

“you really went all out, huh,” you murmured, a little shy now.

he made a small, pleased sound. “you liked the pink dress?”

“i loved it,” you admitted. “even if it’s fake.”

“nothing about how i feel is fake,” he said, softly now. “the edits are fake, but the way i look at you—”

“lev,” you interrupted before he got too poetic, because you knew how he got when he started metaphoring.

but your heart was already warm, and your cheeks ached from smiling.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

by afternoon, the post had been picked up by sports blogs. articles with titles like “lev haiba announces engagement?” and “lev soon to be married with a mysterious pretty girl.” flooded your feed. people were dissecting your instagram for clues. one fan page posted a side-by-side of your hand holding a coffee cup and the “bride’s” hand in lev’s edit, circling the same ring you always wore.

you texted lev.

sweet wife: they’re onto me.

he replied in seconds.

cool awesome husband: good. they should be.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

his PR manager called you separately. “please,” the man said, sounding on the brink of tears, “talk some sense into him.”

but when you tried, lev just sent you another edit—this time of a honeymoon in maldives, your face and his pasted onto a couple feeding dolphins. caption: “honeymoon loading 🐬💖”

“lev,” you typed. “the dolphins??”

“i’m manifesting them too,” he replied.

later that night, when he came over (all six feet four of him ducking through your doorframe, the smell of his cologne soft and familiar), he brought an actual bouquet of pastel pink roses.

“for my bride,” he said solemnly.

“not your bride,” you said, but your voice was gentler than you meant it to be.

“yet,” he repeated, grin widening. “not yet.”

he crouched until he was at your level, the roses between you, his grey-green eyes shimmering with that ridiculous sincerity that had first made you like him. you wanted to scold him, but instead you found yourself laughing again.

“you’re a menace,” you whispered.

“i’m your menace,” he whispered back.

and maybe it was because of how he looked then—half ridiculous, half breathtaking—or because of the way he’d spent his entire day being cheerfully unhinged for you, but you leaned forward and kissed him. it was soft, like a promise you weren’t ready to make but couldn’t deny was there.

when you pulled back, his grin was sun-bright. “does this mean you’re okay with the post?”

“i’m okay with you,” you said. “the post is… chaotic. but you’re you.”

he practically glowed. “that’s enough for me.”

and later, curled up against his chest on the couch, your phone still pinging with notifications, you realized something: lev might be a walking PR nightmare, a six-foot-five puppy with a talent for public scandal, but he was also the only person who’d ever looked at you like you were the whole court, the net, and the trophy at once.

which, somehow, felt like a win.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a: i have been on a battlefield called “my bf wants me dead” sorry everyone! also i got my new phone ⁽⁽٩(๑˃̶͈̀ ᗨ ˂̶͈́)۶⁾⁾

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

Katsuki who is unusually calm around you. Classmates who notice genuinely ask if he’s sick. He’s grown to be more okay with the teasing from his friends. Because honestly they want the two of you together just as much as he does. (allegedly)

Katsuki who will flop down on the couch beside you. Even if the common room is full he’s given up on trying to hide anything. He feels comfortable around you and he’s tired. Nothing has to be said, just play with his hair and all is good.

Katsuki who is tormented by his classmates. They will 100% use the crush against him once people begin to notice it. Denki and Mineta will focus their efforts on you just to annoy him. Yes he knows what they’re doing, yes he’s still upset they're bothering his girl.

Katsuki who literally has heart eyes for you. He stares at you with his head resting on his hand, with just pure heart eyes. But of course you’re too busy just chatting away to notice. 

“I need a man that looks at me like Bakugou looks at Y/n”

Katsuki who drags you around with him. Always grabbing you by the wrist and dragging you away. Your friends have gotten used to it, and really so have you. “Oooh where are we going? :D” 

Katsuki who cannot keep his heart under control when you lean your head on his shoulder. His heart literally cannot keep a steady rhythm. (you’re killing him literally) 

Katsuki who genuinely sits his friends down and asks if he’s delusional. He swears you like him too but then you don’t acknowledge when he’s sending hints. He doesn’t understand what you two are.

Katsuki who will move the hair out of your face and call you pretty. With an audience even. He just wants you to take the hint. 

Katsuki who is genuinely at his wits end with you. How do you not see how much he clearly likes you? It’s gotten to the point where he thinks maybe you see and just don’t like him back. But he continues to pursue you because Mina INSISTS you have a huge crush on him. But he’s still doubtful and doesn’t want to ruin what you have by confessing.

the sky over miyagi looked exactly the same as it did in the future, which was the only comforting thing about the situation sixteen-year-old shoichi currently found himself in. he adjusted his snapback, staring at the front gates of karasuno high school with a look of pure, unadulterated dread.

he had messed up. he had messed up so catastrophically that he was currently standing in a year where smartphones were still relatively chunky and his father’s social skills were—somehow—even worse than they were in 2035.

“if i disappear like a fading instagram filter because he can’t figure out how to say ‘hello’ without scowling, i’m going to haunt him,” shoichi muttered, clutching the straps of his backpack.

he spotted him then. 2012 kageyama.

his father looked like a grumpy obsidian statue. he was walking toward the gym, clutching a volleyball like it was the only tether keeping him grounded to the earth’s crust. and then, shoichi saw you.

you were standing by the water fountain, laughing at something a classmate said. you looked exactly like the photos in the hallway back home, but more vibrant, more alive, and currently, the target of the most intense, terrifyingly fond stare shoichi had ever witnessed.

kageyama wasn’t looking at you. he was perceiving you with the intensity of a dying star. his face was twisted into a grimace that most people would mistake for chronic indigestion, but shoichi knew that look. that was the “i would actually let this person hit me with a bus if they asked nicely” look.

kageyama stopped mid-stride. he didn’t move. he didn’t breathe. he just stood there, vibrating at a frequency only dogs and socially anxious teenagers could hear.

“oh, we’re in trouble,” shoichi whispered, his stomach doing a somersault. “i’m never being born. i’m literally going to evaporate.”

shoichi spent the next three days “transferring” into the school under a fake name and a lot of luck. he managed to corner his teenage father behind the gym after practice. kageyama was currently dousing his head in cold water, looking like a very wet, very angry raven.

“hey,” shoichi said, trying to sound casual and not like he was talking to a version of his dad that hadn’t discovered hair gel yet. “you’re kageyama, right? the setter?”

kageyama looked up, water dripping from his chin. his dark eyes narrowed. “who are you?”

“i’m... sho. i’m new. listen, i saw you looking at that girl earlier. the one with the h/c hair?”

kageyama’s entire body stiffened. he looked like he was trying to swallow a whole library. “i don’t... i wasn’t... she’s my friend.”

“you look like you want to carve her name into the moon with your bare fingernails,” shoichi deadpanned. “why don’t you just ask her to walk home with you?”

kageyama’s face turned a shade of purple that shouldn’t be biologically possible. “i can’t. my... my legs. they don’t go that way when she’s there.”

shoichi stared at him. this was the man who, in the future, would lecture him about “dominating the court” and “having absolute confidence.” right now, kageyama looked like he was struggling to remember how to be a bipedal organism.

“look,” shoichi said, feeling the weight of his own existence hanging by a thread. “i’m sure she likes you too. but she thinks you’re mad at her because you keep making that face like you’re smelling rotten milk whenever she breathes near you.”

“i’m not mad,” kageyama hissed, his voice cracking. “i’m... i’m focused.”

“on what? her molecular structure? go talk to her, or i’m going to lose my mind.”

the attempt happened near the shoe lockers. shoichi hid behind a pillar, cringing so hard he felt his soul trying to leave his body through his ears.

you were reaching for your outdoor shoes when kageyama approached. he marched. it was a military operation. he stopped two feet behind you and shouted, “lunch!”

you jumped, nearly knocking over a row of loafers, and spun around, hand over your heart. “tobio! you scared the life out of me! what about lunch?”

kageyama’s hands were balled into fists at his sides. he was shaking. “the lunch. you ate it. did it... was it adequate?”

you blinked, a soft, confused smile spreading across your face. “it was great, tobio. i told you that three hours ago. did you forget?”

“no. i just... wanted to confirm the data.”

shoichi hit his head against the pillar. confirm the data? he was doomed. he was going to be the first person in history to die of second-hand embarrassment before he was even conceived.

you stepped closer to kageyama, tilting your head. you reached out, your fingers hovering near his forehead. “are you okay? your face is really red. do you have a fever? maybe you shouldn’t have done those extra serves today.”

the moment your skin brushed his forehead, kageyama’s brain clearly short-circuited. he made a sound like a teapot reaching boiling point.

“i have to go,” he choked out, turned 180 degrees, and ran into a wall.

he didn’t even stop. he just bounced off the masonry and kept running toward the exit.

you stood there, looking genuinely concerned. “he’s been so high-strung lately,” you whispered to yourself. “i hope he’s eating enough iron.”

shoichi stepped out from behind the pillar, looking at you—the woman who would one day make him bentley-shaped pancakes and tell him stories about how his dad was a “natural leader.”

“you’re way too good for him,” shoichi muttered.

you turned, noticing the new kid. “oh! you’re the transfer, right? i’m y/n. did you see which way kageyama went? i think he might be having a medical emergency.”

“he’s just... really into volleyball,” shoichi lied, feeling the cosmic irony of protecting his father’s reputation. “but hey, he actually told me he wanted to show you that new park near the station tonight. at seven. he was just too ‘focused’ to say it properly.”

your eyes lit up, a soft glow appearing in your expression that made shoichi realize exactly why kageyama was so hopelessly gone for you. “really? he wants to go to the park? with me? alone?”

“yeah. he’s basically dying to go,” shoichi said, praying he could convince the teenage version of his dad not to pass out.

shoichi spent the next four hours physically dragging kageyama toward the park.

“i can’t do it, sho. i’m going to say something about setter dumps and she’s going to think i’m a freak,” kageyama groaned, sitting on a bench and burying his face in his hands.

“dad—i mean, kageyama,” shoichi corrected quickly. “listen to me. she is already your friend. she thinks the way you obsess over milk cartons is ‘charming’ for some reason. just look her in the eye and tell her she looks nice.”

“she always looks nice,” kageyama snapped, looking up with a raw, desperate honesty that actually took shoichi aback. “she looks like... like the feeling of winning a five-set match against a powerhouse school. she looks like a perfect toss that hits the palm of your hand exactly right. she’s the only thing that makes me forget the scoreboard for a second.”

shoichi felt a lump in his throat. okay, so the romance was there. it was just buried under layers of social anxiety and sports-induced brain rot.

“tell her that,” shoichi encouraged. “maybe leave out the ‘five-set match’ part, but tell her the rest.”

you appeared at the park entrance then, wearing a soft cardigan and a skirt that fluttered in the evening breeze. the sun was dipping low, casting a golden hue over everything, making the scene look like a high-budget romance anime.

kageyama stood up so fast he nearly tipped the bench over.

shoichi retreated into the shadows of the trees, watching. he saw his father approach you. he saw the way kageyama’s shoulders dropped from his ears for the first time all day.

you said something that made kageyama laugh—a real, genuine laugh that didn’t sound like a tectonic plate shifting. you reached out and took his hand, sliding your fingers between his.

kageyama looked down at your joined hands like they were a miracle he wasn’t worthy of witnessing. he squeezed back, his grip firm and protective, his thumb tracing the back of your knuckles with a reverence that made shoichi’s heart ache.

you started walking, you silhouettes blending into the twilight. kageyama leaned down, his head hovering near yours, listening to you talk with a devotion so heavy it felt like it had its own gravitational pull.

shoichi looked down at his hands. they weren’t fading. in fact, he felt more solid than ever.

“how the hell did he pull her?” shoichi whispered to the wind, a grin breaking across his face. “he’s such a dork. but i guess he’s her dork.”

the two of you wandered deeper into the park, the scent of damp grass and blooming jasmine thick in the air. for kageyama, the world had shrunk down to the size of the space between the two of you. the roar of the crowd, the whistle of the referee, the stinging of his palms—it all faded into a dull hum, replaced by the rhythmic sound of your breathing.

he was so tuned into you that he could feel the slight change in your temperature where your skin met his. he felt the way you’d lean in just a fraction when you were excited about a story, and the way you’d pull back, shyly, when you realized he was staring.

“tobio?” you asked softly, stopping by a weeping willow tree that dipped its branches into the small pond.

“yeah?” his voice was barely a whisper, a far cry from the bark he used on the court.

“the new kid, sho... he said you were dying to come here. but you seem so quiet. did you actually want to, or were you just being nice?”

kageyama stopped. he turned to face you, the moonlight catching the sharp lines of his jaw and the softness in his eyes that he only ever reserved for you. he felt like a balloon that had been overinflated, his chest tight with a million things he didn’t have the vocabulary to say.

he reached out with his free hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. his touch was so light, so careful, as if you were made of the finest glass and one wrong move would shatter the world.

“i’m always dying to be where you are, i knew you wanted to come here before.” he said, the words tumbling out before his brain could censor them. “in class, at practice... i’m just counting the minutes until i can see you. it’s like... i’m an athlete, right? i’m supposed to have balance. but when you’re around, i’m leaning so far toward you i’m surprised i haven’t fallen over yet.”

your breath hitched. your eyes searched his, finding the truth in the dark depths of his pupils. “tobio...”

“i’m not good at the words,” kageyama continued, his voice growing more desperate, more grounded. “i know i’m weird and i yell too much and i probably smell like the gym most of the time. but i don’t want to walk home with anyone else. i don’t want anyone else to check my fever or laugh at my stupid jokes. i just want you. all the time. it’s a lot, i know. it’s probably too much.”

you didn’t say anything at first. instead, you stood on your tiptoes, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, right over his heart. it was thumping like a drum, a frantic, rhythmic proof of his devotion.

“it’s not too much,” you whispered, your face inches from his. “it’s exactly enough.”

you leaned in, and for a second, kageyama forgot how to function. but then, his instincts took over—the same instincts that allowed him to pinpoint a hitter’s location without looking. he closed his eyes and met you halfway.

the kiss was soft, tasting like mint and the electricity of a summer storm. it was the culmination of years of “accidental” hand brushes and lingering glances across the library.

behind a nearby bush, shoichi kageyama pumped his fist into the air.

“finally!” he hissed. “i’m definitely going to exist now! and i am never letting him live down how much of a sap he is.”

kageyama pulled back, his forehead resting against yours. he looked absolutely dazed, a goofy, lopsided smile breaking across his face—the kind of smile that promised a lifetime of protecting you, of learning how to be better, of being yours and only yours.

“was that... okay?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

you laughed, a bright, melodic sound that echoed over the water. “it was more than okay, tobio. it was perfect.”

he beamed, and in that moment, the king of the court was completely and utterly conquered by a girl with a kind smile and a cardigan.

as they walked back toward the streetlights, swinging their joined hands, shoichi felt the familiar tug of the future pulling at his heels. he took one last look at his parents—young, stupidly in love, and remarkably bad at hiding it.

“see you in like, twenty years, pops,” shoichi whispered, and with a soft shimmer, he was gone.

kageyama stopped, looking back at the trees for a second, feeling a strange sense of gratitude toward the weird kid who’d pushed him.

“what is it?” you asked, squeezing his hand.

kageyama looked at you, the moonlight reflecting in your eyes, and he felt a surge of such intense, overwhelming affection that he thought his ribs might actually crack.

“nothing,” he said, pulling you closer until your shoulders bumped. “i just really, really like you, y/n.”

“i know, tobio,” you teased, leaning your head on his shoulder. “it’s kind of obvious.”

“is it?”

“you’re literally vibrating.”

“shut up.”

you didn’t shut up. you kept talking, and he kept listening, the two of you carving out a path toward a future that was now very much secured.

n: my ex best friend who randomly started ignoring me because she made other friends, has been GLARING me down whenever i talk to MY friends.

tobio’s taglist 1/2

@lsirria @cvntyandfasionable @the-bloopsters @trulyylee @highandalive @nelinkythoughts @kukikoooo @sleepykeijiii @n-o-b-o-d-y123 @averys-place @reverd-ck @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @evilari111 @rabbitcola @eudaim0nia-a @yeonette @forgottensniper @katzline @michexoxo @asthmaticasma @meonelixir @immortalblazethief @pelicanpizza @x3nafix @knkzshx @han0vyc @meikstv @depressinglyobsessed @keiob @ghostwifeyy @perpetuallydone @mptality @qardasngan @crystal-lilac @methiart @bloodredblessy @wensurr @alyriaschoenheit @rafsbeloved @suha-reads @adagio4strings @sillylule @horanghaepaws @imjustanobody2024 @hibernatinghamster @eri0-0 @imjustanobody2024 @windsblow @fiannee @shanikpink @sh0dor1

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners !

it’s wednesday morning, the hallway smells faintly like floor polish and anxiety, and kunimi is standing in front of his locker, staring at yet another pink envelope like it personally offended him in a past life.

he does not sigh because sighing would take energy and he is frugal with that kind of thing. but something in his face does the emotional equivalent.

the problem: people keep trying to confess to his girlfriend.

the bigger problem: his girlfriend is you.

it’s not your fault, obviously. you exist. you laugh. you fix your hair and the wind messes it up and somehow make astronomy club flyers look like couture accessories. you sit next to him at lunch and talk about wild things like how grapes are just tiny water balloons wearing jackets. and every single person with functioning eyes goes, ‘oh.’

kunimi learns early that saying “she has a boyfriend” only invites follow-up questions. the world is full of people who see a fence and immediately start measuring how tall it is.

he tried, once.

“she has a boyfriend,” he’d said flatly to some first-year clutching a gift bag like it was a life jacket.

“oh,” the first-year had said, eyes lighting up with the dangerous optimism of someone about to rent a ladder. “but does he treat her right? are they serious? how long have they been—”

kunimi had walked away mid-sentence.

𓏵

new strategy.

it’s not elegant. it’s not noble. it’s not even particularly sportsmanlike.

he just takes the gifts.

quietly. efficiently. like a very calm raccoon with morals.

someone tries to intercept you after practice with a box of chocolates? kunimi is suddenly there, a ghost with bed hair and unimpressed eyes, and somehow the chocolates migrate into his hands. letters tucked into your desk? gone. little plushies left in your shoe locker? vanished, like they were never born.

people don’t argue with kunimi because he doesn’t give them anything to push against. he simply appears, looks at them like they’re a pop-up ad, and extends an open hand. it’s not aggressive. it’s just… inevitable.

they hand things over because resisting feels awkward, like refusing a vending machine that already dropped the drink.

you, blissfully unaware, walk through school like a princess guarded by a very non-talkative dragon. and kunimi, who theoretically should be annoyed by the administrative labor of romance management, instead feels something warm and fizzy expand behind his ribs every time he thinks: ‘mine.’

(not the bad kind, not the sharp kind — just the soft, ridiculous kind, like hugging a giant warm milk bread.)

he doesn’t hide you out of shame. far from it. if anything, he has this strange, quiet pride about you that could light a small city. it’s just that he likes having you without commentary. without everyone poking and asking and speculating like you’re a limited edition sneaker drop.

you have no idea any of this is happening. why would you? your life is normal. you go to class. you text kunimi pictures of aggressively cute dogs you see on the street. you show up at practice sometimes, leaning against the wall with that look on your face that says ‘i like watching you,’ and he pretends he is not immediately ready to commit legally binding acts of affection.

and he knows—really knows—that you only look at him like that. you’ve made it absurdly clear. you’ve said his name like it’s fluently spoken in your bones. you’ve taken his hand in yours and looked at him like he hung the stars up just so they wouldn’t be lonely.

still.

other people looking at you makes his brain go slightly static.

so he hoards.

his locker becomes… a situation.

it starts as a corner. then a neat stack. then a less neat stack. then, at some point, when gods were busy and no adult supervision existed in the universe, it becomes a geological formation.

envelopes in every shade invented by stationery companies. keychains. a frankly alarming number of rabbit plushies. chocolates (he checks expiration dates with the grim seriousness of a pharmacist). a scarf knitted with the sort of fierce determination that suggests late-night youtube tutorials.

he doesn’t throw anything away (unless the chocolates expire.)

not because he cares about the gifts themselves—he doesn’t—but because they touched a story involving you, and his brain, despite its famously low energy mode, refuses to be careless with anything that brushes even remotely close to you. so he keeps them. quietly. like a museum of failed attempts.

no one knows.

or so he thinks.

𓏵

it’s after practice when the universe decides to flip him onto his emotional back like a helpless turtle.

the team is loud. oikawa is dramatic. iwaizumi is yelling at oikawa to stop being dramatic. matsukawa and hanamaki are narrating events like a chaotic nature documentary. it’s normal seijoh chaos.

kunimi, in the middle of it, exists like a calm punctuation mark.

he goes to his locker with the intention of: open, grab bag, leave, find you, continue breathing.

he turns the lock.

the door does not open.

it detonates.

not literally—but the hinge gives up with the heartbreak of a 90-year-old soap opera character, and suddenly the hallway is an explosion of pastel.

letters cascade like paper snow. plushies tumble out in a fluffy avalanche. something wrapped in metallic gift paper bounces off matsukawa’s shoe with a festive twang.

there is a silence so loud it rings.

oikawa, frozen mid-hair-flip, blinks at the mountain of gifts at kunimi’s feet.

then, very slowly, like his understanding is being delivered by snail, he says, “what. is. that.”

hanamaki wheezes, “is kunimi… running an underground convenience store?”

iwaizumi squints at the pile, then at kunimi, then back at the pile. “that’s… that’s a lot of stuff.”

someone lifts an envelope with tiny hearts on it. “to… y/n?” matsukawa reads, voice rising like a kettle.

you are very much a real person in this school. you are known. you are admired. you are the walking equivalent of that warm spot of sunlight cats find and refuse to leave.

everything happens at once.

“hold on hold on hold on,” oikawa flaps his hands like an untrained bird. “why do all of these say y/n? why are they in your locker? kunimi what is happening, are you being blackmailed to keep these—”

kunimi stands in the middle of the disaster, expression unchanged, like he is internally choosing between options on a vending machine menu.

“they’re for her,” he says finally.

“why do you have them?” iwaizumi asks.

a pause.

“because she doesn’t need them,” kunimi answers simply.

the team stares like they have collectively discovered a new species.

“why,” matsukawa says slowly, “does y/n not need… confessions?”

another pause. kunimi looks at them. then at the paper heart stuck on his shoelace. then back at them.

he says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world:

“she’s my girlfriend.”

if the school roof had blown off, it would have been less dramatic.

oikawa makes a noise that sounds illegal in three countries. “EXCUSE ME?”

hanamaki points at kunimi like he’s accusing him in court. “you—you—you have a girlfriend? not hypothetical, not fanfiction, not a rumor from the bathroom third stall—an actual girlfriend?”

iwaizumi’s eyebrows hit the stratosphere. “and it’s y/n?”

matsukawa sits down on the floor without breaking eye contact. “i need a minute.”

“how long?” oikawa demands. “how long have you been secretly living a romantic shoujo manga life behind our backs?”

kunimi shrugs, which is his preferred form of poetry. “a while.”

oikawa clutches his chest. “he didn’t tell us. i thought we were friends. teammates. family.”

“you don’t tell family everything,” hanamaki points out. “i don’t tell you when i buy weird jam.”

“that’s different,” oikawa cries.

iwaizumi recalibrates. “so you’ve been… intercepting these. to keep people from confessing to her.”

kunimi nods.

“and your locker… exploded,” matsukawa observes helpfully.

kunimi considers the pile of letters like it personally betrayed him. “yes.”

there’s another silence, but this time it’s not shocked. it’s… impressed. confused. slightly fond in the way you feel toward a cat caught red-pawed in the bread box.

oikawa blinks. “wait. so she knows we exist? you didn’t just… stash her on some secret island away from all of us, right?”

the look kunimi gives him answers that question with such flat clarity that hanamaki actually snorts.

“she comes to practice sometimes,” iwaizumi says slowly, like he’s connecting murder board strings. “the girl with the smile and the sweater with the tiny bees.”

“yes,” kunimi says.

matsukawa points at him. “you were holding her umbrella last week.”

“yes.”

“you looked like a husband in a grocery store,” hanamaki adds.

“yes.”

oikawa dissolves into the floor with dramatic despair noises.

the teasing comes, inevitably, like rain arrives to a picnic.

“wow, kunimi, hiding a whole romance from us,” matsukawa grins. “what else are you hiding? a mortgage? three children? a savings account?”

“i’m genuinely happy for you,” iwaizumi says, punching his shoulder lightly. “just… next time, maybe tell us? we could’ve given you advice.”

kunimi looks at him, unimpressed. “i didn’t need advice.”

hanamaki wiggles his eyebrows. “because you’re so in lo—”

he stops, wisely, because there is a particular softness in kunimi’s expression that feels private. like sunlight in a jar.

oikawa leans forward, eyes glittering with scandalous curiosity. “does y/n know you’re a gift-stealing raccoon?”

kunimi hesitates.

you do not, in fact, know.

the team howls.

“tell her,” iwaizumi says, half-laughing, half-genuinely concerned about the ethics of dessert confiscation. “before she finds out because your locker turned into a piñata in front of the entire school.”

𓏵

you hear about it before he finds you.

of course you do.

people whisper like wind. hallways carry gossip the way rivers carry leaves. you’re putting your shoes on when someone walks by saying, “i heard kunimi’s locker exploded,” like this is normal weather conversation.

you blink.

another voice: “full of love letters to y/n.”

you stop blinking.

your heart does something extremely acrobatic inside your chest, like it suddenly enrolled in gymnastics without informing you.

you find him outside, near the gym, sitting on a bench with the air of someone whose day did not go according to any known plan.

there’s a tiny paper heart stuck in his hair.

you go to him.

“hey,” you say softly, and the way his shoulders lower when he hears your voice makes the entire sky feel too small for how much your chest tries to hold.

he looks up at you, and for a second, everything in him is naked and earnest, like a book with all the covers peeled away. then it’s just kunimi again, calm, a little tired, with that look he only ever has when it’s about you: like he would put the whole world in a drawer if it ever made you frown.

“locker incident?” you say, lips twitching.

he exhales through his nose. “…yes.”

you sit beside him, your knees bumping his, casual and enormous at the same time. “i heard there were a lot of letters with my name.”

he doesn’t look away. “yes.”

a breeze nudges your hair. a leaf skitters by. somewhere, volleyballs thump, whistles blow, life continues with rude indifference to the very important moment of your heart deciding to glow like a toaster.

“you took them?” you ask gently.

“yes.”

there’s no shame in his voice. no insecurity. just simple truth, like the sky is blue and he likes your hand in his.

“why?” you ask, not accusing, just curious, like you’re peeking into the drawer of his mind with clean hands.

he thinks, and then he answers in that straightforward way that makes everything feel more serious and more funny at the same time.

“because they don’t matter to you,” he says. “and i don’t want people bothering you. you already chose me.”

it’s not pompous. it’s not triumphant. it’s quiet certainty, the kind built from a thousand tiny moments—your head on his shoulder on the train, your hand wrapped in his jacket sleeve when your fingers were cold, the way you say his name like it’s a light switch that turns your whole face warm.

your throat goes soft.

there are a thousand things you could say—poetic, dramatic, witty—but what comes out is simple, a little wobbly, absolutely real:

“come here.”

you tug him by his sleeve, and he leans in, obedient in the way someone is when they are choosing it, not being pulled. your forehead presses against his. your noses bump. his breath mixes with yours, and the world, rude as it is, blurs like a camera refusing to focus on anything but him.

“you know i pick you,” you murmur. “every time. with both hands. like grabbing the biggest melon at the supermarket because it looks like it would be sweet.”

a laugh escapes him—soft, startled, unguarded.

you smile, triumphant in the way a scientist smiles when an experiment explodes into confetti instead of smoke. “you don’t have to protect me from every letter. i don’t even see anyone else that way. it’s like my heart is a phone with only one contact and i forgot the passcode for adding new ones.”

his fingers curl into the fabric of your sleeve, holding, like he’s anchoring himself to something that’s moving very fast in a beautiful direction. his eyes, usually so sleepy, shine with something so warm it could bake bread.

“i know,” he says. it’s almost a whisper. “i just… didn’t want them near you.”

you lean back, just enough to see him entirely, as if the universe framed him. “you’re—”

you stop.

there are words you could use, but none of the sharp ones, none of the tired ones. instead, you say, with a grin that feels too big for your face:

“you’re my favorite silly dragon.”

his ears turn the color of strawberries that know they’re being watched.

“dragon,” he repeats, deadpan, but his mouth betrays him with the tiniest upward curve.

“yes,” you say firmly. “hoarding shiny things, glaring at intruders, guarding treasure. very on brand.”

“you’re the treasure,” he says, so casually and so sincerely that the air itself trips over its shoelaces.

your heart becomes a firework disguised as an organ.

“say that again,” you whisper, because you are greedy with sweetness now, shameless, like someone at a free hotel buffet.

he doesn’t repeat—he just looks at you like he already wrote it a hundred times in invisible ink across his life.

you bump his shoulder with yours. “also, a paper heart is in your hair.”

he blinks.

you reach up, pluck it free, and tuck it into your pocket like a joke you plan to giggle about later.

“the team found out?” you ask.

“yes.”

“are they alive?”

“unfortunately.”

you snort, and he watches the sound leave your mouth like it is an actual visible thing he wants to catch in his hands.

you lace your fingers with his, and it fits, like this was the only correct solution to an unsolvable math problem. he squeezes back, not hard, just sure.

“walk me home?” you ask.

he stands. “yes.”

it’s simple with him. no theatrics. no speeches. but his quiet is not empty; it’s dense with feeling, like cake that forgot how to be modest. (dense w a filling! haha sorry.)

on the way, he takes your bag from you without asking, like gravity, like of course. you argue for half a second, then let him, because it makes his shoulders straighten with that tiny, proud stiffness you secretly love.

people look. people whisper. you ignore them like background music in a bakery—present, but irrelevant to the main event, which is sugar and warmth and the boy beside you whose hand keeps brushing yours like it’s shy and brave at the same time.

he stops at your gate.

evening wraps everything in honey.

you turn to him. “akira.”

“mm?”

“thank you for… all of it.” you gesture vaguely at the universe, at the gift avalanche, at his very specific style of quiet chaos. “i’m not mad. just—tell me next time, okay? i want to laugh with you when your locker becomes a greeting card volcano again.”

he nods. then, after a second, he says, “i like you laughing.”

you feel something fizzy in your chest again. “i like you liking that.”

he is very still, and then he leans in and kisses you. it’s the kind of kiss that feels like a secret handshake between souls that already know each other embarrassingly well.

the world does not explode.

it doesn’t need to.

you pull back, smiling so hard your cheeks complain. “see you tomorrow.”

he nods, but he doesn’t let go of your hand right away, like he’s testing how long two hearts can stay stitched together without thread.

you finally slip inside, and he stands there for a moment, looking at the space you left like it’s still full of you.

on the way home, he puts his hands in his pockets and feels the crinkle of paper letters, tucked there earlier, forgotten in the commotion. he doesn’t read them. he doesn’t need to. he just thinks of your laugh, your forehead against his, the way you called him a silly dragon with absolute seriousness.

he smiles—small, secret, enough to tilt the earth a fraction of a degree toward spring.

somewhere in school tomorrow, someone will try again with a ribboned box and trembling hands.

kunimi will be there.

quiet.

inevitable.

and later, when you take his sleeve, when you look at him like he is both the question and the answer, he will think, without drama, without doubt:

‘she already chose me.’

and that, honestly, is more than enough to turn every fence in the world into scenery.

n: oh my heart </3 my followers on ig are watching me lose my shit abt grape soda in a chiikawa can and gojo appearing on jjk s3 like i didn’t see him on the movie.

akira’s taglist

@lsirria @nelinkythoughts @sleepykeijiii @averys-place @anzuuhoshi @s1lly-bon @katzline @depressinglyobsessed @ghostwifeyy @michexoxo @crystal-lilac @forgottensniper @eri0-0 @fiannee @wensurr @suha-reads @sillylule @horanghaepaws @olliesoxenfree @poeticsorcery @starzlytoetsie @kuroofangirl67 @whoizmae @n1koolya @applepiblog @jjunnixzz @renriiwrites

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners !