Atsumu who has to call roadside assistance but immediately discovers that his help line is actually one (1) digit off from a phone sex line. He's thrown, you're thrown, he can't help himself after you purr out a greeting and asks if it's the roadside assistance line and winces at your laugh because yes, okay, that was a stupid question. He should hang up but before he can you ask him what the issue is.
It turns out you're savvy enough with cars. You walk him through what he needs to do—after all, you're still getting paid. By the time you tell him that it's a temporary fix but that should get him where he needs to go for now, he's a little bit in love with you.
(Somewhere out there, Osamu feels a chill go up his spine.)
Okay, Atsumu thinks, perhaps love is a strong word, but as you laugh again, he realizes he doesn't quite want to hang up. There's also your voice—the way it has dropped out of your work purr and into something else, just as sexy but a bit more open, a bit more real—and maybe he's a little hot under the collar. Maybe.
You tell him good luck and he tries to hold onto the sound of your voice because you hang up just after, before he can even respond. For a brief second he has the wild thought of calling back. Instead he manages to limp his way to the mechanic he found online a few towns over. He pulls in and the woman just inside the garage wipes her hands on the towel on her shoulder and settles them on her hips. She watches him and it's scalpel-sharp.
Atsumu considers backing out of the lot.
He doesn't. He gets out and he's halfway to the sun-dappled gleam of the bay doors when he hears the crunch of another car pulling into the lot and then, from behind him: "Mom!"
He doesn't need to turn around to know.
Maybe he wouldn't have, if it wasn't so soon. Maybe he would have brushed it off. But it is soon and he doesn't brush it off and he knows that voice. Your voice.
You laugh, and Atsumu—without turning around, without seeing you, without knowing anything but your laugh and your knowledge and your voice—falls a little bit deeper.
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msby atsumu who is so focused on volleyball that he's only ever hooked up with a handful of people. he's always thought he was at least decent, but then his most recent hookup looks him dead in the eye and tell him the opposite.
"your charisma isn't good enough to make up for that," they say, stepping into their pants. "just saying."
atsumu huffs and puffs and texts the last person he hooked up with a few times. they're still friendly, but it fell to the wayside after the season started, and he's simply never gone back. he knows that he's good, but he needs the reassurance. it can't hurt to have his ego stroked a little, right?
except they avoid it. they hem and they haw and atsumu stares at his phone in horror.
he stews on it. broods. it gets so bad that he contemplates telling osamu, but he couldn't bear it.
to atsumu, there's only one person he can turn to.
kita sighs into the line.
he can hear him moving. it's late, and kita gets up early, but atsumu knows he still likes to cook for you. to cook with you. he's watched the two of you slip smoothly around each other in the farmhouse's little kitchen, the way the tide meets the shore; ever-changing, but always there.
(he wishes a lot, when he watches the two of you. thinks things he wouldn't dare admit—about the pink of your tongue and the o of your mouth; the way kita's fingers must dimple the plush of your thigh; the ripple of kita's lean muscles. he knows he shouldn't. he does anyway.
but if he's staring a little too much, neither of you ever says anything.)
"when's your next weekend off?" kita asks.
"huh? uh, in three weeks, i think?"
kita hums. "buy a ticket," he says. "we'll pick ya up at the station."
"fer what?"
kita lets out a little huff of air; in the distance, atsumu can hear your voice, the sun muffled by morning mist. his chest tightens.
"a lesson," kita says, amusement warming his voice. "after all, you've always been a hands-on learner, haven't ya?"
kita is more playful than you expected during sex. his eyes crinkle with his smile when you almost stumble into the bedframe, too caught up in the hot slide of his tongue in your mouth. he catches you, reels you in carefully, keeps you steady, but you can taste the laughter on his lips.
he's steady, as always. patient. when you pout at him because he's licking up the tender flesh of your inner thigh instead of your slick cunt, he chuckles, his voice deepening, the oncoming dusk on a humid summer night.
"stop teasing," you tell him, nudging his side with your foot.
"is this teasing?"
you scowl. "you know it is."
he breathes out another laugh, but he settles between your legs again, spreading your folds with one hand. you squirm, but before you can say anything, he dips his head and curls his tongue against your clit.
he works you with familiar ease, builds up your pleasure from kindling to bonfire. he's always been a quiet lover, but his fingers sink into the plush of your thighs; his hips stutter against the bed at times.
you cum hard. he squeezes lightly at your thighs, his firm grip grounding you as you shake through it. he keeps his mouth on your pulsing clit until you twist away, your overwrought nerves thrumming.
he doesn't go far. you can still feel his breath stirring against your dripping cunt. you slip your foot to the center of his chest and nudge him away. he goes easily; there's a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.
"you're trouble," you tell him.
he wraps a big hand around your ankle, his thumb stroking across the jut of bone. he tugs your foot close, dipping down to press a kiss to the arch of it.
it leaves a gleaming print of his mouth behind; a brand of your own slick against your skin. embers stir within you. you squirm.
his chest rumbles with his little laugh, far-off thunder.
"is that a bad thing?"
you level him with an annoyed glance. "i haven't decided yet."
he hums, using his hold on your ankle to spread you wide again. his gaze meets yours even as he lowers himself back between your legs.
"who are those for?" you ask, nodding towards the flowers cradled in nanami's arms. the bouquet is artfully wrapped, looped with ribbon to keep the stems from spilling out, each bloom nodding under its own lush weight.
he blinks, barely visible behind his glasses.
"you," he says.
you laugh.
nanami doesn't.
your laughter fades away, a star beneath the morning sun. "wait," you say, putting down your book. "really?"
single dad kita who is so used to licking his finger and swiping the grain of rice off of his daughter's chin that he does it to you one night when you have some on your lip.
you freeze. so does he.
his thumb is still pressed up against your lower lip. you can feel the work-rough pad of it; his spit is slick against your skin. there's heat rising to your cheeks, a supernova burn.
"kita—" you start to say, his name strung out, frazzled with panic.
his thumb slips between your parted lips. you press your tongue against it instinctively; you can taste the salt of him and a hint of the sake you'd been sharing.
kita stares at you, his eyes searching. they're the color of a sunrise, a sweet golden dawn. there's a promise in them.
you press your tongue against his thumb again.
he breathes in through his nose. it's calm. composed. it makes something in you itch.
slowly, carefully, you close your lips around his thumb.
his eyes go dark, the color of whisky. he lets out a soft breath; you only hear the shake because you were listening for it.
a door creaks open.
the both of you go still again.
"daddy?"
it's high and plaintive, an uneasy warble. a little hiccup follows.
kita pulls free of you in an instant. he wipes his thumb against his shirt; you watch as it dampens with your spit.
he's halfway to the hallway when he glances over his shoulder at you. his gaze keeps you in place, a butterfly pinned by its wings.
"stay," he says, simple and firm. "we're not done yet."
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kita and his lean, sinewy strength. he hoists bags of rice with ease, only a glimmer of sweat on his brow. he rests them in the cradle of his shoulders—broader than you'd thought, the breadth of them hidden by his loose shirt—as if they're pillows. you watch him disappear into the back.
"yer starin'," osamu says from where he's blank-faced behind the counter.
you scowl. "you did this on purpose," you accuse.
the corner of his lips ticks up.
"you're the worst," you groan, burying your head in your hands. "you didn't even try to introduce me."
"didn't need ya embarrassing me."
"you're so mean."
osamu raises a brow. "i can take back that free onigiri, then."
you stuff it into your mouth. osamu sighs.
"you and 'tsumu," he mutters. "chew yer food."
you do, all while keeping a protective hand around your second onigiri.
"are you gonna tell me his name?" you ask.
he rolls his eyes. "no."
"bet atsumu will."
osamu sighs. "'s kita," he says. "he's our old captain."
"kita," you repeat, taking another bite.
"yes?" a voice says.
you choke on your onigiri. you cough, trying to dislodge the rice from your windpipe.
"are you alright?" kita asks.
you nod, still coughing.
he raises an eyebrow. "ya sure?"
"fine," you rasp. "thanks."
he inclines his head to you and glances at osamu. "everything's delivered," he says. "just let me know when ya need more."
osamu nods. "sounds good."
the two men exchange goodbyes as you try to regulate your breathing. kita glances at you as he turns to leave; his amber eyes practically glow in the afternoon light. you look away, your cheeks hot.
There is, you have found, nothing like spending time at the beach with Sae. There's something to it—your legs thrown over his as you lie side-by-side in the sand—and the quiet of it. The sea is rolling in and there's chatter as people start to leave for the day and Sae is warm next to you, under you. He smells of sunscreen and salt and summer skin and he is so terribly real, in a way that devours the distance you feel sometimes when you look up and he's staring back at you from the side of a building, his Calvin Kleins low on his hips and his eyes seaglass, clouded and worn.
"Look," you say, nudging at him just to feel the way he gives. "Your favorite."
Sae opens one eye. He gives the bird—circling nearer with each pass—a cursory glance.
"That's a tern," he says flatly, closing his eye again.
"What? No, that's a seagull."
"It's a tern," he says. "Now stop wiggling, you're getting sand everywhere."
"It's the beach, Sae. It's made of sand."
He hums. You huff, starting to shift away, but he tangles your legs together before you can go far. The hand on your hip is extra insurance, you suppose.
"Sae," you say.
He hums again. You try to wiggle free; he flexes his thighs and keeps you in place without any effort.
"Sae!"
"You'll scare it away," he says.
"The seagull."
"The tern," he corrects.
"Fine. The tern. The tern that is eating my fries that I would like to rescue."
He squeezes at your hip. "I'm comfortable."
"My fries, Sae."
"I'll buy you more later."
He's warm, and his hand is solid and real on your hip, and the tern is halfway through your limp fries. You settle back down into the curve of him.
Don't look at me. This is genuinely so sappy with a hint of suggestiveness at the end. Divider from @/cursed-carmine.
Kita x reader, no pronouns used.
Minors and ageless blogs dni. You will be blocked.
It's late; the lights of your reception have dimmed, fading stars. You can still hear the dregs of celebration, people chatting as they depart, the too-loud laughter of the less sober guests ringing out like bells.
The breeze stirs as Aran coaxes you out on the engawa, a welcome reprieve from the wet lick of summer.
"Where are you taking me?" you ask him, raising a brow.
He smiles. It reminds of you the glow of a window in the blue hour, golden and spilling out, a beacon in the night.
"Aran?"
"It's a secret."
You frown. "This better not be some Miya-engineered bullshit."
"I'm offended you think I'd be a part of that."
"They're a tsunami on the best of days. Not hard to think you might have gotten swept up."
He laughs, stepping around the raised beds Kita built for you when you first moved in, despite your questionable green thumb. "I promise there's no Miya involvement," he says. "Well. There's minimal Miya involvement."
"Not reassuring."
It's getting darker the further away you get from the farmhouse, the night settling around you, a velveteen embrace. The rice is rippling, the crickets chirping from underneath the green canopy of them.
It sounds like home.
You're just about to pester Aran again when you see Kita. The moon paints him silver, a lover's touch. He's crouched by a sapling, still tender-leaved, his hand cupped around the mound of dirt at its roots. He's gentle as he presses the dirt into place, a cradle made by careful hands.
"Shin?" you say.
Your husband—how strange that is, you think, how new, the thought only hours old—looks up. He blinks at you, his long lashes casting shadows, moonlight webbed through them.
"Was gonna wait until tomorrow," he says, glancing at Aran.
Aran shrugs. "We agreed that it's better today."
Kita raises a brow. "Who's we?"
Aran coughs. "G'night," he says, backing up towards the house. "Congrats again."
"Hey—" you start, but he's already disappearing into the night, leaving the two of you alone. You glance at Kita. "Shin?"
He pushes to his feet, thigh muscles rippling. "C'mere," he says softly, and you go to him, as you always will. You slot yourself into his side, a rib returned.
"Taking up an arborist side job, Shin?"
You feel his laugh more than you hear it, the rumble of it in his chest like far-off thunder. His hand is low on your hip; it's familiar, comfortable.
"Just the one, I think," he replies.
You look at the little sapling. It's all slim, pliable branches, the leaves a delicate green. "Just the one, huh? For what?"
He gives you a little squeeze. "For us."
"Hmm?"
"To grow with us," he says softly. "Every day, every year. The good and the bad and everything in between. A shelter."
"It's too small to stand under, Shin," you point out. If he notices your voice is rougher than usual, thick with a hint of tears, he doesn't comment.
(He notices. He's good at that, your Kita. Intentional and observant and so, so human.)
"One day," he says.
"A long time from now."
"A long time from now," he agrees. "But we'll stand under it together."
You press closer into his side, hooking your finger through his belt loop, an anchor, a hold. "Okay," you say. "It's a plan."
"It's a promise."
"A promise," you repeat, almost too soft to be heard. You look to the tree again. It's so small.
You push away from Kita; he makes an inquiring noise, too used to you to be startled anymore.
"I want a picture, Shin," you announce. "Us with the tree the day it's planted."
"It's dark out."
"There's flash," you counter.
"It won't come out well," he says.
"Don't care."
He sighs, but he's smiling, a gentle, sweet curve. "As you wish."
It takes maneuvering, but you manage it, the tree framed behind the two of you, the fresh dirt obvious. You blink away the afterimage of the lightning-kiss of the flash. Kita steadies you easily, and you don't fight it when he starts to lead you back to the farmhouse.
(You do look behind you, one last time. The sapling is bathed in moonlight, cast silver. It is tender, delicate, but you know—
It will endure.)
Later, when Kita's showered off the remains of the dirt and you're entwined in bed, exhaustion sunk into your bones, you blink.
"Hey Shin?"
"Mmh?"
"You said you were going to wait until tomorrow to show me."
"Yeah."
"What were you going to tell me when you came inside covered in dirt?"
"The truth," he says.
"And you would have kept me from going outside barefoot past midnight how?"
His eyes gleam; his lips quirk, a crescent moon curve bright with mischief. "A distraction."
"What kind of dis—"
His fingers slip beneath the hem of your sleep pants, trailing heat behind them, a shooting star of sensation. The tip of his middle finger skims low, flint to kindling.
"Oh," you say. "That kind."
Kita chuckles. It's all summer heat, a heady, sultry thing. He presses close, his hand dipping lower. He touches his forehead to yours, breathes against your lips.
"That kind," he agrees, and when you push forward to kiss him, he meets you halfway.
It is, you think, the perfect end to your wedding day.
