#threadfics

Kiyoomi staggers into the dorm’s living room, tipsy and weightless after a drinking session with Motoya. Atsumu is asleep on the couch.

God, he’s handsome, and not in an adoring way. It’s more in the he-wants-to-do-A-LOT-of-inappropriate-things-with-him way.

Kiyoomi kneels in front of the couch. Self-control dimmed by alcohol, his fingers hover over Atsumu’s face and trace the slopes and valleys—his nose, his lips, his jaw, his cheekbones.

He’s not touching but it’s close, so close.

There's a meager centimeter in distance between his skin and Atsumu’s, if he could wager a guess.

The temptation to touch, to kiss, sweeps him in a tornado of longing so overwhelming it feels like he’s being flayed.

He hears Atsumu groan. He pulls his hand back and stands up so quickly he almost falls over. Kiyoomi hopes he hasn’t been caught.

“Omi-kun?”

“You should move to your bedroom, Miya. You’re ruining my magnificent view of the living room,” he taunts, arms crossed.

“Yer view is magnificent because I’m in the living room, Omi.”

“I’m always so impressed by the levels of conceitedness you reach, Miya. Sometimes I’ll think you hit your ceiling and then you outdo yourself somehow,” he retorts, lips curled in disgust.

“That’s a lot of words to say I’m great at surpassin’ my limits, Omi-kun. Sounds like a compliment to me!”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Only you would take that as a compliment.”

“Yeah? Well, yer the only one who’d insult me and look so riled up while doin’ so.”

“Riled up? Who’s riled up? You’re delusional.”

“Huh. So the fact that yer breathin’ faster than usual and yer pupils are dilated is what? Jus’ a figment of my imagination?”

“Yes.”

“Did anyone ever tell ya yer a bad liar, Omi-kun?”

“No, because I’m telling the truth.”

Atsumu shrugs. “So ya weren’t hoverin’ over me and fantasizin’ about kissin’ me or anythin’ like that, right?”

“Wha—I—were you—“ he sputters, before indignation and denial take over. “Absolutely not!”

“See? Bad liar.”

Atsumu gets up and stretches his hands above his head, the hem of his shirt riding up to show the V on his hips and his scrumpti—shut up brain. He whistles as he bypasses Kiyoomi and makes his way to his own bedroom.

When Atsumu gets to the threshold, he turns around and says, “I’m not lockin’ my door, Omi. I heard the rest of the team is out until tomorrow. If ya need anythin’, anythin’ at all, jus’ knock.”

He does not miss the way Atsumu licked his lips after he said “Omi”. Unfortunately.

The door closes with a soft click, and Kiyoomi is mortified by how much his body wants to sprint towards Atsumu’s door.

He’s strong. He’s Sakusa Kiyoomi. He can resist temptation. He can do this.

Oh…wait. Shit. Fuck.

His room is the door after Atsumu’s.

Kiyoomi bites his lips, momentarily considering fleeing the dorm and sleeping over at Motoya’s apartment. He shakes his head. That’s a coward’s way out. He’s not a coward.

His legs are quivering as he walks towards his room. He’s definitely going to his room and not—

His feet stop in front of a clumsily written sign that says “MIYA” thumbtacked in front of the door. In Kiyoomi’s dream, nightmare, and reality, it also refuses to move.

Shit.

He sighs, loathing himself for the decision he knows he’s about to make. He knocks.

“Come on in, Omi. My bed’s warm.”

He hears the smirk in Atsumu’s voice beyond the closed door and sighs again. He’s fucking cursed. If the curse happens to be his humiliating “crush on Miya Atsumu”, it’s no one else’s business but his own.

He opens the door and closes it behind him.

If Katsuki is not a pro hero, he can just tell all of them to respectfully fuck off and leave him alone. But he cannot burn his bridges to the influential and rich folks who kinda help Katsuki and other pro-heroes in politics and social images

"Ahh! Kacchan! I've been looking for you! Let's go, it's mission time!" Deku, presumably sent by the deities who Katsuki hasn't pissed off yet, comes outta nowhere with his paradoxically annoying and comforting voice, "Excuse us, pretty ladies. The Wonder Duo is being summoned!"

Deku takes his hand, firm and unwavering, and drags him away from the lady hounds. He leaves them instead with an alarmingly enchanting smile that Deku has always been known for.

If Deku was a pokemon, this would be one of his abilities. (Deku used ‘Cute boy-next-door-charm’ IT WAS SUPER EFFECTIVE!)

The party hall is pretty big, so there are corners that are empty. Deku takes him to one of those corners.

There's no one there that can hear him, but Deku excitedly lowers his voice and leans to whisper next to Katsuki's ear. It reminds him of a five year old Deku, with bruises on his knees but at the same time, breathless and delighted to tell Katsuki about the bird's nest he just discovered.

“Kacchan, I was wandering around,” Deku flails his arms excitedly, “...then I found the kitchen and guess what!” There’s so much giddiness and happiness in his voice that Katsuki can’t help but grin back.

Deku takes out two ziplock bags from inside his suit, “I MADE US KATSUDON SANDWICHES!!”

“Oh my god!” Katsuki’s stomach makes a sound (similar to what the velociraptors make) at the sight of the sandwiches. “You have no idea how hungry I am, Deku! I can eat a whole fucking horse!”

Deku hands him one of the sandwiches and proceeds to hurriedly unwrap his own. Apparently, he’s not the only one hungry in this stupid party.

Katsuki takes a bite of his immediately and his tastebuds are greeted by that familiar creamy and tangy spice, “Whoa! Samurai sauce?! Where did you find it?!” his eyes widen to big saucers. Samurai sauce is like spicy mayo, but tangier. Katsuki puts it on almost all of his sandwiches when they visited the Netherlands for a mission. But it's not sold in Japan, last he checked.

“Of course! I was lucky I found it in kitchen here! Maybe the chefs keep it for international dishes. I was just looking for any spicy sauce. Then I saw this, and I was like, Jackpot!! Samurai sauce!!” Deku takes another bite and hurriedly chews, “I knew you’d like that!”

Spicy katsudon with samurai-sauce sandwich, thoughtfully made by Deku--Katsuki can’t ask for anything more wholesome and sweeter than this.

“Thanks for rescuing me again from that.” He nods his head to the direction of the female celebrities. “Did you sense it or something?”

“Heh, I don’t need a quirk to sense that you’re in danger.” He sticks his tongue out at Katsuki.

“You mean THEY were in danger FROM me. I could have blown their heads off and this whole party.” Katsuki finishes the last bite of his sandwich.

“..which you won’t do because we have to keep everyone happy and we want our agencies handsomely sponsored.” Deku finishes his sandwich too, “Don’t worry Kacchan. I’ll save you all the time.”

Katsuki knows deep in his bones that Deku will keep that promise forever.

“Like hell you will. This is the only time you save me. From now on, I’ll do the saving for both of us.” He takes Deku’s hand and silently thanks every possible god listening right now for this genuinely good thing in his life. “Come on, sandwich wizard. Let’s get some drinks.”

Well-fed, in good company and happy, Katsuki promises himself that he’ll marry this man someday.

A few years later, surrounded by their closest friends and family, he fulfilled his promise to himself and to Bakugou Izuku.

---🧡💚 ---

Did you know that this was inspired by the song I Don't Care? I just think about Kacchan wanting to escape a stupid party, but he'll gladly stay as long Deku is there.

post-part 3 jotapol, erotic dreams, pining

“You said you won’t do anything, Miya,” Kiyoomi complains with his back to the wall, breathless and wild-eyed, like hunted prey.

Atsumu’s face is a few inches away from his own, arms steadied against the wall behind him, bracketing Kiyoomi’s face.

“I’m not doin’ anythin’ you wouldn’t want me to do, Omi-kun,” Atsumu responds beneath half-lidded eyes, voice low and raspy.

He leans closer, the tips of their noses almost touching. Kiyoomi feels every inhale and exhale that he takes against his cupid’s bow.

His mouth is drowning in something thick and sweet and tacky. He swallows, and hopes all the upheavals in his chest follow the spit down his gut.

It doesn’t. It stays there, fragments of tension and potent desire spooling together in a concoction that makes him want to puke. Or be ravaged.

“Atsumu,” he pants out. Oh, he sounds so disgustingly needy.

He closes his eyes, feeling like the air around him is drenched in liquor and aflame. It must be on fire.

“Omi, what do you want?” Atsumu asks in a lurid whisper.

The words hit him with entirely too much want and too many memories of Atsumu kissing him. His lungs complaining about its inability to take in air.

Kiyoomi wants to scream. Or die. Or be ravaged. Maybe all three can occur at the same time.

“Atsumu, I—“

“I love the way ya say my name, Omi,” Atsumu says as he skews his head to the right and draws even closer. His lips are now a hair's breadth away from Kiyoomi’s.

Yes. He is officially dead.

“Fuck you,” he mutters under his breath, before grabbing Atsumu’s collar and colliding their lips together in a frantic and entirely too messy kiss.

There’s hunger and then there’s this. It’s less a kiss and more a satiation, less a kiss and more a consumption.

“Told ya I only do what ya want me to do, Omi,” Atsumu says in between gasps, a wolfish grin painted on his delicious mouth.

At least, he thought he did. He knew how to roll with the punches. He knew how to adapt, how to connect, how to find that one thing in common that brought him just a little further into a circle he would never quite belong to. 

But that’s what you did when you moved - you changed. And you adapted. And (it is a cliche for a reason) you overcame.

Tooru had moved a few times by the time he was 30, and each time was a little easier and a little harder all at once. He didn’t quite remember the first move, the one he did when he was barely four. But the moves after that - the one to San Juan, and then to Buenos Aires, and then back to San Juan again - still felt fresh in his mind. They brought about new faces, new teams, new grocery stores, new apartments. They brought him new old ladies to charm and new struggles with getting internet service.

Tooru was good at this. He knew how to handle this. It was new, but at this point nothing really seemed new. But... the loneliness. It was something he probably should have realized ahead of time. He was fine alone. He worked well alone. He needed to recharge alone, to sort his thoughts while alone, to strategize and breathe and relax his shoulders alone. But being alone is different than being lonely, and coming home to an empty apartment, new or old or familiar all the same, is the same no matter where you move.

It wasn’t until he made his fifth move - the penultimate one - that he realized what was missing.

It came in the form of laughter.

That’s not to say he didn’t love the laughter back home in Argentina. He did. He loved his teammates, even the new recruits, like he loved his own family. He loved the chuckles of the elderly couple who lived next door and called him Toto, and he loved the giggles of the children who played football in the alley behind his apartment.

But this laughter was different. It had always been different. This laughter, despite years of separation, had not changed.

“Japan looks good on you, Shittykawa.”

The warmth that filled Tooru’s chest at those words hadn’t changed either. Nor had the racing of his heart when Iwaizumi put his arms around him in a bear hug that nearly cracked his spine. Nor had the tears that sprang unbidden to his eyes at the idea of being here, in Sendai, surrounded by smells and sounds and sights that held a sort of indiscernible permanence. Here, in front of Iwaizumi, in front of the person whose presence in his life had been unflinching even in his darkest of San Juan days.

“I missed you too, Iwa-chan,” he said, voice barely disguising a quiver, yet Iwaizumi saw through it straight away. It’s another thing that never faded, that ability to see straight into Tooru’s soul despite the walls and walls and walls he had built over years of change and change and change. It was then that Iwaizumi stepped across the threshold to Tooru’s new apartment, just a short term lease for residency reasons, and it was then that he brought about the biggest change in Tooru’s life.

But it wasn’t a change, not really. Just a reframing. And it was only a year later that they’d be crossing a threshold together, in a bustling little New England town, the warmth in Tooru’s chest having never quite left, and this time perhaps enhanced by the ring on Tooru’s finger. Change upon change upon change.

Iwaizumi smiled at him from their new entryway, the logo of his new college emblazoned on his chest and a ring matching Tooru’s sparkling on his hand. “Welcome home, Tooru,” he said.

And Tooru’s weary soul found peace.

Tourists snapping photos of the street with Hinata doing a bike delivery in the background. A couple’s beach selfie with Hinata at the top of a spike off to the side. A saved snapchat story with Hinata laughing just behind.

The photos get saved to hard drives, cloud services, photo albums. And then Ninja Shouyou rises to the top of the volleyball world. And it’s not intentional, but as one tourist or local or snapchatter goes through their photos months, even years later, suddenly they start recognizing a familiar face in the background of their photos. The photos start getting shared on social media, tagging ‘ninja shouyou’ from when he was younger, less experienced, learning. And suddenly more and more people are looking through their vacation photos, their snapchat archive, their google drive. Hinata’s mentions are filled with zoomed in photos of his face, of people speculating what he was doing in this photo or that photo, people tracking down what delivery company he worked for, what restaurants he was delivering from.

It’s not intentional, but a timeline starts to form of Hinata’s two years in Brazil - and it soon becomes glaringly obvious how difficult the first of those two years were for him. Between the spikes, the laughter, the determination in Hinata’s face, fans pick out the dark circles. They see the redness of his eyes, just enough to suggest recent tears. They see him slumped across the handlebars of his bike. They see him on the beach, face buried in his hands, frustration and exhaustion and sheer sadness radiating off the broken curve of his shoulders. In some images, he’s depicted on the phone, teary-eyed and sniffling.

And it does get better, as time gets by. It does. Hinata is seen smiling more, laughing more, standing straighter. He is seen with a phone in hand more frequently, texting or taking selfies or chatting away. He looks happy, and his fans are relieved. But even still, the pictures are gathered, and as they always do, the interviewers begin their questions: “What made you choose Brazil? And how did you overcome the challenges of moving countries, learning a new language, learning how to survive, all by yourself?”

And Hinata - broad, bronzed, gleaming in red - smiles, waving his hand as though the question was expected. On his finger, a thin, silver band catches the light and shines. “I had someone waiting for me at the top,” he says, as if it were that simple.

The interviewer raises an eyebrow and leans forward. “And that got you through it? That still takes a lot of mental fortitude, Hinata-san.”

Hinata’s eyes flicker to meet a gaze across the room, and his smile softens. He slumps a little, acquiescing. “Yeah. it was really hard,” he admits after a moment, turning back to the interviewer. “I almost gave up so many times in those first few months.” He pauses, sighs, and glances down at the glimmer of silver on his finger. “But I had someone who reminded me what I was working towards. Why I was there in the first place. If it weren’t for that person, I would have gone home much sooner.”

The interviewer catches his look, and smiles. “I presume that person is still in your life, then?”

Hinata’s smile is hesitant across the room, his eyes a question, his posture eager. And he must get what he’s seeking, because suddenly the smile becomes a riot of joyous sunlight. “Yeah,” he says. He spins the ring around his finger once, perhaps a nervous habit, then swallows and holds up his hand just enough for the ring to be caught by the camera. “Yeah,” he says again, and inhales. Then he laughs and smiles broader still, and gestures at someone in the back to stand. “Kageyama Tobio isn’t going anywhere.”