#yaku

​yaku immediately grabs his phone with the speed of a striking cobra and fires off a text message so fast his thumbs nearly snap.

​mori: happy birthday to the absolute light of my entire life. you’re the sun. you’re the air i breathe. i’m outside.

​you read the text, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and squint through your bedroom window. sure enough, there’s a small, aggressively determined figure standing beneath the streetlamp, wearing a jacket that makes him look slightly like a neon marshmallow, holding a box of baked goods like it contains the holy grail.

​when you open the front door, he greets you and looks at you like you’re the first drop of water in a three-year desert drought.

​“you’re awake,” he breathes out, his face flushing a violent pink that matches the frosting on the cupcakes. “good. excellent. happy birthday. i made these. if they taste like drywall, tell me immediately and i will execute the baker—which is me, but the principle stands.”

​you take a bite of one right there on the porch, the sugar hitting your system. it’s perfect. it’s so good you actually make a small, pathetic whimpering noise. yaku’s chest puffs out so far he looks like a pigeon trying to intimidate a rival bird. the sheer triumph in his eyes is loud enough to wake the neighbors. he looks ready to fight a god in a parking lot just because you liked the frosting.

​“get some sleep,” he orders softly, his voice dropping into that specific, gentle cadence that makes your stomach do a backflip into a swimming pool of jelly. he reaches up, his thumb catching a stray bit of icing near your lip with the precision of a man who tracks volleyballs for a living. “tomorrow’s a military operation. be ready by ten.”

​at exactly 9:58 am, yaku is vibrating on your porch. when you open the door, he takes one look at you in your birthday outfit and his brain completely short-circuits. the windows startup sound plays in his head. he has to physically grip the porch railing to stabilize himself because your existence is currently hitting him like a physical blow to the solar plexus.

​“you look…” he starts, his voice cracking slightly like a middle schooler going through puberty. he clears his throat, his ears turning the color of a fire engine. “yeah. okay. the universe really spent extra time on you, huh? ridiculous. let’s go before i start crying in public.”

​the itinerary he has constructed is not a normal date plan. it’s a leather-bound binder with laminated tabs. yaku has calculated the exact trajectory of your happiness for the next twelve hours down to the millimeter.

​first stop is a cat cafe, because he knows you lose your mind over anything small, fluffy, and angry—which is ironic, considering who you’re dating. the second you walk in, a massive, grumpy calico waddles over and plops itself directly onto your lap.

​yaku stares at the cat. the cat stares back with absolute malice.

​for a hot second, you’re convinced yaku is about to engage in a psychological warfare battle with a feline for your attention. he looks genuinely offended that another living creature had the audacity to make you smile before he did. but then you scratch the cat behind its ears, laughing that specific, crinkly-nosed laugh that makes yaku’s soul detach from his body, and he just collapses onto the table, hiding his face in his arms.

​“mori? you okay?” you ask, poking his shoulder.

​“no,” comes his muffled voice from the wood. “you’re too loud. your face is too loud. why are you doing this to me on your own birthday? i’m supposed to be the one giving you heart palpitations.”

​“are you jealous of a cat named barnaby?”

​“barnaby needs to know his place,” yaku mutters, though he reaches across the table to capture your free hand, his fingers intertwining with yours so tightly you can feel his pulse. his palm is warm, a little calloused from the court, and he starts tracing tiny, nonsensical circles on the back of your hand with his thumb. it’s a quiet habit of his, an unspoken reassurance that he’s entirely anchored to you.

​lunch is a chaotic masterpiece. he takes you to a restaurant that serves those ridiculous, over-the-top milkshakes piled high with slices of cake, sparklers, and enough cotton candy to insulate a small house.

​when a random guy named berto brings it out, singing a horribly off-key version of happy birthday with an ‘y/nxyaku’ headband, yaku looks like he wants to dissolve into a puddle of shame, but he’s clapping the loudest. he’s leaning forward, his eyes bright and completely fixed on you, ignoring the sparkler sparks flying dangerously close to his hair.

​“blow it out, blow it out!” he urges, pulling out his phone to take approximately four hundred photos from every conceivable angle. “make a wish. if it’s about money, i’ll get a ton of jobs. if it’s about a giant robot, i’ll build it. just tell me.”

​“i wished for you to stop being so dramatic,” you tease, pulling a strawberry off the shake and popping it into your mouth.

​yaku stops, his phone hovering in mid-air. his expression softens into something so heavy, so incredibly tender, that the playful atmosphere around the table just evaporates. he leans his chin on his hand, looking up at you through his eyelashes.

​“granted,” he murmurs, his voice low and entirely devoid of his usual defensive bark. “but you’re stuck with the dramatic version anyway. i don’t know how to love you quietly. it’s not physically possible.”

​you almost chew on your strawberry. your face burns. you’re fully aware that you’re close to squealing like a victorian child seeing a train for the first time, but you can’t stop it. yaku feels the heat spread across your cheeks with a smug, deeply satisfied smirk, entirely proud of his ability to reduce you to a stuttering mess.

​the final phase of the operation takes place at a park overlooking the city just as the sun starts to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gold. it’s chilly, the evening breeze biting at your bare arms.

​before you can even think about shivering, yaku has stripped off his jacket with the speed of an olympic athlete and draped it over your shoulders. it smells like him—laundry detergent, faint traces of gym salonpas, and that distinct, comforting warmth that belongs entirely to him. it swallows you whole, the sleeves hanging way past your fingers.

​yaku looks at you, enveloped in his clothes, and a strange, strangled noise escapes his throat.

​“what?” you ask, pulling the collar up to your nose.

​“nothing,” he says, but his hands are shaking slightly as he reaches out to cup your face. his palms are big enough to frame your cheeks perfectly, his thumbs smoothing over your cheekbones. “just… you look like that. in my stuff. it’s unfair. i feel like my chest is going to crack open.”

​he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. you can feel the heat radiating off him, see the tiny gold flecks in his brown eyes. he’s breathing softly, his gaze dropping to your lips and staying there like a man stranded at sea looking at a lighthouse.

​“i spent the whole day trying to make this perfect,” he whispers, his breath warm against your skin. “because you deserve a version of the world that doesn’t have any flaws in it. i know i’m loud, and i’m short-tempered, and kuroo says i have the emotional range of a pipe wrench, but… i love you so much it makes me feel crazy. happy birthday, y/n.”

​when he kisses you, it’s not a polite, gentle peck. it’s a deep, desperate, all-consuming thing that tells you exactly how much he’s been holding back all day. his hands slide from your face down to your waist, pulling you flush against him until there’s no space left between you. he kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the texture of your lips, like he’s trying to pour every single ounce of his devotion directly into your heart.

​your fingers tangle in the short hairs at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, and yaku lets out a low, shaky groan into the kiss, his grip tightening around your waist until you’re practically lifted off your feet.

​when he finally pulls back, just an inch, his lips are swollen and his eyes are dark, completely focused on you as if the rest of the city below had just ceased to exist.

​“well,” he breathes, his forehead resting against yours again, a breathless, goofy gring breaking through his flushed face. “i think i nailed the birthday gift part. now let’s go home before i buy you a star or something stupid.”

n: i wish you the happiest birthday, sho :3 i’m so glad to have befriended you. i can’t express how grateful i am to have someone like you. you’ve helped me through a lot of times whenever i panicked about something minor, calming me down and making me think logically, or just letting me talk my heart out until i finally get tired. you’ll always have a special place in my heart for me to cherish, and in my mind for me to remember. happy birthday, sho !! i love u sm <3

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

kuroo tetsurou, as the slick, handsome office rival to your overworked, average, jealous and bitter co-worker uke.

you were seriously tired of the new hire. after just two months of working, kuroo tetsurou had all your co-workers and superiors wrapped around his finger. while his insane project of taking professional and olympic athletes all around the world for an exhibition match got approved, you’re still running all over the place, tripping over your boss’s shoes for a single rest day.

he’s tall, a former athlete, and he can persuade anyone to believe that every word that spills from his mouth is worth its weight in gold. (and the rumor that his perfectly coiffed hair is simply bedhead? seriously?)

but when the nights get late, and your bottom is still glued to your chair, it’s kuroo who brings canned coffee from the vending machines and his lighthearted banter to lift your spirits. just a little. 

and if the overtime stretches past the last train, and your co-worker has nowhere to go for the night, the least you could do is offer him your place, right?

yaku morisuke, as the older yet shorter childhood friend uke to your younger yet taller seme.

things were much simpler for yaku at age ten, living life as any young boy would, playing hard and getting dirty with a worn-out volleyball in hand at all times. for ten-year-old yaku, it was even better with little you clinging to his side, his favorite neighbor always willing to go along with his antics. and in return, he’d always humor yours, even as you so boldly declared you’d marry yaku when you two were older.

the years pass, and yaku still keeps his worn-out volleyball in his hands at all times, while you’ve continued to stay by his side. the only difference is that you’re not his cute, little neighbor anymore, but a mature, respected kouhai that now towers over him!

even if yaku wants to avoid you in his insecurity, you just won’t give! and somehow, you’re still taking that childhood proposal seriously?!

kozume kenma, as the undercover boys’ love mangaka uke to your longtime friend and unknowing fanboy seme. 

kozume kenma, university student, stock trader, pro-gamer, youtuber, your best friend, and unbeknownst to anyone, popular boys’ love mangaka under the alias “kenken”. it’s the inevitable career path for any loner, right? maybe not the boys’ love part, but kenma didn’t mind that detail so long as it kept bringing in the money. it was a popular market, after all.

it’s not like he has to keep it a secret. it’s just more convenient for him considering everything else. which is why he doesn’t bother to keep it from you, especially since the way he revealed it was because he caught you reading one of his latest oneshots. 

in exchange for his autograph and a sneak peek of his next series, he offers a deal. to use you as a reference. placing himself beneath you to get the right angles for his drawings, going out on fake dates for material. and as you find yourself falling into a deeper side you’d never known about your friend kenma, you can't help but wonder if he's being unintentionally cruel. every touch, every word he covers up as potential dialogue. what does it mean to him?

fukunaga ; line delivery. most pickup lines and dad jokes dont land with you, but something about hs deadpan stare and wide eyes get you everytime. even after months, or years of knowing him, you have never been able to pick up when he’s about to tell you a joke.

kai ; rolling his sleeves up. the way he goes of his way to make sure they dont unfurl while working, meticulously tucking them in and folding it evenly.

yaku ; grabs your wrist instead of your hand. thinks that hand holding is too intimate, but one could argue what he’s doing is worse.

yamamoto ; loyal to a fault. unfollows every model and anyone vaguely attractive after beginning to date (his sister told him that he should) and wont even entertain the idea of flirting or doing anything vaguely intimate with anyone else.

fukunaga ; line delivery. most pickup lines and dad jokes dont land with you, but something about hs deadpan stare and wide eyes get you everytime. even after months, or years of knowing him, you have never been able to pick up when he’s about to tell you a joke.

inuoka ; smiles with his whole body, like he cant possible bear the idea of keeping it to himself. everytime he’s happy, everyone and their mother can tell, even if they dont know him in the slightest.

lev ; doesnt know personal space. the sincerity in his proximity and his actions is different from all the other people who get all up in your business. most of the time, its because they dont care enough to respect you, but with lev, its because he respects you enough to properly listen.

Yet here you were. With him. And your hair brushing your waist.

At first, it didn’t bother you. Yaku had chosen you. He’d asked you out after weeks of shy glances during your visits to watch their practices, his cheeks flushed as he mumbled something about how your smile made up for all the chaos on the court. But the team’s reactions… those were starting to wear on you.

“Hey, Yaku! Your girlfriend’s here again,” Lev called out one afternoon, his tall frame loping over with that easy grin. His eyes flicked to your hair, then back to Yaku. “Still rocking the long look, huh?”

Kenma glanced up from his game, golden eyes narrowing slightly in that unreadable way of his. “Didn’t think that was your type.”

Inuoka bounced on his heels nearby. “Yeah, man. Remember that girl from the training camp? The one with the bob? You said she looked cool.”

You forced a smile, pretending to adjust the strap of your bag. Yaku rolled his eyes and shoved Lev lightly. “Shut up, you idiots. Hair doesn’t matter.” But the words felt thin in the air, and the teammates exchanged glances—confused, almost skeptical. Like they were waiting for Yaku to come to his senses.

You started making excuses after that. Skipping a few practices. Telling Yaku you had homework or club stuff. In reality, you were spiraling. Every time you showed up, the confusion lingered. Kai gave you polite but distant nods. Yamamoto avoided eye contact altogether, muttering about “Yaku’s standards.” It wasn’t outright mean—Nekoma was a family—but the undercurrent was clear: you didn’t fit the image they’d built of Yaku’s ideal girl.

One evening, after a particularly grueling practice, you waited outside the gym like always. Your hair was tied back today, but strands had escaped, framing your face. Yaku jogged out, towel around his neck, his sharp eyes lighting up when he saw you. He pulled you into a quick hug, sweaty but warm.

“Missed you at practice yesterday,” he said, voice low. “Everything okay?”

You nodded against his shoulder, but the knot in your chest tightened. “Your team… they don’t seem to like me much.”

Yaku pulled back, frowning. “What? That’s not true.”

“They keep bringing up your ‘type.’ Short hair. The girl from the camp. It’s like they’re wondering why you’re with me.” Your voice cracked just a little, the slight sting of insecurity bleeding through. You tucked a long lock behind your ear self-consciously. “Maybe they’re right. I don’t want to be the one who doesn’t fit.”

For a second, Yaku’s expression flickered—surprise, then something softer, almost pained. He took your hand, squeezing it. “Come on. Let’s talk inside.”

The gym was mostly empty now, just a few stragglers packing up. Yaku didn’t let go of your hand as he called out to the remaining teammates. “Hey! Group huddle for a sec.”

Lev perked up. Kenma sighed but closed his game. Even Yamamoto paused mid-stretch.

“What’s up, captain?” Lev teased.

Yaku shot him a glare but kept his grip steady on you. “You’ve all been weird around her. The comments about hair. Spill it.”

The silence stretched awkwardly. Then Kai cleared his throat. “We weren’t trying to be rude. Just… surprised, that’s all. You’ve talked about short hair forever. Figured it was a dealbreaker.”

“Yeah,” Inuoka added sheepishly. “We like her! She’s nice and cheers loud. But we thought maybe you were… I dunno, settling? Or that it’d bother you eventually.”

Your stomach dropped. Settling. The word echoed.

Yaku let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his own messy hair. “You morons. I said I liked short hair on girls. Past tense. Before I met her.” He glanced at you, eyes fierce and sincere. “Her hair’s beautiful. Long, short—doesn’t matter. It’s her. She shows up to every match, remembers our plays better than half of you, and puts up with my crap after losses. That’s what I care about.”

He turned fully to you, voice dropping. “I’m sorry I didn’t shut it down sooner. I thought they were just joking around like always. But you… you’re not some placeholder. I love you exactly like this. Hair and all.”

Heat rushed to your face. The team shifted, looking properly chastised.

Lev scratched his head. “Sorry… We didn’t mean to make you feel bad. Welcome to the team for real, Yaku’s girl.”

Kenma gave a small nod. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

Yamamoto grinned awkwardly. “Your hair looks strong. Like a lion’s mane. Fits Nekoma.”

You laughed despite yourself, the tension unraveling. Yaku’s hand was still in yours, thumb brushing reassuringly over your knuckles. The slight angst that had been gnawing at you for weeks melted under his steady gaze.

Later, as the two of you walked home under the streetlights, Yaku tugged gently on a strand of your long hair. “Don’t ever think you don’t fit. You’re the best thing on my court—off it too.”

You leaned into his side, heart full. “Even with the long hair?”

“Especially with it,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “It gives me something to play with when we’re like this.”