#🔞: mdni for ma themes

[soranihimawari]

Undercover Distant Lovers

Or Air Force 1’s

Pairing: Mattsukawa/Mattsun x reader

Single parent au// Yakuza au

Word count: 9.5 K

🔞: mdni for mature themes, blood, criminal violence (surrounding the cast here), allusions to sex

Ka-sho// (auntie) Shoko is yn’s relative. You can read how she meets Makki here.

An old piccrew which inspired this tale. ^-^

If you were thumbing through the Mattuskawa’s family photo album, you’d see many polaroids of a young girl who wears her hair in half pigtails hanging out with her god-brother Takeru on a trip to Tokyo Disneyland. Her father sports aviator sunglasses, tailored pants and a bold yellow unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt with a muscle tank top underneath. His daughter just turned four years old and as a birthday gift, she begged her father to buy her matching Nike Air Force 1’s so they can visit Takeru on fall break in Tokyo when the teenager actually had a free day from practice at the All-Japan Youth Volleyball Camp. Below it in handwriting too neat to be his daughter’s and too rigid to be his own, the caption reads: “Mattsukawa Erina, 4th birthday party trip to Tokyo Disneyland, 2018”

The person behind the camera is the same one whose handwriting serves as a reminder of how one encounter at the local Shibuya Foot Locker in the shopping district turned the single father and daughter’s life upside down.

[2017, Mattsukawa Residence]

A little girl sits atop the reupholstered couch from IKEA his mother bought on a whim, her social worker stands close by. There are court ordered papers detailing of one suicide jumper at the bridge in the country side who met an early end when she was chased by officers for stealing goldfish crackers. It was discovered when fingerprints were lifted that she was the mother of a child in a foster home, who when the records of birth were filed, no father was listed. Rather, the name fields of the father were left intentionally blank because no one knew how the woman was addicted to making men feel good.

Mattsukawa’s mother couldn’t believe she would become a grandmother at the early age of 47. His father thought he taught his son to take care of women in their time of need, and when his son explained to everyone about the nasty breakup, he honestly thought his ex was sleeping with other men behind his back. The toddler sucks her thumb and she has the same pout he does when he is about to cry; when you look more closely, her mannerisms are much like their son’s and for once, Mattsukawa’s mother asks the question they all wanted answered.

“What will happen to her if he doesn’t sign the forms for legal guardianship? Doesn’t the mother’s family want to see their grandbaby too?”

The social worker sighs immediately after taking a deep breath and upon the exhale, explains they wouldn’t keep her even if she was blood.

“Don’t want her turning out like her mother,” the officer makes little shadow bunnies as if to quote their harsh words.

“You’re the last name on the list the woman, her mother, has sir,” the social worker states the facts. “And to answer your question ma’am, she goes back into the system. Ideally, she will age out by her third year of high school if she is lucky, go on with her life never knowing either of her parents had wanted her.”

Mattsukawa takes the felt tip marker and begins filling out the paperwork and regardless of what anyone says in the room, he makes the right choice. His mother nods in approval, a bit misty-eyed until she feels a soft, small hand pat her cheek.

“No cry.”

She regains her composure while she points to herself introducing her to her grandbaby for the first time as, “obaa-san.” The little girl raises a fist in the air and she’s missing a few teeth, but they are poking through her gums and Mattsukawa’s father ruffles her curly hair.

“Welcome to the family little star.”

Mattsukawa continues filling out the paperwork confirming he will be formerly be seeking sole custody of his daughter and should anything befall the Mattsukawas’, he lists three names as his child’s godfathers. The social worker explains how much is told about the circumstances surrounding her sleeping in the children’s home by the adults and volunteers who work there; she picks up the little girl with pigtails and tells the family they’ll stop by on Sunday (i.e. the weekend is six days away, so they can make all the necessary preparations) again adding, “and this time, you little miss, get to stay here.”

“Weally?” her lisp clenches Mattsukawa’s heart as he waves to her, and when she waves from her car seat, she notices the nice young man and her have the same crooked “:V” smile.

Sure, discovering your cheating ex had a child out of wedlock making you a father at twenty one is shocking enough on its own, but accepting responsibility for the past is how Mattsukawa prepares himself to pick up his daughter from the children’s home later that weekend. His parents toddler proof the house, chuckling about visiting the storage unit to pick up the old cabinet locks and playpen stair guard-gates that their son at the same age climbed over. Makki is the first one of his old teammates to find out the news, then Iwazumi, finally Oikawa. At first they didn’t believe Mattsukawa’s ex would a) conceal her pregnancy b) rob a store after blowing a guy outside a pharmacy just to steal snacks for her hungry baby and c) jump into a river when the cops broke into the trap house close to the nearest natural park.

Oikawa, asks to take a leave of absence when he gets a summons to the Miyagi family courthouse alongside Iwazumi, who makes travel arrangements to board the same flight as his best friend from LAX to Narita. Makki was already given his summons and he picks up a few morning shifts to cover the court date. The judge is a forgiving person once Mattsukawa Issei explains his side just like he did when the social worker handling his soon-to-be daughter’s case file, understandably so, the judge signs off the paperwork detailing the sole custody be granted to the child’s father (who for the first time in three years of tracking down potential matches, actually does sign the documents).

That same night as everyone arrives back to Mattsukawa’s childhood home, when Oikawa and Iwazumi wind up coming over to help the Mattsukawa’s turn the spare bedroom next to Issei’s into a nursery. Makki was on nightshift duty at the 7/11 where his coworker, Ka-sho stays up with him doing inventory work while watching classic B-horror films. Pretty soon, word gets out to the rest of the prominent Seijoh VBC alum the middle blocker had become a father under extenuating circumstances.

“Issei, there’s a black sedan out front,” Oikawa says, holding the step ladder steady for Iwazumi, who was putting a few cute star stickers above the changing station.

“Already? I thought they weren’t coming for another hour,” his mother panics in the kitchen, washing her hands as his father is left on stirring the congee (rice porridge) on the stove on her behalf. Mattsukawa steps outside first, the lights are on the porch already in the twilight hour.

“Sweetheart, we’re here,” she clings to the lapels of the social worker’s jacket. The little girl sniffles, but she is trying to be brave and no one faults her for sobbing a bit when the nice office worker, her first friend, says it’s time to let go and join this nice family: “see that man? Remember him?” she nods. “He’s your otōsan.”

The little girl looks similar to a loaf of bread adorned in her best overall dress and little Mary-Jane shoes when she loosens her hold on the social worker’s clothes when her father holds her for the first time.

“Call me if you ever need anything,” she bows to Mattsukawa and links pinkies with his daughter like a secret handshake before placing the suitcase filled with toys and well wishes from all kids at the house she lived in her whole life. Before long, the sedan leaves, and the little girl who is now so far from home glances up at her father, only to call him, “mista.”

A few minutes later, Mattsukawa walks in the house and when he sets his mini-me down, she grabs his pants legs. Oikawa chats with Makki and Iwazumi about current life abroad in the living room while Mattsukawa’s mother prepares the kitchen table complete with a little barstool she had custom made with booster-seat like belts when the windchimes attached to their screen door announce the arrival. Mattsukawa was always good with kids though that was at the volunteer center he frequented with the neighborhood obaa-san teams. The grannies were always bringing their children’s kids along so they can see why granny can still beat mommy (or daddy) in a fair match.

“Hi laang’ga,” his mother greets. Mattsukawa’s mother grew up abroad before returning to Japan, so she recalls a few terms of endearment from her childhood home in the Philippines. “Remember who I am?”

The little girl nods, murmuring, “obaa-san!”

“That’s right!” Mattsukawa breathes a sigh of relief. “And who am I?”

“Hmm…Oh! Mista!”

Iwazumi and Makki are biting back a laugh as his father says the congee is ready. Oikawa makes a joke as they watch their friend take on the first struggle of being a parent: trying to get their squirt to sit in their high chair/ booster seat. They watch as she uses her frog green plastic spoon her ‘goddofaza’ gave her as a ‘welcome home’ gift. Her sippy cup is filled with apple juice and she almost finishes her whole bowl while the family around her talk about everything they notice about the similarities first hand from the way the stare confused when someone calls their attention to the pout of indifference when one of Makki’s jokes doesn’t land. Although, the toddler stares at Oikawa like an owl does a mouse.

“She’s making those eyes again,” Oikawa said. “It’s like I’m reliving the first couple of years when Takeru was born.”

Eventually, as dinner is being cleaned up, Mattsukawa watches his daughter play in the living room with the new stuffed animals Makki bought and the little plush t-rex in her hands was obviously from Iwazumi who teaches her how to aim her plushies at Oikawa whenever the former captain says something silly.

“But ask me if it’s ok first,” Iwazumi whispers and the toddler bops her head as she chases Oikawa around, growling like a dinosaur.

“She likes you,” Mattsukawa’s father confides in his son as his wife sets up the dishwasher. “Though she doesn’t understand very much right now, she’s happy and healthy.”

“Thanks,” Issei says between a lopsided smile watching the scene before him. His daughter is two years old, almost three now (according to her birth records, meaning that he would have had been nineteen when she was conceived and up until that point, Mattsukawa only had slept with two other women before the girl’s mother was found in bed with another man at the hotel they were going to spend the night in since all the trains stopped service or the day). Issei is about to be twenty-one when he reflects back to the one night where shit literally hit the fan and he abandons his now confirmed ex-girlfriend in a very much crowded train station.

What grounds him presently is the laughter she emits when Iwazumi gives her the ‘ok’ to tackle Oikawa to the ground. There is a soft thud and Oikawa pretends to ‘nap’ i.e. ‘die from lack of hugs.’ Makki pouts asking when it is his turn and Iwazumi just shakes his head. Before long, the grandfather clock complete with a little cuckoo-chime announces the hour. Rising up off the floor, the grown friends get ready to say to their good nights with promises of coming back the day after tomorrow to play again with their niece.

The house is quieter now, with his parents going to bed early, Mattsukawa Issei finally has some time alone with his now drowsy daughter. Play-fighting against Oikawa and Makki takes a lot of energy especially since Iwazumi was the one on her team; thanks to Iwazumi, the little miss tires herself out by the time the last of them arrive back to their respective childhood homes. Mattsukawa’s daughter currently falls asleep, holding on to her father’s shirt with one hand and sucking her thumb with the other.

“Otosan,” the small sleepy child whispers with a sly smile before she feels her father trace her nose bidding her sweet dreams.

[2018, 10th of June, Miyagi Prefecture]

Mattsukawa Erina and her otosan visit Makki at the convenience store he works in. Iwazumi’s birthday is today, so during the part-timer’s break, Makki asks if his coworker can snap a pic of the three of them to send via text. Ka-Sho has been receiving orders in the daytime as a favor for their store manager who’s away on leave for the summer. Her camera is much better than Makki’s at the time, so she sends a copy of it to Mattsukawa’s cell.

“Erina-chibi is so cute,” Makki whines. “Isn't my goddaughter the best?”

“She may be your goddaughter Taka-kun, but she likes me more, right?” Ka-sho bribes the toddler with her favorite beverage: apple juice (specifically the one carton from behind the cash register).

Erina sticks out her tongue at her goddofaza while Ka-sho pierces the little box. Mattsukawa comes back from gathering a few things from the stationary aisle including a new stamp pad. Ka-sho asks Makki to ring up his friend since there was a slight furrow in his friend’s brow.

“Come with me darlin’. I got some coloring books and crayons in my office. Seems like Uncle Makki and your otosan need to talk..”

The now three-nager personality let’s the nice “boss” (“baws lady!” is the little one’s nicknames) auntie show her to where those coloring books were.

In the eight months Mattsukawa discovered he was a father, he began working harder to make sure he had enough saved up for emergencies and eventually his own place. Of course the first couple of days back at his fellowship in the funeral home was a bit awkward since the family who ran the shop allowed him to start right away with organizing and digitizing the files from the last ten years or so. The overtime bonus amount reflected on his check just in time to buy his daughter he first strawberry sweet roll cake two months into raising her. Sure his parents help when they can and so does Makki, and in a surprise turn of events, Kunimi stops by every once in a while to check up on the family overall. By month six, Issei’s daughter had started to experience some complications with her breathing on the playground, mentioning bad people tried to take her away. Mattsukawa’s mother calls the number on the business card from the social worker’s office whom said she’ll forward the medical documents from the children’s home when they locate the information.

“Doctor visits already?” Makki says looking over his shoulder watching Ka-Sho color alongside his god daughter. “Issei, whatever you need, just call me or the store, Ka-sho cares about your kid too.”

“Thanks man.”

“No problem. Now, back to business,” Makki charges the stamp pad and hands back the 50 yen coin change back to his friend.

Diagonally across them in the next plaza, a young member of a local yazuka chapter observes the illegal activities from the old auto warehouse turned chemist lab. The earring with a cross dangles off their lobe while their orders for reconnaissance only, no weapons necessary, is recorded for the narcotics dispatch crew back home in Okinawa.

“Good work Viper,” the division captain says in your ear wig. “Remember while you’re still undercover, you do not engage until a civilian's life is in danger.”

The train behind where the ominous person with the earring passes, thus covering their getaway.

[2018, 19 August, Miyagi Prefecture]

Mattsukawa Issei is a man of many talents. One could argue he is reserved and polite for a man his age who is doing the best he can to provide for a toddler. As best he can for a single father for a little over a year now. One year and two weeks to be precise. Makki, his closest friend and confidant, has been subsequently promoted to best uncle whereas the other internationally ranked friends from the Seijoh VBC Quartet have visited home every time the season draws to a close. With the exception of Oikawa, who leads team Argentina to the medal rounds for La Copa Munidial en Volleybol. Ka-sho has officially joined this predominantly male family mentioning Erina can’t always be raised by her otosan and obaa-san, but when Makki is caught kissing her temple late one night before she takes her leave, their relationship is put on blast. Oikawa mutters an “I knew it!” whereas Iwazumi shrugs his shoulders and Erina blinks processing what this means.

“Ne! Shoko-san,” she fiddles with her thumbs. “Can I call you auntie for realzies now?”

Mattsukawa chortles when Makki’s girlfriend picks up his daughter and hugs her tightly saying, “Of course sweet cheeks.”

Ka-sho, who’s name is only said properly by the youngest member of this wonderfully growing family, hears her phone ring again. When she answers it, she hangs up and hands the little girl back to her father.

“Sho? What’s wrong babe?” Makki notices when his the color of his girlfriend’s face dulls out a bit.

Mattsukawa’s father turns the tv on to watch the late night sports news broadcast only for it to be interrupted by a breaking news story: “Yakuza declares War against City Police in Kitsune Shopping Mall where the abandoned auto warehouse rumoured to be a chemist-methamphetamine-lab explodes just moments ago.”

Ka-sho repeats the name of someone over and over again waiting for the ribbon with the list of victims and survivors begin to roll underneath the news anchor’s desk. Pretty soon, dispatch sends a neighborhood SUV to Mattsukawa's home.

“‘Evning guys,”a familiar captain wearing a detective’s badge greets them in the family den.

“Sawamura-san?”

The detective nods. Shortly after his arrival, Mattsukawa excuses himself to tuck his daughter into bed. Erina is quiet because the policeman at the door seems to know something about why auntie Shoko looks scared. Issei thinks up a way to help explain what happened by picking up his daughter’s well loved bunny plushie in one hand and the t-rex by her nightlamp closest to her crib-turned-bed:

“Auntie Shoko’s one-san, yn, who works with the police making sure cities like ours stay safe,” he makes the bunny hop on her bed, causing his daughter to giggle. “She gets to play dress up and blends in with the bad guys.”

Issei wiggles the t-rex’s tail, his daughter nods along pretending she can keep up with his overly simplified playtime.

“What ‘bout the fiwe otosan?” her speech impediment is getting better as her teeth and tongue work with trying to pronounce “r” words. “Is auntie’s one-cchi ok?”

“We don’t know yet princess, but for right now, just know that your Auntie Ka-sho’s sister is one of the strongest women I know. Just like a little girl who’s up way past her bedtime,” he muses.

Mattsukawa kisses his daughter’s forehead before turning off the small lamp, the starry night stickers Iwazumi hung still glow against the lime green lava lamp Oikawa shipped for Christmas.

The door isn’t closed completely, but by the time Issei returns, Makki sends him a text saying he’s with Shoko who is heading to the general hospital close to where the building fire has thankfully been contained, the young father is given the bullet point version by the former Karasuno captain:

“Undercover assignments are risky,” the detective begins. “As I’m sure you’re well aware…Long story short, yazuka and gang unit were teamed up with Okinawa’s narcotics branch and every department sent some of their own undercover. Some, with delusions of grandeur, were bought by said chapters of these organized crime committees to turn a blind eye and fake reports left right and center. That was until earlier tonight where yn had to pledge fealty to the heads of all three executives by destroying the evidence in this prefecture. The fire was a warning meaning that her cover might have been made, but that is not the case considering how she’s currently being stitched up at the underground’s facilities. For now her orders from HQ are to lay low…”

Mattsukawa takes a seat on the couch’s armrest, trying to remember if he could recall Ka-sho ever mentioning her sister or her line of work. Then Issei suddenly remembers the photo frame by the register: there’s a school photo of Ka-sho and a girl a little taller than her at the time who was missing a tooth. The girls have their arms wrapped around each other like best friends. Ka-sho nor Makki don’t bring up the photo seeing as it might be a sore subject, yet recently, there is a sudden increase in the store’s coloring books and crayons selection. Ka-sho’s sister sends money back home every month to help her family make ends meet.

“Who else knows about this?”

“We’re going door to door reaffirming we’re doing our best to quell the vox populi that we have apprehended the culprit for the arson, whereas our brother stations are currently raiding the yakuza houses in the underbelly both here and in Okinawa prefecture.”

Sawamura bows, wishing them all a pleasant evening. Issei sees him out while his parents reassure the other that above all else, their son and grandchild take the top priority in the upcoming 90 days starting Monday for the curfews to be reinstated.

[2019, 1st Februrary, Okinawa Prefecture]

You wake up on the cold steel floor. Your hands and ankles are bound to the chair in the room where answers are beaten out of you piece by piece. Pledging fealty never was pretty, you reason. But this was a bit extreme. Your ribs were getting fractured for what seemed to be the third time this blue moon cycle. Ever since your sister found you in the alley with her boyfriend outside of sniper range, they get your wounds treated on the downlow. Ka-sho, behind closed doors in the emergency safehouse she has a spare key to, nurses you back to health. In the months leading up to Christmas, you and your sister reconnect, eventually you meet her strawberry blonde boyfriend on a gift shopping excursion. Your work phone goes off multiple times before you answer your superior that your orders to lay low came directly to the head anonymous boss-man, which causes an influx of ‘my apologies ma’am.’ Since the fire, you were accepted as one of their own, a mad-madame with a keen sense of weapons training thanks to being part of a black-ops mission during your brief stint in the military (to pay for law school).

“Work again?” your sister asks.

“Yeah,” you smile back, placing your burner phone face down so as to not answer it any time soon. Makki comes back from placing an order at the cafe nearby the video game store. You go through the older-sister notions of making sure this guy is treating little Kat-chan with respect.

You think about how her smile is ten times more brilliant when the door opens to reveal one of your former compatriots as your torturer of the day begins a new attempt in trying to break you.

Today’s the day you black out from the pain when you headbutt the prick who tries to force himself on you with a suicide pill in his teeth. Thankfully the bastard doesn’t bite it too hard when he stumbles backwards, so you fall backwards when he crushes your cheeks together cursing you out for being the boss’ golden child.

The days by the ocean blur together up until one day, close to Lunar New Year, your knuckles are bloodied and the hairline fracture on your jaw stops aching as much when you notice the sounds of firecrackers being lit. Except they weren’t firecrackers. The boss whom you serve under had an extraction party who were instructed to “light ‘em up boys” and to “bring back your upper ranking sister back home to Miyagi.”

Meanwhile, Sawamura updates Ka-sho as best he can with any news since her sister’s cryptic messages in the back of the coloring book’s sticky-notes stopped coming around the beginning of last December. This time though, when Sawamura asks to meet at the tea house on Third and Amistad Ave after hours, Makki asks Issei to come with them.

“Strength in numbers,” Issei says when Erina waves bye from the window of his parents’ house. Mattsukawa’s mother makes up an excuse about sending Issei out to buy more red envelopes before making sure her granddaughter begins her nightly routine.

At the tea house, Sawamura is spotted in a booth meant to hold six considering the size of the table, one could assume either this was a set up, or a very clever family reunion.

“Do you always rebel against my orders, Shoko?” Sawamura chuckles, recalling how his kouhai used to cost him best friend his sleep in college.

“You said to come alone, Dai. I did, with Makki and Issei for moral support,” she takes after her one-chan, just like Issei presumed after Makki goes out with him to the pub later. In his tipsy state of mind, Makki fills in the gaps of what Ka-sho’s sister is like, even joking how she’s a godly match for the funeral director. That statement alone makes Issei flag down the bartender to close out his friend’s tab, remarking if his friend asks for anything more, keep serving him ‘vodka tonics’ i.e. water on the rocks. The lie works just like it has for years since they were old enough to drink.

“You said to meet twenty minutes ago Sawamura,” your disembodied voice says when you approach the booth where four sets of eyes lock on to your sharply dressed body. Your butterfly suture on your brow and cut lip press into a thin line before squeezing into the booth to scold your fellow officer in arms.

“I thought you said no family,” you wave away two of your escorts who block the exits.

“You brought them?”

“Followed,” you smile fully once the lackey’s are clearly gone.

You all breathe a bit easier before your sister curses you out with her eyes.

“We‘ve been worried for months,” Ka-sho seethes. She goes on a rant and though she spews frantic nonsense, you act the same like you always do with the neutral face of displeasure. It’s quite an annoying habit, Makki notices just how expansive his girlfriend’s curses can be. Issei studies the menu whereas Sawamura flagged down a waiter asking for some claiming teas to be brewed in two kettles.

“Are you finished?”

Your voice betrays the ice in your veins. Makki whispers a comforting word to his girlfriend who essentially calms down. You ask her how she’s doing, if Makki is still treating her well, then asks about the tyke.

“You have secrets,” you turn toward Mattsukawa with a tired expression. “So do I.”

Sawamura’s been working on finding you a way out where you don’t cling to life like the last time, which did land you in the docks on a cargo container where information about how you pulled off starting a clan war uncovered the meth route in the slums actually paid off. Unfortunately, when back up tried to aid you in escaping the shipyard, you were backed into a corner, the cloned jump drive safely sucked in the hip elastic of your panties that day stayed undetected on the yarn attachment which left a unique bruise on your thigh when the torture began.

“So I’m sorry I couldn’t get to a pay phone, kid,” you say, playing with the tea cup on the table when the server came back with the tea kettles.

“Sorry I failed you,” he sighs, blowing the excess steam from his cup away.

Sawamura clears his throat as he begins pouring the tea into everyone’s cups.

“Not your fault,” you take the first sip. You stifle a yawn, claiming that the lackeys that accompanied you because their handler was under strict need to know about your personal life. Hence why when at your promotional dinner for rising in the ranks after taking out the dragons’ territorial route, the f•a•n•g• could take over. You continue to explain your part in the southern chapter of fang, known as Talon, and the deeper you go, the more deplorable the crimes become from drug trafficking to recruiting kids as young as six to be bought off their addicted parents as collateral.

Issei understands why you asked about his daughter when you bring this development to Sawamura’s attention. With slight of hand, you transfer the data from your third burner phone to his work line. The cushions vibrate when the trade was complete and Sawamura says he needed to use the boys’ room. You wait until Sawamura is out of sight before you have a chance to breathe easier.

Mattsukawa holds your hand under the table keeping it steadily out of the sight of Sawamura who doesn’t need to know you’re staying at the nearly furnished high rise by the funeral parlor he works at. Makki is the only one who figures it out one day when his girlfriend goes into work to update the shipping logs for the week.

“How long has this been going on?” your sister isn’t as skeptical as before anymore. She saw the way the father of her unofficially-official niece breathed a sigh of relief with a darkened blush creeping past his crisp collar.

“Around the first month after you were in the safe house,” Makki sheepishly confesses. “Mattsun tagged along saying he wanted some fresh air when I went to pick you up from there…”

“Can’t say I’m surprised big sis,” she says. “There could have been worse passions to choose from.”

“Brat,” you stick your tongue out.

“Bitch,” your sister stinks at you, laughing a few seconds later with you. The boys they’re with calm down to relax.

You down the rest of your tea when Sawamura returns, he reads the table and abruptly pays for the table’s tab. For that, Mattsukawa seems grateful, his hand squeezes yours eager to get ‘your back on any surface,’ he whispered against your ear when eyeing the yen notes on the table. You choke for real when you almost slap the chuckle out his eyes; he gets the last laugh though since you fall asleep before ‘sexy time.’ (Doesn’t stop him from enjoying watching you fall apart the following morning…)

“I can tell when I’m about to be the fifth wheel,” he chuckles until his laughter shakes his shoulders. “I’m the eldest of five kids and I’m sure you don’t need a chaperone… Shoot me a text whenever you need my help. See ya.”

…

“Oh! Mrs Mattsukawa’s throwing a party for Lunar New Year,” Makki mentioned in the car ride back to the newest condo bought by your boss as a reward for being grateful to the Talon family. Sure the wives of a few married men who made their living doing odd jobs for owning up to their botched fealty missions occupied the other apartments, but you enjoy the penthouse over-looking the suburbs by your old high school. You have a silent understanding with the boss that you do have a life outside of ‘the family’ and that you want to keep the underground dealings as separate as possible. For the most part, the days leading up to lunar new year was quite peaceful. The boss tells you to take all the time off you need and if you need to visit the warehouse before you go home for a sanctioned medical leave, to take whatever weapons you deemed fit on the slim chance the rival rogues make an attempt on those close to you.

“Fuck,” you groan rolling out of bed to silence the alarm on lunar New Year’s Eve.

Mattsukawa had cleared out yesterday for work while you were still asleep. You reassure him you’re fine, recalling how charming he was. In home dates were the best to keep him and you safe for the sake for the little girl who wa having a sleepover of her own at Makki’s place. Your hair was held in his hands gently like the first time you met; purely lustful physicality of his love made you whine back a version of his name. Mattsukawa makes you want to believe in the aftermath of this mission. You want him to make you undone by a stare; he hits he relishes in the fact no one in your line of work has had the privilege of being the reason there is friction in his sheets. His strength is making you feel so much better than you ever thought possible. Every bruise over your scarred body is treated lightly with him; even in the post glow, he traces your bare breasts where numbers tattooed over the seared bullet grazes reminds you both how dangerous this life is.

“And this one?” He asks, a crooked finger grazes a scar on your ribcage once you come back from brushing your teeth. His shirt hangs loosely unbuttoned around your frame. You slip your underwear back on. His are discarded at the moment and is replaced by plaid pajama shorts. The domesticity of this attire screams a plausible idea of what life could be like.

“The day I met Shoko,” you gauge his reaction as he makes space for you again on the bed. “Slums are no place for children, ‘sei.”

“How old were you when you escaped?”

“Umm… Seven? Eight maybe?”

You glance up at him when he holds you close like before, warming your back in kindness. He kisses the nape of your neck bidding you sleep well.

“Whatever happened between then and now, you’re here with me,” he pulls you closer until you turn to face him. You’re found sleeping comfortably like this when his father pries open the door to say that breakfast was ready, but he declines, mentioning to his wife to let their son sleep in.

That was almost five days ago since the tea party was on Monday.

Makki’s voice enters your subconscious and though you and Issei haven’t really had time to talk, you best cook your jets. You don’t make up a lie or anything of the sort when you have your subordinate pick up your dry cleaning. Today you honor your heritage when you wear a modestly boldly dyed hanfu. The family sent their best team of tailors who helped design this. Your sister wears another version where the buttons are clasped on her right by her collar. Makki whistles when she twirls on the front lawn.

“It’s good to see you dear,” Mrs Mattsukawa greets by placing the small ziplocks filled with grapes for the year on the picnic table her husband sets up. Inside the house Mattsukawa helps zip up the last layer on his daughter’s 4T yukata before cutting her loose to run outside and play in the snow with her obba-san and auntie Shoko. Ten minutes later, when the not so little toddler runs into your shin, you don’t wince. Rather, you watch her run along after she apologizes. Her father stands on the last step of the house, quite perplexed by what his daughter said when she runs back to him; he kneels down since this seemed urgent:

“Otosan! Otosan!”

“Yes baby?”

“There’s a princess in the yard!”

“That was probably auntie Shoko.”

His daughter puffs out her chest and her cheeks as she tries to describe you best she can.

“She has long pretty hair! ‘Nd she was wearin’ a pink and blue dress! Like auntie’s but longer!”

“But Erina, sweetheart, this is red, not—” your sister clocks you by the mailbox. You fiddle with the bow on your hanfu from the family seamstress. The higher ups in each division were given gifts from the head of the family; some asked for guns, others jewelry, you? You kept it simple: one hanfu modernly made to appease your ‘bloodline.’ The best part? None of the others would know where you were headed other than a handful (really just two) of chauffeurs assigned to your sector. “YN!?”

Makki is talking with you when you both come a little closer, the strawberry blonde formerly introduces you to Mattsukawa’s parents then the little girl who reminds you of a certain person you’re sort of unofficially dating…

“Everyone, this is Shoko’s sister.”

“Hello,” you greet. “I’m sorry if it seems like I’m a last minute addition to the party ma’am, but I hope you don’t mind. Makki said his friends were nice people.”

“So formal, what a delight,” is what the Mattsukawa’s should of said. Of course Mattsukawa’s father knew that look his son wears, like a fool in love, they called it. This was a genuine one his mother mouths to her husband.

Instead, they have their son and ka-sho brought inside rather quickly. Makki gives you a look and you bow your head, sighing this was also a possible outcome. The family is joined by Makki inside who gets a harsh scolding as he defends your non-lethal approach since you were on medical leave.

“Makki, you should have mentioned that you invited my undercover cop older sister b e f o r e you bring her to my parents’ front yard.”

You’re smartly standing outside with your back to the window, the snow is a nice touch you think. You wonder if there will be fireworks in the neighborhood park later.

“Fine. I’ll do that next fine, but can we please go outside? I’m itching to have a snow ball fight right before the year’s over!”

Erina looks out the window while the adults talk like she can’t understand what they say and she takes matters into her own hands slipping out the front door. She’s as tall as her father was and with a little help, she unlocks the deadbolt and joins you on the patio.

You stay a safe distance away as you count a handful of hostiles when you turn your attention to the little girl. This is bad, very bad, so you watch her watch your eye movements and you pray they don’t cause too much damage around the house. You make a silent sign at the little girl to be quiet when you encourage her to go back to the house telling her you’ll be ok.

“I have business to take care of darlin’ miss,” you whisper the last line and the little girl who shared her father’s smile barely remembers what your look like from the first time you met, but the voice the cold knows and remembers make her mouth shut and nod eager to make an old-new-friend.

Something is wrong and Shoko can feel it in her bones when Erina locks the door, sniffling saying she got the nice pretty lady in trouble.

The sound of tires peeling out of the driveways a block away and your voice is heard until you are bound and gagged again.

“Don’t you dar-pft!”

Your hairpin collides with the cheek of the assailant. The blood from the point of impact trickles down your shoulder. The gag was made tighter this time and you glance back with eyes wide with a loathing sense of virtuous anger. Kidnapping you was part of the plan, but if you resisted, the barrel of the silencer is ice cold against your cheek, you were warned in the back of the getaway car.

“Sawamura! My-my sister,” Shoko grits her teeth as she speaks into Makki’s cell phone. She gives the details as best she can. Erina is held by her father who whispers it’ll he all right, that she’s safe here.

“The lady from earlier will be fine, sweetheart,” he says again. “She’s ko-Shi’a onesan remember?”

In the interim, you find out through your kidnapper that the negotiations for your death or release had begun and though you were burned by lackey number 9, you were thankful lackey 4 had more sense to shoot his partner and double cross him to prove his loyalty lies with you.

“I’m so glad I never fired you, kid,” you see a familiar set of green eyes stare back at you in the rear view mirror.

“Me too ma’am.”

You arrive at the entrance the river bank by the old power plant and tie a brick to the already parked ‘92 Oldsmobile. The corpse of number 9 had his face bashed in and his finger pads scraped off with a knife. Brutal, though it was, you are given a new cell phone with backup SIM storage thanks to this kid being a bit more savvy after uncovering your tea mission for rising up the ranks so quickly. The war went on as planned; Talon, a family he was a third generation member of, won control back of their original turf; and you get to celebrate the year of the tiger the moment you send a text to your sister’s phone with a selfie of you in a bloodied hanfu, the caption? Happy new year Shoko

“She’s ok,” Shoko tosses her phone to Issei and Makki who see the photo with the timestamp from five minutes ago. Sawamura, on his neighborhood patrol, pouts out a BOLO for a sedan with a poor incomplete description ten minutes later from his desk.

As for you? You’re in your official car, lighting up your e-cigarette telling your newly promoted Fourth Chauffeur to head back to the neighborhood he tailed you from.

“Oh, and send the cleaning crew to the following houses you spotted the sleepers in. That family and all subsequent friends and acquaintances are to be protected. Understood?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Oh, and one more thing Tadashi-kun,” you say as you’re stepping out of the car. “Remember the motto.”

“Shoot first, die later.”

You tap the top of the car and he speeds off into the night. Your brain replays the plan from the night at the tea house. And for once, the plan to extract you and give you an early pension from the Okinawa Justice Department was well worth the welcome back to the front yard. Makki finishes giving his statement to the police after Shoko answers a few more questions; Erina’s testimony is the most direct and she remembers the pretty lady with the pretty dress picking her up from the floor of the house where her mother left her behind to find some formula.

“She was pretty and tall…like the princess in the snow!” Issei furrows his brows and apologizes for his daughter’s testimony, but the officer mentions it’s alright since this is how children often cope with traumatic events.

“What happened here?” you ask one of the officers.

“We got a call from emergency services that a woman fitting your…wait, were you?”

“Suzu!”

Erina slips out of her father’s hold and runs across the yard when she sees you again. Shoko is closest to where she sees and hears the kid call out the nickname your father gave you when you were not that much older than Erina.

“Erina! You can’t keep—” Mattsukawa’s mother freezes when she sees how elated her granddaughter is to see you. Issei turns around after saying he signed his daughter's witness statement to hear her voice greet you.

“I knew you’d come find me!”

You pick her up and the four year old grips the materials of your hanfu.

“Sorry it took me so long to find you,” you apologize after placing her back down on the ground. She takes you by your hand when you ask her to introduce her to everyone.

“This is my obaa-san; goddozo Makki; Auntie Shoko; Gramps,” she pauses before stopping in front of her father. “Otosan! This is my momma’s bestest friend! She helped feed me and take care of me when momma and her lived in the streets!”

Mattsukawa Issei doesn’t cry very often, hell the last time he cried was when he was in high school and oikawa had his emotional outburst. Now, he sees the person who kept his daughter safe from the beginning and all he could do was cry when he buried his face in your shoulder.

“Shh, it’s ok,” you’re good at consoling people. Always were.

“Crap I think I’m going to cry too,” Makki says when he hears his girlfriend sniffle too.

“Eri’s a brave girl, Issei,” you run your hands in his hair. “She gets it from me, most likely after all, her mom let me raise her when she relinquished her rights to be a parent. Ever noticed that the odd numbered pages were missing from the court documents?”

You have a hidden laughter behind your eyes, Issei sees it when you gently pull his face back via moving your hands to cup his face. Tear streaks and all, you give him a warm smile, thumbing the last few away.

“That was you, huh?” His slightly chapped lips pressed against the space where your palm and wrist meet.

Meanwhile, while the officers take a few photos of the aftermath, one of the beat cops says it’s time to go, since you’re not done yet.

“Duty calls babe,” you kiss his cheek and walk up to where your sister was answering some ‘does otosan like ms yn?’ type questions.

“Five minutes ma’am,” the same officer says. You wave behind your shoulder attaining you heard him.

“Well, that depends,” Ka-sho sees you approaching. A tired smile on your face. Not yet, you just got here, her inner child whines on in her head.

“On what?” Erina tilts her head to one side, curious expression on her brow.

“If she likes him too.”

“You can ask me y’ know,” you wave while still standing by the porch steps where they were. “But first, I have to go with these guys. Remember Mr detective?”

The four year old nods, “the one that told you about my momma.”

“Mmhm. He needs me to give my report at the station so you can enjoy the fireworks,” you kneel down on the middle step.

“Ok!” Erina smiles with her teeth exposed too, making you chuckle a bit. “Will you come back home soon?”

She hugs you tightly when you wrap an arm around her too saying you promise to be back to enjoy the moon cakes.

“Miss? Chief says it’s time.”

“Be good,” you whisper against the girl’s hair before you press a kiss before you rise up and walk tall.

You don’t turn back because if you did, you would not have any strength left to go through with the other half of the “out” deal—witness protection.

…

[2019, 4th birthday Mattsukawa Erina, Tokyo Disneyland]

“Takeru! Let’s go on the merry-go-round again!”

Erina wears a new shirt with her favorite heroes on them and her leggings that she’ll outgrow by the winter. Her uncle Tooru is visiting for a week since his nephew is venerating being invited to the all Japan volleyball camp (again) this year.

Since the Lunar New Year incident, no one has heard a word from you. Your sister barely gets hints out of Sawamura, although Makki says she gets salty if the detective drops by without warning during receiving days. Iwazumi travels home during the summer after training the new recruits for this year’s National team. Erina’s at the park with Mattsukawa’s father while Iwazumi sits down in the living room waiting for the fourth member to arrive with both Makki and Shoko (it was Makki’s turn to pick up Oikawa.) the friendship tea brewing on the stove, the kettle whistles and Shoko assists in preparing the mugs with Mattsukawa.

“It seems pretty serious considering you’re not an avid tea drinker,” iwazumi observes eyeing his friend. This is the third year since little Erina joined their ever-growing family , since there is a new promise ring sitting nicely on your sister’s hand.

“Hey, did you know I have an older sister who’s a cop in Okinawa?” Ka-sho changed the subject efficiently.

“Really now?” Oikawa raises his eyebrow.

“What division?” Iwazumi takes his first sip.

“Narcotics,” your sister pretty much starts your story from the beginning. Elsewhere, in the family photo album, in the spare pocket big enough for a flash drive, a completed copy of the family court papers of saved: your name is listed as legal guardian and parent next to Mattsukawa’s signature stating the same thing.

“How long have you been standing there one-chan?” The delivery driver is currently knocked out thanks to a sleeper hold from a few weeks ago.

“Long enough for you to see I’m back home in one piece,” you have a scrape covered up by a square bandage.

“Yn,” you remind her to keep her distance. “They’re asking about you. Come home.”

“I can’t,” you don’t mention the why until you’re clearly outside talon and Sawamura’s jurisdiction before your sisters phone vibrates with your orders to enter witness protection while still continuing in deep cover missions as a specified sanctioned mole for the family you are heavily advised to join.

“So that’s why she’s not here,” Ka-sho says. Her tea is cold now too. Issei stands abruptly mentioning something or other about forgiving yn, but he remembers all the cute things Erina has been receiving in her pre-school locker and one of them was a paper crane.

“The kid made a friend today,” he says. “Called her little bird when they were at the park for a play date. Mom told me she saw a lady with sleek teal ombré hair waving at her before she was joined by her chauffeur who handed her an ice cream bar and then they left…”

“You’re sister’s a hell of a saint,” Makki says, giving her a small grin.

“Any questions?” your sister was always business orientated and Oikawa shoots his hand straight up.

“Is yn yakuza now?”

“I suppose so,” Ka-sho sighs. “Sawamura-san says if there is word, he’s call us asap.”

She gives Issei a sympathetic stare.

“It’s not like you can’t stop loving her either, Mattsun,” she gives him a hopeful smile. “One-san was the most reliable one between us; she is strict, disciplined to a fault, and her tactics are sharpened through her quick wit. There has to be a reason why your daughter formed a strong bond with yn-cchi.”

“Aside from keeping my daughter alive while her mother went out to get some ass, I’d say that’s a hell of a solid reason my daughter cries to sleep asking when ‘Suzu’ is coming home, eh, Ka-sho?”

Mattsukawa’s words hold no anger nor bite to them; he voices his opinions of worry and care under the darkening circles underneath the corners of his brows, the wrinkles where you made him laugh the first time you wandered into the funeral parlor for directions to the market under the guise of being new to this side of the prefecture are now barely visible. Instead, frown lines form when his lips return to a neutral downturned lax emotion. Makki suggests his friend goes to bed early tonight. Oikawa and Iwazumi concur and Mattsukawa ran a hand through his out frown haircut, he concurs. He nods his good night to the group who, twenty to thirty minutes later, discover the father and daughter duo sharing a tatami play mat large with enough room for one more.

Ka-sho sneaks a photo after hearing the two snore on turns before she hits save to cloud.

Somewhere in the red light district, your personal droid powered personal line vibrates at the club you’re in. You excuse yourself from the business negotiations Tadashi’s father attends while testing the merchandise first hand (a woman dances and shows off her…’assets’ and you roll your eyes) whispering it was family proper. He waves a jeweled hand saying to take your leave because “I don’t need a babysitter when I’m enjoying the dance.”

You nod before walking to the backside of the club’s stage. Other burlesque dancers were passing by, some between costumes, others were sans bra and pasties, whole titties were freely bouncing, making you go blind to the type of store this was. Regardless, when you’re at a safe distance away, you unlock the phone and you receive a file with photos from the last couple of weeks. The latest one your sister sends has the caption, “he misses you too (a lot more than you know).”

You delete the photos right away in case your phone is being tracked for new encrypted data.

Come morning, the man who shares the same sharp eyes as your newly promoted personal chauffeur, leaves the club praising the Madame for taking care of his shipment. First successful mission was breaking up and starting a tribunal war for the drug route by Talon; this time, your orders from the brass themselves, was to infiltrate the higher commanders of the organization to confirm whether or not money laundering in the red light district was still the main source of activity or if the dancers hired were also victims of the much larger crime: trafficking. You were in so deep now that none of your fellow ‘yakuza brothers’ minded of you disappear for days at a time; they knew you probably were getting fucked (or fucked up) since they too experienced the dry spells. For as long as you come back when you’re told and leave after completed missions, the boss and your brothers in the lower ranks in command were ok with you coming and going as you please.

…

[2019, 30th December, Miyagi Prefecture]

The snow is freshly new. Mattsukawa Erina wears her bright Air Force 1’s as she throws fistfuls of snow at her strawberry blonde godfather. On her left, Oikawa’s nephew, Takeru is her ‘heavy’ support like in those Team Fortress 2 games while her auntie Shoko tries to “capture the flag” from the enemy camp. Oikawa drew the shortest straw after lunch, meaning he was on Iwazumi and Mattsukawa’s team. A three on three snowball fight mixed with the rules of capture the flag, made for a fit of giggles when Erina pelts her godfather’s back screaming in victory. Makki fakes death as he tries to crawl to where Takeru ties their team’s blue bandana.

“I won!” The child gloats for a few minutes before a familiar shadow is spotted by a magnolia tree across the way. The girl who looks so much like her father has the hope of her mother’s friendship in her veins; the distant sounds of a temple’s bells are heard signaling the quarter past hour.

“Ma’am, the little miss is staring,” your chauffeur sort of chuckles.

“How do I look?” You question fiddling with the jacket drapes around your shoulders.

“Like a ghost madam,” Tadashi gives you a curt nod you catch on the rear view. “The acid burn from your contract mission healed quite nicely.”

“So it seems, Tada-kun,” you glance over at the large plush bunny on your lap. The scarred flesh stemming from your shoulder to your neck is hidden beneath foundations meant to coverup tattoos according to the fashion label. It does a good job especially on days like today.

You unbuckle your seatbelt, instruct him to be your proxy for all activities and only to call your personal line if the rat has been found. Double crossing isn’t always fun, but unlike the rest of Talon, you tip the scales in your favor blindly.

“Call me whenever you’re ready to be picked up, oh,” your driver says one more thing. “If we ever cross paths again, I’m glad to have known the incomparable ‘steel bullet.’”

“Likewise. Be good and live,” you shake his hand prior to stepping out of the vehicle.

Meanwhile, your sister spots you first this time: she squints as the same car from a year prior drives by the main road leading back to the elementary schools. She knows that sedan and decides to call it a draw for right now; Makki notices the tidal shift in the way his soon-to-be fiancé suggests nap time for his niece. Takeru takes his partner in crime inside with the promise of reading to young Erin’s the tales of a nutcracker, princess, and a mouse.

“Hey, I thought the objective was to capture the flag, not send in a man or two…?” Oikawa whines.

“We’re being watched,” Ka-sho who had seemed blunt before was now more direct. Her eyes roll to the left where in the neighbor’s yard, you stand solo with the plush bunny in your arms. The jingle bell collar chimes as you raise a hand to greet them.

Mattsukawa’s throat is suddenly dry, yet he remains appalled at the distance his feet seem to have him cover. His legs hasn’t been this exhausted since the last game he played with his daughter. Perhaps he’s losing his touch, his subconscious thinks. You’re already galavanting across the street, glancing to your left, then your right as the bunny floats in the air behind you. Slowly, your mutual friends walk back inside giving the funeral director some much deserved privacy.

Inside the house, Erina watches from the window while her goddofazas and auntie observe the blissful exchange.

“See! Suzu really likes my otosan,” she puffs out her chest as proof of being right.

“She loves you though,” her auntie, your sister, ruffles her hair. “Now, what about continuing our game of capture the flag hmm? Seems like Takeru and your goddofaza need some help taking on Iwa & Oikawa too…”

The window remains a frame of the outside where both the friend of death and his newest light are fated to meet:

You bound up to each other and as though on instinct, he envelopes you in the warmth of his arms. He’s a furnace you cannot escape nor did he want you to. You’re comfortably like this surely because it seems like the prodigal daughter does come knocking when the winter season warrants her arrival before the spring. Your hair smelled of peppermints and the sea; he smelled of candied apples and cinnamon brooms. He grips the back of your jacket just to make sure the body underneath his real.

“When?”

His lips graze your jawline. His stubble tickles you, it’s as magical as one can imagine. Reuniting with familiar faces and family is what the holidays are about, not necessarily the presents—just don’t tell the kids in the house.

“Just arrived this morning loverboy,” you breathe into his shoulder. “Missed me much?”

You don’t have to ask the man in front of you if he did—he’s too busy pressing his lips on your hairline to formulate a proper answer. He longed for days like right now where his anxieties of being a good empath would lead you back home.

“We.”

You kiss him once on the lips.

“Should.”

He says in a voice more innocent than the holy dragons guarding the temple close by.

“Go.”

You wink up at him, standing. your toes, waving the bunny’s arm in one hand from your side.

“Inside.”

Curious hands, rough with callouses from both the chemicals to dress up the dead and playing with his daughter at the park’s swings, are quite quaint with a wonton need to draw you impossibly closer to him before he meets you halfway to welcome you back to your hometown. Glory to the slums, your sister used to preach every Saturday morning you found yourselves above ground. Like today, there are traditions well upkept like the red envelopes. Or the fact that you’re in the domain of your friend’s ex-lover who is doing the best he can with surviving the holidays with the rest of his friends from high school (and his young adult life).

There is a gentle breeze above you and even if it’s not enough to shake the leaves with the snow puffs like in all those movies about rebels falling in love, the remnants are caught in your hair; his is littered in turn as well, black and white was always the status quo. Lips chapped by the weather teasingly leave you gasping when one of his hands tilts your chin to the side to feel for newer scars. Rough finger pads roam higher, the burnt flesh on your shoulder makes him frown. The job you have is dangerous; the job he has in the city is enough to keep him and Erin afloat, you have to remind him every day at least once since there are days where Mattsukawa needs to relearn what made him strong. For the time being, as love and death embrace, you communicate through a final revelation. Your lips ghost over his instructing him to close his eyes and to, “focus on my touches.” These intimate ministrations where physical touch is your love language are replaced by his words of affirmation and acts of service.

“You are loved,” the words never leave his vocal chords as your eyes are lost in his that afternoon. Rather, Mattsukawa presses his forehead against yours soaking up the atmosphere around you two. You, at the age of twenty-nine, face the person who decides that home is a state of mind where all are welcome regardless of being six feet above ground or not. Mattsukawa Issei is about to say something he thought he would had to reserve falling in love for another special lady down the line as his daughter grows up around strong independent women (apart from her uniquely talented godfathers).

“Tadaima,” you say, nudging your nose against his.

Scalding homely smiles show off your canines. You compliment his choice of footwear, the NIKE checkmark on the back of the classic running shoes makes you chortle. He notes the plushie with collar, you mention it’s for a friend, “she’s about this tall, long black curls down to her shoulders…oh! And her father seems to like NIKE Air Force 1’s so much so they bought matching pairs for lunar new year…know anyone like that?”

“Okeri,” his welcome ignites a flurry of warmth between your clothed bodies. “And yes, yes I do silly girl.”

Mattsukawa Issei, twenty-eight years old, makes his emotions hang in the tension he buiilds before he plays with all his cards in his hands.

“Eyes on me beautiful,” his voice draws you to open your eyes slightly right as you allow him to slide his lips atop your own. You don’t despise this one bit. You never could even if yuo tried since of all of the kisses shared between you both, the one where he kisses your brow to signify you should warm up by the kotatsu since he steals a glance at your footwear, thus saying with a teasing glint in his eye that your shoes aren’t any better.

[soranihimawari]

alive? eat him alive? i'm game.

fucking him isnt enough i need to eat him

[soranihimawari]

Decode, my Love

A short about coming to terms how to handle the rumor of you and a certain vice captain dating.

Word Count: 6K+

Pairing: iwazumi hajime x (f)reader x oikawa tooru (timeskip compliant to a certain degree including hints, not spoilers for latest bonus chapter)

Warnings: first kisses, allusions to handsy teens being in like/love. out of love//learning to love again//reconnect with pining person// oral (f! receiving) non-invasive description//soft oikawa tooru

Follow up ->fundamental truths

How I know either of them would have held reader’s hand when they share more the just the look™️

“For the last time, I am not dating her!” Iwazumi’s voice yells through the door of the boys locker room after practice one morning. The her in question was the same young lady who had exceeded his expectations when he had met her in his third year in middle school. She surprises him and by default Oikawa by showing up to their highs school gates on the first day of their first year. And by the ever elusive “she,” Oikawa teases his friend by saying your name over and over again. Cute iterations of your name paired with Iwazumi’s family name made him blush like mad once during a summer sleepover during Golden Week with the team during their second year. Now in their third, you become one of their strongest supporters, even going so far as having their coach seek you out when there is a disagreement between the players. Like right now, you arrive at the gym to hear the latest gossip from Hanamaki who laughs with Mattsukawa when you give them a pointed look.

“Oikawa’s sassing Iwazimi again?” you frown, clicking your tongue at the two of them for not stopping their captain and vice captain. “Over what this time?”

Mattsukawa stops laughing almost immediately before rolling his eyes where you stand. 

“You’ve got to be joking,” you deadpanned at the two of them. Hanamaki calms himself down long enough to say the rumor was going around again that you’re the apple of a certain ace’s eye. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” you grumble pushing past them after you tell them to head to class. Eventually, as you wander into the gym, you see Oikawa nursing the back of his head with an ice pack mumbling something or other about “being honest with yourself.” Oikawa seems to not have noticed you and even if he did, he makes a notion to point out where your other friend is. Considering they are the last ones to clear out of the gym, you were able to sneak in the locker room. The steam from the showers still lingers and you can smell the school provided soap (and your friend’s cologne) wafting in the air. Oikawa’s specific ringtone for texts is heard from where you spot your half dressed friend (in his ivory tracksuit pants and dark blue dry-fit material undershirt). He is mocking himself in the mirror as he styles his hair with the pommade you bought too much of since your brother was coming home from university last month. His voice is a bit higher and as he washes his hands from the excess, he mimics OIkawa’s voice:

“Just tell her you’ve loved her since you were thirteen,” he sasses himself. “Tell her how at the date you want to take her on White Day three months from now…” 

You turn and hide your gasp covering your mouth with your hands. You hear him practice talking to you in front of the mirror over and over again until he settles on naturally asking you during lunch tomorrow. He’s too nervous about it, but he does little to hide the flushed color on his cheeks. As quietly as you can, you turn to sit down on the bench waiting to see if he’d notice you–when he does, he scolds you for scaring him half to death. You laugh with him saying you don’t remember hearing his voice ever reach that high of a note, but seeing as he clutches his chest, you arch your eyebrow at him suggesting he take a seat next to you.

“How much of that did you hear?” his voice is wonky and all over the place until he fishes out his water bottle from his gym bag.

“Enough to make me want to do this,” your hands find their way toward either side of his face. 

“YN, don’t–mm?!”

Your lips interject whatever it is Iwazumi was about to say. And for good measure too; the kiss starts off innocently enough, but as all first kisses go, let alone one in a private locker room right before final bell is rung, your partner decides to prolong denying what he felt all along. You feel Iwazumi’s hands wrap their way around your waist, encouraging you to eventually sit on his lap; warm calloused hands climb higher to mess with your ponytail holder today, your half-up do currently is undone by the slick movements of his feathery hands. He cradles you like broken glass because he doesn’t know much it broke him when you entertained the idea of dating someone other than himself (who mind you, helped during your first series of rejections the last years in this high school melodrama [i.e. your love life is worse than Oikawa’s, you make a joke one day in science class at your expense]). You want to continue, you really do, but when your hands travel to loop around his shoulder, you hear a laughter rumble between your joined lips when you trace the kanji for “skip day”. You open your eyes slowly to see a softening moss green orb stare back you, and with a slight nod you feel from his nose smoothly bypassing yours, you let him break this kiss to hold you tighter.

“Thought you’d never ask,” is what you think you heard when you hop off his lap to stand. You wait outside the gym where you had your friend from class inform your homeroom teacher you were feeling sick when you came on to school grounds. She arches her eyebrow at you two looking quite feverish, saying you both probably caught whatever was going around the soccer club informing her that Iwazumi offered to walk with you. 

“Feel better guys,” your friend says giving you a little salute. You promise to text her when you’re available. And what really sells this lie? Iwazumi was coughing in an attempt to clear his throat. She pats your shoulder saying your secret is safe with her.

Hours later, you’re underneath a familiar set of blankets. The same ones you used on movie night over the weekend when Oikawa was being a menace to society trying to get you two to share while an older Godzilla remake plays on the screen in the Iwazumi family residence’s living room. Currently though, you wear a certain ace’s hoodie saying you always liked this one because of how soft it is; Iwazumi chuckles nodding he does agree it always looked better on you anyways.

“Hajime,” you glance down at the jacket covering a good part of your uniform skirt and by default your leggings on your thighs. Your hands are still linked beneath the covers, his response is in the way he rubs your knuckles with his thumb.

“Did you really mean what you said earlier?”

“About?”

He adjusts his arm closest to your head in order for you to curl into him; pressing your ear against his pectoral and you glance up at his sharp jawline. You’re adorably cute like this, he thinks. Eyes filled with a lucid idea of hope with how eager you want to know the answer to your question. Judging by the way you scrunch your nose like you do when hoping for one, he realizes this was your way of asking if this was something one sided so you could brace yourself for another rejection or if this was going to be a new normal for you two. 

“What you said in the locker room? You know, the date on White Day and how you’d ‘never break me’ unless you want me to…”

“You heard that part?”

“Haji, your best friend is the tea-spilling King, naturally Tooru told me…”

Iwazumi sat straight up in bed, bringing your face into contact with his mattress. If he were more angry than embarrassed, you could picture all the ways volleyballs would hit his captain like it was dodgeball day. It’s not every day when the guys enlighten you to what Iwazumi had said when he was describing candidly in detail people with your sarcastic personality, sharp and witty too. You let out disgruntled, “oof!” before laughing more to yourself than him.

“I’m going to kill him,” the friend of yours seethes.

You, on the other hand, sit up and use your arms to your advantage to have him lay back down beside you. Your lips are used to silence his rage and to make him forget he was ever annoyed at the witty captain from earlier. Simultaneously devious, he sighs into your mouth mumbling a ghostly apology for not thinking straight. You hum as you let him take the lead in kissing you softly; this was how you’d always want to remember your first love–warm and real and bright. 

So why, after all the promises he had made with you were you here? Five years goes by in a flash and for lack of better words, you hear through the grapevine via Hanamaki and Mattsukawa, that one OIkawa Tooru is due back to visit home during the off season. Your ex-boyfriend whom you’ll always have a soft spot for is in attendance with his new eye-candy for the month, well scratch that, the year. You were invited to the social gathering of the V-League world as a friend’s plus one. It’s been a while since you all last saw each other. Truthfully, you felt the breakup was necessary because of the different paths you five took post-graduation. Hanamaki learned to hold down a job though his latest venture in securing a delivery driver job was promising, he was not the one who invited you. Mattsukawa sees you at the bar nursing your cocktail the second you walk in looking a like a nightmare waiting to be fucked. HIs words, not yours. The friend of death eyes your second, wait, third(?) whiskey neat before he tells you if you and Iwazumi don’t make up, it’s probably for the best since you broke things off back then. Iwazumi smiles contentedly as his date, your former close friend and seatmate who recently returned from jetting to UCLA to finish her master’s, greets other members of the Olympic Team. Her laughter and their happiness is palatable. You put on a mask and though through recent times Mattsukawa calls you every once in a while to hang out, you know it’s out of the kindness of being a friend to you and the newly recruited athletic trainer. Oikawa Tooru enters the room and as everyone in the hall congratulates him on his safe arrival and for the fact he’s the starting setter for the second Olympic Games he’ll be headed to, he thanks everyone, including one pesky cat, for talking him into playing this all-star game. 

“He’s here,” Mattsukawa says, nodding in the direction of the door. 

“I know, I heard,” you practice a smile. Mattsukawa gives you a solid seven out of ten for the smile you produce, even if he knows it’s fake. You pretend to never notice how your loyal friend is the one who walks taller than you to embrace his old  captain–it’s not every day the boy who comforted you by taking away a half-drank bottle of gin in your studio when you scrolled through the social media feed of your girl bff practically being kissed on the shoreline of Huntington Beach, CA by your ex lets you cry into his shoulder. Mattsukawa remembers how broken you sounded when your voice whispered-yelled, “all this time you were pretending with me, huh?!”

Elsewhere, Iwazumi greets his friend on the other side of the pub where the party was taking place. Oikawa blinks as he does a double take when Iwazumi introduces his girlfriend for the first time in person to him; Oikawa arches an eyebrow and the two young men don’t say a word. The girl in question is really cute, but pales in comparison to you who always seemed to shine best when surrounded by those who loved you best. Though Iwazumi asks his friend to not say a word behind his eyes, Oikawa can’t help but scoff.

“You really are mean,” Oikawa quiet with rage said as the girl walks toward the other end of the bar. She doesn’t want to engage in conversation with you because you chose to pretend to not see her. You told yourself you’re not to be angry with either of them. University years had them experience new things and you knew that, you just had held on to the last bit of hope in the bottom of your highball glass. 

“You broke your promise to her, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa crosses his arms over his chest. 

“I know, alright? It just happened,” Iwazumi replies. “Don’t ask me to compare the two. You weren’t there.”

“I wasn’t, but you know she called me right after Issei left her place,” Oikawa watches you return the glass to the counter and cash out your tab. “She was a mess. And you’re damn lucky we were there for her when you turned your back on yn-san. Excuse me.”

You walked toward the less crowded side of the room, trying to avoid everyone and every conversation around you. Whispers of who you were in relation to any of the players or their agencies was completely unknown. You must have blended in with the regular crowd for a Tuesday night. The bouncers or night guards thought with what you wore you were part of the event. Even if you weren;t, you still did not think you had the strength to stay a minute longer. Until a familiar wave of lavender and pine hits your nose. You come face to chest in a bone-crushing hug by a flash of sky blue and white. You hear your name whispered kindly in your ear. Both of you exchange brief hello’s as you wiggle out of his tighter hold, you could feel a dissipating animosity between old friends kick back up again. Perhaps it’s for the best you don’t know what Mattsukawa knows: immaturity and love do not often go hand in hand, yet here was the counterpart and antithesis of your ex’s friend group–Oikawa Tooru was many things, a captain, ladies man, young men admire his tenacity and certainly a team once called him ‘great king.’ He was all those things in the past, yet recently his coach says to him a piece of advice: “olvida el pasado y reclama su corazón. ella necesita saber cómo te sientes. dijiste que la amabas aunque tu mejor amigo no podía…” (roughly advising his star setter to forget their shared past and how you need to know how much he’s loved you even when Iwazumi could not).

“Hey pretty girl,” he redirects you to lock eyes with him. Brown eyes grow immensely bolder with the way your body reacts–it burns too hot. The nickname makes your heart pulsate through your fingertips as you lazily draw a line upward to hug an old friend proper. Oikawa Tooru makes you pinky promise you won’t leave his side. You don’t question it when he ushers you to meet the rest of his teammates from the tournament hosted by the JVA. Your best friend, whom you think doesn’t see this whole exchange, comes back to hand Iwazumi their bar cocktails. She takes a sip confessing how she knew something was up with the way Oikawa had spoken to the man on her right.

“Oikawa’s been smitten with her lately,” she casually said. She shrugs when she mentions it makes sense karma pays Iwazumi a visit. “Afterall, I was her best friend before we started pursuing each other romantically. No wonder he’s attached to her. Remember how taken you were with her back in high school?”

Iwazumi feigns innocence while he grips the glass a bit harder. Regret is as bitter as the ones in his glass. Oikawa looms behind you, resting a hand on either the small of your back or on your waist, and once you proclaim your feet are a bit tired from wearing the wedges that completed you attire for the night, Iwazumi sees Oikawa whisper something to JVA Rep. Kuroo’s ear and the two captains exchange a small smile as if to say, “go get ‘er because you’ve been dying to tell her for years.” Oikawa doesn’t apologize to Iwazumi for his actions, as you’ve come to find out. The Argentine does not owe anyone an explanation but you.

Outside your balcony in your new flat, Oikawa Tooru stands watching you sing along to a song you don’t know. Your pronunciation of Spanish words has improved quite a bit; you had to learn it in order to take a semester off. You thankfully pulled off another successful winter/autumn semester so you could primarily take off to Argentina to visit an old friend. Oikawa offered to take a break as well to entertain you. Back then, like a year ago, he asked you to stay longer for fear of losing his opportunity to be someone you could love. He waited until you seemed like you were over Iwazumi, he just needed you to confirm you were and fortunately tonight, you seemed like you did just that. Though Mattsukawa warned the two to play nice, Oikawa was told via text you needed a distraction so you wouldn’t pull off any embarrassing moves (like spill your darkened whiskey all over a certain athletic trainer’s face or you know, slap the girl he’s currently sleeping with across the face for breaking the ‘don’t date my ex’ unspoken rule). Here you were within his grasp and when the song ends, you hear one of your audience members applaud. The other was a dozing stray cat on the tree branch ahead of you. You’re startled a bit by his presence mentioning he should really get new louder shoes. He laughs, mirthfully so, taking his place beside you. You rest your head on his shoulder like you used to when you would take his side on an argument. 

“Your Spanish got better,” Oikawa muses, his lips pulled into a smirk. 

“Your Japanese accent is coming back too,” you tease.

The night air in Tokyo is cool and for lack of better terms, a bit nostalgic. You rest your chin on your hand as you lean against the balcony, your company glances down at your free hand. 

“What are you thinking about? You seemed very apprehensive earlier to leave my side,” you say, eying his profile against the pale moonlight.

“That my idiot best friend broke the heart of the only person I could truly admit I love,” Oikawa replies without even thinking. “And I love volleyball a whole hell of a lot.”

You think you must be dreaming and woke up in an alternative timeline, so you pinch yourself. Nope, this was really happening. Oikawa Tooru, suave and the most handsome setter in the South American Circuits, who has 1.2 million fans worldwide, just admitted his feelings towards you–the one person he couldn’t secure a date with because well, moral codes aside, you weren’t quite ready to love him yet. Although now, at 2:19 in the morning, Tokyo Standard Time, your heart and soul makes him look ten times more princely. He rambles on telling you tales of the past and how you always were the most attractive person he’s ever met; sharp, witty, funny, and yet when you started dating Iwazumi, he began to distance himself for fear of being found out. You inform him you had no idea, but in hindsight, you thought it was strange how often the fights between the boys seemed to occur; half of them were because the dates that Iwazumi took you on were one of Oikawa’s ideas. It was the most memorable one because it was for your 100 days anniversary. Oikawa helped string the fairylights at the gazebo by Iwa’s house. He admitted it saying if he really was bold back then, he would have whisked you away with him to Argentina without a second thought. Or at least asked you, but with your life here, Argentina would have to wait. 

“You honestly had no idea?” Oikawa Tooru says aghast. 

“How could I have?” you defend laughing a bit at your own fickle heart. “You didn’t outwardly spell it out for me even though I was a bit dense when it came to romance.”

Oikawa stands in front of you now. Towering over you, but hovering nonetheless, caging you between the concrete ledge and back patio of your apartment. You glance up at him, anxious fireflies set your chest a flame knowing to tread lightly.

“I’ll stop here,” he says, tracing your lips with his roughly padded thumb. “If you don’t want me to follow through.” 

“Oikawa,” you warn, automatically pursing your lips against his fingertips. Soft and kind, hard and stubborn, he thinks is part of your charm. Your hair flows over your shoulder again as you begin to notice he leans down a bit more, his breath when he speaks pricks your upper lip with laiden desire.

“Not my last name sweetheart,” he whines, holding your chin a bit more firm. 

Oikawa witnesses the dangerous contortion your face makes when your painted lips jut out into a soft pout, a bit annoyed as he pulls away slightly and your heart sinks a bit toward your shoes.

“Will you ever kiss me Oikawa Tooru?” you honestly in earnest ask.

“Only because you asked,” is the last thing you hear when you feel his lips outclass everything you ever knew about love. It is surprisingly compassionate, logic defying even. How are his lips this hot? Why are they making you feel like you’re floating on bubbles from the champagne toast from earlier? It can’t be because you’re weak in the knees with someone you thought was completely out of your league and vice versa. You don’t break the kiss when you feel his hands wipe away the tears spilling out of your eyes. He doesn’t let you have a moment to feel sorry for realizing the truth too late: he can’t fault you for crying because he knows those tears are one of relief, not sadness. You deepen the kiss moments later, angling your head in one way, asking for permission to further rely on him to keep you standing for fear you’d fly away into the night. Feverish kisses like this makes his hands wander across your lithe body; you’ve always been a runner, but a swimmer, he forgot about the captain of Seijoh’s Swim Team who was the anchor in 4x4 relays. He’d seen your record smashing win at nationals when Iwazumi had make-up exams to take; he’d seen how disappointed you felt when you saw him in Iwa’s stead, remembering then of your boyfriend’s academic duties. Regardless, five years, and over three to four different time zones later, you feel how much love he harbors for you when he pulls you back inside your residence. You set the pace, and he obliges like a river to the sea. His lips are not shy nor are they coy; they are brutal in telling you to succumb to his love. Languid and painstakingly slow, you realize you’re subconsciously undoing the buttons of his shirt as stealth fingers find the zipper on the back of your dress–”Tooru, I want us to keep going.” Chocolate hair bounces when he nods, allowing you to catch your breath when he bites his lips calling you a flower’s name: “Impatient, are we?”

“You’ve been pining over me for years and you want to go slow?” you are a sassy one, your lips graze over his pulse point by his collar bone.

“Believe me when I say this,” he nips your ear carefully, enough to make you slightly jump into his arms more. “I yearned for this day to come, so I’m going to savor Every. Waking. Moment. With. You.” You feel your zipper become completely undone and as your dress falls into a pool around you, you hurriedly undo the rest of his buttons to slide the fabric over his shoulders. 

“God damn king,” you mutter when your arms trace over the hardened toned body of the boy, no, scratch that, man you’re seemingly hopeless in falling for. Five years is as long time to admit you’ve always been curious what it was like to date, fuck, and probably most incrediously make out with the Oikawa Tooru. Well, the “the” didn’t have to be extravagant, no, since you’ve known him a majority of your school life as Oikawa, captain Oikawa, and most undoubtedly your ex’s best friend who had set his pride aside to watch you date someone who wasn’t him. You reassure him when you tiptoe to ghost over his lips again you’re of sound mind when your mind and soul finally let go of the past–presently, you’re too busy falling back in love with the man who loved you for nearly a decade. Oikawa as you’ll soon learn  doesn’t care you almost slept with Mattsukawa that night with the gin; he doesn’t mind if you took in Hanamaki when he was kicked out of the family home; he just cares that for once you chose yourself to win back your love life. You picked yourself back up and healed like the warrior empress you are. Contrary to popular belief, he calls you a charming nickname he heard one of his fans calls you on social media (you had posted a photo of you and Oikawa cheering the sunrise with your pan de bono. Fans world wide gave their support when he shouts your silhouette out with an old fandom’s name for warrior royal: “To my dearest Amarthwen, may we have many more mornings like this.” #lotr #nicknamesformicorazon

“I should be saying that to you,” Oikawa nudges your nose with his. You both smile into the next kiss because you have silently trusted each other’s hearts to be taken care by the other; you say his name like it’s a landline., one you’ve always known to call you when you’re down and for the life of you, you’re dancing with him, half dressed in your flat’s hallway leading to the master bathroom, you let him waltz with you to the next song on the playlist. Well, not quite a waltz, more like a bachata to your room; he chuckles when you gratefully come into contact with the mattress. He looms over you, your bra has your chest rise and fall in support of a love well-deserved. You bounce slightly when you toss your head back to have your distinguished guest close the door a bit behind you.

“Finally,” you mumble against his brow. “You can have me. All of me, free from whatever you think still lingers in my mind.”

“Dear clever girl,” his arms slide to swoop you up closer to his almost bare self much like where you are now. “Stop talking and let me love you as you are.”

Your arms raise to trace over his shoulders as he continues to further fall into your good graces. Quiet declarations into the night formulate steamy beads of sweat above your temple. His hair sticks to your forehead as he pulls a breathy moan from your lips, he places you back down on your barrage of pillows, slowly, delicately allowing his actions to speak on his behalf. He chuckles when he sees your thighs rub together to hide the effect he has on you; he always had you admit to yourself. You tell him to not look at you like he’s about to eat you alive. 

“Poor choice of words.” his voice threatens.

Eyes seek your permission with lustful desire. Tonight, he swears is about making you feel the most godlike. Tomorrow, he vows to make you pay by having you satisfy him. It’s an unspoken rule in your own home to have a box of condoms hidden by your toy chest. You make a mental note to tell him where the stash moves strategically whenever he visits or until you are prompted to move with him a few years later (like aiming for two and a half, maybe three if things really progress further) because gods above know you would have said yes on the spot like when he touches you there, pressing his fingers over your clothed sex. You realize he’s an impish devil, one you could see raze a village for flogging the woman he loved, yet he is so uncharacteristically tender with you, it makes you wonder why anyone would break up with him in his youth. You don’t really care about them at all, not when he’s with you, gripping your hands and pinning them adobe your head. 

Eventually, with enough foreplay in the works, your knee nudges against something and when your eyes realize what that something is, you listen to the man so far from his new home growl a needy, “Careful there love,” to your ear. You offer to take care of him, you try in earnest, curious to know how well you could take him; you know because in your delirium when you were on the mend, you’ve gotten off sheepishly with your toys thinking about the time you spent on a much needed and well-paid for in advance vacation to Argentina fianced by two very faithful friends. It’s no wonder Hanamaki goes broke every time he decides to stay at your place, he was too busy making travel arrangements and paying down installments with Mattsukawa’s card for your trip abroad. The boys mean well, they really do, but also because they were tired of the shenanigans their friends put you through. You return saying perhaps one day when you’re back to being a bit more whole, you would have given into the athlete’s longing stares much sooner.

Much sooner became now and though he sacrifices his obvious response to your drooling self, Oikawa says tonight should be dedicated about how well he makes you feel. Tomorrow, he promises you can wake him up however you deem fit because he sees the lust blown pupils reflecting his image back at him before they roll back toward your skull. 

“Tooru, don’t play,” you say, feeling him press his lips against your forehead. He has wormed his way between your legs, propping them open with his knee. His trousers long since hang off the side of the bed and it takes everything in your will power to commit the sensation to memory: softened chapped lips trace a constellation against the entirety of your body from your browbone, nose, down to either side of your collarbones, valley between your breasts (which still stay securely in place by your bra of choice), down and down; with one hand on your ribcage, the other beckons you to nod, slipping beneath the waistband of your low-rise underwear, you brace yourself for what comes next. 

“Consent, give it to me,” he commands, no pressure given at all. There will be a time for formalities and ‘pleases’ to be said, now is not one of those times. Greed has wormed its ugly head between your bodies as candidly as nature taken on showcasing your response to each other.  Your hips roll to nearly match what he is insinuating and the rest of your body electrifies the answer he needs because at the moment, you’re a bit lost on words. 

Oikawa plants more kisses than he could ever imagine on your exposed skin, raising a leg to slide down the last of the cloth barrier hiding you from him. His hand gracefully slides down and up before removing what you’ve kept hidden for nearly a decade. Breathing excruciatingly slow, you hear tender words being whispered against the outline of your skin. Upon further reflection of tonight, it’s a wonder you didn’t cum on the spot as the words you’ve longed to hear slips past your patient lover: “Sunshine most dear, I’ve been wanting you since forever.”

You close your eyes, breathing him in, soaking his silhouette from your place below him, he begins his descent in playing with your sex. You turn to fist the sheets around you, trying to behave, knowing you can’t. Not when he demands your utmost attention, he licks hot stipes and makes succeulent sounds against the meatiest undersides of your thighs. Thighs he had fallen asleep on in the beaches of Brazil when he took you via train to meet the karasuno crow on the beach. Loving and teasing because of who Oikawa Tooru is as a person makes you wish you had selfishly seeked him out on your own; Mattsukawa and Hanamaki tried to warn you that the most angry you could make a former lover is have them witness how happy you were without him. And by gods have the fates decide to tie your souls with the man who is dedicated to worship the ground you walk on. 

“More?”

“Tooru, I swear to god if you mah~oh fuck you~make me wait any,” you’re cut off by first cool breath he takes before he tastes you fully. You’ve come too close to being undone by his hands alone, and mind you they felt better than any toy’s false sense of security. Though he aims to please you with his hands alone, you realize he was just warming you up. This was the second set of five in your head, you’ve come to the enlightened path and by the gods you think Oikawa is amongst them as you slowly become a slave to his love.

“I should have done this long ago,” his breath is hot against your thighs where he takes his claim. You definitely will wake him up tomorrow touch starved and taken care of, you swear on your life. 

You crack open an eye as you feel your leg return to a propped stand next to the other one as one skilled man would learn all your body’s tells starting now, when his nose nudges against an overtly sensitive area. sighing with a lovelorn mewl of his name on the tips of your tongue. Open-mouth kisses work as reassurance the longer you hear him drink you in. Your back arches to aid your arms to reach he top of his head, encouraging him to hear and taste how utterly delectable you truly are. The sounds are as audacious as you think; so lewd and you’re practically sticky where his lips and hands make a toy out of you. You tilt your head back when you’re close, propping yourself up by the elbows nearly passing out from the way he pleasures you. Minutes pass and when you reach your desirable end, he chuckles saying it’s been a while since he tasted anything similar to ambrosia. 

“Fucking delicious sweetheart,” his voice is gravely, licking the remnants off his face. His fingers trace a bit over your panting lips, inviting you to taste yourself. And you come to find out he was right. You were mentally trying to still your quaking legs, the mess he made of you still stains the sheets for right now, yet he distinctly hears you in your feverishly hot body, “I will fuck you until all I know is you, Oikawa Tooru,” you’re breathing harder now, your body still trapped underneath his daunting figure, his hands almost rub the sensitive part of you again. “Fucking Christ.” 

“I look forward to it,” he says. “But for now, I think you and I need to cool down…”

You don’t walk to the shower after he cleans you, no. He had the audacity to scoop you in to his arms and carry you to the glass shower in your apartment. The sheets for modesty’s sake drops off in the floor of the bathroom. You make him stay with you saying you will change the sheets once you’re through here. So why, after a few more confessions are said, do you find yourself pinned against the warm of your own shower? Rough hands still roam your suds driven body and a broken, “please” beckons your lover to continue marking your neck on varying degrees of purple. You want to touch him, you truly do, but he growls in your ear tomorrow.

“But I want—”

“Delayed gratification baby, trust me.”

He plays with you now under the shower head, rolling his hips so you can have an idea of just how being with you for a short period of time has already worked him up. You laugh when you step out of the shower as he gives you a ‘just caught stare’ when you invite him to finish himself off in the shower.

“Two can play that case little star,” you turn to wrap a town around your body.

The glass door of the shower slides open and a hasty, “‘m not small,” is said. You laugh shaking your head saying he started calling you cute names, so why can’t you gift him one too?

“Little star, you burn bright for me,” you said, turning him around to finish his shower as you close the shower door. You peaked down, swallowing your pride because come tomorrow, you think of what your carnal brain would want to devour for breakfast…you shake your head recalibrating the idea of going down on him much as he did you, but you choose a more ‘palatable’ route to show him the morning after. You leave the bathroom after brushing your hair, finding some decent clothes to lay in; you strip your bed and replace the linens altogether before you pull out more overnight attire. You’re thankful over the years you have known and slept over at Oikawa’s place in Argentina you remember a pair of sweats he leant you. They still fit him, but they also were so comfortable you snuck them in your luggage when you were packing. Regardless, now seemed like the perfect time to return them to their owner. The water in the shower shuts off as soon as your washing machine is turned on. Oikawa finds you half dressed again a top your bed. New t-shirt bra on while your pajama bottoms have an old university logo on them. He arches an eye brow at you stating how no matter the years that have gone by, you look divine.

“Keep talking slick and I’ll put on a shirt,” you tease.

Oikawa laughs saying he’ll lay down first this time, inviting you with open arms to join him. He speaks secrets into your cooling skin; tracing them over and over as if you’d disappear in a blink of an eye. You don’t though, you can’t blow since he proves he loved you from the start.

“You don’t mean that,” you say frowning. Oikawa’s cupping your face, rubbing your cheekbone with the pads on his fingers.

“Oh, but I do,” he adds. He kisses you once. “I really do.”

You relax more the moment you reform this soft gesture. You press a firm kiss on his lips before you hear him say something predominantly too early. You knew what it meant, you do, but hearing how taken he is with you, you utter a soft, “yo también.” Your hair is brushed behind an ear as you hear him hum a gentlier version of good night, you stifle a yawn as well, before you place a protective arm across his chest. Your hair pools behind you and when he glances down to see a content smile on your face, oikawa tooru wraps his head around finally having the chance to prove just how much he loves you.

Oikawa Tooru is a man of many, many talents. Turns out, being your best lover takes precedence over all others who came before him; after all, he always seeked pleasing you. It starts slowly at first, like the morning after when you wake to him holding you with a smile traced over your exposed shoulder.

“What time is it?” You grumble half-awake.

“Don’t know,” he replies. Stifling a yawn, you twist to face him, holding his face in your hands. He winks at you as you slowly fade back to sleep uttering a tired, “thanks for giving us a chance.” Pressing his lips on the crown of your hair, he says, “any time.” Sure enough, you eventually learn just how to navigate the storm of being linked to Oikawa; his fans learn to love you too, some trolls make it through though, but you are stronger than you know. No petty person would be able to surrender to your unyielding snark. Once, Oikawa hovers over your shoulder while you reply to a love q&a. Your pajamas with satin clouds and white undershirt courtesy of your lover’s closet mixes well with the background of him pouring a glass of juice and coffee for you both.

“What are they saying?” He asks.

“How did you know we would work out?” You repeat the question that snagged your attention.

“Hmm,” oikawa had a thinking face on. You carefully take the mug out of his hand and sip. You were curious too.

“The day we had our first movie night in high school,” he says with a smile. “You didn’t see half of the romance or dramas I did and I thought to myself one day, I’m going to show her every single one that reminds me of us.”

A collective string of hearts and positive vibes were seen and read. You trying to hide your blush behind your mug was cute, and when he calls you out on it, you shake your head.

“I knew the moment you’d actually let me crash here, in Argentina with you,” you sheepishly admit. “I was doing some soul-searching at the time and this guy, the one who just signed on with team San Juan, took me to the promenade during a local festival. Bought me cafe con leche and an arepa…He still is my best lover, so thanks for that.”

“No problemo,” he says with a bright smile. In the sock drawer on his side of the room sits a constellation box filled with precious memories he has had with you. Perhaps the question should be asked soon, especially with the ring buried alongside the first love letter he ever wrote you.

The morning sun rises above the horizon. You’re sitting in front of Oikawa on the blanket he prepared for you. You notice the box behind him, but you say nothing yet. Oikawa had been vague about wanting to come to the place where he first took you when you arrived—you dipped your toes still eating the last bit of an ice cream cone when he hugs you from behind. Kind of like now, except this time, you kiss his jaw with a tender smile. You echo what you said during the live stream last Saturday, it’s something which you tell Oikawa to this day, only this time he interjects with a question in terms of a phrase.

“Marry me.”

“Are you asking or telling me ‘ru?”

You hear him drag the box out, feel for the ring, and in telling you to close your eyes, you feel him take your hand and slip the ring on your finger. You’re too riddled with vibrancy to open your eyes fully when he asks you this time, making you turn your body into him:

“Marry me, yn,” his heart lines pulsate with the way you agree. You tackle him on the sand, whisper yelling your affirmative answer and with the ring on your finger, he seemed to return your answer effortlessly; you kiss him harder that morning, the cool metal scratches his smooth jaw when you both nod saying social media is going to flip the fuck out. You feel him pause his squirming, knowing in a matter of minutes, you’ll be dipped to one side, purple kiss marks on your neck would appear later. For now, jovial tears threaten to spill out of your glossy eyes. As you look at him, the prince to your whirlwind adventures in a new land, you thank the gods for putting you on his path—every day your affection grows to infatuation to now a love most forged in the fires of a phoenix rising. Granted you needed to love yourself first and thankfully by the good graces instilled in Oikawa’s psyche, he waited for you until that first night back in your apartment. The first kiss that made him take you into his heart and soul where you always were meant to stay. His curls press lightly against your hairline as you command his attention away from the new day.

“I can’t wait to love you for eternity,” his words dance like a halo above your head when he consistently wipes the tears again away from your face. “Daring girl, you’re so much more dear than you’ll ever know.”

“Tooru, are you always this articulate?” you laugh, blubbering through the next kiss.

“For you? Para siempre.”

Outside of where he proposes to you in your shared beach house estate in Argentina, there are photos hanging on the wall scrapbooking the milestones your love has taken you around the world–San Juan, Rio de Janiero, Miyagi, Poland, France, etc. The Olympic jersey your boyfriend of four years now has you wear that night is just an allusion to how serious your relationship became with each other thus giving you the option of becoming one of the few Oikawas in the world.

[soranihimawari]

Two and a half Minutes

Pairing: university grad students Kuroo & reader

Rating: 🔞—mdni (themes)// KTA->KTF (angst to fluff)

Word count: 4.2K

Warnings: Kuroo’s ignorance makes him more of an ass; learning to be and do better

Today’s not a day to be late, at least according to the old maids living on your floor. You would think the one time you needed to show up post graduation rehearsal you’d have multiple alarms set, you figured you would make up the time with the way you drive. Then again, when you spent a majority of the last two semesters earning your keep as a librarian’s assistant in the restoration department, time is no consequence to you. Until you meet the rest of the academic staff in the rafter-wings of the auditorium. You were a little dishelved, but lucky for you, your self-proclaimed academic rival is there with his backup speech handy. He was a slick talker who could easily appease the annoyed brow of a doctorate candidate and their mentor with a simple smile; he was also one of the few who could match you in terms of tactical brilliance as proven by the language arts committee he helped formulate in the last year. You sighed, smoothing out your toga, your cap held in the white knuckled grip of your hands. More often than not, lately you’ve been keeping to yourself, trying to not let this years candidates’ comments of your humble origins bruise your already exhausted ego.

“And there they are,” his mockingjay voice says.

“Good mornin’,” you force the words out with a silken annunciation from your village town.

“My my,” the professor to his left says with a clapping motion. “Seems like we won’t hear my cadidate’s speech after all. Pity.”

“I was so looking forward to it too, but what can I do? Our valedictorian showed up with minutes to spare,” one sore jab wouldn’t deal the final blow of an already bleeding corpse.

“Mx YN,” the dean of your school greets you. She was an older woman with half-moon spectacles dangling high on her nose; encouraging letters of recommendation from previous professors landed on her desk with copies of your thesis in the fine arts multiple times.

“Ma’am,” you extend her salutations well-earned. The professor sponsor for your rival retreats a bit while the pupil stands side by side with you.

“I’m looking forward to hearing you speak,” the department head warnmly states. She grips your shoulder with a finality of pride in her otherwise stone face before she calls out another professor’s name who calls her over about an opinion on roses this time of year.

“Congratulations on not making a compete ass of yourself in front of her,” you hear your fellow graduate say. The grip on your cap had loosened some time ago, but now you wished it were a hammer and nail to pin his tongue against the podium. Violence wasn’t necessarily frowned upon here yet considering you could mince this man-child with words beyond his comprehension, you digress.

“Funny, I was about to the same thing,” the lilt in your voice made him do a double-take before you walked on to find your seat among the presenters for the ceremony.

A few minutes later, when you turn to look over your shoulder, you see him talk to another colleague who stares past him to study you. You break the eye-contact when you choose to fiddle with the doctorate cap before placing it upon your head. There is a chime playing overhead as the family snd friends who chose to be a part of the ceremony to cheer their loved ones on began to file in and find their appointed seats. Since there were two valedictorians this semester, you were expecting to see a slew of your rival’s family members and teammates. It’s not an everyday occurrence one well-known athlete graduates with a doctorate of sports administration.

“Jesus, it’s like a wedding party,” you mutter under your breath as you see his parent, aunt, and brother settle down in the front row; the teammates who were able to make it sat in the row behind them in their ‘signing suits.’ You don’t remember hearing his brogued shoes approach you, so you jump a little in your seat when he appears in your blindside.

“Everyone’s made it on my end,” he says with a jovial tone. The five seats reserved for your family and friends remained empty. It’s been what? Seven years of schooling altogether at this infernal institution and he still decides to be ignorant of self-made successes like yourself? How dare he, your thoughts are unnecessary filled with rude comments and childish taunts.

The ceremony commencement announcements are made and he settles into his own seat. The professors go through their introductions and trite speeches extending their congratulations to the family and finally the graduates. To your right, you pretend you don’t see the curious stare of your classmate. He nods and smiles to his parents who wave at him from their spot, his teammates’ holler for his attention too, slightly embarrassing him; but his eyes eventually land back on the empty seats reserved for you. Why on earth would no one want to come to celebrate this milestone with you? Was your family not as caring as his, he wonders. Or was it you were disowned because you chose not to buy into the corporations your family owned? Your life outside of this institution were little to no concern for him, yet the enigma that is you has gripped his curiosity like a vice.

You hear him make a comment before he nudges you to approach the podium. Your speech you’ve memorized countless times, so with not much ado, you set your hands aside post-adjustment of the microphone. The teleprompter just has brackets around [[VALEDICTORIAN SPEECH]] and your voice seemed to have had a mind of it’s own. Your inflections come out when you pronounce certain words but you power through it with an air of professionalism your rival never tires of. It’s like an illusionists’ greatest trick. You end your speech with a thank you and with the hardest hurdle cleared, you wait for the names to be called.

Three hours of your day was all it takes for you to receive the graduate paper; the real diploma will take about another month to be shipped out to your residence. You asked your bookskeeper if you could use their mailbox seeing as you have yet to close on a new apartment contract.

You arrive at the reception hall without your toga, but you do wear your doctoral cap; conveniently it matches your high waisted suit pants and pearlized satin top. It was the nicest set of clothes you owned and since you rarely wore it out anyway, it was a safe choice for an after party like this. You interact and mingle with others who value your opinions on impudent subject matters, perhaps being fed into a lion’s den would have been easier than keeping up appearances with those who could afford to make trillions of donations like they were buying favors from the pope.

Alas peace was a lie you think when a catering waiter approaches you with a mimosa flute. You easily snag one and replace its spot with the empty one. You sip it carefully while contemplating when or if your rival’s family will force him to talk to you. Luckily, you didn’t have to wait very long; his fellow teammate decides to intercept you from being pulled into another conversation about Euclidean Geometry, how its laws of tessellations inspired Byzantine tiles.

“You sure do know how to capture my attention,” you tease, enjoying the bitter liquid making its way to your stomach. “Now how can I help you? PLease don’t tell me you’re here to set me up with—”

“Morisuke!” Another jovial rebel comes bounding up to you two. He shrugs his shoulders with a grumpy expression at his former kouhai while glancing back at you; perhaps he was going to ask you out to dinner, not that you would have refused because of the company he keeps. Friends of said rival or not, Morisuke was actually quite bold.

“Yamamoto, I swear,” you hear him curse his friend under his breath. If these two are here with you, then that means the thorn in your side wasn’t too far behind either.

“To hell with this,” you say, drowning the rest of your tongue with the cocktail. “Thank you for your time gentlemen, but it seems I have to go.”

Noir hair floats by yards ahead of you, probably doing a complicated equation to see the path of least resistance to reach you. The suit he wears is pristine and is a more adult version of his high school one, sans blazer. Rolled up sleeves and a neat double Windsor knotted tie show off his family’s style paired with the glitz of gifted cufflinks and classy watch. Compared to you who screams economic efficiency, his entire ensemble screams charmed life. Not saying he didn’t work hard, far from it, but the way he presents himself as a self-righteous know it irked you to no end. Your subconscious newsfeed decidedly reminds you with bold letters of today’s date and how it ought to be the least time you see the man, so you might as well extend an olive branch of sorts. You stand still, much to the surprise of those who knew of your accumulated hatred of your salutatorian. His parents who had split when he was younger kindly push him on the path toward you regardless of him moving on his own or not. The two friends who came to the ceremony stand a little off to the side behind you should you or their friend hurl insulting words, much like scorekeepers of a tennis match.

“Come to say goodbye?” He asks, peering up and down like a creature about to pounce on its dinner. Golden eyes known to charm women and men into his bed at all hours of the night seem to alight in watching your stone face soften into a relaxed blaze of fury.

“Oh and I thought you were scolded for playing nice with me today,” you raise a glass at his father who seemed to have extended his congratulations with a wave. His mother and father have finally reached a point of amnesty in their separate lives, from afar, their body language reads as amicable friends and co-parents to a doctor in business administration.

“Mm,” he takes a half step forward before eerily smiling at you when you raise your head higher to see his irses dilate a little more. He wants to pick at your mindset, but when reality had sunk in when he sat next to you during the commencement ceremony, he realized he was unfairly biased toward you. In your speech you make a mention of not remembering anything beyond second year of middle school. Perhaps the news of a massive storm surge taking out a few seaside residences one and a half decade ago finally gave him some crumbs of information.

A hell of a time to find out the person whom you’ve shared a majority of classes with was bitter for reasons beyond his control. Times of being angry arguing tooth and nail during classes could have been spent healing, turning over a new leaf as one professor’s adoptive proverb states.

You straighten your posture a bit via rolling your shoulders back, without much else, you say one of the most damning things you could think of: “Thank you for being my academic rival these past seven years; thank you for reminding me everyday how much you disliked seeing my name on the projects with the highest marks; for kicking me out of the library when I told you I had lost power in my apartment; for not even bothering to ask me why I have travel arrangements every March fifteenth to and I quote, ‘go on sabbatical to the shore line.’ And how I still endured your scrutiny when you boasted about being selected for a permanent spot in your fellowship. So yes, I suppose you can summarize what I just stated as, ‘come to say goodbye?’”

You shoulder-check him when you gracefully walk past him when he had nothing else to rebuttal with. He wanted to make a joke, but you being hardwired to take anything he says as a challenge reared its head at him and hurled a whirlwind of damage to his inflated ego. He turns to look at Morisuke and Yamamoto who just shake their heads agreeing they didn’t know you had been a great actor atop of your already serious demeanor. Sauntering off back to their corner, the saludetorian is called out for freezing by his best friend: “so yn finally told you off? I’m not surprised.”

“Kenma,” Yamamoto says with a Buddhist-like face. “Can’t you see how our old scheming captain is off his game.”

“People aren’t games,” Morisuke contributes this fact and the graduate’s father sort of chuckles.

“What’s so funny?” His son asks him.

“You, son,” his father begins. “Have a lot left to learn.”

The older man with graying streaks in his hair extends his arm politely to his ex-wife who sheds a little more light about the skeleton in your closet. She cryptically tells the lads to look up the landslide disaster that was covered in the news from when they were in junior high.

You were found outside the hall sitting on an abandoned ottoman, your head tilted back looking up at the fluorescent lights with a serene expression on your face. Your rival’s parents were always a source of well-intended comfort, after all they were the ones who frequented the stores you helped digitize the city ledgers. Always respectful toward your elders was a trait taught to you since you were young, so when the familiar voices belonging to them say your name, you stand to greet them.

“Congratulations, dear,” his mom says, squeezing your bicep a little.

“Thank you,” two words were said with the least animosity you had in you. It’s not entirely their fault their son was a dumbass, an insult was too soft by your standards.

Polite small talk with them was fun: his mom talks about her job overseas while his father updates you about how his aging parents are faring in the mountain city. You express you didn’t want to take too much of their time, bidding them farewell and safe passage on their way to the hotel they rented for the evening. Figuring you should do the same, you’re about to head outside to the reception lobby when you are nearly tackled by a familiar set of arms—the watch and fabric were a dead giveaway and much to your chagrin, you hear him say your name. One hell of an olive branch, your mind thinks as you try to squirm your way out of his hold.

“Stay still, f’me, I just wanna talk,” he instructs, readjusting his tightening hold on you. You fool yourself into calming down, but unfortunately, your body begins to think otherwise: your breathing is picking up again and you’re two minutes away from an apparent panic attack. “Hey, hey, it’s just me, ok?”

He releases you the second he notices the distress he might have caused. You stumble forward, hunched over where he had held you and even if you think he didn’t do it on purpose, he still doesn’t have access to that part of you yet. Morisuke, Yamamoto, and a blonde boy you’ve seen off and on make their presence known shortly thereafter seeing their friend with arms raised claiming innocence versus you who raises one arm in defense the other still holding your ribs together, your lungs finally returning to a homeostatic level.

“Don’t touch me!” your voice is lightning in a bottle. Your eyes are wildly displaced and you take a step back. You look terrified before brushing off the wrinkles in your outfit then you blow out a raspberry before lowering your arms to your side; he does the same, still mumbling an apology— he knew of panic attacks and anxiety attacks, but he hasn’t seen one happen by something he did.

“I won’t,” he demurely stated. “I’m not sure what—”

“Previous trauma caused by drowning,” you heard Kenma read aloud. It was an excerpt from an article that was published while you were in the children’s hospital the night after the landslide that claimed a few key people in your life. “Victims of the town near the epicenter were identified by relatives, but only three percent of those affected were claimed… surname tiles unclaimed were as follows.”

Your family name is among them as Kenma reads the rest aloud.

“Five seats in the commencement ceremony remained empty for a reason,” you state the fact again, no tears, just facts. You apologize for the stark commotion, shrugging your shoulders before disappearing into the warm night. It takes a few minutes for you to simmer down; you take a seat at a bench across the promenade. Your phone in your pocket lights up with a nickname of “do not engage” as the contact, the notification counter breaks over fifty at this point. Uttering a bitter goodbye to the illuminated ballroom building, you ready yourself to stand and begin the walk back to your dorm.

Meanwhile, back at the reception, Morisuke and Yamamoto said they were going to head to the men’s room then heading back inside for an hour or two more. Kenma locks his phone after sending the link to his best friend’s phone though the ebony blessed haired child was busy trying to rectify his major faux pax.

“Mx YN isn’t going to forgive you so easily,” Kenma scoffs. “Just because you toed the line with them before doesn’t give you the right to charge into that hellscape.”

“I know I fucked up, but,” he angrily hangs up the line. “Why did no one tell me this?”

“Kuroo, for a newly graduated doctor you’re not very bright,” his friend scolds him. Then, he playfully knocks his forehead with a closed fist. “YN values knowledge as a protective measure; you do it for the fun of outsmarting people and or for the flare. Seven years of attending university and not once did you think to ask yn about how she’s doing outside of class?”

“No, because I thought yn was fine,” he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Loneliness pushes you to do many things,” Kenma states. “And I know empty eyes when I see them. YN may be the same age as you, but they’ve come to expect more from people like you. Do better, idiot.”

“…how?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

Kenma leaves to turn back inside when he sees Yamamoto wave him over; the old setter fills the other two in. Morisuke chuckles when he picks up another hour devour this time asking an impossibly loaded question: “if this is how they are when yn’s past is found out, I can’t wait until he realizes he’s hopelessly devoted to yn.”

“Seriously? That’s where your mind jumps to when Kenma here sheds some damning information about yn?” Yamamoto is extraordinarily boisterous about this private matter.

“Kuroo needed to hear it from someone and sadly, even yn had to be reminded,” Kenma stands by his decision. “Whether yn told him or not, it needed to be acknowledged for context. They’re the most irritating people to be around when in the same room, but they do exude the confidence to keep each other inline.”

“What makes you say that?” Morisuke inquires, benevolence beseeches his words. His former teammates lean back to see their old captain pace worriedly with his phone attached to his ear. Kenma’s lips purse into a definite smile like he’s finally figured out the last difficulty in a puzzle rune game.

Two weeks later, you take your belongings from your dorm room and pack them into a suitcase. Your favorite novels were already shipped to your new flat earlier that week. The bookkeeper still keeps an eye out for your graduate degree in their personal mailbox on your behalf. Exchanging a few words of gratitude, you are granted well wishes for your future endeavors, not once pondering over the reception incident. If you did, you would be doing a great disservice to the frightened amber eyes of a rival who, judging by his reaction, heard the news story about the phenomena for the first time. He probably didn’t think anything of it; thought of the news reporters on the tv as ‘boring real life news’ before a prime time quiz show made its scheduled debut. His eyes constrict and relax when his friend reads the in memoriam part, but when his mouth opens and closes like a fish struggling to breathe, he sees you stand albeit a bit proudly. He hears you say something, but the blood in his ears pushes your words away and he watches you disappear into the night.

Contrary to popular belief, one would think he had adjusted to the news well. How wrong they were. For the first seventy two hours post graduation, Kuroo spends his time researching more about the incident. He’s appalled to why he didn’t ask any of the adults in his life about this sooner or how come his mother gently guides him to meet you in the freshman orientation—he thought you lied when you said your guardians couldn’t make the trip out here, only to realize you were telling the truth for a very different reason. Your affinity for wearing three-quarter sleeved clothing to hide surgical chest scars forces his heart to fall to his shoes. His snide jokes in a class once landed him with a warning from the professor, but you raised your hand to propose a counter argument thus creating the outline for the rivalry whether accidental or not.

Does it explain why he faces your door now? No. He must be out of his god -damned mind to be here, his brain thinks. In the group chat he has with his closest friends, most of which reply with a single ‘f’ for respect, Kenma replies privately.

The butcher paper the florist sold his bouquet in crinkles in his hands. He’s trembling with nerves even now when he faces the closed door. Not knowing where to begin to apologize for ignorant and rude behavior is beyond him, but not even attempting the attempt is more an act of cowardice. So, he raises a hand to knock upon your door. You hear the call to the door, but when you look through the viewfinder, you say nothing. Instead you hold your breath to see if he would knock again—he does, multiple times in fact. Your neighbors pass by starting the rumors that your well known ire is here to pour out his soul to you to start up again; though he waves them off to get some version of privacy, he takes a deep breath before touching his forehead to the door. You press a curious ear to it on your end.

“Of course yn isn’t here,” he scoffs.

He sounds…sad? Disappointed? You hear the rustling of the paper and a sniffle. Is he allergic to the pollen of the flower, but bought them anyways? You shake you head wondering if he new or if this is a newer development, but you wait.

“If you’re not here, then I’ll apologize to the last thing you probably saw,” he continues, pressing his head into the doorframe this time. “I’m sorry for being a righteous ass to you; you never really opened up and told me off until that summer course in second year, remember? You got so angry about me doodling all over your notes only for you and I to be paired up as lab partners in the fall. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you when you said you were going on a date; my ex thought it was funny to see if I could crash your date; I’m sorry I used you for my personal entertainment when things didn’t go well at home. I’m here to say sorry and I’m sorry I missed you. We could have been friends, and instead I squandered my opportunity to not only make my arch nemesis a friend, but maybe something more?”

You subconsciously unlock your door and he stands back a bit. He brings the flowers up to his face to hide his expression. You pull the bouquet out of his hands, thanking him for the gesture.

“Despite you being the bane of my existence,” he winced at that. “You still have a long way to go before we even become acquaintances. Go home Kuroo Tetsuro, it’s late.”

You’re about to close the door and trash the flowers, yet his hand reaches the doorknob first. You can feel him hover above you, a pointed look of dejection scribed on his features.

“So that’s it then?” his breath fans the baby hairs in the back of your neck.

“…”

You walk further inside, your back rigid in not turning around to face him. He sees and hears the flowers fall into the trash can and hears you tell him to leave.

“Yn?”

You’re in the kitchen after he closes the door.

“Go away,” your voice is cold.

“Not happening,” he is bold, approaching you with a smirk. “Olive branch?”

His arms are open to you, and he turns his head to one side, signaling you to come accept some form of human company. Even if he’s the scum of the earth in your rueful eyes, you could kick him in the groin if necessary.

“Thirty seconds.”

“Two and a half minutes, non-negotiable.”

“Fine.”

You mentally prepare yourself to embrace an enemy. Your steps are quiet and calculated, yet when the amendment is for a minute and half you bow your head in defeat when you stare up at him. Kuroo has this anxious disposition and he breathes a sigh of relief when he feels your arms hit his torso. You’re surprisingly warm and softer to the touch when his hands graze past your upper arms. His cheek smooshes gently against the cotton Candy texture of your hair. He holds you there and pats your back whispering a, “you’re not going to hug me back are you?”

“…?”

You let him hold your tired self for longer than the allotted time. You don’t forgive his words, nor his actions he learns. Rather, you give him a haunting blessing:

“In this house, you’re on thin ice. Move my heart with good deeds and I’ll consider taking up your offer from freshman all-nighter week.”

“Oh ho?”

“High tea at the fanciest coffee house and pastry in Ropppengi.”

“You’re on, yn.”

You nod against his chest once more before pushing him off of you with a curse: “smooth talking bastard.”

“You like it though.”

“Alright that’s it. Out you go.”

“Aww, and here I thought I was laying the groundwork for you and I to be civil.”

Your expression changes as you cross your arms and point to the door. He surrenders, residing in your genkan for a moment. An epiphany of sorts shifts his heart a bit; he wants to prove to you people can change. He wants to try, at least for you.

Kuroo leaves then, sneaking a glance at the bronze highlight the lamp on the entrance to the front door illuminates your figure. You shake your head muttering a barely audible, ‘unbelievable.’ He doesn’t know he’s checking you out (having a whole Nicholas Sparks moment in fantasyland there) until you tell him to quit staring and go home. Kuroo and you have a long way to go before becoming anything other than rivals, but coffee connoisseurs seem like a good place to start.

[soranihimawari]

I’m Your Emergency Contact

Word count: idk

Iwazumi Hurt & Comfort bc I read too much angst/hurt and comfort shorts. (Iwa-chan baby, I’m so sorry).

TW: car accidents, hospitals, car accident injuries, soft comfort, mentions (or allusions) to sex, kinks not specified, one mention of triggered depression (reader goes thru a rough 48hours, but not specified or classified in suffering from mental health issues/depression)

Recommend Audience: 🔞-mdni for MA themes

Tonight was the first night you spent alone in your new studio apartment without your best friend. You see, after a rotten breakup with a man who took your love for granted, you rang up one Iwazumi Hajime to help you grab your stuff from the swank apartment the now ex owned. His kindness was one you promised to make sure you repay the moment he leaves you at his place for a night, saying take-out sounds divine. Your muffled sniffle is silenced by Iwazumi telling you he hates it when you cry especially if it’s over something he can’t do anything about.

“S’ok,”your voice is a lot smaller than he remembers. You were a little lioness throughout your years in university. A wicked sense of humor and a sharp tongue usually made up a target for some of the men on campus to either want to date you or try to sleep with you. However during one semester, Iwazumi met you in one his arts electives in sophomore year and you became fast friends via choosing to seat next to each other after every lecture. You exchange contact info when the semester project was announced thus leaving you two to grow somewhat close. Sure late nights at the library and completing the sketches for the passage you were assigned had been filled with polite small talk. By the end of the semester, both of you made time for each other whether it was for lunch to catch up or coffee post morning work outs on the way to class.

Iwazumi’s friends one night at a party during summer break, asks him about you as you greet a few faces you recognized before bounding up to him, red solo cup in hand. You were grinning as you are introduced to the former teammates from Aoba Josai who showed up to the celebration. Iwazumi holds your wrist and pulls you next to him before either of his friends try to charm you into their beds, thus confirming their theory Iwazumi has a crush on you.

“The infamous royal makes a sudden appearance!” Takahiro elbows his friend in the ribs. Mattsukawa notices the direction the strawberry blonde bops his head toward, seeing you greet another cute friend who now sticks to you like glue as you as you continue greeting other acquaintances.

“Ellie’s really cute,” Takahiro says, a sheepish grin makes him walk away while you double back to ask Iwazumi if he can take you home once the party dies down. He agrees and his friend who observes this little exchange asks you if this was a new thing between you both.

“Nope,” you say, coyly swirling the contents of your cup. “Been like that since sophomore semester at the university. We go to a party, we’re each other’s first call if things get out of hand or we feel uncomfortable with the crowd. I’ve bailed him out from touchy honors women as much as he’s bailed me out creepy one night stands.”

“Your university days were wild as fuck man,” Mattsukawa says patting his friend on the shoulder. He turns to leave you two alone clearly the chemistry he picked up on was just starting to bubble divinely.

Currently, you pat your face dry with the hand towel Iwazumi left on the counter for you. You take a good look at yourself in the mirror, trying to smile (or at least fake one) after breaking up with the asshole from accounting. You reflect back on the possessive nature of your ex after stripping away the rights to see other friends of yours if they weren’t female and the number one man on the list was your best friend from university. Hence the yelling that led to even more insulting choice words, leaving you outside of the swank downtown loft you once shared with a box of your things, phone in hand calling an old friend at nine-thirty in the evening. Iwazumi met you on the first floor, taking the box out of your arms, placing it in the backseat of his car.

You give him a half smile after you whisper a, “Hi Hajime. Been a while…” and he shoves his hands in his pockets of his jeans before nodding. His hands fall out of his pockets when your body collides with his in a forced hug startling him the moment he hears you sniffle. He comforts you enough to the point where the next couple of hours go by in a blur and now you’re in his apartment practicing smiles in his bathroom mirror. You finish washing up when you notice the take out from the late night ramen shop is on the counter with a note in his handwriting:

Hope you still like tonkotsu baby.

I forgot to pick up some ice cream for you before coming home. Be back soon.

-Hajime

Baby was crossed out and replaced with your name, but honestly the nickname warmed your heart more than you wanted to admit. After all, the only reason why you were initially with the ex in question was because you needed to sort out your own emotions when it came to the man who picked you up from that awful place. Iwazumi was always kind toward you and in turn you were just as supportive of him. Even when he spent a full semester abroad in your last year of university, late night video calls with him were just as important as date nights with your new boyfriend (aka the jerk you dated for a little over two years until this moment).

This breakup was exactly ten weeks ago and in that time, you found yourself a new place to live. You stayed at Iwazumi’s apartment calling the complexes that advertised vacancies. In exchange for room and board, you start with cooking and cleaning a little bit. The domesticity wasn’t new to either of you due to your comfortability around each other and your job at the programming office took into account you work was always completed a day earlier than most, so when you (rarely) ask for time off to move, your scheduling manager granted it. Iwazumi in that time frame of living with you had also secured job training the national team, so tonight was supposed to be a congratulatory dinner.

While eating your karrage chicken and home made curry tonkotsu with him, you break the good news to him a few days later in the tenth week since the breakup, over his favorite food you memorized in cooking. He was a bit stunned having gotten used to your presence around the cozy ‘bachelor pad,’ according to Takahiro, yet you remind him that if it weren’t for your temporary roommate, “you’d bring home more dates…” and Iwazumi had a dejected look run across his eyes for a second when he dropped his chopstick to stare back at you slightly baffled that you couldn’t tell he didn’t want anyone else besides you to be home. With him. Like this. He changes the subject to where the new complex is and how you heard it was part of a newly gentrified neighborhood, but the brick building has some charm.

Later on in the second week of the new month, Iwazumi also helped you move in to the flat with the additional assistance of Mattsukawa and Takahiro who became part of your friend group. You’ve met or heard Oikawa via FaceTime calls while having movie marathons with Iwazumi during long breaks from work-study programs.

Tonight though, you offered to cook dinner as a way to thank your former classmate and friend. When spilling the details during your lunch break with your programming buddy at the Internet cafe, you get called out for being whipped for the athletic trainer:

“Just because I want to cook for my best friend from uni doesn’t mean I’ve fallen in love with him, Ellie-san,” you explain, playing with your yakisoba cup.

“Uh-huh,” she begins, a smirk on her lips. Her phone on the table vibrates with e-mail notifications. “Tell me, when’s his birthday?”

“June tenth.”

You knew that answer off the top of your head because you always make it a point to make him eat the most ‘fancy’ dish on the menu of the new trattoria by the training center. In June, it was a froid grois burger (meat cooked in rendered duck fat, highly richer than anything on the menu) and it nearly knocked his ass out, making you stifle a laugh before you offered your place to stay since your building wasn’t too far from the restaurant.

“Ok. That was an easy one,” Ellie hums into her onigiri and before she trainees another bite, she continued. “What’s the make and model of his car?”

“2019 Camaro, imported from California thanks to Oikawa’s generous lump sum of dough after making the Olympic team bonus…”

You make some interesting hand signs with your chopsticks while you go on a tangent about how Iwazumi gave you a crash course in driving stick and now he’s to blame for your dislike of automatic shift cars.

“Blood-type?”

“…,” you whisper the answer. Ellie whistles before leaning back in her chair.

“How do you know that, yn-San?”

“I’m his emergency contact since he left for his internship abroad. Then he got the job for the national team…?”

Ellie nearly drops her remaining onigiri from her bento when she leans forward telling you typically single people don’t have their ‘best opposite sex friend’ as emergency contacts, so you explain that his family is in Sendai and since the big move post college, travel to Osaka has been a bit expensive for his mother. Shaking her head in disbelief, Ellie watches as you pick up a few more noodles as she takes a sip of her soda.

“You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but,” your friend leans forward to rest her chin her palm. “When did you start falling in love with Iwazumi? Because I’m sure he’s head over heels for you too and hasn’t been clued in to how he looks like you created the moon…kind of how you’re becoming more flustered now…”

Beats of silence pass by and you watch as Ellie observes your true feelings rise to you features. And she nods when you’re stuttering a string of curses as you dash out of the office asking her to cover for you. In between her laughing, she agrees to send you the left over files from today. You wait until you’re two city blocks away from the office building before you send Iwazumi a text asking him to meet at your place for dinner after work. His response is quick with a thumbs up, although on the other side of town, at the training center, the man is clearly flustered. It takes one nosy blonde setter peering over his shoulder yelling at the rest of his teammates that their head athletic trainer has a hot date tonight so, “let’s pick up the pace of today’s practice match!”

You sit in the living room area once you set the rice cooker to steam and the aged tofu dish is being kept warm on the stove. The clock reads seven-fifty-seven on the analog one mounted on your wall to the left of the entertainment center. You decide to send one more text reminding him to use the spare key when he arrives to your building.

++__++__++__++__++__++__++__

You must have dozed off for no longer than an hour and a half, understanding perhaps his bosses and several coaches must have kept the team later than expected. It was nearly ten at night as your mind calculates the time it takes for Iwazumi to change, along with the distance to drive from the northern side of the city to your place on the opposite side of town (with normal traffic), thus concluding that he should have arrived well over an hour prior. You didn’t make light of the worried voices in your head spewing what-ifs and your heart stops the moment your phone buzzes with a phone number you don’t recognize.

Taking a deep breath, you slide your finger to accept the call:

“Hello, is this YLN,YN?”

“Y-yes?”

“This is the charge nurse at the Osaka General Hospital…”

You listen to what she has to say in between you trying to even your breathing. Your phone vibrates in your hand after you get the necessary information from the trauma center.

“Issei,” you don’t cry.

“I know. I’m on my way to you now. Makki’s with me,” It’s weird hearing him confirm he’s on the way to pick you up. You give a flat hum and mutter a “see you soon. be safe.”

When your phone rings for a second time, the ID reads center wall (the keypad was updated to include your cell), you grab the hoodie in the coat closet and slip on the pair of adidas slides by your door. You don’t care how disheveled you look with your hair in a ponytail tail, but you are already making your way to the elevator to take you to the side street where your other two friends wait.

With keys, wallet, and phone in hand, you are on autopilot mode the minute Mattsukawa and Takahiro arrive at your complex. No one says a word as Mattsukawa’s foot presses the gas as he speeds (within reason) to get you to the emergency room. Takahiro texts you to tell them the room number when you’re inside and you don’t really reply. That’s not what is important. Right now, you just need to make sure you don’t have to make a call to your friend’s family house even though from what you gather, he is in serious, but stable, condition.

You’re a few steps away from the nurses’ station when you ask where the paramedics brought your friend. The evening news has details of the remnants of the accident and suddenly, you feel sick to your stomach as the traffic reporter went into detail about the accident your friend was involved in.

Apparently the brakes failed on the incoming delivery truck that slammed into the driver side of the car you just rode home in a day and a half ago. The car Iwazumi drove flips over the median and you recognize the police tape surrounding the street as the alternate route you take to the dry cleaners when you want to walk for a bit. Iwazumi was less than twenty minutes away from your visitor entrance of your apartment. How you didn’t notice the flashing lights is behind you, but perhaps the initial shock of receiving the call made you have selective blindness until Mattsukawa picked you up.

A doctor calls your name, making a sign to follow them to a closed private room.

“You’re listed here as his emergency contact,” the doctor said right outside the window. The tablet the emergency team uses is in their hands as they list the injuries your friend suffered. “What’s your relationship?”

“College roommate,” you exhale as per the doctor’s suggestion before the list of injuries Iwazumi’s body went through are read aloud.

“He was wearing his seatbelt, so thankfully, the concussion is still the main one he needs the most time to recover from; the burns he suffered needs the gauze changed every two to four hours until they are fully healed (skin grafts might be done to recuse the scarring); and the fractured ribs need to be monitored, so no strenuous activities, but other than that, Iwazumi Hajime is lucky to walk away slightly unscathed. There’s no real damage to his legs aside from the pieces of glasses where he was struck, so I’ll be assigning him a pair of wrist based crutches (for those who had side effects from a myriad of illnesses) so he can get around on his own. Any questions?”

Your throat and mouth have been dried the moment your walk to the rooms the doctor escorts you to, so you nod in understanding. The nurse updating the vitals leaves the room informing the doctor making rounds, thus informing him the patient asked for a person in particular.

“Anesthesia should be wearing off soon. He’s still on the morphine. Did you want to increase the…? Oh! Are you here to see him?”

The second you hear your name from the nurse, you slip into the room, leaving the medical professionals chatting amongst themselves as they continue on to the next room. Those two have seen a lot of miracles and a lot of hope runs through this building; you’re banking on both to be honest.

Variety of beeps coming from the machines around the headboard of the bed Iwazumi’s bandaged face rested upon echo as you brace yourself with the reality of your friend laying there. He always did look the most peaceful when asleep, you think. This was a different kind of sleep and the way his breathing sounded was like he was having a nightmare. You only woken him up once or twice when you were living with him when this happened and you were suddenly being held in a death grip of a hug. Raising a comforting hand to the side of his face, you whisper it’s ok and the nightmare was just that: a nightmare.

You pull the rollaway chair toward the side of the bed, sighing as your eyes observe the physical signs the doctor forewarned you about. A few stitches on his cheekbones poke from behind the bandage square; the burned skin where the seatbelt kept him safe peeks out under the gown he wears; the medical tape around his chest also peaks out with every deep breath he exhales. You bring a hand of yours to hold one of his, trying to formulate a greeting on your tongue.

“Y-you’re late Haji,” your voice is weighted heavily with a tone of guilt you think he hasn’t heard. At the sound of his name, he opens his eye just a smidge, gripping your hand just a tad. You glance up at his now groggy state, reminding him to not move so much. Several winces later, with your help maneuvering the pillows to support his back, he sits up a bit more comfortably.

“Sorry for m-making you wait up for me my dear,” his gruff voice said. It is strained because of the oxygen nasal tube the EMTs gave him.

He reaches over to run a hand through your tresses. The touch reminds you how he’s still alive and breathing the moment almost makes you want to lean into his palm… almost. You notice his teasing smile and it makes you almost want to punch his good shoulder, yet you decide to wait until he is cleared to come home to do so. However, when he observes you trying to come to terms with him still having you as his emergency contact as you ramble on about how you made dinner for him and you, he feels a little courageous: he brings your hand to his lips.

“You really know how to turn up the charm,” you sarcastically reply.

“Can you blame me?” Iwazumi’s demeanor changes from strict to compassionate. Truth be told, if he weren’t in an accident, he probably would have already been holding you close to him, whispering confessions in a dim hallway, and that will come later.

For now, you two enjoy the company of the other until you ask him what he needs you to bring the following morning. Iwazumi’s personal effects lie on top of the desk to his left. His phone illuminates the room every couple of seconds and you make a sign to hand over his work phone. You mention he needs to keep his personal one on him because “mama iwa is ten times more deadly when her baby boy is injured,” Oikawa’s words, you remind the patient. The work phone rings and you mouth out the name of the caller. Iwazumi nods for you take the call.

“If it’s the team, tell ‘em I’m sleeping.”

You nod.

“Miya-senshu, slow down,” your voice is an inviting one. “Yes, I’m the friend Iwa was supposed to have dinner with… Oh! That’s right, your the setter this year! Sorry, first time shouldn’t be meeting like this… I’m here with Iwazumi now… he’s sleeping, but the docs are forwarding his files to the team coaches… yeah, don’t worry. I’ll let him know you guys are rooting for him. Of course… bye for now.”

You turn to look at Iwazumi who seemed to have a jealous pout on his face. He enjoys teasing you saying if Miya wasn’t such a player and flirt, you’re free to date him instead and you guffaw at his suggestion.

“Nah,” you have a wide grin. “I’m too busy trying to date this athletic trainer at the moment. He and I went to the same university too. Know of anyone like that?”

Instantly Iwazumi becomes flustered so much so he can’t look you directly for a second, and a few minutes later, he gives you a small list of things he needed. If there was one efficient person he knew could find the ‘medic’ bag stuffed with a majority of his things in case any member of the team needs an overnight stay from practice or games, etc. for now, the bag lies empty on the bottom of his closet you have access to. He asks you if you need his key to his apartment and you sheepishly pull out your key ring mentioning you made a copy in case of emergencies. And this was a pretty big emergency. He makes an attempt to laugh, but the bruised ribs said ‘not today satan,’ so you remind him one of the injuries he sustained was the one he would feel the most sore of.

“Need anything else?” You ask after you repeat the short list (toothbrush, discharge clothes, loose button down shirts to help with gauze changes, zipper hoodies, house slippers).

“Just you,” he replies with a smug grin.

“Ok,” you parrot his flirtatious tone as you rise to your feet. “Just me.” You pretend to type out your name on the notepad app, thus placing it back in your front pocket. Mentioning Mattsukawa and Takahiro probably want to check on him, you prepare to leave the room.

Even if you were there for a little under an hour, Iwazumi couldn’t stop himself from leaning forward to hug your body close to his. He groans when you let out a gasp of surprise.

“Hajime, you shouldn’t do anything too strenuous,” you scold him as he grips on to you fiercely. Bruised ribs be damned because he is stubbornly not removing himself from you until you hear him out.

“Don’t care,” he mumbles into your shirt., still tightening his hold until he feels you rest your cheek atop his head. For all the years in his young adult life, Iwazumi can count on one hand the times he cried, but this time is out of relief for still staying above ground long enough to do the following: he pries himself off of you to seize your lips with his. Your eyes were wide as saucers when his shoulders relax as you melt into his softening hold.

“I’m so glad I never changed you as my emergency contact,” Iwazumi confesses, pressing his lips against your cheek one more time.

“Me too,” you whisper back., caressing his cheek. “I’ll be back tomorrow with a few of your things. Get some rest…Good night Haji.”

//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\ //\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\

On the fourth night since he was discharged, you were busy with folding the last bits of laundry and you hear a string of curses come from the direction of the bathroom. Iwazumi just finished taking a shower, and scattered on the top of the sink were a series of bandages and burn cream. You call out to him asking if he was ok, but you bite back a laugh when you hear Iwazumi utter a, “son of a bitch,” when he tries to unroll the gauze. Moss green eyes observe your reflection leaning against the doorframe, and you shake your head.

“Alright, have a seat there ace,” you point to the ledge of your bathtub. Iwazumi listens to you, but honestly, he was hyper fixated on the fact you called him ‘ace.’ When he asked you to repeat the nickname, you shrug and cut a piece of gauze off.

“Ace,” your voice has a strange lilt in it, but he pays it no mind; so when iwazumi asks about it, you tell him a few of your female classmates went to the games to show support for Oikawa, and on the one day you were coerced into going, you kept your eye on a very ‘handsome’ demon discipling his blonde kouhai. You wonder whatever happened to him, but that didn’t matter since there is some home care to be done. You sort of get this dazed stare when Iwazumi sort of blushes under his eye. He wonders if you realize that it’s him. It was right after this second year with raw power accidentally hits the ball during a match out of bounds… Even back then you liked him? You don’t miss the way he almost admits the truth you sort of figured out when Mattsukawa drops you off before Iwa is discharged with a hint about your mystery hedgehog haircut ace. To be fair, said ace wants to keep this under wraps for as long as he can.

The marks still are fresh, but healing. The stitches on his face from where the fiberglass from the accident grazed or cut his jaw were scheduled to be removed two days from now. Iwazumi bows his head in defeat as he sits down half dressed from the shower. Upon reflecting about the conversation which cemented your friendship dynamic with his ride or dies, you wash your hands as you prepare to tend to the burn marks on his chest. Black shorts and one well toned athletic trainer paired with a former archer in their loungewear made for a promising exchange. You hear his breathing hitch a little when you take the cotton swab on your left hand, you offer your right to him.

“This will sting, according to the label, so hold my hand ok?” your tone is strict, yet Iwazumi knows he’s in good hands. The first dab on the scabbing flesh made him squeeze your hand, hard. He is seething when you shrug with an air of “told ya so.” You pick up some gauze in the interim and he can’t brace himself fast enough when you continue. This time, Iwazumi growls when he grinds his teeth when you whisper an apology, “I have to do it again to cover the next area…” His grip has gotten better on his injured side, yet you don’t stop until the wound is completely covered in a thin sheer layer.

You laced your fingers off your right hand with his left and the more he hissed at the pressure you applied when adding the gauze makes you wonder if the faces he made was the one the emt saw when they used the saws to cut him out of the car… iwazumi leans forward, resting his forehead against your clavicle as you begin to wrap the gauze, not once dropping his hand from yours.

“No more,” he says. “No more.”

“Iwa,” you warn. “Hajime, I’m almost done…let me help you, please?”

Lowering your voice calms him down tremendously as he readjusts his grip over your hand. His lips turn downward into a thin line, closing his eyes just for a couple of seconds. Leaning into your clothed shoulder, he takes deep breaths while he winced because of the bruised, yet healing ribs. Did you always use rain scented detergent? he wants to ask, but for now, he doesn’t let any lingering thoughts ruin this for him.

It was a general consensus since you had lived closest to the hospital, Iwazumi would stay with you until he was able to get by on his own, and all parties involved sign the appropriate paperwork to release him. Mattsukawa and Takahiro visit him and you every Thursday night for movie night; Oikawa blows up everyone’s phone the day Iwazumi’s car accident rescue the international news.

Roughly two weeks later, you ask Iwazumi who kept calling you since last week. You realize it’s the same kanji every time an international number rings, so you presume it’s a spam call. However, that is clearly not the case anymore after Mattsukawa explains who that number belongs to (an alternate number for Señor Tooru) and you decide to answer the call much to Iwazumi’s displeasure post successfully escaping talking to the setter. (Oikawa’s calls actually go unanswered for a total of several [4] days since you’re sort of making sure Iwazumi adjusts to being at your mercy care while making him feel not like an invalid). You always wondered why those two claim to be childhood friends when a majority of their lives were dedicated to ensuring the other’s health, much like your relationship with Ellie (since you started at the firm with her).

Even his mother’s calls are the first to be answered anyways. She practically berates him abo it being reckless in a hurry, “I don’t care if you had a date, son! You’re even lucky I didn’t keep the keys when you visited me during team break!”

Oh how quickly she changed her tune when she sees your shadow in the back of the FaceTime call, she turns into a docile lady who scolds her son hiding his girlfriend from her. You were sort of in your own world making some onigiri for work tomorrow, so when you’re pulled away from your task, your ears listen to what she has to say and as politely as you can, you swiftly end the call before Iwazumi could instigate an argument with the woman who birthed him. Oikawa’s calls continue day in and day out with no regard of time difference (for two and a half days the first week he was discharged) until Iwazumi FaceTime calls him just to llistento the childhood friends bicker. That is until you hear your name called by Mattsukawa. You hand Takahiro the bowl with the brownie batter you were making with him and suddenly Oikawa’s mood does a 180 turn.

“You didn’t tell me they were hot!” Oikawa screeches. You wrap an arm around Iwazumi’s shoulder from behind the couch. His eyes glance up at yours with a pleading glint then down to the tablet where the newly naturalized citizen for Argentina waves at you.

“Because I didn’t want you to steal them away from me Shittykawa,” Iwazumi grumbles the second you walk around the arm of the couch to sit in front of his legs crossing your arms over your chest. You feel Iwazumi’s free hand brush your hair over your shoulder in an attempt to make you look ‘presentable.’

You shake your head when you introduce yourself accepting the compliment from Oikawa, yet when seeing your newly official self-proclaimed boyfriend pouting on the couch, you boldly declare that Oikawa couldn’t steal you away even if he tried.

“I was part of archery club in high school,” you wink at the camera. “Still kept my quiver in storage…”

“I didn’t know that,” Iwazumi confides in you after politely kicking everyone who doesn’t have a spare key to your place out (during his days in the hospital, Iwazumi, with your approval, gave his copy of your key to Mattsukawa to check up on you in his stead. Iwazumi and Mattsukawa’s text chain were sprinkled with his updates on his best friend’s s/o as life began to go back to normal. Even Ellie had come by once or twice with more flash drives of files in the last couple of days only to make sure your job was still intact. You send a quick letter to HR saying you needed to work from home since you’re helping someone you live with recover from a car accident.)

“Didn’t know what? The archery thing?” You inquire for more clarification.

Iwazumi nods.

“I still go to the range every couple of weeks to visit my uncle. He’s part of the priests who inhabit the shrine in the park a few kilometers west of here… I’ll take you on the weekend, Haji.”

The scarring process had begun, so as light a touch as you can muster, you start to dab the ointment on his chest. It’s amazing what pushes you to finally break down and cry. You’re quiet as you continue staring at the visible reminders of how the fates tried to rob you of some happiness. Not some, your inner voice reminds, your source of happiness found in another person. As efficiently as you can, you finish fastening the ace bandage over the gauze. Before you remove your hand from the clip, Iwazumi catches your wrist in his hand. You squeeze your eyes shut, with trembling lips, you unleash everything you’ve kept inside since you picked up the phone call from the hospital.

“I-I was really scared,” you say in between sobs. “Terrified I’d lose you before we’d even get to this point… and-and I didn’t know when you’d be coming home.”

Iwazumi hates it when you cry, especially if it’s something he did, and even though you both know the accident was an unfortunate occurrence, he strives to make it up to you starting then by pulling you to your feet with him. Your head touches his shoulder for a minute as he consoles you, before you continue to release the tears as a form of catharsis ever since you saw him sleeping in the first hours of the accident. He encouraged you to let out everything you were bottling up the last week, straining his ears to listen to how little you cling to hope up until you mention he asked for you first when the pain meds subsided. The nurse you saw leave the room is the same one you see walk with the doctor as you enter his room.

Even if he wasn’t as tall as his friends, his lean frame blocks the fluorescent lights of the bathroom. He straightens his posture before glancing down at you, an understanding sigh is heard along with your subsiding sniffles. Your breathing is a bit shallow, but that’s to be expected. His finger curls under your eyes to wipe away the tears as your breathing returns to normal. Every ounce of physical touch he gives you grounds you to believe that he still is very much alive.

“Shh,” his voice is kind when he leans down to trace your features and neck with his hands. “I’m still here.”

His nose follows suit the moment his lips presses against your temple, then down to your cheek, one for every instance of worry he notices run across your brow. His hands are on your shoulder now, keeping you steady.

“I’m so sorry for scaring you pretty one,” Iwazumi doesn’t mean to beg, but for your forgiveness, he would. He presses his forehead against yours with closed eyes.

“Forgive me this one time,” he pleads with his lips lightly ghosting over your brows. You hiccup a final sob when you nod. “And for what I’m about to do,” is barely audible, but you nod again closing your eyes, committing his warmth to memory.

You feel his hands rub soothing circles on your shoulders and your arms automatically, yet carefully wrap around his waist. Your oversized nightshirt rides up exposing a fraction of smooth mid-riff skin. (It takes about three weeks for his physical therapist to clear him for any sort of physical exercises up until his ribs heal). For now, his hands graze your lower stomach, yet he feels you stifle haughty laugh, and your hands press against his bandage; there’s more teasing touches and even more bold kisses drive you to walk backwards with Iwazumi’s help. His hands moves effortlessly, the rough pads of his fingers hold your neck steady, the soft smoothness of your skin makes him wonder why he never did this all those years ago when you first met up in the freshman party. If anything at all, you’re wondering why you couldn’t fathom why you couldn’t tell him how you felt. You rest your foreheads together, eyes still closed, catching your breaths.

“Forgive me,” his voice is calm, when he presses his lips against yours. You say nothing, Iwazumi tries for a second time.

“Forgive me,” he is more stern, when he kisses your jaw. He continues when your breathing hitch a little when you feel his breath fan across your pulse point near your neck; you card a hand through his hair.

“Please,” he sounds somewhat defeated until you hold him properly in a loose embrace. “I need to hear you say it.”

“…,” you take a deep breath, pushing him away from you for a moment. Hunter green tired eyes are eager to witness your lips turn into a smirk. It’s a sign he’s gotten through to your stubborn need for satisfaction. “Yes. Gods yes, Hajime. Don’t give me that—hmf?!”

Iwazumi’s lips are made of magnets when they cut you off. He allows you to taste the remnants of tonight’s mochi on his lips the same moment you open your mouth a bit wider. Hands travel higher to touch your hair to help deepen this kiss, he commands you to drop the worry and fear because when proves how strongly he is not leaving you before he is supposed to. In between short breaths you hear him quietly telling you he’s a marked man if he at least didn’t express how much space you take up in mind. When his voice commands you to look him in the eye, you see his resolve in making sure you commit his affectionate confession to memory. Suddenly, you stand on your toes to cut him off saying something along the lines of, “iwazumi hajime, shut up and let me love you.”

The friend in front of you nearly loses his composure as you take the lead. Who knew making out was one of the top ways to ebb away his guilt? He is too busy leaving teasing love bites on your skin the more you sigh out variations of “it’s ok,” and “I’ve got you.” Your shirt is somewhat annoyingly in the way, and when enough is enough, the shirt is lost in the ether of the bathroom hamper. Whatever camisole or bralette of sorts you wear for support taunts his senses because currently, the fabric is straining in holding you together like a rubber band between a butterfly clip and a prayer.

Your lips are on his again, your eyes open slightly just to guesstimate the amount of steps it takes until the back of your knees come into contact with the bed frame; both of you carry on until you’re caged underneath Iwazumi on your bed.

“Ack! Gently, Iwa,” you whine. A pout on your features makes him chuckle. Once he heeds your warning, he backs away for a moment to get a good look at you, hair messily tousled by him. And you beckon him to come back to bed, the impish grin he has wishes he wasn’t as injured as he actually was. His kisses are intoxicating as they leave reminders how much he’s been retraining himself around you and you make a suggestion to not over-exert himself. He leaves a trail of hot sensual kisses down your clavicle, then the valley between your breasts, then under the flesh uncovered from the undergarment, down to your navel.

“Mine,” he reaffirms you where you stand in one word.

“Yours,” you nod when he comes back painstakingly slow, toward you. Iwazumi and you are back where you started, although now you’re laying down on your bed, he looms over you. His hands always find yours, and he holds it firmer than before. Your free hand is on his good shoulder and you recall what the doctor said: “no rough housing till those ribs heal.” And you wished you could have taken a photo of the scowl Iwazumi wore when he met you at the discharge waiting area. (Later on that night, you ask if it’s ok to read over the lists of “dos & don’ts” from the doctor handling the recovery case for him. Stifling a barking laugh you barge into your bedroom in the middle of Iwazumi drying his hair with your spare towel you make a lewd joke about how sex was the second thing on the list of “don’ts.”

“I finally get you all to myself and I can’t even—”

You slap the file folder against his bicep with an audacious gasp.

“Iwa! It’s not like the doc’s banning you from fucking me for life. Your ribs heal first, then you get cleared by physical therapy second, then we can go paint the sky red… besides,” you take the towel from his hands. You drape the towel over his shoulders while paying no mind to the other one wrapped snuggly around his hips. “I don’t want you to wind up owing me a new bed because you’ve heard me sleep talk about how I’d like to…”

You cup your hand and list off all the filthy things you’d want to do with him on any or all types of flat surfaces and when you stand back on the linoleum flooring of your bathroom, you wave a hand over your shoulder before closing the door again leaving a very bashful (yet completely turned on) athletic trainer saying you’re stepping out for an ice cream run and that you’ll be back in fifteen minutes and you send him a reminder text of changing the sheets if he makes a mess and the man nearly lost his damn mind.)

You feel his lips curl into a smile on the left side of your neck before giving you one final kiss. Your hand cards through his hair the moment he lays his head down against your chest. As he is readily drifting into some much needed rest, you decide to bring up something you have meant to when you had a moment alone with him again.

“Y’know Hajime, the doctor at the hospital told me something strange…After all these years you kept me as your emergency contact?”

“Mmhm.” He nods. “Had to list someone at work and thought of you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re the best person I know.”

You hum, agreeing with a final kiss on his forehead before falling asleep. You whisper he is yours too considering your allergy has landed your ass in the ER on more than one drunken night (red dye allergy is severe and you found out the grenadine in the tequila sunrise was made with the specific red dye number ‘x’) iwazumi rushed out of the showers only to pick you up with three EPI-pens which he kept in his home. The memory plays as a dream he has and it bleeds into the moments right before his accident. Your mind, on the other hand, replays the conversation you were forced to listen to by Mattsukawa and by default, Takahiro: “iwa’s a lot stronger than you think. he’d walk through fire for you, trust us. you’re not made of glass either, so believe in him a little more.” This was said to you when you were withdrawing yourself away from them, eluding going to the shortened visiting hours since you knew the team also wanted to stop by on Sundays. Every time the team players leaves, Mattsukawa comes in with Takahiro minus you, and suddenly Iwazumi doesn’t want to talk as much anymore. Instead though, once he was given a proper room for post accidents monitoring on the second floor, Iwazumi makes a call from the landline to your cell and you pick up, only to have him practically coerce you into visiting him because the dessert tonight was pudding and he knew it was your Achilles heel of desserts. You show up twenty minutes before visiting hours end to see a nurse drop off an extra pudding cup to his room, reminding you of the time. You understand perfectly and with five minutes to spare, you brush back a few strands of your friend’s hair, telling him to sleep easy.

“See you tomorrow?“ is always something he asks even in this dream and you don’t because you wake before you give him an answer. Just like tonight.

In the early hours of the middle of the night, you wake with a jolt. Your breath is knocked out of your lungs when you feel Iwazumi nuzzle closer to you, gripping your shirt firmly like it’s a lifeline. You shake your head, amused by this detail and you place a hand over his fist before relaxing back into your pillows.

Although your relationship changed in a span of days, you’re glad to witness the sleeping man next to you breathe evenly. Come the morning, you’re still entangled in his arms, this time, you are facing him. Chuckling to yourself, you decide to perform a teasing prank: you shuffle out his hold to see the sleeping frown etch across his face until his hands find you and pull you back toward him. The pinched brow relaxes the second you are deemed safe in his hold. Your shirt rides up again and his hands make a stunning discovery: he loves you wholeheartedly in the calm morning. You were already a few minutes back in to sleep, light snores escapes your mouth and the sun rays peak through the cracks of your blinds, highlighting your frame creating an golden ring around your body.

“How did I get so lucky?” Is the first logical sentence Iwazumi says more to himself than anything.

Quietly, with a featherlight touch, he sneaks out of bed, pulling the duvet up to your shoulders before sitting up, turning to kiss your cheek. You lived with him for a short time, and every once in a while Iwazumi’s minds plays the near close calls of catching each other stealing glances on Monday mornings; Tuesdays was promptly dubbed eternal cheat day; and Fridays were reserved for hanging out with friends outside of each other. The feelings and emotions you drew out of each other was always called out by either Ellie, whom you regret to introduce to Takahiro (but that’s another story altogether), and Mattsukawa. Much to their chagrin, the lovely pair practically bully you into admiring your true feelings in two private conversations.

Then the day you were making dinner and with the setter on the team spotting your contact image over the athletic trainer’s shoulder made Iwazumi bite back a wicked grin. Simultaneously, neither of you let the other know a confession was going to happen, well not really. There was beauty in the subtext of “drive safe” and “see you soon” making the affection shared one to tempt fate. That night challenged your perception of how time and patience, yet in the first few minutes of the day, it dawns on him perhaps this sight is something he’d never really needed, yet with you it was one he wanted.

Iwazumi then stumbles to the bathroom and closes the door behind him, then he gives himself a mental talk when he stares at his image in the mirror. he suddenly relives the night before, recalling how crestfallen you were when you were angrily explaining how terrified you were, how you didn’t even begin to tell him the truth about how you felt, about the dinner that you had Takahiro throw out with Mattsukawa’s help when the found you curled up in the corner of your home with the light seemingly fading from your eyes the second into third day of his stay, and with their help along with visits every day after work, you pulled yourself out of the unhealthy mindset. You kept rambling until Iwazumi kisses your lips shut. He half-smiles at himself when he traced his pouting lips with a few fingers, yet he didn’t need a car accident to shock him into seeing one of the delightful constants in his life.

And there you were still sound asleep when Iwazumi concluded washing his face, making sure he too wasn’t dreaming when he hears you ask him to come back to bed.

[soranihimawari]

Borderline

I essentially woke up and cracked it this bad boy and now I’m thinking about sous chef!miya x reader

Estranged classmates>>acquaintances>>lovers

Mentions of arranged marriage by (toxic!) family members

MDNI🔞: MA for language, allusions to sex, marking/bite marks (non-explicitly specified how or when)// toxic family one or two mementos of verbal and/or implied violence against reader (strong grip leaving bruised shoulders) •• adult psychological themes••

Tora (nickname for reader’s charm and tiger like personality) : literally a tiger

For all intents and purposes, you thought your godmother was joking when she says your grandfather has arranged a suitor for you. You were the last in your family (aka, the youngest) to be married with at least a child or two on the way. Nowadays, in your city by the cliffs facing the entrance of the forests where your lineage stems from the pearl divers and falcon husbandry, the elders still abide by the rarity of arranged marriages. Your family is one of them, so when you’re woken up at five-thirty with a phone call warning you of said arrangement mentioned, you scream into the pillow nearest your head.

“God damn it!” you let out another banshee of a shriek.

The woman who birthed you frowns hours later as the food in front of you is untouched. No one likes a starved bride, but you use it as a sign of petty rebellion. Your future in-laws were arriving in less than hour and you remain uncouth in terms of appearance. The sister to your left is heavy with her third child and while she was able to chose her own path, she reminds you of your place. She blames hormones you call her a whore because she drunkenly fucks the neighbor every time his wife is on vacation.

“Uncalled for,” your father is red in the face.

“Considering one-san isn’t making an effort in covering up the truth, I suggest you talk about infidelity when her husband comes back from buying the ice in town,” you said. “Take that as a warning otosan dearest.”

You don’t make an excuse for yourself to leave the table, but you do regardless of your parents’ threats of disowning you at the ripe old age of twenty-four. Your phone in your pants pocket burns against the morning rays, yet when a familiar contact is the first voice to greet you, you breathe a sigh of (mental) relief.

“Hello?…can I get a table for one?”

Hours later, after a three train and one rideshare later, on the quiet corner of the small plaza in International Rd & Pacifica Way, your delivery bike is chained to a light post. The only acquaintance you’ve known by merit and popularity is the first one to greet you with his back to the door.

“Have a seat ‘newhere ya like,” cold, yet oddly satifying, gray-blue eyes peer over the sous chef’s broad shoulders.

You wonder if he has changed as much as his menu to accommodate the influx of orders since he was given the top third spot for locale favorites. Although your social circles were as different as night and day, you make an effort on at least befriending him now. When the line lead essentially catches up, your order was jotted down by a new hire who was learning the computer point of sale system today. Even if you’re stressed out with your imminent impending marriage, you show (what you can presume is a work-study student) her you are patient and aren’t too nit-picky when your gyoza arrives after your entree onigiri.

“I’m sorry, I can get my manager to—”

“It happens sweetheart, no worries,” you plop the order in your mouth two at a time. You wave your chopsticks around in a circle as of to bat away any lingering negative thoughts. “Tell the chef his gyoza is still as delicious as ever.”

You give her a thumbs up and she smiles broadly. Later on, as you camp out and move around to create space for the obaa-san from the textile fabric store, you sit at table eleven, your tab still unpaid for until the line chef is left in charge. The sous chef with kind eyes from earlier walks over post hustle. Hours kitchen staff was able to be caught up relatively quick by the time he joins you. Taking in your exhausted expression masked behind a neutral face, he knows it would be in your best interest too bent to him.

“What happened?”

Two word questions between you two had always been the key to have you open up a bit more. He seemed honestly concerned because he only takes his hat off when he’s on his break. Well-kept locks of which remind you of squid-ink noodles frame his face. You understand why he asks, not like much can be done when you fill him in on the family tea. His eyes roam you face for any warning signs of being trapped; he lends you the space to vent because who knew what would happen if you were to bottle that emotions away?

Ten minutes. You’re divulging information about several instances which leads to where you are at now. Your eyes glaze over in frustration because who would have thought leaving that hellish place would lead to you find some semblance of peace in an onigiri restaurant in the middle of a packed shopping district today?

“…and that’s putting everything delicately,” you lean back into the chair.

Your eyes filled with rage festers as you watch families and couples alike walk down the plaza together. Manifesting in glossy tired eyes, said chef gives you a once over: you’re of average height and build, he knew that much, but something about being in the same science and advanced maths classes for the years both of you attended in high school showed just how ‘passive’ you were… until you were subsequently stood up at the personal lockers and on a random day, you dial the phone number the head of the baseball club gives you. He wonders how things would dance changed if you chose to be by his side since that day. The memory of yesteryear begins again when those same curious gray-blue eyes warm up to the way the sun seems to highlight your features: going back to the day when you were stood up by a potential study date comes to mind (again). You put it on speaker as you were zipping up a hoodie and the traffic radio’s prank line plays the “rejected” jingle.

“Woah, that’s harsh,” a member of the volleyball says, shaking his head; green eyes watching how his friend’s brother would react if at all. “Would not wanna be her right about now.”

You grind your teeth, tie your hair back and square your shoulders, muttering how all you wanted was the notes from one class as you brush past other students who noticed you hold your books in a death grip. A term paper handed out from their English teacher that year was picked up by one of the twins next to the water fountain. In bold letters next to your family name, a bold green 100/100 ヽ(〃＾▽＾〃)ﾉ for the grammar pop quiz from this morning makes said friend’s brother catch up to you. You were wiping your cheeks as you tried to unlock your bike lock from the rack. You’re almost breaking the damn thing apart with the way your shoulders tense from the seething breathing you use to try to calm down. Does it work? No, but you’re not about lose this pride or your self worth. Not today.

“Sato is not worth it,” he says extending his hand with the quiz.

You pull yourself together quietly as you take it from him uttering a small “thanks”. The boy notices a dark bruise forming on your shoulder when you shuffle to put the quiz in your beaten up (‘hand me down’) canvas bag. He points to his shoulder as though he was your mirror and you brush him off saying you forgot to hang the laundry last night so mother likes to discipline you with her hands.

“What?” you ask, an incredulous look on your face. “Never been in trouble with your mom before?”

A scar behind your right ear happens to resemble a cigar burn because your sister, the sun lover, decided to pretend you were an ant and she the human with the magnifying glass. You were thirteen.

“Not like that, no.”

The boy tilts his head to one side while you explain this scar was from where, who, and when. Bumps and scrapes he had received were normal, but you, you stand tall inconspicuous to your classmate. You spoke in statements of neutrality, which drew him to you in the first place.

“Umm… here,” he fishes his phone out his burgundy pocket. “Give me yer number. We can make up a lie and if things get real bad ya can stay over for the night. I’m sure ma won’t mind.”

Was this guy for real? You hand him back his phone, closing his fingers around it with the intentions of giving it to him tomorrow.

“We’ve been in the same homeroom for three years…” your lock is stored in your backpack finally. “Does every girl in your phone exist because they were stood up for a study date? Or am I the first?”

“Excuse me…?”

He knows you’re not trusting of him, not one bit, but the least you could do is not bite the potential hand that frees you, hence his confusion.

“That’s what I thought,” you mount your bike, thank him for finding the quiz before warning him if he’s serious about what he said, you sit in the middle row, back seat next to the light switch for the room.

The memories of yesterday freezes when you stare out the current window panes. You sense jovial life and the like from strangers strolling down the street. Apparently after almost ten years of being out side of acquaintances, the sous chef trained his phone from his apron; the screen is unlocked and he draws your attention by the backlight. It’s the phone book contact lists and his finger hovers over your email. Your phone number and address remain blank; you really are a stubborn and skeptical person.

“What are you doing?” Your voice is constricted as you watch him hover his phone over your unlocked one. A QR-code is on your screen with an envelope with wings.

“Saving a friend from going through something insane even by my standards. And I have a monster twin.”

He chuckles right before he brings a hand to give you a silent sign to stay quiet for a little bit.

Beep-bop.

There’s an impish grin he wears when he stands abruptly to snap a photo of his lips barely grazing your cheek. His hair hides the apex of the lighting effect you would use to edit and send him a copy a couple hours later.

“That I thought I needed to give girl from my youth a way out of a loveless marriage at ripe age of twenty-four.”

You don’t push him away because you expertly let you guard down long enough to show him you can do more than scowl or show disgust; the proof is in how your eyes regained a flicker of hope when you tilt your flushed face to him.

“Better, so much better,” he teases. He wants to hold your hand, since that day, but he carefully declines. His nose on the other hand, whether intentional or not, nuzzles against your temple to see if he can test your patience.

“Oi! Miya-san!” shift change was about to start and he needed to return to reality of learning his craft.

“What? Can’t you see I’m—” he jolts upright.

“She ain’t going no where, right Ms Tora?” another chef pipes up holding a new bonito flake shaker. This one is a partly fellow, hollering about you and his boss going through young bursts of love.

“Did chef-kun ask you out yet?” the first cook asks, holding up three meal tickets for the Togo packing station. They are a rambunctious people, but they find poking fun at the holes in their sous chef’s love life… and the berating is quite the opposite from your family: yours is out of disappointment, theirs here in the restaurant is out of camaraderie for their leader.

Then it clicks like an epiphany of the last couple years forces you to never be too far from wherever he is. The fundamentals of the universe is to blame because you pick up that his coworkers call you by the nickname he gave you when he points to ripped tiger plush backpack charm. Your acquaintance seemed to have picked small things about he always noticed.

You had an inkling it was him or other people from the team that were his carrier ‘kitsune’ since the gifts became more tailored the later half of third year seemed to drag. The first being a replacement charm with a stainless steel D-clip. His handwriting is really neat and precise, how pretentious you thought when you stick the charm inside your desk.

At lunch, you weren’t feeling well, but when you rest your head on your desk the classmate with the bleached out platinum blonde dye job wears an amused smile obscured by his hand. You’re holding the charm, subconsciously squeezing it (and the strings around his heart force it stay in place instead of jumping to his throat). Over the course of the rest of that term, your team seems to be doing well both on the court for him and yours in the Olympic swimming pools: all came to a head when the school paper covered the results of the swim team: your name is credited as the anchor for your relay smashing the all-youth meet’s previous record.

“You like her,” his brother says one night.

“That’s not what this is,” he hears himself lie. “She’s a friend.”

“Deny it all you want, but you strike me as the type who likes the stoic ice-queen types…”

“You’ve been reading too much shojou/romance manga again demon.”

“And I just love to tease my little bro who’s clearly in love.”

“Shut up and go to sleep bruv. Did you forget captain’s got us morning practice at seven?”

There is delightful one finger waving from the side of the bunk bed near his face: “fuck off.” Lights turn off and they go to sleep.

Curious to see if he can witness that expression in person, your friend decides to do something a bit more drastic. Has he always been this beautiful up close? You keep that comment to yourself, since he did just give you his contact info via scanning that line contact QR code… and so just before he leaves you this time wishing to emanate the brashness of his teenage self again with an actual secret pressed against your brow this time and his lips murmuring a gentle, “Don’t you think we’re destined to be so much more?”

You stifle a laugh. It’s as infectious as the flu, but lighter than the glass of the high end carbonated rose in the back cellar. He leans back at you with a disappointing pout, blinking confused.

“Do that again.”

“Huh?”

“Your laugh,” his hand curls under your chin. “I like it.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t be shy now…”

“Miya!” the line leads at the time for shift change called him again. “Quit flirting with your girlfriend and get back to the line!”

Oh! Just how many people does he talk to?

“We’re not—”

“Samu, you should go back,” you don’t correct the presumption. “They seem serious, pretty boy.”

Are you trying to kill him? Or are you trying to motivate him? Whatever it is, it’s working. If this is how you flirt back with his taunts and baffoonery, Miya Osamu, sous chef in training, truly has his work cut out for him. He blinks at you. You stick your tongue out and it takes everything in his will power to not duck you in the freezer. Has he thought about it? Absolutely. Not like he’s going to tell you right this second…

“Sorry boys,” you peer over his shoulder to sell the pouting does work to your advantage and they all do get back to work one by one. You bat your eyelashes at the line and your partner across from you arches his eyebrows because how the hell is he to focus now? The playful guilt in your speech made his heart race, and he was about to wish you stay, but his fellow cooks were watching over his shoulder.

“I’m comin’ hold yer horses!”

You tap your lips in a thinking pose and you roll you shoulders back, saying you ought to be on your way too. Before he officially goes back to work, he says to wait for him by the register. You owe him dessert he decrees and you don’t hide your amusement until an idea pops into your head.

You rest your cheek on the fist with your elbow bent at the table with your phone in the freehand you have waving back at him as he enters the kitchen swing door.

“Looks like I’ll be staying over tonight!” your voice shouts and the cooks share a knowing look. You cup your mouth on one side, winking at Osamu who freezes up from his shoulders down. “Again!”

Yep. Miya Osamu’s instincts were right: you’re gonna kill him as the line yells their thanks to you for embarrassment well warranted, apt would can play this game, right? Right.

“Sous chef, you sly dog,” the senior chefs snicker while the younger ones nod in approval. He shakes his head, clearly embarrassed as the blush he tired to control peeks out of his collar, saying to pay you no mind while he grabs a clipboard of 86’d items and walks into the cooler.

There is a file of locked privately edited photos from your time as a model for the photography classes in university. You send your top three images to his contact info noted by the onigiri next to his name to get one last rise out of him and when he glances at the preview of the text attached, his shoulders stiffen when the phone recognizes his thumbprint. He narrows his eyes at you who whistles along with the ambient music. You really are a devil, huh? he thought.

Their sous chef clears his throat of his heart, being sure it moves back to his chest before he starts the night crew meeting after his little floating dance he performs for the fresh produce in said cooler. For a chef, soon to work his way into buying the restaurant in his name, Miya Osamu has fancy footwork. It’s clearly evident when he pauses for a moment to lookout the view finder facing the western point of the restaurant, the table where you sat still, he witnesses you bite your lower lip, when your phone vibrates in your hands. He is a good lip reader, thanks to Sunarin’s need to record everything and clown his brother on their group chat…yet you seemed distraught. That meant whomever was blowing up your phone was family.

You don’t even hear the kitchen cooler open nor see out of the corner of your eye your self-declared ‘boyfriend’ toss his phone on the counter by the register before it takes him three steps to cross the floor. He calls your family name, and you flinch as an automatic response; he wants to help, he still does.

“Hey chief?”

Osamu ties his apron a bit more snug around his waist. He was about to begin chopping the garnishes for the salmon roe special for the weekend on the expo-line.

“What now Katsu-kun?”

“Your girl,” the line cook who called his attention this time points at the table he just left. You look like you were struggling to get a word in and the more the person on the other line was beating you up with nonsense, the sous chef takes charge.

So he does the only thing he can think of on the spot: your mother is yelling at you about calling your sister a “slut around the block everyone knows” and Osamu, being a bit more calm, pries your phone away from your ears. He clears his throat as he rudely yet efficiently says the following:

“If mah wifey says ‘er sister’s a two timin’ slut, then I believe ‘er,” he winks at you.

You’re about to scream but your voice is stuck. He holds the phone away from his ear for a few seconds as you hear your own mother yell insults at him.

“Oi, quit complainin’ and for the last time woman: stop. trying. to. marry. ‘er. off.when.she.has.me.”

He blocks her number the moment he hangs up on your insanely toxic ma the second you stand up from the chair. You are at full height even if he’s taller than you, and your hands pull him down to your level by the his white and burgundy trimmed chef coat lapels. You stand on your toes and sear a kiss on top of his lips. You’re about to stand flat in your feet again, but he pulls you back into a welcomed hug.

“That was so hot,” his breath fans your ears. He kisses you promptly again. “We’ll discuss this when we get home, ok princess?”

“Get to work Miya,” your smirk, fingertips tracing over his lips.

He chews his cheeks pursing his lips together forcing a cute, “don’t wanna,” out. He laughs when you turn him around and as politely as you can you tell him you’re watching him from the sidelines like he requested during the game which secured his high school’s invitation to the inter high.

Later, on the third floor of a rented duplex owned by a kinder couple, you find yourself in the arms of a love that you had no control over. Falling in love was supposed to be this arduous journey, yet for the story of him and you, it was a gradual progression. The radio plays Unchained Melody on the counter by the kitchenette as you wear the chefs coat from earlier and the boy who wears his sweatpants after a hard days night, is enchanted with the temptress who makes desserts seem like a walk in the park.

“Hi baby,” you hear his voice tease your earlobes with a warning bite. Only to have him stand behind you, resting your chin on your shoulder, wrapping you in a warm hug.

“Mm?” you tilt your head to one side. “You awake already? Thought I tired you out?”

“Never,” he chuckles. “Tiramisu?”

You boop his nose with the chocolate in the spatula. He looks like a cat about to sneeze before you wipe it off for him.

He smiles against your skin now,admiring the way his lips stained the flesh he sees as you shrug your shoulders, the chef coat slips off your shoulder slightly. The love bites are now shallow, yet the bruises elsewhere are well earned. You learn how rough hands are made strong to hold you safely hours ago; and he learns your venom is a product of the life you left behind. Essentially, when the kisses linger more, he tells you that you left the rhetorical question unanswered back at the restaurant.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think so,” you answer.

“Right answer,” it’s almost eerie how hoss voice does that. His hands which were once on your hips and natural waist turn you around but to be small off your back. You’re wearing his old clothes, the ones he first met you in, the faded fox on the upper left pocket matches the track pants hanging loosely by the will of good faith.

“Eager to go at it again?” You tease. You squeal this time when he scoops you up in one go complaining that he thought you’d never ask pacifying your worry with a nod. Your hands steady yourself in his hold and he pushes you by the small of your back with one exceedingly warm hand and the other balances you underneath your plush thighs.

“You good cherabim?” He asks. His breaths are shallow, yet his voice showcases his lucid mindsets.

“O’course,” you lock eyes with him. You peck at his nose with your lips. He nuzzles against your neck, an audible confession of being screwed by the enigma (affectionate)that was and forever will be you. “I have you… even if I was too naive to think otherwise.”

“You chose me,” he hums. “I would pick me too—haha.”

You toss your head back and laughed reminding him where you are supposed to be headed unless he wants the floor to taste like sex.

“Fuckin’ hot,” he snickers slapping your thigh. You grin through gritted teeth.

“Did you just hit me brat?” Your voice is sultry and it seems you might have to correct his attitude.

“I stand by what I said Madame,” he walks out of the kitchenette on his level; down the corridor on the right, his door is ajar. “Care to hear you break me again?”

“Absolutely,” you snarl, nipping at the corner of his ear when you press against his shoulders. He groans and it’s delightful sample of where this will lead.

In light of your answer, Miya Osamu realizes this is the love you clearly deserved at the moment is laced with embers of wonton power struggle and strife at first glance, yet he will yield his hold because behind closed rooms, you lead with a steady hand.

“For you the world,” he whispers the saying across your exposed collarbone. His lips follow suit and everywhere you are scared to show him, for ever bump or scrape against your skin, he soothes it beneath his hands; the sheets are tangled in the throes of a love most well earned to those who live in the borderline between life and love.