#i think my sakusa obsession | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

foreveia · 2 months ago

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the leaders’ pact ⤨ sakusa kiyoomi

⨭ genre; college!au, friends-with-benefits to lovers

⨭ pairing; sakusa kiyoomi x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 12.7k

⨭ description; as it turns out, you and sakusa are the only people who truly understand just how much stress it is to run a student government, and well… you two find a way to blow off steam.

⨭ warnings; a lot of suggestive content, no graphic stuff tho sorry to disappoint this is Not smut, explicit language

⨭ a/n; i've decided sakusa is officially the most difficult person i've ever written abt which means y'all r gonna have to suffer through some horrible fics before i finally figure out the secret to kiyoomi. in the meantime, until i get to the level of being able to write him to my satisfaction, enjoy this part 2 of the asu trilogy :)

song i listened to writing this: 'don't wake me up' by mercer henderson

one.

Furudate University is, in one word, loud.

It’s one of its biggest charms, really—there’s something oddly comforting about being one in a crowd of thousands, about the constant hum of a campus that never fully sleeps. The lively debates over coffee-stained notes, the skateboarders who tempt fate on the cobblestone paths lining the central road, the professors who could be world-class researchers but still have to remind students to submit assignments in PDF format and not screenshots—it’s chaotic, it’s exhausting, and despite everything, you love it here.

That being said, at 1:47 AM, when you’re still in the ASU office drowning in a sea of unread emails and budget spreadsheets, you think maybe—just maybe—you should have picked a smaller school. One with fewer students. Fewer problems. Fewer reasons for you to be awake at this ungodly hour, questioning every life choice that led you here.

Because you’re the ASU president, and behind the lofty title is an overworked, drained, pitiful student who is really at her wits end, shoulder-deep in stupid complaints about the dining halls and unreasonable requests from faculty and alumni. And at this current moment in time, you’re stressed out about an event more than a month away, but already causing you significant problems in your life: the annual Spring Festival.

It’s a week-long ordeal, ending with a massive fundraiser gala that’s all dazzling lights and delicate floral arrangements; you spend half the budget on catering and the other half praying the student performers don’t ruin the atmosphere with an impromptu drum solo. It’s supposed to be the ASU’s shining achievement—proof that this student government is more than a glorified complaint department.

But right now? Right now, it’s a logistical nightmare.

And sitting across from you, flipping through a thick folder with all the enthusiasm of someone reading Terms & Conditions, is the only other person suffering through this hell with you.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, ASU’s executive vice president.

Sakusa, who has been in this office with you for hours, sifting through the same mountain of paperwork, answering the same stupid emails, keeping everything in order with his obsessive attention to detail.

Sakusa, who somehow manages to look completely fine while doing all of this.

You have personally descended into full goblin mode. You’re hunched over your desk, hair slipping out of your bun, posture absolutely horrendous. There is a growing stack of empty coffee cups by your desktop and a pad of post-its covered with scribbled reminders and notes; your workspace is as much of a mess as you are right now. Sakusa, meanwhile, is sitting up straight, scrolling through his tablet with an air of absolute indifference, looking like he could walk out of here and into a corporate meeting without breaking a sweat.

You hate him a little bit for that.

“This is a disaster,” you mutter, rubbing your temples.

“It is,” Sakusa agrees. “But that’s not new information.”

You glare at him. “Okay, but if one more person asks if we can move the gala to a rooftop venue, I might actually lose my mind.”

“They want a rooftop?” he asks, flipping to another page. “In April? In a city where it rained last year?”

“Apparently, ‘the ambiance would be breathtaking.’”

Sakusa stares at you. “The litigation would be breathtaking.”

“Right?” You throw up your hands. “I give it an hour before someone drinks too much and falls off the side.”

“Or before you push them.”

“...I’m not saying I would, but I’m not saying I wouldn’t.”

He hums, unimpressed, before pushing a document across the desk toward you. “Facility contracts,” he says. “Pick a venue so I can start drafting agreements.”

You groan, dropping your head dramatically against the table. “I can’t make any more decisions tonight.”

“Tough.”

“I physically cannot. I am a husk of a person.”

“Then drink some water.”

You lift your head just enough to frown at him. “Did you just tell me to hydrate? That’s your solution?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

“Fuck that. I need wine or something,” you huff, annoyed.

Sakusa doesn’t even blink. “Then go get some.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “...That sounded suspiciously close to permission.”

“I’m not your parent.” He finally looks up from his tablet, arching a brow. “You’re an adult. If you want to drink yourself into oblivion because of a student event, that’s on you.”

That’s all the encouragement you need.

Five minutes later, you’re sitting cross-legged on the office couch, the wine bottle freshly uncorked between you. Sakusa had taken exactly one look at the cup you found in the ASU storage cabinet (which had definitely been used for some underclassmen’s illicit party at some point) before deciding to drink straight from the bottle instead.

Fine by you.

You take a long sip before passing it back, watching as Sakusa tilts the bottle back with far less hesitation than you expected. You almost comment on it, but then again—if anyone needs to drink, it’s him.

The office is dimly lit, the overhead lights flicked off in favor of the warm glow of a single desk lamp. The exhaustion weighs heavy in the air, mingling with the soft clink of glass and the low rustle of Sakusa flipping a page in his binder.

For a while, there’s just silence.

Comfortable, in a way.

And maybe that’s why, when you finally tilt your head back against the couch, wine warm in your veins and pink in the cheeks, you finally break it. “This job is killing me,” you mutter.

Sakusa exhales, rubbing his temple. “Join the club.”

“You’re the only other person who gets it,” you murmur, staring at the ceiling. “Everyone else just sees the power trip. They don’t see the fucking bureaucracy, the politics, the alumni breathing down our necks. I swear to God, if one more administrator calls me ‘sweetie’—”

“They don’t respect us,” Sakusa says simply. “They never will.”

The words sit heavy between you. It’s the truth, the unspoken reality of student government. You have influence, sure. Responsibility, absolutely. But at the end of the day, you’re just placeholders—students playing pretend at running an institution that will outlive you by centuries.

And it’s exhausting.

Your eyes flicker to Sakusa. The furrow of his brows, the tight set of his jaw. He’s exhausted too.

You shift slightly, your knee brushing against his. He doesn’t move away.

The warmth of the wine lingers, but it’s not enough to explain the heat creeping up your neck. You tell yourself it’s just the exhaustion—just the absurdity of being awake at nearly 2 AM, drowning in bureaucratic bullshit with the only person who understands. But when you glance at him again, catching the way his fingers press absently into the label of the bottle, the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze lingers on the floor for a second longer than necessary before meeting yours…

Something flips in your stomach.

A mistake, your brain whispers. A complication waiting to happen. You have to work with him. See him every day. Endure another semester of late nights in this very office, drowning in deadlines and bad coffee and biting remarks that somehow still feel like companionship. You don’t even want to think about what happens if this goes wrong.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Your breath catches. You can hear it, the quiet sound in the stillness of the office. Your heart is an unsteady drumbeat in your chest, something traitorous stirring beneath your ribs. His gaze flickers—down, then up—his throat bobbing in a quiet swallow.

Then he moves.

His lips meet yours, firm and deliberate. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing—just the sharp edge of tension snapping between you, unraveling all at once.

You don’t think. You just react, your fingers threading into his dark hair as he pulls you closer. The empty wine bottle slips from your grasp, landing with a muffled thud against the couch cushions, but you barely notice.

He’s warm. Solid. His hands don’t just grip your waist—they press, anchor, claim. A slow, deliberate pull, like he wants you here, exactly here. There’s something controlled about the way he moves, like he’s holding back, like he’s measuring every touch, every breath.

It makes your skin burn.

You shift, legs draping over his lap, the fabric of his shirt soft under your fingertips as you tug him closer. When your hips roll against his experimentally, his breath stutters—a sharp inhale, his fingers flexing against your sides. The sound sends something electric through you, a shiver that starts at the base of your spine and spreads outward, curling hot in your chest.

Your breath is ragged when he finally pulls away, lips swollen, eyes dark and unreadable. He stares at you for a moment, something flickering across his expression—something unspoken, something dangerous.

“We shouldn’t—” he starts, voice hoarse.

You cut him off with another kiss, hands sliding under his shirt, nails skimming lightly over the firm plane of his stomach. He exhales sharply against your mouth, grip tightening—not just on your waist now, but your hips, your thighs, the fabric of your sweater bunched between his fingers like he’s trying to ground himself.

Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe this is reckless, a mistake in the making.

But right now, it doesn’t feel like one.

Right now, you just need this.

And judging by the way Sakusa exhales, tilts his head back slightly as your lips trail along his jaw, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your sweater, so does he.

two.

You wake up to warmth.

The blankets are too heavy, too soft; the pillow beneath your head isn’t yours, and the mattress is firmer than what you’re used to. The air smells faintly of laundry detergent, crisp and clean, and for a few blissful seconds, none of this sets off any alarm bells.

Then you shift.

And your leg brushes against something—someone.

Your entire body goes rigid.

Slowly, carefully, you open your eyes.

Sakusa is lying beside you, still half-asleep.

Oh. Oh, shit.

Your brain kicks into overdrive, panic slamming into you at full force.

You don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t blink—like maybe if you stay perfectly still, reality will reset itself and you’ll wake up in your own bed, like none of this ever happened.

You rub your eyes. Nope. No, you’re still here. In Sakusa’s bed.

Last night comes rushing back in fragments.

The office, the spreadsheets, the overwhelming weight of responsibility pressing down on you both. The frustration, the exhaustion, the bottle of wine. The way his voice had dipped lower, the sharp inhale when your fingers slipped beneath his shirt. The way he kissed you—deliberate, controlled, like he was trying to hold himself back but couldn't quite bring himself to stop.

And, apparently, didn’t.

Your face burns.

You can’t do this. You need to get out of here. Right now.

Very, very carefully, you begin to inch toward the edge of the bed. If you can just get up without waking him, you can grab your clothes, sneak out, and pretend this never happened—

“You’re awake,” Sakusa mutters, voice rough with sleep.

You freeze.

His eyes are barely open, but there’s enough clarity in them to tell you that he’s fully aware of the situation. He blinks slowly, processing, before exhaling and rubbing a hand over his face.

For a moment, there’s silence.

You should say something. Address the elephant in the room. Acknowledge that, somehow, you and Sakusa Kiyoomi—the only other person in ASU who understands your suffering, who you bicker with more than you talk, who is supposed to be your goddamn vice president and right-hand man—woke up in the same bed.

Instead, the first thing out of your mouth is:

“This is bad.”

Sakusa lets out a quiet, barely-there groan and turns his head slightly toward you. “I was hoping it was a dream.”

You scoff. “Wow. Rude.”

Another silence. Neither of you move.

Your heart is still hammering in your chest, but now that the initial panic is fading, your brain starts working through the situation. Rationalizing.

You and Sakusa don’t even like each other. Okay, that’s not entirely true, but your dynamic has always been built on mutual endurance, on suffering together in the trenches of student government. Exchanging exhausted sighs over idiotic administrative emails and bitter remarks over ridiculous student requests.

This wasn’t… feelings.

It was stress. Overwork. Too much responsibility and not enough outlets to relieve it.

You sit up slowly, pulling the blanket around yourself. “Look, let’s just… not freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“You look like you’re contemplating the meaning of life.”

“I always look like that.”

Okay, fair point. Still, you don’t miss the way his fingers are curled slightly into the sheets, tension lingering in his posture.

You take a deep breath. “Last night was a mistake.”

Sakusa’s gaze flickers to you. “Obviously.”

Something about the way he says it irritates you. You roll your eyes. “Wow, again with the rudeness.”

“I just mean it was inevitable,” he exhales sharply, rubbing his temple.

You blink. “Wait, you think this was inevitable too?”

He gives you a flat look. “We spend too many hours locked in an office together. We argue constantly. We both hate our jobs but are too stubborn to quit. We drink after meetings. Statistically speaking, this was bound to happen.”

You stare at him. “That is the most unromantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m not trying to be romantic.”

You pause. Something about that statement makes something in your chest loosen just slightly.

He’s right. This isn’t romantic. It’s not complicated. It’s not some star-crossed bullshit.

It’s just stress.

And you can work with that.

A thought occurs to you, a ridiculous, stupid, reckless thought, and before you can second-guess yourself, you say it out loud.

“We could do it again.”

Sakusa’s entire body stills. His dark eyes snap to yours.

“Not right now. I just mean…” You keep your expression neutral, forcing yourself to stay composed as you shrug. “I mean, think about it. We’re both overworked. We don’t have time for relationships. This was just a way to let off some steam, right? It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

Sakusa watches you carefully, expression unreadable. “You’re saying—”

“No feelings. No complications. Just stress relief.”

His brows furrow slightly.

You lift your hands, palms up. “I’m just being practical. We both clearly need an outlet, and this was… effective.” You tilt your head, smirking slightly. “Unless you regret it?”

Sakusa exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face before glancing away. “No.”

There’s something in his voice—something almost reluctant, like the admission costs him something. You decide not to dwell on it.

Instead, you grin, ignoring the way your heart picks up slightly at his answer. “So? Agreed?”

Sakusa’s jaw tenses. He looks at you for a long moment, eyes dark and considering.

Then, finally, he exhales. “…Agreed.”

You clap your hands together. “Great. Now, where the hell are my clothes?”

As you slip out of bed and start gathering your things, Sakusa watches you from the corner of his eye. His expression is neutral, unreadable. Outwardly, he looks composed, unaffected.

But inside, something is twisting in his chest.

This is good. Logical. You’re too busy for anything more. He doesn’t do attachments. This is supposed to be simple.

So why does he already feel like he’s in trouble?

three.

For the first week, you and Sakusa keep it lowkey.

It’s surprisingly easy. Between the endless meetings, the flood of emails, and the general chaos of festival planning, no one seems to notice that anything has changed. You and Sakusa don’t act any differently—at least, not in ways that anyone would immediately pick up on. You still bicker, still throw exasperated looks across the office, still exchange sarcastic remarks whenever an administrator sends a particularly idiotic request.

But there are differences. Subtle ones.

The way his hand lingers on your back a second too long when he brushes past you. The way you glance at him when no one else is looking, catching the momentary flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. The way your fingers graze when he hands you a folder during a meeting, a barely-there touch that still sends a jolt up your spine.

Still, you’re both careful. No one knows. And it stays that way—until a week later.

It’s late.

Too late for anyone to still be in the ASU office, but here you are, wrapping up an executive board meeting that somehow stretched two hours past its scheduled end. The festival is fast approaching, and the stress is at an all-time high. The VP of Finance, Futakuchi, keeps sighing loudly; Ushijima, the sustainability representative, looks entirely unbothered, and Kiyoko, the VP of campus affairs, has the expression of someone who desperately needs sleep but knows she won’t get any. Even the internal VP, Aone, who’s usually silent and stoic, rubs a hand over his face in a rare display of frustration.

The exhaustion in the room is palpable.

But eventually, mercifully, the meeting ends.

“Finally,” Futakuchi groans, stretching out his arms. “I swear, if I get one more email about the catering, I’m deleting my inbox.”

“You can’t do that,” Kiyoko mutters, but she sounds just as tired.

“I can and I will.”

Ushijima nods thoughtfully. “That is not an efficient way to handle the problem.”

“Whatever, man.” Futakuchi waves him off. “I’m going home before I start throwing chairs.”

The rest of the exec board follows suit, shuffling out one by one. Within minutes, the office is empty—except for you and Sakusa.

He doesn’t say anything as he shuts his laptop, methodically gathering his things. But you know him well enough by now to catch the slight tension in his posture, the way his fingers flex against the strap of his bag. He’s tired, too.

And yet, he lingers.

Your heart is already hammering in your chest before you even fully process what you’re about to do.

You wait until the last footsteps fade down the hallway before stepping closer.

“Sakusa,” you murmur.

He looks up, expression unreadable, but you catch the flicker of something in his dark eyes before he schools his face into neutrality. “What?”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you grab the front of his hoodie, pull him toward you, and kiss him.

He exhales sharply against your lips, but he doesn’t hesitate—not for a second. One of his hands finds your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch, and then he’s pushing you back, guiding you without breaking the kiss.

You barely register the click of the storage closet door as it shuts behind you.

After that, it becomes a thing.

Not every night. Not every meeting. But often enough.

Enough that you start slipping into supply rooms and empty hallways whenever you get the chance. Enough that you stop pretending it’s just a fluke, stop pretending it’s just a one-time mistake. Enough that you start looking for excuses to stay behind after meetings, just to see if he’ll do the same.

The stress of festival planning only gets worse as the days tick down, but somehow, you feel... lighter. And unfortunately, you’re not the only one who notices.

“Okay,” Futakuchi says one afternoon, arms crossed as he leans against the table. “What’s up with you?”

You blink at him over your laptop. “What?”

“You.” He gestures vaguely at you. “You’re… less miserable.”

“Wow, thank you.”

“I’m serious.” He narrows his eyes, studying you. “A week ago, you were two stress-induced breakdowns away from setting the office on fire. Now you’re—” He squints. “Weirdly calm.”

You scoff, looking back at your screen. “Maybe I just got better at coping.”

Futakuchi snorts. “Sure. And Aone’s secretly a stand-up comedian.”

Across the room, Aone looks up from his notes, blinks, then goes back to writing.

Meanwhile, Ushijima watches you with mild curiosity. “It is true that you seem less fatigued.”

“Maybe she’s just sleeping more,” Kiyoko suggests.

Futakuchi smirks. “Or maybe she’s not sleeping.”

You choke on your coffee, the burn in your nose causing you to cough. Kiyoko swiftly hands you a tissue from her desk and sighs. “Kenji, please.”

“I’m just saying,” Futakuchi says innocently, shrugging. “She’s been spending a lot of extra time here after meetings. And so has Sakusa.”

You feel your pulse spike, but you force yourself to roll your eyes. “We’re working.”

“Sure you are.” Futakuchi hums. “Just seems interesting, is all.”

Ushijima nods, ever serious. “You and Sakusa have been in close proximity more frequently.”

You school your expression into neutrality, ignoring the way your face warms. “Noted.”

Futakuchi snickers. “That wasn’t a no.”

You pretend not to hear him.

Across the office, Sakusa is focused on his laptop, seemingly oblivious to the conversation. But when you glance at him, just for a second, you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch.

A silent acknowledgement.

A secret you both share, that’s meant for you two alone.

four.

At first, nothing really changes.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

The routine remains the same. Meetings, long nights in the ASU office, the occasional stolen moment in a storage room when stress becomes too much. You and Sakusa still pretend like this is nothing more than convenience—like it’s just stress relief, like it doesn’t bleed into the rest of your lives.

Except it does.

It starts small. You realize one day, midway through a meeting, that Sakusa’s been sitting closer to you lately. Close enough that his knee brushes against yours under the table, close enough that you can pick up the faint scent of his detergent. Close enough that when you pass him a folder, his fingers linger just a second too long against yours.

You tell yourself you’re imagining it.

But then, the conversations change.

It happens one night in the office.

You’re both buried under paperwork, exhausted but determined to finalize the last of the festival logistics. It’s late—past midnight, the campus outside empty and still. The only light in the room comes from your desk lamps, throwing soft, golden pools across the stacks of documents between you. The air smells like old paper and Sakusa’s coffee, a little burnt because he never times it right.

The quiet is comfortable, broken only by the rhythmic clicking of his laptop keys and the occasional shuffle of papers.

Then, out of nowhere, he asks, “Do you ever wonder what you’d be doing if you weren’t here?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“If you weren’t ASU president,” he clarifies. “If you had never run for office.”

You pause, pen hovering over the paper. The thought has never really occurred to you. Student government has consumed your life for so long that the idea of not being in this position feels foreign.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe I’d have more time to actually enjoy college.”

Sakusa hums, his gaze flickering to you. “So you don’t enjoy it now?”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. “It’s not that I don’t enjoy it. It’s just… exhausting. I feel like I’m constantly putting out fires. Like I’m carrying this huge weight, and if I mess up, everything will fall apart.”

For a moment, Sakusa doesn’t say anything.

Then, quietly, he says, “I get that.”

You glance at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

“Volleyball is kind of the same,” he continues, eyes still on his laptop screen. “I love it. But sometimes, it’s a lot. The pressure, the expectations. Some days, I wonder if I’d still play if I didn’t have to.”

You study him for a moment—the tension in his posture, the way his fingers tap idly against the desk. It’s rare for Sakusa to talk about himself like this.

Impulsively, you say, “I could come to one of your games.”

His fingers still. He finally looks at you, brows slightly furrowed. “Why?”

You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. “Because. You put up with all my ASU crap. I can support you, too.”

Sakusa doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at you, something unreadable in his expression. Then, he exhales and looks back at his screen.

“If you want,” he mutters.

But you see the way his ears turn pink.

After that, the changes keep coming.

One night, you fall asleep in Sakusa’s dorm.

It’s not on purpose.

You were both exhausted, drained from another grueling meeting that had stretched far too late. The weight of festival logistics, last-minute approvals, and endless emails had pressed down on you until neither of you could keep your eyes open. What was supposed to be a brief pause—a moment to catch your breath before making the trek back to your dorm—turned into you lying there, too tired to move.

You’d meant to get up. You really had.

But then Sakusa had tugged the blanket over you with an almost reluctant kind of care, his movements cautious, deliberate. His arm had settled around your waist, warm and steady, like he’d done it without thinking; his breathing had evened out against the back of your neck, deep and slow, and suddenly, the thought of moving felt impossible.

You don’t remember falling asleep—only that the next thing you know, soft morning light is filtering through the blinds, casting long shadows across the room. For a moment, you forget where you are. The sheets smell like him—clean, crisp, something faintly citrusy beneath it all. The kind of scent that lingers, that sticks to your skin in ways you can’t quite shake.

You should get up. You should leave before this gets any weirder.

But then Sakusa shifts beside you, his grip tightening, just for a second. His voice is rough with sleep, barely more than a murmur.

“Go back to sleep.”

And, for some reason, you do.

The lingering turns into something more.

You start walking back to your dorms together after meetings, shoulders brushing in the cold night air. Neither of you talk about it. Neither of you acknowledge the way Sakusa always seems to fall into step beside you, how his hands slip into his pockets but his body angles just slightly toward yours.

The touches that used to be quick, fleeting, become longer. His hand stays on your lower back when he passes by, his fingers ghosting over the fabric of your shirt. When you both reach for the same document, his fingers brush against yours, and he doesn’t pull away as fast as he used to.

It’s not just the physicality that changes.

He starts noticing things about you—things no one else does.

Like how he always makes sure there’s an extra bottle of water on your desk because he knows you forget to stay hydrated when you’re stressed. How he starts bringing you food when you work late, tossing it onto your desk without a word. Eat, he mutters, barely meeting your eyes. You’re going to pass out if you don’t.

And then there’s the morning after another late night in his bed.

You wake up groggy, the lingering warmth of sleep making you slow to realize that Sakusa isn’t next to you anymore. The room smells like coffee, and when you push yourself up onto your elbows, you see him standing by the tiny dorm kitchen, placing two plates of food on the counter.

You blink at him sleepily, confused. “Did you make extra on purpose?”

He doesn’t look at you as he plates the food, but you don’t miss the way the tips of his ears turn pink.

“You’re already here,” he says simply.

That’s all he says.

But when he sets the plate in front of you, something warm settles in your chest.

The first game you go to, Sakusa plays like his life depends on it.

You hadn’t planned on sitting so close to the court, but one of his teammates had insisted, ushering you into a seat with a too-knowing smirk. The energy in the gym is electric, the air thick with anticipation. You’ve never really watched him play before—not like this.

He’s already on the court when you spot him, stretching near the net. His head turns slightly, scanning the crowd like he’s looking for something. His eyes pass over you once, then snap back.

For just a second, he falters.

It’s quick—so quick that if you hadn’t been watching him so closely, you might’ve missed it. The moment his gaze locks onto yours, his fingers twitch at his sides, his jaw tightening.

Then, he exhales. Rolls his shoulders back. Locks in.

You’ve never seen him play like this before. Focused, sharp, completely in control. His serves are ruthless, each one hitting its mark with unwavering precision. Every spike is calculated, every movement fluid. The intensity radiating off him is almost palpable.

His team wins, of course.

Afterward, you wait for him outside the locker room, arms crossed, watching as players filter out one by one. When he steps out, fresh from a shower, his hair damp and his bag slung over one shoulder, he stops the moment he sees you.

You raise an eyebrow. “Did you play that well just because I was watching?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Sakusa scoffs, rolling his eyes.

But his lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smile.

You grin. “You totally did.”

He mutters something under his breath but doesn’t argue.

And when you both walk back to your dorms later, shoulders brushing, his fingers graze yours before he pulls away too quickly.

You pretend not to notice.

That night, after another round of pretending this is just stress relief, neither of you move when it’s over.

You’re lying on his bed, your head turned slightly toward him, watching the way his chest rises and falls with each slow breath. His arm is draped loosely over your waist, fingers resting lightly against your skin. The room is quiet, save for the muffled sounds of students passing by outside and the rhythmic hum of the dorm heater kicking on.

You could get up. You should get up.

But instead, you speak.

“You know this isn’t normal, right?” you murmur.

Sakusa doesn’t open his eyes. “What?”

“This,” you say, voice quieter now. “We don’t have to do this.”

His fingers tighten slightly against your hip, just for a second. “I know.”

A beat of silence.

You swallow. “So why do we?”

Sakusa finally opens his eyes, looking at you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something there—something simmering beneath the surface, something unspoken yet unmistakably there.

You expect him to dodge the question, to brush it off the way he usually does. But he doesn’t. He just looks at you.

And you realize, in that moment, that you don’t really want to hear his answer.

You just want him to keep looking at you like that.

five.

A week before the festival, the networking event is in full swing. The banquet hall is filled with students, alumni, and faculty—mingling, exchanging business cards, and making polite conversation over expensive hors d’oeuvres. The hum of voices, the clinking of glasses, the occasional burst of polite laughter—all of it blends into a constant, low-level buzz, the kind that starts to wear on you after the first hour.

And it has been an hour. An exhausting one.

You’ve spent most of it bouncing between conversations, smiling until your cheeks ache, engaging with donors who are all too eager to talk about their latest ventures. It’s tedious, but necessary. Part of the job. You, as much as you sometimes wish you weren’t, are the face of the ASU, and that means standing here, playing nice, keeping people happy.

Across the room, Sakusa is lurking near the back, a glass of water in his hand, his expression unreadable. He never cared for these kinds of events, and you’re not sure why he bothers attending in the first place. Maybe because you’re here. Maybe because it’d be more suspicious if he didn’t. Either way, he’s kept his distance all night, watching the room with the sharp, observant eyes you know so well.

You’re halfway through an exhausting conversation with a donor when someone sidles up beside you, close enough that the scent of his cologne—something expensive, overly strong—settles in the air between you.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says smoothly, his voice carrying just enough self-assurance to set you on edge. “You look good tonight.”

You barely remember his name—Terushima, maybe? Some business major, someone who always carries himself like he’s the most interesting person in the room. He’s charming, in that forced, calculated way, and it’s clear he expects the same back.

You force a polite smile, instinctively taking a step back. “Thanks,” you say evenly. “Are you enjoying the event?”

He barely acknowledges your words. His eyes linger. It’s not overtly inappropriate, but it’s enough to make your skin prickle with discomfort.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask—”

Before he can finish, a hand lands on the small of your back. Warm. Steady. Familiar.

You glance up just in time to see Sakusa step in beside you, his expression unreadable but his presence unmistakably possessive. His fingers flex slightly against your waist—not hard, not urgent, but firm enough to ground you.

The guy’s smirk falters.

“Oh,” he says, glancing between you and Sakusa, processing. “Didn’t realize you were… with someone.”

Sakusa doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. The air around him shifts, a quiet warning woven into the sharpness of his gaze.

The guy clears his throat, mutters something about catching up later, and disappears into the crowd.

Sakusa’s hand doesn’t move.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, tilting your head up at him.

He exhales sharply, finally letting go. “He was annoying.”

You bite back a smile. “You’re grumpy.”

He gives you a look—flat, unimpressed—but there’s something unreadable in his expression, something tense, something simmering just beneath the surface.

You don’t think much of it. Not until later.

That night, everything feels different.

Sakusa’s touch is rougher than usual. Not careless, not cruel—just… more. Harder. His grip on your hips is firm, his fingers pressing deep into your skin, like he’s trying to anchor himself. His kisses are deeper, hungrier, laced with something unspoken, something desperate. Like something inside him has snapped, like he needs to prove something—not to you, but to himself.

You notice immediately.

The way he pushes you back onto the mattress, the way his body moves against yours, the way his lips chase yours with a kind of urgency you’re not used to—it’s different. There’s a tension in him that wasn’t there before, a weight behind his touch that makes your breath hitch. It’s not impatience, not exactly. It’s more like restraint fraying at the edges, barely holding together.

When he settles between your legs, when he pulls you against him like he’s afraid you might slip through his fingers, you smirk against his lips.

“Someone’s in a mood,” you murmur, voice teasing, but there’s an underlying curiosity there too. A question you don’t quite ask.

He exhales sharply against your neck, a breath that sounds almost like a laugh—but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he tilts your chin up, kisses you harder, swallowing whatever words might have come next. And just like that, the conversation ends.

You don’t tease him after that.

Later, long after the room has gone quiet again, your breath is still uneven, your body still humming in the aftershocks of it all. The warmth of his skin lingers against yours, the feeling of his touch still imprinted in every place he’s been.

You expect him to roll away like he usually does—to shift onto his side, to put that familiar distance between you. Sakusa isn’t distant, not in the way that people assume, but he’s careful. Careful with his space, with his touch, with how much of himself he lets you see.

But tonight is different.

Instead of moving away, he stays close. One arm draped loosely over your waist, his fingers resting against your skin. His breathing is slow, deep, steady. When you shift slightly, his grip flexes—just barely, just enough to keep you there.

You blink, caught off guard.

Sakusa is guarded, meticulous, composed. He doesn’t do things without reason, doesn’t let his guard slip without meaning to. And yet, right now, he’s letting himself be close. Letting himself stay.

You watch him for a moment. His curls are messier than usual, some strands falling over his forehead. In the dim glow of the night, his features are softer, more open than they usually are. There’s something about seeing him like this—unguarded, still half-lost in the haze of sleep—that makes something tighten in your chest.

Without thinking, you reach up, brushing the hair away from his face.

Sakusa’s eyes flutter open.

You freeze. “Sorry.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. His gaze lingers on you, dark and unreadable. Then, after a moment, he exhales, his eyes slipping shut again.

You take that as permission.

Your fingers move again, slower this time, threading through his hair. His breathing evens out, his shoulders relaxing beneath your touch. You don’t think he even realizes it, the way he melts into the warmth of your palm, the way his body unconsciously shifts closer.

A strange warmth settles in your chest. Something soft. Something quiet.

The urge to be closer to him—to feel more of him—creeps in before you can think better of it. And so you don’t think. You just act, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek.

Sakusa’s eyes snap open again.

He stares at you, startled, like he’s not sure if he imagined it.

“What?” you ask, amused. “I can’t kiss you?”

His brows furrow, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he says, “You never have before.”

The words sit heavy between you.

You blink, lips parting slightly. You don’t know why his voice sounds like that—soft, careful, like he’s treading over unfamiliar ground. You don’t know why it makes your heartbeat stutter, why it makes your chest feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion.

You swallow. “Did you… not like it?”

A beat of silence. Then, just as quiet: “No.”

Your breath catches.

He exhales, turning his face slightly into the pillow, but not before you catch the faintest hint of red blooming across the tops of his ears.

So you take a chance, leaning in again—this time pressing a softer kiss against his temple, then another against the bridge of his nose.

He lets you.

And when you settle back down beside him, his fingers find yours, hesitant but deliberate.

Neither of you say anything.

You don’t need to.

six.

Sakusa isn’t paying attention at first.

He’s in the ASU office, sorting through the last of the Spring Festival budget reports while the others talk idly around him. The voices blend into the usual hum of conversation—background noise, nothing worth listening to. At least, not until he hears your name.

That’s what makes his focus shift, what makes his fingers still slightly on the paper in his hands. His head doesn’t lift, his posture doesn’t change, but his ears tune in before he can stop himself.

“Are you guys dating?”

Kiyoko’s voice. Calm. Casual. A simple question, but one that makes his grip tighten around the page in his hands before he even knows why.

There’s a pause—just long enough for something to stir uneasily in his chest.

Then you laugh.

“Oh, no,” you say, amused. “It’s not like that.”

His stomach drops.

The feeling is sharp, unexpected. Foreign.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting. It’s not like you’ve ever talked about this. It’s not like there’s anything to talk about. You both agreed—no feelings, no complications. Just stress relief.

Still, the way you say it—so easily, so effortlessly—it makes his throat tighten.

Not like that.

Not even close.

Sakusa forces himself to breathe, shifting slightly in his seat as he stares at the document in front of him. He clenches his jaw, willing himself to let it go, to shake off the strange weight settling over his chest. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. The festival is next week. His schedule is packed. He doesn’t have time to dwell on things that shouldn’t even be a problem in the first place.

But for the first time in weeks, his brain refuses to cooperate.

The conversation continues around him, but it’s as if everything has dulled—like the words are passing through a filter, muffled and distant. All he hears is your voice. The casual certainty in your tone. The way you’d dismissed the thought so easily, like it wasn’t even worth considering.

Like the idea of being with him was ridiculous.

He exhales slowly, his grip on the budget report tightening until the edges of the paper crumple under his fingers. He doesn’t let go, doesn’t ease his hold, just stares down at the page as if forcing himself to refocus will make the feeling go away.

It doesn’t.

It lingers.

All through the rest of the meeting, as he signs off on expenses and finalizes last-minute festival details. As you talk to him like nothing has changed—like he’s still the same Sakusa you’ve always known, the one you don’t have to think twice about, the one who isn’t even worth a second glance.

By the time the meeting ends, he feels restless.

Then, later, you invite him to a party.

It’s casual—one of your friends is hosting, nothing too fancy, just a small gathering with drinks and music. The kind of thing you don’t usually ask him to go to.

“Come with me,” you say, nudging him lightly with your elbow as you both leave the office. “You never go out.”

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t have time.”

You groan. “Oh my god, Sakusa, for once in your life, stop being responsible and just come have fun.”

But he shakes his head. “I’ll pass.”

You stop walking. Turn to face him.

“Why?”

The question is simple. Easy. You’re not even upset—not really. Just confused. Because he never used to turn you down before.

He hesitates.

He could lie. Say he’s busy, that he has too much work to do, that he’s too tired.

But that’s not the real reason.

The real reason is this: if he goes, he can’t pretend it’s not real anymore.

He can’t keep pretending this is just stress relief. That it doesn’t mean anything. That he doesn’t want more than what you’re willing to give.

Because if he goes, he’ll see you in a setting where you’re not just the ASU president, not just the person who collapses into his bed after long meetings, not just the person who understands him better than anyone else.

You’ll be you. Loud, laughing, electric.

And he’ll look at you, and he’ll want. And he can’t afford that, not when he already knows how this ends.

So instead, he meets your gaze and says, “I just don’t feel like it.”

Something flickers across your expression. It’s quick—so quick that if he wasn’t looking at you so closely, he might’ve missed it.

But he doesn’t.

He sees the brief drop of your shoulders, the slight shift in your posture. You don’t push. You don’t ask again.

You just nod once, tight and short, and say, “Okay. Whatever.”

And then you turn and walk away, sparing only a quick glance over your shoulder.

The moment you’re gone, Sakusa exhales, running a hand down his face. He tells himself it’s fine. That this is what he wanted. That this is better.

But he feels like shit. His head hurts. He feels like he can’t breathe.

And for the first time since this whole thing started, Sakusa wonders if he just made a mistake.

seven.

Sakusa starts pulling away first.

It’s subtle in the beginning. Little things.

You don’t notice it immediately—not with how chaotic the week leading up to the Spring Festival is, how much there is to do, how many fires there are to put out. The days are long, packed with meetings, last-minute approvals, and problem-solving. You’re too busy running from one crisis to another to really stop and think about it.

But then it starts becoming undeniable.

He stops lingering after meetings. Stops staying late in the office with you. Stops brushing his fingers against yours when he hands you documents, stops nudging your knee under the conference table, stops looking at you when he thinks no one else is watching.

And, most noticeably, he stops touching you.

That’s when it really sinks in.

Because you had started to grow used to it—the warmth of his hand on the small of your back, the way he’d reach for you without thinking, the way he used to pull you into his side when no one was around. It had become second nature, a quiet, unspoken thing between you.

You had never questioned it before, had never asked what it meant, because you didn’t think you had to.

But now? Now it’s like none of it ever happened. And you, despite all your reasoning, don’t understand why.

At first, you try to be patient. Try to tell yourself it’s just stress, that he’s just overwhelmed with work, that once the festival is over, things will go back to normal.

But then another day passes.

And another.

And suddenly, you can’t ignore it anymore.

The shift between you is undeniable. It’s in the way he moves around you now—distant, calculated, careful. In the way he answers you with clipped, impersonal responses. In the way he keeps space between you, never standing too close, never reaching for you like he used to.

You wait for him to snap out of it.

He doesn’t.

And when another day ends with nothing—no lingering glances, no easy, familiar touch, no warmth—you start to wonder if you imagined it all. If it had only ever been real for you.

So the night before the festival, you finally snap.

The office is empty, save for the two of you. The exec board has long since gone home, leaving behind stacks of paperwork, half-empty coffee cups, and the heavy silence between you.

Sakusa is seated across from you, scrolling through his tablet, looking as calm and composed as ever. You, on the other hand, are vibrating with frustration.

You don’t know how to bring it up. You don’t know how to phrase it, how to put into words the mounting tension, the frustration, the confusion—the gnawing ache in your chest that has been growing with every passing day.

So you wait. You tell yourself you’ll wait for him to say something, to acknowledge the change between you, to explain why things feel so different now.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he closes his tablet, grabs his bag, and stands up—just like that, like nothing is wrong, like he hasn’t been slowly pushing you away without a single explanation.

And that’s what finally breaks you.

“That’s it?” you blurt out.

Sakusa pauses, glancing at you with a frown. “What?”

“That’s it?” You stand, crossing your arms. “You’re just gonna leave?”

He exhales, clearly exhausted. “It’s late.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

Silence.

He looks at you, expression carefully blank, and for the first time, you realize how much that pisses you off. How much you hate that unreadable look, how much you hate that he’s acting like he doesn’t know exactly what you’re talking about.

Your stomach twists. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like I don’t… like I don’t exist.”

Sakusa exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” You take a step forward, your pulse racing. “You’ve been avoiding me all week. You don’t talk to me. You don’t even look at me anymore.” Your voice wavers slightly, but you push forward. “What the hell, Sakusa?”

He stays silent, staring at you.

You shake your head, frustration mounting. “You know what? Fine. If something’s wrong, just say it. If I did something, just tell me. But don’t—” Your throat tightens. “Don’t just shut me out.”

Something flickers across his face, but it’s gone before you can place it.

Then, he says, “You’re overthinking it.”

You blink.

And then, you laugh—sharp, bitter. “Oh, I’m overthinking it?”

“Yes.” His voice is calm, infuriatingly so. “It was never meant to mean anything, remember?”

The words hit harder than they should.

Something cold settles in your stomach. You stare at him, suddenly unable to breathe properly.

He doesn’t even flinch as he says it, doesn’t even hesitate. Just looks at you like this is nothing, like the past few weeks have been nothing, like the way he used to kiss you like he needed it, like the way he held you close at night, like none of it mattered.

Like you don’t matter.

You swallow, forcing down the lump in your throat. “Right,” you say quietly. “I forgot. You’re good at that, aren’t you? Pretending things don’t matter.”

Sakusa’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. You should really leave. You should walk away before you say something you can’t take back. But you can’t—not yet.

So instead, you inhale sharply and take one last shot, your voice softer now. “Did any of it mean anything to you?”

Sakusa’s fingers tighten around the strap of his bag. His posture is rigid, his face unreadable. But he doesn’t answer.

And that tells you everything you need to know.

You let out a shaky breath, blinking fast. “Okay, then. If it doesn’t mean anything, then let’s just stop.”

Something shifts in his expression—something small, something almost imperceptible. But you don’t wait to figure out what it is.

You turn before he can say anything else, before he can twist the knife even further, before you can say something you’ll regret.

You’re the one who walks away.

This time, you don’t look back.

eight.

You pretend everything is normal.

Meetings are professional. Efficient. Painfully, excruciatingly polite.

Sakusa hands you reports with a clipped, “Here.” His voice is devoid of warmth, of the quiet familiarity that used to live there. You take them without glancing up, without acknowledging the way his fingers twitch as if resisting the impulse to linger. When you slide budget breakdowns across the table, you’re careful—so careful—not to let your fingers brush his, even by accident.

Once, you might have laughed together at the absurdity of this project, whispering half-serious bets about which department head would crack under the stress first. Once, you might have stayed late in the ASU office, shoulders brushing as you worked through spreadsheets in the dim glow of your laptop screens, stealing moments of shared exhaustion, shared silence, shared something.

Now, there’s nothing.

Now, there’s only distance.

It kills him.

At first, he thought this would be easier. That shutting you out would make it hurt less when you eventually drifted away. That if he built a wall between you first, he wouldn’t have to watch you build one later. He thought he was protecting himself.

But this—this is so much worse.

Because you’re still here, but you’re not his anymore.

And it’s all his fault.

You distract yourself with the festival. There’s no time to dwell on things that don’t matter, you tell yourself. Vendors need coordinating. Performers need confirming. Alumni need charming. A hundred little details claw at your attention, demanding focus, pulling you away from thoughts that ache too much to touch.

You throw yourself into the work like it’s a lifeline, like drowning in logistics and schedules will somehow silence the restless thoughts that gnaw at the edges of your mind. If you keep moving, if you keep planning, if you keep pushing forward, then maybe—just maybe—you won’t feel the weight of what’s missing.

And yet, the stress is worse now.

Because Sakusa used to help carry it.

He used to take half the burden without being asked. Without expectation. Just because he could, because he wanted to. Because he used to look at you and see someone worth helping.

Now, the weight is suffocating.

You feel it in the silence of the ASU office late at night, the way the empty chair beside you seems colder than before. You feel it in the exhaustion that clings to your skin, sinking into your bones. You feel it in the dull ache that settles in your chest every morning, never quite fading, never quite leaving you alone.

But worst of all, you feel it every time you see him.

He looks fine. Composed, indifferent, the same as always.

It infuriates you.

Because really, how dare he? How dare he act like nothing happened, like nothing changed? Like you weren’t tangled up in his sheets just days ago, like he wasn’t tracing circles against your skin in the quiet hours before dawn, like he wasn’t the one who pulled away first?

How dare he pretend you never meant anything, when he was the one who made you feel like you did?

You hate him for it. You hate him for leaving, for walking away.

But more than anything, you hate that deep down, under your hurt, you don’t hate him. Not even a little bit. Not really at all.

Sakusa is miserable.

Volleyball used to be his escape. His sanctuary. The only thing that made sense.

But now, even that feels wrong.

Because before every match, before every practice, he used to look for you in the stands. It wasn’t even conscious—just instinct, muscle memory. A habit woven into his routine, as natural as breathing.

He knew you didn’t come to every game. But you did, a lot. Sometimes he’d glance up and catch you pretending not to watch him too closely, pretending not to care, even as your gaze lingered a little too long. Sometimes he’d meet your eyes, and you’d smirk, and he’d know—know that later, when the dust settled, you’d have some sharp-witted comment about his form, his plays, his post-game interviews.

But now, he looks, and you’re never there.

It fucking sucks. It ruins his whole routine.

It starts to show, too. His blocks are sloppy. His serves lack precision. His reactions are just a half-second too slow, and he knows it. He can feel it in the way the ball doesn’t quite connect the way it should, in the way the court doesn’t feel like home anymore.

And his teammates notice.

“You good, man?” Bokuto asks one afternoon, frowning after another off-target spike.

Sakusa exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not, though,” Hinata says, watching him carefully. “You’ve been playing like shit.”

Sakusa glares. “I’m not—”

“Ya are,” Atsumu cuts in, arms crossed. “And it’s not just yer game. You’ve been miserable for weeks. If somethin’s wrong, deal with it.”

Sakusa clenches his jaw. Says nothing.

Because what is there to say? That he’s miserable because of you? That he’s the one who ruined everything? That he made this choice, and now he has to live with it? That he doesn’t even know if you’d forgive him, even if he tried to fix it? That the only person who could make him feel like himself again is the one person who won’t even look at him anymore?

No.

He can’t say any of that.

So instead, he just exhales, picks up the ball, and mutters, “Let’s run it again,” and pretends like everything isn’t falling apart.

nine.

The festival, despite everything, begins.

It should be thrilling. It should feel like a triumph, the culmination of months of relentless work, late nights spent hunched over planning documents, and a hundred tiny decisions that should have amounted to something seamless, something grand.

Instead, it feels like hell.

Everything that can go wrong does. Vendors arrive late, throwing the entire setup into disarray, their excuses flimsy and their apologies meaningless when the delay sends a ripple effect of chaos through the carefully arranged schedule. The sound system glitches in the middle of the first student performance, transforming the singer’s voice into a garbled mess of static before cutting out entirely, leaving behind a stunned silence. Booths sit empty, their intended attendants missing due to some logistical oversight—some failure of coordination that has faculty members exchanging exasperated looks, their whispers dripping with disapproval.

You are drowning.

By the second day, you are running on caffeine, frustration, and the sheer willpower not to completely unravel. Your feet ache from hours of pacing across campus, your temples throb from the unrelenting onslaught of problems, and your patience—already stretched thin—is now nonexistent. The pressure is suffocating, bearing down on you like a weight you were never meant to carry alone.

And Sakusa?

He is just as miserable.

You see it in the rigidity of his posture, in the way his fingers curl into fists whenever another problem arises, in the exhaustion darkening his gaze. He moves through the chaos with his usual efficiency—quiet, methodical, unreadable—but you know him. You know him better than anyone.

And you know he is barely holding it together.

Neither of you acknowledge it. Neither of you mention how your interactions have been reduced to clipped exchanges, words stripped of warmth, spoken with as much distance as possible. Neither of you admit that this week—this godforsaken week—has been unbearable without the other.

Unfortunately, your executive board notices.

“Okay,” Futakuchi announces, arms crossed as he surveys the two of you like a detective piecing together a crime scene. “Something is wrong.”

“You’re imagining things,” you mutter, flipping through the latest stack of vendor complaints. The words blur slightly, but you refuse to let anyone see just how exhausted you are.

“I’m not,” he insists, undeterred. He gestures between you and Sakusa, who is seated across the room, fingers flying over his keyboard as he types with a level of aggression usually reserved for his worst enemies. “You guys are acting weird. Weirder than usual.”

“We’re fine,” you snap.

Kiyoko adjusts her glasses, her sharp gaze cutting through your defenses. “You haven’t smiled in days. You’re constantly on edge. And Sakusa—” she tilts her head towards him, “—hasn’t insulted Futakuchi even once today.”

“That’s actually a huge red flag,” Futakuchi adds helpfully.

Ushijima, ever serious, nods in agreement. “The dynamic of the team has shifted.”

Sakusa exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. “Can you all not? We have actual work to do.”

Aone, silent until now, observes the two of you with his usual quiet intensity. Then, after a painfully long beat, he gives a single, solemn nod. “Tension,” he murmurs.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face.

Futakuchi’s smirk is infuriating. “See? Even Aone notices.”

You don’t bother responding. You don’t even have the energy to argue. Instead, you gather your paperwork, shove your laptop into your bag, and storm out.

You don’t look back.

If you did, you’d see Sakusa watching you leave.

You hit your breaking point halfway through the week.

It happens during the alumni networking fair—the crown jewel of the festival, the event that was supposed to impress donors, alumni, and potential sponsors. The one you poured every ounce of your energy into perfecting, sculpting each detail with the precision of a master craftsman.

Instead, it crumbles.

A venue miscommunication leads to seating chaos, leaving guests aimlessly wandering, confused and increasingly irritated. The guest speaker’s flight is delayed, the catering company—despite weeks of prior confirmation—chooses now to re-verify their payment processing, and as if fate itself is conspiring against you, an administrator corners you minutes before the event, droning about “expectations for student leadership” and how “this level of disorganization reflects poorly.”

You can’t do this.

You feel it building—the pressure, the exhaustion, the sheer weight of everything going wrong all at once. Your chest tightens, your vision blurs at the edges, and for the first time all week, you recognize a terrifying truth:

You cannot do this alone.

Then, before you can completely shatter, Sakusa steps in.

One moment, you are teetering, barely keeping yourself upright. The next, he is there.

He moves swiftly, seamlessly, fixing problems before you can even register them. He handles the seating issue with a few clipped instructions. He calls the speaker’s team, negotiating a workaround before you can even reach for your phone. He takes charge of the caterers, shutting down their nonsense with two curt sentences and a glare sharp enough to cut steel.

He moves through the chaos with the same unshakable precision he always has—calm, efficient, controlled. He has always been good under pressure, but this is different. This is not just problem-solving. This is something else.

And it hits you all at once: you miss him.

Not just the arrangement. Not just the late nights, the convenience, the way his touch had always lingered longer than necessary.

Him.

The way he always knew—knew exactly when you were on the verge of unraveling. The way he kept things from falling apart, even when you felt like you were. The way he understood you—truly, deeply, in a way no one else ever had.

And it is terrifying, because it is not just missing him. It’s needing him.

Sakusa realizes it too.

Not just that he still wants you, not just that ignoring you has made this entire week unbearable. Those things were obvious. What he realizes now is that none of this—none of the work, none of the stress—was ever what exhausted him.

It was pretending. Pretending he didn’t care. Pretending it was just an arrangement. Pretending he didn’t—

Well.

Pretending he didn’t love you.

And now, watching you—watching the way your shoulders finally loosen as you let him help, watching the way your eyes flicker with something unreadable when you look at him—he knows it is too late.

He’s in too deep. He’s always been in too deep.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t even care anymore. He misses you too much to care.

ten.

It’s as if the universe has finally gotten its act together.

For once, everything aligns. As if things have finally conspired in your favor, the remainder of the festival unfolds with an almost unsettling ease. No vendor catastrophes, no logistical nightmares, no alumni with their impossible demands.

Thursday slips into Friday, Friday into Saturday morning, each day a seamless rhythm of events ticking by without incident. Your executive board exhales in collective relief, tension unspooling from their shoulders. Your own pulse, which has been a metronome of stress all week, finally settles into something resembling normalcy. You even manage to sleep—five full hours, a luxury that feels like an eternity compared to the restless snatches of rest you’ve been surviving on.

And now, the final night is here.

The Spring Gala. The grand finale. The last orchestration of the festival—a beast of an event that had consumed endless planning meetings, countless revisions, and more compromises than you’d care to admit. And yet, somehow, impossibly, everything is running smoothly.

The ballroom glows with golden light, strands of soft illumination draped elegantly across the ceiling, casting a warm haze over the room. Candlelight flickers along the tables, their delicate floral arrangements arranged with meticulous care, petals unfurling under the glow like they, too, are basking in the perfection of the night. The gentle hum of a live string quartet weaves through the space, their melody twining through laughter and the quiet clink of champagne glasses. Students and faculty glide through the room in their finest attire, the men crisp in tailored suits, the women draped in silks and satins, everyone engaged in the carefully curated illusion that deadlines and responsibilities don’t exist beyond these gilded walls.

Everything is perfect.

And yet, your focus narrows to one thing.

Him.

Sakusa looks good. Too good.

The sharp lines of his black suit mold effortlessly to his frame, the dark fabric absorbing the ambient light, making him appear even more striking. His curls are tousled, just slightly, as though he had run a hand through them absentmindedly before walking in. He stands with practiced ease, scanning the room with the same sharp, unreadable expression he always wears—one that betrays nothing, yet you’ve always found yourself trying to decipher. And it’s infuriating, because you’ve spent the entire week meticulously avoiding the gravitational pull he seems to exert, trying not to let your eyes linger too long, trying not to remember the weight of everything unsaid between you.

But right now? Right now, he’s making it impossible.

Especially when his gaze finally lands on you.

It’s just a flicker—a second’s pause, a shift in his expression so fleeting you might have missed it if you weren’t already attuned to him. But you see it. The way his dark eyes sweep over you, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. The way something unreadable flickers in his gaze before he schools his features into careful neutrality.

Your throat tightens, but you force yourself to move, bridging the space between you with a measured ease you don’t quite feel. Every step feels deliberate, a careful choreography masking the unease curling in your stomach.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show up,” you say, tilting your head slightly, voice lighter than the weight pressing against your ribs.

Sakusa’s brow lifts—just barely, the movement almost imperceptible—but you catch it. “I planned half of this.”

A smirk tugs at your lips as you cross your arms over your chest, trying to steady yourself in the face of his presence. “Yeah, but you hate these things.”

He exhales, his gaze sweeping over the grand spectacle around you as if only now acknowledging the elaborate display—the glittering chandeliers, the swirl of expensive fabric, the low hum of conversation filling the air like static. “Figured it would be suspicious if the EVP didn’t make an appearance.”

“Mhm.” You hesitate, just for a beat, before speaking again. “So… where’s your date?”

His eyes snap back to yours, something sharp and immediate in the way he looks at you, like the question caught him off guard. “What?”

“Your date,” you repeat, forcing nonchalance into your tone even as your pulse betrays you, drumming against your skin. “Someone as charming as you must have one, right?”

Sakusa’s expression flattens, unreadable yet telling in ways you don’t have the words for. “No.”

The single syllable lands heavier than it should. You had expected a different answer—assumed he would have someone by his side, someone who had effortlessly captured his attention in the time you had spent pushing him away. And yet, here he stands. Alone.

You don’t know why that realization makes your heart stutter.

“Well,” Sakusa says, his exhale quieter this time. “Neither did you.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

His gaze remains steady. “You didn’t bring a date either.”

“Yeah, because I was working.” You scoff, deflecting without hesitation.

He tilts his head slightly, studying you in that way that makes you feel like he’s seeing more than you intend to show. “Still.”

It’s just a single word, but it lingers, curling around you like an unspoken challenge, seeping beneath your skin, sparking something warm and restless in your chest.

Before you can unpack it, before you can shield yourself from whatever this is, he speaks again.

“Dance with me.”

You freeze. “What?”

Sakusa sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets, like he hates what he’s about to say. “Dance with me,” he repeats, softer this time. “Since neither of us brought dates.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him, trying to decipher the layers of meaning beneath the words.

Sakusa Kiyoomi—who loathes social events, who avoids unnecessary physical contact, who has spent the entire night lingering at the edges of the room—is standing here, asking you to dance.

And for some reason, against all logic, you say, “Okay.”

The music shifts into something slow, something delicate, a melody spun from soft strings and quiet longing. It doesn’t demand anything extravagant, only movement, only presence.

You expect him to be tense, awkward, but when his hand finds your waist, his fingers curling against the fabric of your dress with a touch more certain than you anticipated, there is no hesitation. His other hand finds yours, warm and sure, his grip anchoring. His movements are smooth, practiced, betraying a familiarity with this kind of closeness that feels at odds with the person you thought you knew.

You, however, are acutely aware of everything.

The warmth of his palm burning through the layers between you. The faint press of his fingertips against your lower back, light yet possessive. The scent of his cologne—crisp, clean, laced with bergamot and something deeper, something uniquely him.

And then there’s his gaze, dark and unreadable, flickering down to meet yours, searching for something you’re not sure you’re ready to name.

It’s too much.

And suddenly, before you can stop yourself, the words slip out, quiet, hesitant, but real.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly.

Sakusa blinks, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “For what?”

You inhale, fingers curling against his shoulder, grounding yourself in the press of fabric and muscle beneath your touch. “For how things have been. For the way I acted. For… shutting you out. I really did miss you, you know.”

For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, so quiet you almost miss it: “I missed you too.”

Something in your chest loosens, a tether unspooling, unraveling the knots that had been holding you in place. But before you can fully breathe it in, before you can settle into the tentative relief of it, he continues.

“I just… couldn’t pretend anymore.”

You frown, caught on the way his voice shifts, the way something raw bleeds into his words. “Pretend what?”

Sakusa hesitates. His fingers flex slightly against your waist, his grip shifting as if trying to hold onto something unseen. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, rougher, like he’s forcing the words out before he loses the nerve to say them.

“That I didn’t care about you.” A beat of silence. Then, quieter, weightier—“That I didn’t… want more.”

The world tilts.

Your breath catches, your pulse tripping over itself, something dangerous and inevitable clawing its way up your throat.

You don’t think. You don’t hesitate. It’s like when you first kissed him in the office so many weeks ago: you, despite everything, just move—heedless, reckless, drawn forward by something deeper than reason.

Your lips find his in a collision of heat and longing, tentative at first—a question whispered in the language of touch, of all the words left unsaid, of all the moments spent waiting, wanting.

For a single, breathless heartbeat, the world hangs in stillness. A hesitation. A precipice. Then Sakusa exhales, a sharp, punched-out sound like he’s just had the wind knocked from his lungs, and something in him snaps like a wire pulled too taut for too long.

His grip tightens at your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress, pulling you against him with a desperation that makes your pulse stutter. His other hand finds the back of your neck, calloused fingers threading through your hair, tilting your head just so as he deepens the kiss—no longer a question, but an answer.

The world outside of this moment ceases to exist. The only thing real is the warmth of his mouth against yours, the steady, insistent press of his body, the scent of him—his detergent, his cologne. He tastes like something intoxicating, something you want to drown in.

Sakusa kisses you like he needs to remember this very feeling, like this time away from you has been centuries rather than days—like he’s tracing the shape of your lips into the fabric of his being, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he so much as loosens his hold. There’s something achingly restrained in the way he moves, like he’s been waiting for this—for you—for far longer than he’s willing to admit.

And the thing is, you don’t want to let go.

Not now.

Not ever again.

eleven.

The final night of the festival is winding down, and the fundraiser gala is drawing to a close. The speeches are about to begin. The crowd falls into a hush, the hum of conversation quieting as attention shifts to the podium.

You grip the podium, clear your throat, and begin your speech. It's the usual stuff—thank-yous to the faculty, acknowledgements of the hard work that went into the festival, and a few light jokes to keep the atmosphere warm.

And through it all, he's there.

You feel Sakusa before you see him, his presence quietly grounding you. His hand brushes against yours just as you step up to the stage, a small, subtle touch that sends a wave of calm through you. It’s enough to settle your nerves, even if just a little.

The speech goes on. You focus, but in the back of your mind, you’re aware of the quiet weight of him standing beside you, unmoving but unwavering, just like always. Then, under the podium, his fingers curl around yours. The touch is light, hidden from the crowd, but it’s there.

Your breath hitches for a moment, but you keep going, squeezing his hand once in quiet reassurance. You keep speaking, maintaining your composure.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Futakuchi freeze. His eyes flicker to your joined hands, and you catch the brief, silent exchange between him and Aone. Futakuchi’s soft exhale is followed by a rustling of bills, Aone accepting his twenty-dollar winnings without a word.

Across the room, Kiyoko watches with a knowing smile, her gaze flicking between you and Sakusa.

When the speech ends, the applause fills the room, warm and inviting. You turn slightly, feeling Sakusa’s hand slip away, but before it fully retreats, his pinky brushes against yours for just a moment longer than necessary. Your heart stumbles again.

“Finally,” Futakuchi groans the second you step offstage. He throws up his hands in exaggerated relief. “Do you have any idea how painful it’s been watching you two not be together?”

You blink in surprise. “Excuse me?”

Kiyoko hums, setting her drink down. “He’s right.”

Ushijima offers a solemn nod. “It was inevitable.”

“You guys knew?” Sakusa asks, furrowing his brow.

Futakuchi scoffs. “Obviously. Everyone knew.” He sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “You two always fit together, even before you realized it yourselves.”

Aone gives a single, affirming nod.

Kiyoko just shrugs. “You just took your time getting there.”

You glance at Sakusa, and to your surprise, he doesn’t seem annoyed. He’s not irritated—just thoughtful. His fingers twitch slightly at his side before he exhales quietly. “Yeah. We did.”

You smile, feeling the weight of the moment.

The gala lights shimmer above you, casting a warm glow over the ballroom. The noise of the crowd rises around you—the low hum of laughter, clinking glasses, the soft notes of a song playing from the dance floor. The air smells of champagne and wax from the flickering candles, mingling with the floral arrangements around the room. But none of it feels overwhelming. Not with him beside you.

Sakusa stands next to you, solid and constant, just like he always has been. You glance at him again, noticing how the light hits his sharp features, how his dark eyes flicker with something unreadable. He exhales slowly, and then shifts just enough for his shoulder to brush against yours—a small, silent reassurance.

The conversations around you—Futakuchi’s exasperated muttering, Kiyoko’s quiet amusement, Aone’s rare nods of agreement—become distant, secondary. In this moment, it doesn’t matter. Because here, with him beside you, you realize one thing.

You don’t have to hide. There’s no more second-guessing, no more wondering.

No more pretending.

You are here, beside him. And he’s here, beside you.

Sakusa exhales again, barely audible over the music. His fingers brush against yours once more—nothing more than a whisper of a touch. But the warmth it brings lingers in your chest, steady and real.

He doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

The night goes on—the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the celebration. The festival is over, the gala winding down, the world moving forward as it always does.

But for now, in this moment, standing next to him, you know something for sure.

You don’t have to walk alone anymore.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

⨭ closing notes; special thanks to @megapteraurelia for beta reading!! veryyyy meh abt this one so far but who knows lol. ngl i'm not a sakusa girl so i hope i did him justice if u guys have any suggestions for improvement pls let me know!!! btw i am working on smth lowk crazy so i may not have a new fic for a hot sec but when im back it'll be w smth SPECIAL

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nanasrkives · 2 months ago

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Navigation : midnight records! the starlight EP! haikyuu EP!

── .✦ "PERMANENT NUMBERS" — Miya Atsumu, Suna Rintarou, Sakusa Kiyoomi, Bokuto Kotarou and Oikawa Toru

In which, your boyfriend discovers your brand new tattoo! content : fluff. post timeskip. 3k words. Before reading : this was inspired by S2E1 of One Tree Hill!

── .✦ MIYA ATSUMU

It’s a lazy morning, sunlight slipping through the blinds, casting soft, golden lines across the tangled sheets. The air is quiet, filled only with the occasional rustle of fabric and the faint hum of the city outside. Atsumu’s half-awake, sprawled on his side, one arm tucked under his head, the other lazily draped across your waist.

You shift slightly, stretching as you adjust the oversized shirt you’re wearing—his shirt, actually. The hem rides up just enough, and the fabric shifts in a way that catches his attention. That’s when he sees it.

A small, sleek 13, inked in delicate black lines on the soft skin of your left ribs, just under your breast.

His breath hitches, blinking twice to make sure he’s not still half-dreaming. Then he props himself up on one elbow, squinting like he’s discovered a secret no one else knows.

“…Babe,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep but laced with something sharper—curiosity, surprise, and just a hint of disbelief. “Is that… what I think it is?”

You freeze for a second, realizing exactly what he’s looking at. Before you can respond, his fingers are already there, tracing the ink with a feather-light touch. His thumb brushes just below the tattoo, not bold enough to press directly on it, like it’s something fragile.

“You got my number?” he says, this time with a grin creeping into his voice, playful and cocky like always. “Ya really couldn’t help yerself, huh? Had to make it official?”

You roll your eyes, trying to shrug it off. “It’s not that deep, Tsumu.”

“Oh, babe,” he chuckles, leaning in, his lips ghosting over your skin, dangerously close to the tattoo. “It’s deep enough. You’ve got me on ya forever now.”

The teasing fades into something quieter when he looks up at you, his hand resting just above the ink. There’s a softness in his gaze, the kind he rarely shows without a smirk to cover it.

“Didn’t think I could love ya more,” he whispers, pressing a kiss just beside the tattoo, “but here we are.”

For the next few days, he’s obsessed—his fingers always finding their way to that spot, brushing over it absentmindedly, like he needs to remind himself it’s real. He’ll tease you about it nonstop, but the way his eyes soften every time he catches a glimpse says more than his words ever could.

── .✦ SUNA RINTAROU

It’s a late afternoon, the sun casting a soft orange glow through the blinds. You’re in the bedroom, casually changing into more comfortable clothes after a long day. Suna’s lounging on the bed, propped up on one elbow, lazily scrolling through his phone.

You pull your shirt over your head, not even thinking about it, and as you stretch, the fabric shifts just enough to reveal a small, neat 7 inked just above your hipbone, following the curve of your waist.

You don’t notice. But Suna does.

His scrolling slows, thumb hovering over the screen. He squints slightly, eyes narrowing—not in confusion, but in that signature Suna way, like he’s silently judging the universe.

“…Is that a tattoo?” he asks flatly, his voice cutting through the quiet.

You freeze for a split second, then glance over your shoulder. His eyes are locked on your waist, a subtle glint of amusement hidden behind the usual boredom.

“Oh,” you say, tugging your shirt back down with casual indifference. “Yeah.”

He sets his phone down without looking away. “Is that… my number?”

You shrug, pretending not to care. “Maybe.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then he shifts, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes are still on you—sharp, curious, but with a lazy tilt to his smirk.

“Did I miss the part where you joined my fan club?”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah. The initiation ceremony was last week. Sorry you missed it.”

He chuckles softly, standing up and crossing the room with that slow, effortless stride of his. He tugs the hem of your shirt up just an inch—not asking for permission, just doing it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His fingers brush against your skin, tracing the edge of the ink lightly.

“Huh,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “It’s kinda cool. Looks better on you than it does on my jersey.”

You snort. “Don’t get used to the compliment.”

He smirks, leaning down to press a quick, soft kiss right above the tattoo. Then he straightens, hands slipping into his pockets like none of this fazes him at all.

“…Still weird, though,” he adds as he walks back to the bed, grabbing his phone again. “But, like… the good kind.”

And that’s the end of it. No dramatic declarations, no over-the-top reactions—just Suna being Suna. But later, when you’re both lying in bed, you catch him glancing at that spot again, his fingers lazily drifting there without a word.

Because that’s just how he is.

── .✦ SAKUSA KIYOOMI

You’re sitting on the couch, lazily flicking through your phone while Sakusa is settled nearby, his attention supposedly locked on his game. The faint clicks of buttons fill the room, punctuated by occasional bursts of commentary from the screen. But even with his focus on the match, you can feel his eyes flicker toward you every now and then—a brief glance, quick enough that anyone else would miss it.

You stretch slightly, setting your phone aside before standing to grab a drink from the kitchen. Your shirt shifts as you move, lifting just enough to expose a sliver of skin—and with it, the small, black 15 tattooed on your lower back.

You don’t think twice about it.

But Sakusa does.

His gaze snaps to it, sharp and immediate, though the motion is subtle—so subtle you might’ve missed it if you hadn’t turned around just in time to catch the flicker of surprise in his dark eyes. He quickly shifts his attention back to the screen, pretending nothing happened, but there’s a tension in the way his fingers tighten slightly around the controller.

“…That’s my number,” he says after a beat, his tone flat, almost indifferent. But his voice is quieter than usual, and when you glance back, his expression isn’t as composed as he wants it to be. His eyes are still lingering, dark and curious, betraying the calm façade.

You raise an eyebrow, playing it cool. “Yeah. It is.”

You expect a sarcastic remark, maybe a disinterested shrug—typical Sakusa responses. But none of that comes.

Instead, he sets his controller down slowly, almost too carefully, and stands. There’s a brief pause, like he’s second-guessing himself, then he crosses the room in a few quiet steps. He stops just behind you, the warmth of his presence making your skin prickle. Without saying a word, his hand lifts, fingers hesitating for the briefest moment before lightly pressing against the ink.

His touch is feather-light, almost like he’s afraid of breaking something fragile.

“I didn’t think you’d do something like that,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, quieter, as if admitting it out loud makes it more real. His fingertips trace the edges of the tattoo slowly, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours.

You glance over your shoulder, catching the faintest pink flush dusting his cheeks, though he refuses to meet your gaze. His eyes stay locked on the tattoo, his expression unreadable—but there’s something softer there, something unspoken.

“But…” He clears his throat softly, fingers twitching slightly as he lets his hand fall back to his side. “I’m glad you did.”

Without waiting for a response, he turns away, walking back to the couch as if nothing happened. But his movements aren’t as fluid as before—there’s a stiffness in his posture, like he’s trying too hard to be nonchalant.

Later that night, when the game is long forgotten and you’re both lounging on the couch, your legs stretched out across his lap, he casually brushes his hand along your lower back. His fingers drift lazily, almost absentmindedly, until they find their way back to the tattoo.

This time, he doesn’t pull away.

His fingertips linger, tracing slow, gentle circles over the ink, as if memorizing it by touch. His gaze stays fixed on the TV, but his voice comes quietly, softer than before:

“…I like it.”

You don’t respond—not with words, anyway. But the warmth blooming in your chest says enough.

── .✦ BOKUTO KOTAROU

The apartment is filled with the comforting hum of everyday life—music playing softly in the background, the faint clatter of dishes as Bokuto rummages through the kitchen, humming along with the beat. His energy is infectious, even in the simplest moments, like he can’t help but pour all of himself into everything he does.

You’re getting ready for bed, standing in front of the mirror, changing into a tank top when your shirt lifts, revealing the small, bold 12 inked along your ribcage, just beneath the curve of your sports bra. It’s simple, black ink, but striking against your skin.

You don’t think much of it.

But Bokuto sees it.

He freezes mid-step, a glass of water in his hand, eyes wide like he’s just spotted something unbelievable. There’s a beat of complete silence—rare for him—before he blurts out, voice loud and filled with awe:

“HEY—WAIT! IS THAT A TATTOO?!”

You nearly jump out of your skin, spinning around to find him staring, eyes locked onto your side like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

You blink. “Uh… yeah?”

He rushes over in record time, completely forgetting about the glass in his hand, which sloshes water onto the floor as he sets it down hastily. His eyes are practically sparkling, and without hesitation, he lifts the hem of your tank top slightly—not roughly, just eager, his fingers warm against your skin.

“That’s a 12!” he exclaims, his grin stretching wide, full of excitement. “THAT’S MY NUMBER!”

You laugh, trying to tug your shirt back down, but he gently bats your hand away, still marveling at the tattoo like it’s the most incredible thing he’s ever seen.

“When did you get this?!” he asks, eyes flicking between your face and the ink.

“A while ago,” you say, amused by his reaction. “I just… didn’t mention it.”

His mouth drops open, completely scandalized. “YOU DIDN’T MENTION IT?! This is like—like—MONUMENTAL! This is LIFE-CHANGING INFORMATION!”

You roll your eyes, laughing. “It’s just a tattoo, Bokuto.”

“JUST a tattoo?” He looks genuinely offended, placing a dramatic hand over his chest. “It’s MY NUMBER. On YOUR BODY. Forever!”

His voice echoes through the room, but there’s a warmth beneath the theatrics, something genuine in the way his fingers brush over the ink with surprising gentleness. His grin softens slightly, his loud energy settling into something quieter as his thumb traces the outline.

“…It’s really cool,” he says after a pause, his voice softer now, almost shy. “Like… really, really cool.”

You nudge him playfully. “Glad you approve.”

He laughs, bright and unrestrained, pulling you into a tight hug. “Approve? I LOVE IT!” He squeezes you like he’s trying to absorb the happiness radiating from the moment.

Later that night, when you’re both tangled up under the blankets, you feel his hand drift to your side again. This time, there’s no rush, no loud declarations—just his fingers tracing lazy patterns over the tattoo, a quiet reminder of how something so simple can mean the world to him.

── .✦ OIKAWA TOORU

It’s late in the evening, and you’re curled up on the couch, flipping through your messages and checking in with friends when your phone buzzes. You glance at the screen—Oikawa.

You can’t help but smile, your fingers swiping across the screen to accept the call.

“Hey, Tooru,” you greet, your voice light.

The call connects, and Oikawa’s face appears on screen. He’s lounging in his hotel room after a long day of practice, his hair a bit messy, looking cute despite himself. He flashes his signature grin, eyes sparkling with his usual mischief.

“Hey, hey, (Y/N),” he greets in that deep, drawling voice of his, his hands dramatically cupping his face. “You miss me already? You can’t get enough of me, huh?”

You roll your eyes at his usual playful antics, trying to ignore the heat in your cheeks. “Sure, Tooru, that’s exactly it.”

He chuckles, clearly pleased with himself, but as you lean back into your couch, your shirt rides up slightly, exposing a small 13 inked just below your collarbone. It’s subtle, but enough to catch his eye.

His gaze snaps to the screen, his eyes widening in surprise, and he freezes mid-sentence. You notice the shift immediately.

“Wait…” he breathes, leaning forward, his face filling the screen. “What was that? I—did you—?”

You tilt your head, pretending not to notice the intensity in his eyes. “What’s up, Tooru? Something on my face?”

He stares at you in disbelief, his voice rising in pitch. “Is that—Is that—MY NUMBER?!”

You try to stifle your laugh, watching his exaggerated reaction unfold. “Yup,” you say casually, leaning in just slightly to show him the tattoo more clearly. “It is.”

Oikawa’s expression goes from shock to full-on theatrical amazement. His hands fly to his face, his mouth forming a perfect “O” as he stares at you, still in disbelief.

“No way,” he says, his voice full of mock offense. “You—You got my number inked on your skin? For everyone to see? That’s so bold, (Y/N).”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes. “I thought it was a nice tribute, actually.”

“Oh, I’m sure you did.” His grin widens, mischievous and dramatic as ever. “But come on, I’m flattered. Really. I mean, I do have the best number in volleyball history, so I guess it makes sense that you’d want to carry it with you forever.”

You laugh, but there’s a small rush of warmth in your chest. Oikawa’s usual teasing tone is so playful, but there’s something softer underneath it that you can feel even through the screen.

“Seriously, though,” he continues, his voice gentler now as he lowers his hands from his face, his eyes glued to the tattoo. “I’m… I’m glad you did that. I didn’t expect it, but I’m… honored.”

You blink, surprised by the sudden shift. His gaze softens even more as he leans closer to the screen, as if trying to get a better look at the tattoo. His fingers twitch like he wants to touch it.

“It's kind of perfect,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I’m glad you picked me.”

His usual theatrics are back in full swing as he suddenly grins wide. “So, does this mean you’re my biggest fan now? Am I your favorite player? Huh?!”

You roll your eyes at him again, but the warmth in your chest lingers. You knew Oikawa would have a big reaction, but the affection in his voice caught you by surprise.

“Okay, I think you’ve made your point,” you tease, leaning back against your pillows. “I’ll make sure to flaunt it around.”

“I’m definitely gonna show this off,” he says, his grin still wide, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “I’m putting you on display for the world. Who wouldn’t want to see my number proudly tattooed on someone as amazing as you?”

You laugh, feeling your heart beat a little faster. “You’re too much, Oikawa.”

But as the call continues, you can’t help but notice the way his fingers linger near the screen, as if he’s touching the tattoo in his own way. He may be putting on his usual show, but beneath the dramatics, there’s a sincerity that makes your heart flutter.

2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.

TAGLIST (OPEN). / @cherrysurf @arwawawa2 @elmaa127

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peachylynnie · 25 days ago

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when you have a crush on a fictional character

word count: 200-300 per lead contains: lads men x reader, established relationship, headcanons on crack, jealousy (they have beef with a fictional character), some plushies were harmed in the making of this post, lots of manga spoilers, cursing, violence, and links to images/videos (so you know what the characters look like) a/n: i had so much fun making this. it's ironic too since THEY'RE fictional. listen, it was either this or ur kpop bias (im missing taehyung like a mf). again, bc these are headcanons, i'm not saying i'm right. reblogs and comments are always appreciated! tagged: @vvintqz (another xavier headcanon) lads masterlist

xavier

gojo satoru from jujutsu kaisen (manga spoilers below)

thought you would enjoy the series since the two of you watch a lot of anime together

but now he regrets suggesting it.

he regrets mentioning the manga too

since the damned character wears a fucking compression shirt in the manga

he swears if he hears the words "my glorious blue eyed king" leave your mouth one more time

he's going to slice your gojo plushie into a million pieces with his sword (he thinks shoving it under the bed is already too much of a mercy)

why are there so many "no lube, no protection" comments under every gojo instagram post?

why are you liking every single one of them?! (you like them bc it's funny, but he is NOT amused)

will glare at you so hard if you ask him to cosplay

would honestly rather cosplay lumiere

this man is scowling whenever gojo appears on the screen

arms crossed, lips pouted, hand reaching for the sword type shit

turned off the TV when that one breathing scene came on (i had to link it)

jumped for joy when he died though lmao

never has he ever been so happy to see a literal body cut in half

you're just sitting there mortified while he's all sunshine and rainbows

he wants to find the author and give him a big hug

xavier 🤝 gege #1 gojo haters

zayne

sakusa kiyoomi from haikyuu (manga spoilers below)

he honestly doesn't know how to react at first

a volleyball player who acts like a jerk, has less than TWO minutes of screentime, and wears NEON attire? (he respects his obsession with hygiene though)

actually questions you at one point

"is that your type?" "do you want me to be like that?" "are you into volleyball players?"

you have to explain it's not like that at all, you just think he's cool

that assures him a bit

but when you start reading the manga

his worries return ten-fold

not only because the character appears more

but because the character doesn't wear neon anymore and has compression sleeves (that's HIS thing)

frowns when he looms over your shoulder

and sees you screenshot EVERY PANEL he appears in (is this a thing or am i the only one)

gets so confused as to why you're referring to the character as omi whenever you call your friend who's an atsumu girlie (i'm an osamu girlie)

he's half grateful the msby black jackals (he begrudgingly learned the team name from you) haven't been animated yet

his face is priceless when he walks into the shared bedroom

and sees a sakusa plushie there

wants to freeze it with his evol

instead he just awkwardly picks it up and makes it face the wall (he doesn't want to see you upset)

rafayel

brant from wuthering waves

"YOU LIKE A PIRATE WHEN THERE'S A WHOLE MERMAN RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU?!"

he's so sulky and petty about it

bashes the character whenever he has the chance

"he's a pirate, i bet he smells bad."

"ew, why does he talk like that?"

"he can summon a giant anchor? big deal. i can summon an entire ocean."

you find this situation really funny

since the whole reason you like brant in the first place is BECAUSE he reminds you of rafayel

it's the theatrical mannerisms and flashy outfits (the sea too)

but you don't tell him that (he'll probably act more offended anyway)

whenever he catches you playing the game

he sighs dramatically and falls on the couch

head on your lap and trying to distract you from the game

"replaced by a stinky pirate, how could this be?"

"can't believe you're playing a game when there's a hot, rideable fishie right in front of you"

he's flabbergasted when you reach for your wallet

"wait, IT'S A GACHA GAME?!"

cue him running around with your wallet and you chasing after him

"no way, cutie. last time you spent like fifty dollars on identity v for some skin."

when you try to correct him that it was for a danganronpa collab (and that it was less than fifty dollars)

he snatches your phone

now he's running with both your wallet and your phone in hand

sylus

yomi from gokurakugai (manga spoilers below)

listen

you started the manga because the character LOOKS LIKE him (just hair down)

he has silver hair, red eyes, and composed mannerisms

literally when you see the panel of him appearing with a jacket hanging from his shoulders along with some slacks shoes

you have to sigh because

you are NOT beating the allegations

the "i have a type" allegations

sylus is honestly amused

see he would actually READ the manga

not even online

he would buy physical copies of it

and have it in your bookshelf

since he knows how much you HATE the pop-up ads on the website you use to read

also because he wants to see what you're so excited about

so imagine your face when you walk into your shared bedroom

and see your boyfriend in all of his gorgeous glory

wearing his signature bathrobe

a wine glass in one hand and...

THE MANGA IN ANOTHER?!

THE ONE WHERE YOMI IS ON THE COVER TOO?!

he chuckles at your dumbfounded expression before standing up and walking towards you (the manga's still in his hand btw)

"what's wrong, sweetie? i thought you liked this series, given how much you've searched for this character on pinterest."

you gulp when he pins his hand on the wall

"would you like me to wear my hair down?"

caleb

chrollo lucilfer from hunter x hunter (manga spoilers below)

see the other guys are...relatively grateful these characters are fictional

this guy actually WISHES this bastard of a character was real

why?

so he can plummet him into the ground

because why are you squealing every time this pale, grown ass man with a tattoo on his forehead and an open fur coat appears on the screen???

here's the thing

caleb was excited to start this show with you since he heard it's good

and it is!

he loves the nen system, has a soft spot for killua, and would honestly kill for gon

but now, whenever you suggest watching the show, he's grumbling and insisting you guys watch something else

he would rather die than tell you this

but one time

he slicked his hair back in front of the mirror to see if he looks like him (oh the aura loss)

he also read the manga

but only to see how often chrollo appears so he can be prepared

was excited for the hisoka vs. chrollo fight (since he's hoping the latter dies)

actually enjoyed it too since both characters used their abilities so creatively

threw his phone when hisoka lost

and punched your chrollo plushie with his metal arm

you made him buy you another one

a/n: not me exposing all of my fictional crushes. here are some other characters i considered: seba natsuki, kei uzuki (sakamoto days), levi ackerman (aot), phainon (hsr), yoru (gokurakugai), beom tae ha (tears on a withered flower), theo lapileon (my in laws are obsessed with me), shinso hitoshi, dabi (bnha), choso kamo (jjk) (my beloved), and reigen arataka (mp 100) (solely for shits and giggles).

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jadeoru · 9 months ago

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SMUDGED LIPSTICK!

13: so casual -> prev / mlist / next

now playing: in my head - the mysterines 🎶

“Hey, stranger."

His head immediately turned to the source of your voice, the sound of each word that left your mouth sent chills down his spine. “Hey.” He almost whispered, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He missed the way your name tasted on his tongue. “You look nice.” He sunk into himself, seeming as shy as he was the day you met him for the first time. It was cute. A sweet smile found its way to your lips. “Thank you! You look nice too.” Your voice was sweet and soft, a stark contrast to how it was when you were onstage: loud and powerful. Your head had to tilt upwards to look at him properly. Has he always been this tall? You should’ve worn your boots after all. He muttered an awkward thank you, his hands stuffed in his pockets. They moved in a way that made his nervousness clear: a subtle fidgeting with the lining of fabric. You had to take control of the conversation. “You ready to become friends?” You asked, a playful smirk on your face, almost wide enough to show your teeth - Almost wide enough to expose how excitement was gnawing on your core, in the form of butterflies. “Yeah.” He nodded his head. He regretted each dry response that fled from his lips, but he didn’t know what else to say. He was terrified of somehow messing everything up - again. Your eyebrow creased with hope that he’d loosen up as the day went on; that he’d actually say more than one word at a time. Otherwise, this was gonna be one awkward afternoon. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

After finding an empty table next to a window, in the corner of the quiet café, sakusa sat down - waiting for you to return with the coffees you ordered. He glanced out the window, head in his palm. He silently hoped that you were thinking the same thing he was; you felt the same nostalgia that he was feeling. This was the exact same place you used to sit together every day after school. The same scratch marks littered the painted wooden table. The same table that witnessed pivotal moments of your friendship. After finding where he was sitting, you carefully placed your coffee down onto the aforementioned table, placing his in front of him immediately after.

After sitting down, you brought the straw to your lips, taking the first sip of your drink. You let out a gasp that quickly garnered his attention. “Oh my god, I forgot how good their iced coffees were!” Your voice boomed with excitement, quickly taking another sip. He stifled a laugh at your childish enthusiasm. If he squinted, he could probably see the heart-shaped pupils in your eyes. “Yeah? That’s the caramel one right? Is that still your favorite?” He asked, shuddering when you held eye contact. He regretted his words the second they left his mouth, quietly beating himself up for how obsessed he sounded. He was pathetic. Your voice quietened, a teasing expression taking over your face. He already knew he was fucked before any words left your mouth.

“You know, for someone who hasn’t talked to me in years, you seem to remember all of my favorite things.” An embarrassed flush spread across his face, heating his cheeks at the implications. He cleared his throat, sitting up straight. “Well, you always did have bad taste. It’s hard to forget that.” He excused, lying through his teeth. It would be impossible for him to forget your favorite things, considering the amount of times you used to beg him to get them for you back then. He knew you more than he knew himself. You gasped again, feigning offense. “How dare you! Iced coffee is delicious!” you raised your hands as you spoke, outraged. He let out a huff of air: an almost-laugh. “Coffee should not be cold!” He spoke incredulously. He matched your tone, although he looked way more calm than you did. You rolled your eyes at him, “Coffee is best when it’s cold!” he opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off, “Clearly you haven’t tried this one!” You spoke matter-of-factly, waving the plastic cup in the air to structure your point, careful not to spill any. He scoffed, taking a sip of his own drink. “I don’t need to try every variation of iced coffee to know it sucks.” He stated, rolling his eyes at you. He gently placed his cup on the table, looking back up to you and noticing the outrage plastered across your face. He missed your dramatic banter. He was sure that if he really wanted to, he could close his eyes and pretend that nothing happened between the two of you. Because in this moment, it felt like you never stopped being friends. “Here- just try it!” you demanded, shoving your cup in his face, angling the straw in his direction. He stared for a moment, almost to make sure you were being serious, before taking the cup from your hands, and taking a sip of your coffee. His lips lingered on your straw for the longest second of your life.

He was silent for a while, putting you under the assumption that he was analysing the flavor. He didn’t give two shits about the coffee. With shaky hands, he placed your cup back down in front of you. His heart was racing. He stared at the table, not trusting what would happen if he made eye contact with you after what had just happened. He could feel his face twitching, trying to fight the blush that crept onto his ears. Your elbows rested on the table, barely inside his field of vision. You propped your head up, both hands under your chin as you waited for his feedback. Was he losing it, or were your hands trembling too? He cleared his throat again, his mind spiralling as he thought about the feeling of his lips on your straw. He was overreacting, he knew it. But he couldn’t help feeling this way when it came to you. You always found a way to make him feel like this. He hated it. How were you being so casual right now? Was it not as big of a deal as he thought it was? You laughed accusingly. “Look at your face! I knew you liked it!” You pointed at him, an evil grin filling out your cheeks. He didn't know much about how he was feeling in that moment, but one thing was for certain: it wasn't the coffee he liked.

"It's not terrible."

The rest of the afternoon went perfectly. Thankfully, despite the time that had passed, conversations between the two of you flowed as naturally as they used to. You stayed at the café until the second it closed. And if you had things your way, you would’ve stayed until the sunset. Every time silence passed over you, Sakusa rushed to fill it. Knowing that if he was left with his thoughts for even a second, he’d go back to replaying the indirect kiss you shared over and over again in his mind. Were you going as crazy as he was over it? He didn’t want to think of it. Before you went home, the two of you stood outside of the café doors, exchanging goodbyes. He didn’t have a chance to blink before you pulled him into a quick hug. It lasted maybe 3 seconds at most. It was one of those sweet embraces that caused you to squeeze him tightly right before pulling away. He would sooner die than admit to leaning into your touch.

“See ya next time, kiyoomi.” You spoke quietly, almost whispering.

He had his girl back.

a/n: SORRY FOR THE DELAY!!! i hope this chapter makes u guys as insane as i am because i was losing my mind while writing this LMAO

TAGLIST: @gojoed @anianurst @itsdragonius @sleepy-writer84 @yuminako @wolffmaiden @tenjikusstuff4 @juie13 @ilyless @arachnoia @choizzn @3lectraheart @sugarrhiccupp @bbybibi @diorzs @le000xxgrd @aboveasphodel @petrus1989 @aria-in-wonderland @walllflowerrrsss @wave2mia @loveelylacey @marimisses @alpha-mommy69 @thepurpleempath @theauthorunicorn @v1oletfury @iluvmang @slashkxe @theycallmenanamisgirl @dailyakira @lunarlunaire @iovetooru @ryukumi @soupofmushrooms @megmercury @renardiererin @violetesensou @wtfdudewhydidyoutakemyusername @ast4rg1rl @dazqa @yoshit-he-dinosaur

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nectardaddy · 10 months ago

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full throttle | sakusa kiyoomi

chapter thirteen | parking garage | 🏎️

masterlist

The air was silent, a void of sound, the engine turned off from parking only twenty minutes ago - one could hear a pin drop if they wanted. Parking his car in the open space of a garage lot, one he frequently went to just to get away; and one he absentmindedly took her to now because he simply couldn't clear his mind.

Picking her up only to be found breathless, and lost yet again - so he took her here. The, almost to a T, script he made in his mind vanishing within a second as she looked at him. He was absolutely doomed - he couldn't speak, couldn't think, and most certainly, didn't know how to act.

"I really like you." He didn't realize his own words, not noticing they slipped past his lips until they were already in the air. Hanging by a dangerously thin thread, floating, until she finally took them with caution. Her lips parted to speak at the sudden words but closed abruptly as she let the phrase simmer in her subconscious.

"You do?" A gentle, but prodding question asked by her; one that made him feel silly all over again. A question to which he couldn't find words anymore and simply nodded, ridiculing himself within his mind. But thoughts drew a complete blank when a smile peaked at the corners of her lips, a ghost of one, one that made him swallow hard at what was yet to come. "I really like you too, Kiyoomi."

"Damn," he breathed out hopelessly. To which she couldn't help but chuckle, the outburst causing her small smile to grow as she laughed.

"You say it like it's a bad thing," she mused. Wrapping her mind around the singular word forgivingly, tenderly holding as she wanted him to say more. To say what he meant; to not skirt around the thought with sand paper words.

"No," he corrected quickly. "No, not at all. Actually far from it." Finally finding the confidence within himself to look at her, he found himself with lack of oxygen once more. The dim light of the parking garage hid her features well, but he was hopeless all the same. "I'm an idiot for not talking to you, I'm sorry."

"You'd only be an idiot if you stopped talking to me all together." She was teasing him, prodding at the situation with a silly smile on her lips. A phrase he couldn't help but allow a breathy laugh to leave his lips from; one that finally made the tension in the air subside and his shoulders drop.

"I'm not that much of an idiot." A small smile pulling at the corners of his lips, looking to her like he finally managed to reach for something glorious. Fuck, she's beautiful, I am an idiot. "I won't fuck it up like a did in high school."

"What?" You asked in a chuckle, "you liked me in high school?"

"Oh, I was obsessed with you in high school," spoken in an exasperated breath, smile still pulling at his cheeks.

"You're not obsessed now?"

"You're the whole reason I won last week. If that's what obsessed then I don't know what to call it."

a cutesy chapter is coming after this one!

she was actively still in the car with him while sending those texts lmao

he was driving though so it's ok

he can flirt - just a little

kicking my feet at this chapter, it's happening FINALLY

the boy's gc is going to lose their minds over this when omi tells them

taglist under cut (I'M SORRY FOR THE WAIT ILY)

@wyrcan @hilichurl-lover @neuviloved @mayariviolet @wqnsho

@chosugarplum @dontmindtheevie @ilyless @phoenix-eclipses @kitnootkat

@azuremyst99 @wolffmaiden @localgaytrainwreck @eggyrocks @plutosalwayslost

@yuminako @aliensstolemyheart @msameikanevaeh @chizunata @cherrypieyourface

@gra-eae @punkhazardlaw @iheartamora @whoislesiless @whosmarjj

@chemiru @whosmarjj

#haiykuu #haikyuu!!#sakusa kiyoomi #kiyoomi sakusa #sakusa x reader #kiyoomi sakusa x reader #kiyoomi x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! x reader #series: full throttle #haikyuu smau #haikyuu!! smau #hq x reader #sakusa smau #hq smau #formula drift

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causenessus · 10 months ago

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love notes

part 0.05. intros.

EXHIBIT ONE: COFFEE ENTHUSIASTS

l/n y/n °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

college student majoring in photography <3 also works at onigiri miya on the side but spends a lot of her time doing client portraits and taking photos in her free time to add to her portfolio and get experience. really enjoys taking photos of street art, including graffiti and interactive pieces because she thinks they have so much meaning and significance. wanders around with suna a lot as they look for more art. went to itachiyama and knows sakusa the best but they both became good friends with inarizaki because atsumu would always bring osamu and suna with him to visit them in high school. y/n would sneak glances at suna when she thought he wasn’t looking but was always too nervous to say anything. in college, they grew closer and things became more comfortable as their friend groups hanged out more. she's allowed suna on her private account because it's where she posts most of her thoughts since her main account has to be dedicate to photography.

akaashi keiji & sakusa kiyoomi °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

akaashi

double majoring in literature and photography <3 whenever their classes assign group projects, akaashi, y/n, and kenma usually all work together. even on individual assignments, they usually go out together to keep each other company while they find their focuses <3 but he’s really going thru it, spends a lot of his time and money in coffee shops (and takes advantage of getting free food at onigiri miya). doesn’t have a very big booking schedule for client photography because he’s so busy but he’s always booked because people are obsessed with how good his eyes and skills at editing photos are. met and got to know y/n at the high school games between fukurodani and itachiyama when she would come to take photos of the volleyball team for publicity.

omi

wing spiker for the msby college volleyball team and majoring in athletic training. frequents onigiri miya but will only eat what y/n or osamu makes. he definitely grew close to y/n and trusts her because she’s just as much of a clean freak as him. their first interaction went something along the lines of her watching someone on the vball team trip on her equipment bag and her coming up to sakusa saying “your teammate just touched my bag with his dirty sweaty shoe and now i have to sanitize it. please tell them to stay away from my stuff.” and he was immediately sold. sometimes feels like the caretaker of his group, making sure everyone’s taking care of themselves because akaashi and y/n often get in the habit of partnering together to make bad decisions or locking themselves in a room to cram for classes

miya osamu & kozume kenma °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

osamu

went on a whim and started onigiri miya while also going to school for a degree in hospitality. works most nights with yn allowing them to grow pretty close. in high school, she also felt the most comfortable with him out of all the inarizaki boys and he would tell her all kinds of stories about suna because he could see how she looked at him. they still usually gossip while they work together and he definitely enables her whenever she feels like doing something (as long as it’s not harmful to herself or detrimental to her future!!!). whenever msby travels to away games, he usually gets the chance to set up a stand outside the court and will leave yn in charge of the tokyo location. is also close besties with akaashi because they share an immense love for food and has given him a free pass to eat there whenever he wants (atsumu on the other hand pays and sometimes gets a discount, usually only if yn is the one taking his order bc she feels bad for him)

kenma

photography major and part time streamer. literally is the only reason yn and akaashi have good cameras because he’ll give them his old ones whenever he buys a new one or will buy them equipment they need as a present. (in return) yn and akaashi definitely help him in general classes. feeds and has basically adopted a cat that somehow climbs their window sill everyday. he’s like the keeper of his dorm because he’s always home so whenever someone is out and has forgotten something, they’ll always spam kenma asking him to “pretty please” bring it to them. posts a lot of the photos he takes on his main twitter account. definitely takes a lot of street photography and spends more time editing photos that people send in but sometimes does portraits if requested.

extras <3

yn, akaashi, sakusa, and kenma all live together

osamu doesn’t pay rent but he’s often over bc he doesn’t want to be amidst the chaos of his actual roomates

kenma’s been forced to keep his depression clutter limited to his room because sakusa and y/n are both clean freaks

(sometimes if he lets her, y/n will come in to help him organize and clean his room)

sakusa often ends up cooking for everyone to eat because he knows no one will eat if they have to make something themselves

his one rule is you cannot be in the kitchen as the same time as him or he will stare you down

y/n usually just makes something for herself at onigiri miya but she’ll always take sakusa’s cooking over it

do not come at me abt how the real world works with businesses please 😭 let me be

taglist: @wyrcan @oyasumeii @froyaoya @gyuijns @nbcvs (form to be added to taglist! <3)

m.list | next

#suna rintarou #rintarou suna #suna #sunarin #suna x reader #suna smau #suna x reader smau #haiykuu smau #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #hq #hq x reader #ness' planet ⋆⭒˚.⋆

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irisintheafterglow · 1 year ago

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Hiii!! I’m absolutely in love with the way you write kiyoomi :) he’s literally perfect. If you have time, I would love a scenario where his partner meets the black jackals for the first time!! Whether it’s accidental or on purpose is up to you :)

but he was so much fun (and he had such weird friends!)

cw/tags: gn!reader, swearing, mentions of cooking and eating, domestic omi crumbs, established relationship and pet names (love, baby), pure jackals crack

note: hi love!!! this prompt is so funny omg i'm obsessed. hope you like it!!! i got extremely carried away

likes, reblogs, and replies are always appreciated :)

"i'm-" he starts, huffing out an irritated breath and setting his knife on the cutting board, gripping the edges of the countertop. you turn to look at him from your spot at the stove, tapping the wooden spoon against the edge of the pot and placing it in the spoon rest. you check the vegetable prep over his shoulder and find neat piles of cut carrots, cauliflower, and potatoes. it didn't seem like anything was wrong with his knife skills, so it perplexed you why he was suddenly having trouble expressing his thoughts. "i'm having..."

"you're having?" you wipe your hands on a kitchen towel and gently turn him to face you, snaking your arms around his neck while his hands find their natural place on your hips. your thumb absentmindedly brushes over his moles, right above his furrowed eyebrows of annoyance.

"doubts," he says uncertainly, glancing at the dining table set for four more than its usual two occupants. the corner of his mouth juts to the side in obvious discontent, even though he was trying not to dampen your excitement for formally meeting his friends. not that he would ever call them that, at least not in this lifetime.

"how so, baby?"

"they can be a little...hard to handle," he mutters. "you know them. you've seen it," he says, voice strained and it makes you chuckle at the memory of the first time you actually met his friends.

kiyoomi wishes that it didn't happen that way at least twice a day. it was partially your fault, overestimating your ability to find him in the back halls of the msby gym facilities after only a few months of dating. after turning yourself around about four different times and unable to retrace your steps, you settled for walking in the direction of a nearby conversation. you ended up, however, steering a wrong turn into the men's locker room, yelping in surprise when you were met with three bare chests, none of which belonged to your boyfriend. apologizing profusely and briskly walking away, you were fleeing too quickly to hear the three players equally as alarmed.

it was like a scene from a cartoon; you could vaguely make out the sound of things being thrown like shirts, water bottles, and flailing limbs. there were hushed whispers of holy shit, someone just walked in here and they're so pretty and put some fucking clothes on, shoyo, that's indecency. you make the executive decision to just wait for him outside, but before you leave, your boyfriend's voice rings loud and clear from around the corner.

"what the hell are you guys freaking out about?"

"omi, dude. you just missed them."

"missed who?"

"there was this really pretty person that walked in! they were wearing the same zip-up that you were wearing yesterday, isn't that neat?" your attention darts down to the jacket that was very much kiyoomi's and definitely not yours, your face warming from pure embarrassment. "maybe you could ask them if they shop there frequently; i think they'd be your type."

"since when did sakusa have a type?"

"hey, wait! where are you going?" is the last question you hear before your boyfriend comes barreling around the corner in nothing but shower shoes and sweatpants and looking just as bewildered as you and the three guys in the locker room. after a palpable moment of shocked silence, you both word-vomit at the same time.

"you're wearing my jacket."

"why are you shirtless?!"

"you're wearing my jacket." his voice drops in volume to a yelled whisper, his hand pulling you further down the hallway and away from the locker room despite his lack of clothes. a few of the gym staff eye you in confusion and you give them a weak smile, fighting the urge to stare at the muscle rippling across kiyoomi's body. "you're wearing my jacket," he repeats for the third time, as if it was taking several tries for his brain to compute the information in front of him.

"that's your main concern?!"

"no, shit, no," he shakes his head, regaining his composure after his mind short-circuited. "my main concern is you running into the three stupidest members of my team without me there-"

"and while they were shirtless," you add and his nose scrunches in pure distaste. "wait, why don't you want me to meet them without you there?"

"because they're stupid and-and i love you and they're-and they're stupid," he stammers, visibly flustered in a way that you'd never seen him before. it sets your face on fire, hearing how easily he said he loved you when you'd never said it to each other up until that point. the same realization must hit him at the same time and he pinches the bridge of his nose in defeat, sighing through his nose. "i just said i love you."

"you just said you love me," you echo, a delirious smile widening on your mouth as you peel his fingers away from his face and lace them into yours. "you just said you love me."

"he just said he loves them!" a very eavesdropping-sounding whisper comes from behind the wall and you both flinch. like a straw breaking a camel's back, kiyoomi's face contorted into a vengeful scowl. he composed himself for a moment, promising you he'd be right back, and then stomping around the corner where you heard receding screams of terror.

that was five months ago, and you finally convinced kiyoomi to let you meet his friends formally, along with atsumu's brother who was bringing more food to help you feed four pro athletes.

"i've seen a lot more than just them being stupid," you remind him, giggling when his face turns a light shade of pink. "and, i think it's endearing how much they care for you. i know you won't admit it, but i know you care about them, too." he gazes at you so softly that it makes you melt a little. i'm gonna marry you, one day, he thinks. "now, i promise i won't be deterred by their idiocy, so let me get back to cooking, okay?"

"okay," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "i love you. a lot."

"i love you even more, omi."

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

#sakusa x you #sakusa x reader #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #sakusa kiyoomi x you #sakusa x y/n #sakusa kiyoomi fluff #haikyu x you #haikyu x reader #haikyu fluff #hq x you #hq x reader #hq x y/n #ask iris!

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halowishes · 6 months ago

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october favs!

what i recommend this month.

(my reviews are getting longer… i will not apologize T-T)

burden of blame

e. 91.2k. violence. yakuza au.

i’ve finally read the iconic fic. the writing for this and atsumu’s character deserves more praise than i can do. his fears, motivations, dreams, and hopes are so gripping and emotional. i just love long fics so much. you learn so much about the characters and there’s so much DEPTH. i always feel so lucky to read them.

the MSBY black jackals guide to self care

t. 4.5k. canon compliant.

it’s sakusa with a religious self care routine versus 6 in 1 shower wash. such a sweet fic of sakusa learning a new routine, befriending the jackals, and getting praise (as he should!). and i love a sakusa pov <3

insert coin to play

e. 178k. cyberpunk/ bounty hunters au. violence.

finally was brave enough to read this and it did not disappoint :’). this dynamic of loudmouth but extremely competent atsumu x observant and stealthy but full of sass kiyoomi is SO fun. not to mention them being absolutely obsessed with each other (and not realizing it). this fic is so creative, beautifully written, and embodies every possibility in fanfic. they mean so much to me and i could write essays on how good this fic is. fairycake has never let me down.

fan behavior (series)

t/ e. 41.3k total. 4 works. canon compliant.

there’s something cosmically right about teenage kiyo being a fanboy and an atsumu apologist. the premise of the jackals trying to differentiate the miya twins fit sooo well😭 this series had me giggling into my pillow.

strawberry

t. 8.5k. american college au.

i was expecting a silly college fic but it ended up being so much more. i have complex feelings about the asian american experience and college (im graduating soon), so this fic spoke to a few different parts of me. highly recommend if you have a weird relationship with your culture, ethnicity, your parents, or have a crush on your friend :P

crash course

e. 6.0k. all-japan youth camp.

ah yes, horny high schoolers at a sleep away camp. teen kiyoomi wants to lose his virginity and sets motoya on a mission to find the best choice. enter miya atsumu: five star reputation, good at volleyball, hot, and willing. perfect candidate for kiyo’s big moment!

it drives you crazy getting old

m. 45.9k. 13 going on 30 skts!

atsumu being an asshole to kiyoomi at the all-japan youth camp only for them to wake up at 32 years old, MARRIED, in their osaka home! both are horrified as they realize they’re stuck together in a future they don’t know! this fic made me look forward to getting older, facing changes, and finding people who love my quirks <3

your best american boy

t. 23.3k. asian american high school au.

this fic left me speechless. it’s filled to the brim with emotion, experience, raw and open wounds, and such beautiful prose. learning your culture, appreciating your family, talking to your parents, forgiving your parents, being seventeen, feeling wrong in your skin. it’s a love letter to coming-of-age and asian american-ness (however you choose to define that). it changed how i think about family & identity.

constellations we call home

e. 53.5k. end of the world au.

i LOVE apocalypse aus and this one did not disappoint: the dread, the hope, the wonder, the magic of having no future!! pro volleyball player atsumu finds his cog in the corporate machine neighbor at the end of the world. what does it mean if your life begins with three weeks left to live?

do i dare disturb the universe?

t. 14.9k. parallel universe au.

corporate machine kiyoomi (again!) wakes up in a parallel universe next to the man he dumped 10 years ago— so why does he seem so happy in this life? this fic is gentle and emotional and introspective. i love these kinds of fics bc life is sooo fast and confusing. we never know if we’re making the right decisions and sometimes it’s hard to listen to your heart, but your life is still in your hands. let yourself feel!

nowhere man

e. 40.5k. college band au.

nonlinear storyline of famous atsumu and restaurant owner kiyoomi and their 3 meetings. i’m a sucker for “right person, maybe next time” because if they’re the right person you WILL find a next time. internetpistol’s fics are always emotionally charged and liberating. although sad at points, it’s also very genuine.

again, like this

e. 55.7k. mid-time skip fwb.

(ao3 exclusive)

none of you understand how in love with this fic i am. fwb whose feelings become too much to ignore. it was one of the first skts fics i read, i go back to it probably every week, and the characterization fits SO perfectly. i could read this again and again (heh get it?) and i’d fall in love every single time. my ultimate emotional support fic.

miya atsumu, adored by all (loved by some)

t. 41.1k. canon compliant.

atsumu just wants to be liked, so everyone lets him know they like him (and some love him). my heart really ached for this one. we’ve all had moments of self doubt where we don’t feel like good people, so this fic feels like a warm hug on days like that. find the person you share stardust with <3 you’re all very lovable.

brain fish - bokuaka

(surprise! i read other ships sometimes!)

t. 12k. pre canon(??)/ high school.

this was the SILLIEST and CUTEST little fic ever. bokuto texts the wrong number about the fish he desperately wants. akaashi just keeps texting back. this fic was so reminiscent of all the awkwardness that comes with high school crushes. texting way too late, sounding a little different than real life, and that meeting after all the texts. so adorable.

#haikyuu #sakuatsu #miya atsumu #sakusa kiyoomi #[halo reads]!#[halo reviews!]#fanfic rec #haikyuu fanfiction

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touchlikethesun · 1 year ago

Text

okay so i will say, i do think the hinata harem is kinda cringe and it is definitely not something that should be brought back or encouraged bc people take it way too far and they make it weird

however...

it is endlessly amusing to me just how much chemistry he has with like. every setter. like yeah he gets along with just about everybody but the tension between him and setters is on a whole nother level, like obvs kags is the first one that comes to mind, but it's not just kags, kenma oikawa even atsumu (*gags*) are just like . obsessed with him- and he freaking matches their energy!! like kenma and hinata don't even get me started but oikawa and hinata meeting up in brazil post time skip and immediately becoming bfs/partners?? no one but hinata could charm oikawa like that... (i'm not talking about astumu and hinata because i hate atsumu but even with my deep hatred for him i can recognise how well they work together)

that being said, i think it would be absolutely hilarious if post-canon it becomes like an inside joke on MSBY that hinata will - somehow - manage to charm/befriend or otherwise click with the setter on every team they play against. like sakusa and bokuto will be watching as hinata lands a particularly impressive spike and the other team's setter will blush or get that look in their eye and bokuto will either cheer or groan depending on if he won the bet on how long it would take this time xx

#akaashi is safe bc he doesn't play any more #i think i would have been a very bad person to be around if i had been in the hq fandom during the 2020 resurgence #don't ask me about that bitch atsumu i have nothing more to say on the matter #hinata shouyou #msby black jackal #kagehina #kenhina #oihina #hinata x all setters lmao #haikyuu

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kings-highway · 25 days ago

Note

Happy Sakusa day!! Any headcanons you have for him?

It's not Sakusa day anymore but I really tried guys. I really did. I don't have anything in my brain for him. So everything below is sort of surface level... I havent ever really like thought about him before so this is like a first draft of headcanons.

Fun fact: Sakusa *should* have been my favourite character. Naturally gifted freaks with intense social issues are like my bread and butter. I've written multiple characters that hate being touched or are terrified of getting sick and they're almost always my favourites in media. Why Sakusa never became my favourite is a mystery to me. The moment I saw him I was like "ah yeah cant wait to meet that bitch properly that'll be my favourite" and then it simply did not happen.

Anyway, headcanons!

Nothing in my brain.

I think Sakusa is capable of accidentally manipulating people into doing things for him. Like he's actually not trying to make people do what he wants, but there's something severe about his demeanour and he doesn't leap to speak up, so if he sits in silence long enough whoever he's speaking to will eventually backtrack and end up agreeing with him or doing what he wants. He doesnt understand why everyone he talks to is so weak willed about their opinions. Or why people keep getting things off high shelves for him, he's perfectly tall enough to do it himself.

I think he pretends to hate when people pester him to show off his hypermobility but secretly loves being the centre of attention. Like when people act all shocked or grossed out, he acts annoyed but he actually wants them to keep talking about how much of a freak he is.

I think he is severely mysophobic and struggles day to day with the fear of getting sick, but this isnt the root issue and his actual diagnosis is OCD, which he is medicated for, and with it is an obsessive need to control himself and his health.

And connected to that I think he genuinely does not enjoy having sex, but is not and does not consider himself asexual. It's just a mental hassle and filled with gross fluids, so his sexual escapades are often extremely well thought out and involve a lot of verbal communication, and requires a partner that is fully on board with him being in control of their environment and the speed at which they go. It's a little bit too clinical for a lot of people so he tends to not bother.

Never in his life would this man have a casual relationship. I feel like this is the kind of man who needs a partner who is 100% in on their relationship all the time, I don't think he can tolerate ifs or maybes or people who are unsure of themselves, and cuts them out of his life for being superfluous.

I dont think he likes being hugged or any kind of cuddling. He probably resists romantic relationships because people always want to share a bed with him and he just. Wants control. He doesnt want to have to worry about if someone else is comfortable. Or if they might start touching him in the night by accident. Or if they can hear him breathing.

He has a lot of anxiety that is quickly resolved by simply being alone, but I dont think he has panic attacks or anxiety attacks, I think his anxiety response is anger. Where if something breaks his sense of control over his body or health he gets really mad about it, which has resulted in him (physically) lashing out or shouting at people for innocent mistakes and I think he REALLY doesn't like that uncontrollable side of him, so he tries to overcompensate by not putting himself in a position to feel like that, making him appear more agoraphobic than he actually is.

#alright how did I do? i feel like im babysitting someones prized cat.#i actually love agoraphobia whump and I would write him so much more often if I wasnt dealthy afraid of his stans #sakusa kiyoomi #haikyuu headcanons

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fluorescentadolescent1 · 2 years ago

Note

can you write a red one-shot with sakusa from haikyuu? Love you<33

I love you so much more for asking sakusa, I hope you enjoy it!

❝ 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦❞

: The miya's younger sister comes to the msby party with one purpose, Sakusa Kiyoomi.

warning!: kinda mean!kiyoomi, unprotected sex, spanking a little bit, possessive omi <3 , choking.

you can see my masterlist too.

Your relationship with your brother's teammates was always friendly, but there was one person you wished wouldn't treat you like a friend. Sakusa Kiyoomi was your biggest crush, until the innocent looks grew to be a sexual tension that had you touching yourself at night and fantasizing that they were his. You wanted him to see you for the woman you are, not just the little sister of his obnoxious and loud friend.

So you decided that if Sakusa didn't take the initiative, you would.

It all started at a msby party, where Atsumu decided to bring his little sister as plus one, and you were not going to say no since you were dressed with a purpose.

So you decided to pamper yourself and buy a new outfit for the occasion, put on makeup and fix your hair in a sensual way.Upon entering, you were holding onto Atsumu's arm, while greeting people you already knew and those you didn't, but your gaze was looking for someone in specific.

At one point Atsumu went to the bar dragged by bokuto leaving you alone in the middle of the lounge.

" I didn't think I'd see you here today, I thought you'd be stuck next to your brother as usual"

You could feel the sarcasm in Sakusa's voice behind you, even without seeing it you felt your skin crawl. You usually spent your spare time helping Osamu with his restaurant.

You turned around and you could feel the heat emanating from Sakusa's body, he was dressed in black dress pants, a dark blue shirt rolled up on his arms and loose buttons almost reaching his neck. He looked incredibly hot.

" Sometimes a girl needs to be distracted a bit, besides Atsumu said that Kageyama could attend today" You couldn't help but tease him, something you knew very well about Sakusa was his short temper and the dislike for the younger setter.

Sakusa rolled his eyes and moved closer to you, his expensive scent filling your nostrils making you tingle, "Do you really think someone like Kageyama could distract you? I thought you were the smartest Miya, what a disgrace"

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes, "How many times do I have to tell you not to compare me to my idiot brothers?" Also, I didn't know that you already had such an opinion of me, be careful omi-kun~, you seem obsessed with me" you smiled mischievously, what you didn't expect is for Sakusa to get close to your ear and whisper, "And what will you do if I am?" and unleashed everything.

One thing led to another and now you were in the parking lot of the party, locked in his luxury car. You were mounted on top of him and you felt his hands greedily go all over your body while his lips left wet kisses all over your neck.

" Omi, not here, please, someone can come out and see us like this" you murmured clinging to the last thread of consciousness you had left, the tickling between your legs clouded your mind.

"Do you really think I care? You don't know how long I waited to do this" Kiyoomi said turning his face away from your neck and holding your face in his hands, his pupils were dilated and you could swear you could die looking at him.

" I didn't know you were so in love with me omi-omi" you said smiling, you tried to get closer to kiss him on the lips but he stopped you seriously on his pretty face.

"You know that i do, why did you think I was going to Osamu's restaurant after team practices and you were there, why i stayed with you a while longer when you waited for Atsumu to come out of the gym showers?" this time it was sakusa approached your face, "Why do you think that the day I found out that Kageyama was going to ask for your number I threw a service ace in his face?"

You laughed remembering that match, everyone was amazed that the Sakusa Kiyoomi lost track of the ball so much. You always thought that spending so much time with Atsumu began to affect him.

" I knew you were attracted to me, but I never thought you'd give me a chance to get closer. I thought you tease me just for being your teammate's sister"

Your laugh spreads a smile on Kiyoomi's face, who once again brought your face closer to his, your breath mixing, "You're a fool if you think that to me you were just that, I always saw you beyond your brother"

This time Kiyoomi let you kiss him, compared to the touches on your body, the kiss was sweet and delicate, in silence he wanted to show you how much he longed for this moment.

The kiss began to intensify, your hands caressing Kiyoomi's curly hair, and he caressed the skin on your hips.

"So show me omi, show me that you want me"

Your words were like a lighter that lit the fire in him, his hands became greedy again,his hands began to move up your dress little by little, you instead unbuttoned his shirt and allowed yourself to touch his chest.

" Don't be a brat, don't forget who you're talking to" Kiyoomi patted the side of your thigh, you whimpered and moved a little against his throbbing erection.

" Don't be mean omi~" you started to leave kisses on his face while your hands tried to unbutton his pants but again, Kiyoomi stopped you making you moan in frustration, "Please Omi, I just want to make you feel good"

Kiyoomi smiled and you know it's the same smile he has when he manages to get Atsumu mad , "I want you to cum like this first, rub against me and get what you want, then I'll fuck you enough that my name is the only thing on your mind."

God you could feel that you already left a stain on his pants. Kiyoomi saw your doubt and grabbed your waist with his big hands and began to rub you against his dick making you whimper.

"Please, please" you really didn't know what you were asking for, but the force with which you moved against him was enough to drive you crazy, the mere idea of doing something so dirty in such a clean person made your mind blow.

Kiyoomi spanked your ass making you jump, one hand closing around your neck, applying enough pressure to make your head spin, and the other rocking your hips, "So greedy, so spoiled, you can't do one thing right"

Your body was getting hotter, your clit was pulsing with the need for attention, and Kiyoomi was going to give it to you. Under the hand that was on your hips, he moved your underwear to the side and began to massage it at the same time that you moved causing your moans to be louder and louder. "That's it, good girl, make a mess for me"

His words were like an order to your brain, you tried to suppress yourself but you exploded in incomparable euphoria and pleasure, your cum soaked all over Kiyoomi's pants, "What a pity that all this is going to be wasted without first being able to try it" He said caressing your entrance with his two fingers, collected your slick and brought his fingers to your mouth.

Your cheeks were red, the sweat from your body stuck your baby hair to your forehead and your eyes reflected the hunger you felt, "Please omi, I was good" you begged again but Kiyoomi silenced your prayers forcing his fingers into your mouth, you quickly sucked them as if they were his dick and this time ,Kiyoomi had to control himself not to cum.

"Such a silly baby, you're right, you've been good" Kiyoomi kissed the valley of your breasts while helping you to get his dick out of its confinement, seeing him in all his vigor you felt your mouth salivate, Kiyoomi saw your expression and chuckled leaving a kiss on your mouth, "There will be time for that another time, now I need to be inside you"

Another time, the promise that this will happen again made you smile with happiness.

Kiyoomi wasting no time, pushed aside your underwear and gently entered you, you were quite wet from your orgasm but he didn't want to hurt you.

The stretch felt delicious, it wasn't that wide but it was quite long, little by little you felt it enter completely, blocking your breath.

" Omi feels so so good, please omi, please make me yours" the words came out of your mouth before your brain could process them, he moaned and decided to silence them with a hot kiss, carefully he began a slow sway until he began to increase speed and strength, hitting more and more the small point inside you that brought you closer to orgasm.

Wrapping his arms around your hips and planting his feet on the floor of the car, Kiyoomi started a movement that made your vision blur, "Who's making you feel like this? Uh? We just started and you can't even talk anymore, you think that useless setter could make you feel as good as I do?"

The windows of the car fogged up and the atmosphere smelled of sex, anyone who peeked in could guess what was happening inside.

" You! fuck, holy fuck, you Kyoomi, only you " you moaned feeling your orgasm closer than before, he moaned as he felt your walls close more and more on his cock.

He began to massage your clitoris this time carelessly, increasing the volume of your moans, your mind increasingly less understood the situation and you could only understand the pleasure that your body felt.

"Come on brat, scream for me, cum with me" Kiyoomi's thrusts increased until your scream made them stop, cumming inside you, filling you with his thick and hot cum.

The only thing that could be heard was your heavy breathing, both hugged each other's body while Kiyoomi was still inside you, you closed your eyes and rested your head on his shoulder while he caressed your hair.

"Let me take you on a date, you can choose anywhere but your brother's restaurant" Kiyoomi said giving you a kiss on the forehead, you smiled and looked at him with amusement.

" Could you not talk about any of my brothers while you're inside me?" you joked and omi's cheeks turned red.

You laughed when you heard him complain that you were vulgar, this man was definitely going to be the death of you.

The vibration of your cell phone in your wallet that was in the passenger seat took them out of their bubble, you turned on and the first message that appeared was from Atsumu. Shit.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu smut #haikyuu fluff #sakusa x reader #sakusa kiyoomi #msby sakusa #hq sakusa #sakusa smut #miya atsumu #atsumu smut #miya osamu #osamu smut #bokuto koutarou #hinata shouyou

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kira-fluff · 2 years ago

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haikyuu!! neurodivergent headcanons 💕

tw: several listed mental illnesses, some of these are solely off of vibes but most of them I have reasons lol note! I do not believe autism is a mental illness or something that is "wrong" with an individual, hence why the title is "neurodivergent" rather than "mental illness". just had to put that out there! to all my neurodivergent babies I love you! a/n: hello! as a neurodivergent like myself (depression, anxiety, ptsd, bulimia, etc etc) i thought it would be really cool to do an analysis on one of my biggest hobbies (psychological illnesses) and relate them to haikyuu characters! some of them have a deeper explanation because I feel so strongly about it.

attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADD/ADHD) BOKUTO, hinata, NISHINOYA, atsumu, lev

generalized anxiety disorder (GAD) sugawara, OIKAWA, asahi, yamaguchi, yachi, aone, akaashi, tendo

social anxiety disorder (SAD) asahi, KENMA

post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) oikawa

depression (MDD) oikawa, KENMA, kuroo, suna, matsukawa, tendo

autism sakusa, USHIJIMA, kageyama, kyotani, kenma

eating disorder(s) (AND, BND, BED) OIKAWA, KENMA

obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) oikawa

borderline personality disorder (BPD) daishou

insomnia kuroo, kenma, osamu

hypersomnia suna

analysis under the cut

it's pretty obvious that bokuto struggles the most to self-regulate, even to others, but I personally believe that oikawa struggles the most with his mental health.

like almost everyone in haikyuu, oikawa is obsessed with volleyball, but he takes it to a point of overexertion and taking his anger and frustration at his own inadequacies out on others.

I really think oikawa's relationship between he and kageyama and he and ushijima are the ones that show how bad his anxiety is

ushijima and kageyama both don't understand the emotions oikawa is feeling which could be written off as them not understanding their talents, but I think it's something more

to me, I feel it is blatantly obvious that ushijima is autistic. he just so frequently seems to be unable to read the emotions of others or takes things literally when it's something else intended. I'm not autistic, though, so autistic community, let me know your thoughts!

bokuto and hinata both have an insane amount of energy, but struggle to be successful in school. sports works for both of them because their focus is constantly needed to be diverted or "all over the place" that it helps them be great players

kuroo is one of those other characters that I feel like I'm reaching to say he has mental health struggles but to me it just comes off in vibes. first of all, any kid with divorced parents should be in therapy so I feel there's definitely some struggles there.

I think kuroo is the type that hides his struggles and pretends they aren't happening. he puts a lot of pressure on himself to be the best at everything he does, and so he feels he doesn't have time to deal with the emotions that leave him feeling empty

kenma was someone I immediately felt was autistic. he has so many key factors like an obsession/hyperfocus on his hobbies and trouble socializing (social anxiety).

kenma has some of the strongest evidence toward my beliefs, specifically in this quote: "I'm not good with people, and I don't want to interact with them. and yet, I'm very concerned about what others think of me." like, tell me that doesn't radiate autistic/SAD vibes!!!!

idk what it is, like inadequacies or what but I genuinely believe oikawa has some kind of trauma. like he's definitely carrying something that so heavily effected him that it controls the choices he makes in life

I don't have much evidence that suna has depression, it's just a vibe because of his mannerisms and what he says. I think it's the kind where it's well-managed, but it shows up in physical symptoms like apathy more than anything.

atsumu gives ADHD vibes solely because of like how all over the place he is and how he can't always seem to properly get out what he's trying to say lol

sakusa is one that to me could be seen as "done with your bullshit" but I think he also hates crowds (like me, I mean who doesn't) and struggles socially probably because of anxiety or autism. not sure!

basing daishou off of vibes, too, because if I'm being honest all I've seen in the show is him having hostile relationships or being on-off with them, though its certain I could be reading too much into it, but that's the fun of headcanons.

do you agree with what I wrote? I would love to hear your thoughts!

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ambrosialdesire · 2 years ago

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Who are your fav writers on here? Any fic recs?

okay buckle up because i have a lot of fic recs LMAO there's some that i'm not technically in the fandom as of now but i still thoroughly enjoyed the read.

most of my fav writers on tumblr are the ones i follow but i'll still list them cause im pretty sure my following is hidden lol (please go and support them as well!! they're all amazing i stg)

none of these are ordered on favoritism, i'm just listing them as i find them. plus i included brief descriptions in each fic i recommend lol, lmk if none of the links are working or if they are accidentally labeled wrong. THIS SHIT TOOK FOREVER TO FORMAT LMAO

i'll probably constantly update this whenever i read something good or when i find another great writer as well that i want to mention <3

18+ DARK CONTENT BELOW, MINORS AND BLANK BLOGS DNI

LAST UPDATED: 12-08-2024

favorite writers

yandere-daydreams - love their fic imagines, multifandom and has original fics jackrrabbit - amazing multifandom writer, ik she hasn't updated in a hot min but her fics are so good seijorhi - multifandom, mainly haikyuu, jjk & tokyo revengers (though i'm personally not a fan of tokrev, i still want to acknowledge that she also writes for this fandom!) throwaway-yandere - their alhaitham fics are 🤌🤌, one of my favorite genshin writers and their art is so good! bunnykawa - she doesn't have much fics posted but she's another great haikyuu writer!! rocorambles - multifandom writer but i mostly indulge in their haikyuu fics remember-to-be-gentle - multifandom & original fic writer rotworld - original fic writer, love the amount of details and lore that they put into their writing

recommended fics

fanatic by jackrrabbit - oikawa x reader; oikawa using a devoted fan to relieve his stress (yandere/dark content)

clean by jackrrabbit - sakusa x reader; little shower session thinking about you (not dark content)

unprofessional by jackrrabbit - tendou x reader; training the new hire is more difficult than you thought, hm he's kinda familiar (yandere/dark content)

bloodlust by jackrrabbit - sanemi x reader; demon reader getting some action from the wind hashira (yandere/dark content)

canine by jackrrabbit - sesshomaru x reader; sesshomaru using the only alive geisha to forget about his issues (yandere/dark content)

a helping hand (or two) by hoe-imaginess - dabi x reader; dabi gets hit with an aphrodisiac quirk and has you take care of it (not dark content)

intertwined by yanlovex3 - hawks x reader; bully hawks being obsessed with you (yandere/dark content)

interchangeable by yanlovex3 - hawks x reader; a softer what if version to intertwined, had me falling to my knees fr (not dark content)

invidia by seijorhi - kuroo x reader; dilf kuroo being a little too interested in his son's gf (yandere/dark content)

outrunning fate by seijorhi - tendou x reader x ushijima; having two soulmates is controversial but they don't care (yandere/dark content)

rabid by seijorhi - kyoutani x reader; assumingly mafia au, kyoutani wants all of you (yandere/dark content)

hungry by bunnykawa - osamu x reader; you're the one obsessed with osamu but he's not taking it kindly or is he? (yandere/dark content)

i'm better than you! by bunnykawa - oikawa x reader; ex oikawa proving a point that he's better than your current bf (yandere/dark content)

delusional fool by solarisensun - bokuto x reader; bokuto has a big ol crush that you don't reciprocate but that's okay, he'll change your mind (yandere/dark content)

good boy by solarisensun - kageyama x reader; though you're his owner, kageyama more or less owns you (yandere/dark content)

house of cards by ddarker-dreams - albedo x reader; being a researcher yourself means you seek out others for their guidance, shame that this exchange only results in you being bred (yandere/dark content)

sweet dreams by ddarker-dreams - xiao x reader; a little sleepy indulgence doesn't hurt, right? (yandere/dark content)

crystalline heart by ddarker-dreams - scaramouche x reader; respect should be given to the harbingers but why should you respect him? (yandere/dark content)

consequence series by archonanqi - zhongli x reader; you wanted to leave teyvat as you had finally found your brother but a little contract said otherwise, ONE OF MY TOP FAVS ITS SO DAMN GOOD (yandere/dark content)

hatefully yours by merakiui - saramouche x reader; a little hate-f*cking session (yandere/dark content)

what is love? by rocorambles - gojo x reader; you're the apple of his eye, doesn't matter if you're taken (yandere/dark content)

selkie by rotworld - oc x reader; this particular selkie wants you to take his pelt so he can belong to you forever (yandere/dark content)

see you again soon by remember-to-be-gentle - toji x reader; finding a werewolf fighting ring is the juiciest story you got but meeting with the ring's top fighter for insight is better (yandere/dark content)

twice bitten by remember-to-be-gentle - miguel o'hara x reader; being bitten by a radioactive spider wasn't in your plans, neither was getting chased by the scariest spiderperson you've met (yandere/dark content)

why? by toxicbiimbo - kaeya x reader; murders are happening around the city and you put it on yourself as a knight to investigate the crimes, not knowing that the very killer was closer than you expected (yandere/dark content)

loving you keeps me alive by j0succ - dainsleif x reader; the home you bought has a permanent guest but he doesn't mind you at all (yandere/dark content)

customer satisfaction by wttcsms - oikawa x reader; giving beverages to golfers pays strangely well (yandere/dark content)

his new wife series by prelovednikaidou - toji x reader; being toji's new wife and megumi's step-mom is a tiring cycle, I LITERALLY WAS BAWLING OVER THIS LIKE FULL ON SOBBING IVE NEVER BEEN SO DEVASTATED OVER A SHORT SERIES (not dark content)

don't say it's unholy by dollwritearchives - reiner x reader; he'd do anything for you despite how much you hate his eldian blood (yandere/dark content)

the tiniest notion by titan-fodder - reiner x reader; reiner's new step-mom turned into his biggest comfort (not yandere/dark content)

marine blue by iwaasfairy - iwaizumi x reader; a strange creature comes up to you from the ocean (yandere/dark content)

subject raptor by tainted-wine - hawks x reader; becoming close to one of the first hero-turned-nomus was something you never thought was possible in your line of work (yandere/dark content)

bon appetite by theblanketofugly - sukuna x reader; sukuna figures out what he feels towards you, even if he's your biggest bully (yandere/dark content)

not your baby by itoshifc - oliver x reader; omega x omega, oliver intentionally fucking with the reader to make her his, i've never seen or anything abt blue lock but i ATE this up (yandere/dark content)

just friends series by kneelingshadowsalome - könig wants you and you don't know if you could reciprocate his feelings back like that... or can you? (yandere/dark content)

all that glitters by blindmagdalena - homelander x reader; being the sacrificial lamb for the draconic god is not easy, but how else were you going to bring an end to the bloodshed? (yandere/dark content)

my babysitter turned into a dog?! by gojo-mochi - kenjaku x reader; you were supposed to watch little yuuji, but ended up meeting his father instead (yandere/dark content)

#wanna play psycho killer? by screampied - toji x reader; ghostface notices that you like the get-up a little too much (not yandere/dark content)

#the party and the afterparty by screampied - geto x reader; your stripper for the night is kinda hot (not yandere/dark content)

#rent-a-dilf! by screampied - toji x reader; playing a silly little game until the character actually comes to life (not yandere/dark content)

the tiger and his milk! by sukunasweetheart - sukuna x reader; your tiger hybrid neighbor wants a little taste of your milk (not yandere/dark content)

#love-message #tw: yandere #fic recs #fic recommendations #fav writers #🎀 anon

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punkspicecakes · 7 days ago

Text

blue dream

a sakuatsu weedfic

7.6k

cw/tags: post timeskip, TW: drugs (marijuana), a friends to lovers lightning round, nsfw, trans atsumu (you're welcome boy pussy enjoyers), pussy eating, face sitting, pussy drunk omi, p in v sex, a little dash of "who did this to you", very very brief mention of transphobia

a/n: "more weedfics!!" the crowd (me) cries in unison, and I heroically abide. hope u enjoy, let me know what you think :3

crossposted to aO3 under the same username

Atsumu’s jaw drops, “Are ya serious Omi?!”

He’s seated between Sakusa and Ushijima at the counter of Onigiri Miya, rice ball in hand. MSBY and the Adlers have a game in two days and Osamu had offered up his space for the teams to spend an evening together before they play. Kiyoomi can’t even remember how they got on the topic but at the look of disbelief on Atsumu’s face he suppresses the urge to giggle. It’s criminal how soft Atsumu makes him without even realizing it.

“Miya, I have anxiety and I deal with chronic pain,” he pauses and raises his brow, “is it really that surprising that I’ve been high?” He scoffs, “What’s actually surprising is that you’ve never been high.” Ushijima speaks up from beside him, “Are you opposed to trying it, Atsumu?” his tone is even, “I’m sure you’d enjoy it, I like to partake in the off season.”

Atsumu sputters something unintelligible and looks down at the counter. He knows his reasoning for never trying it is stupid but he tells them anyway, “I had a health teacher in my second year that told us some crazy stories about smoking weed and, t’be quite honest, they scared the shit outta me when I was younger so’ve just avoided it since then,” he trails off and then adds after a pause, “Not that I still believe what that wrinkly old asshole said anymore. I know that stuff is bullshit now, but I’ve just never really thought about it since then.” He waves a hand and doesn’t meet Kiyoomi’s eyes, hoping his ears aren’t as red as they feel.

Osamu pipes up, adding to his embarrassment from where he stands on the other side of the counter, “Tsumu’s surprisingly pretty straight edge.” Atsumu squawks in protest and feels his blush deepen. “Never smoked, doesn’t drink anymore. Pretty lame fer someone who’s convinced all his fans he’s the life a th’ party.”

Kiyoomi huffs a laugh and Ushijima hums in thought beside him as Atsumu tries to capture his twin in a headlock from across the counter. They patiently wait out their scuffle before Omi speaks again, “You know, after the Adlers game this weekend, we have a decent stretch of days off if you were interested in trying it. No pressure,” he pauses, “I do think it’d help you relax a bit though.” The teasing spark in Kiyoomi’s eyes does something funny to Atsumu's chest. Osamu barks a laugh at the wing spiker’s playful taunt and Ushijima chuckles lowly beside him. Atsumu lets out a pitiful whine and tries to cover his rosy face with his hands.

Once everyone’s finished laughing at his expense, Atsumu leans back in his chair, trying to save face by feigning nonchalance. Kiyoomi watches that classic, smug smile bloom on his face as he clears his throat, “I’m always relaxed Omi-Omi.” Osamu and Kiyoomi both roll their eyes.

Unless you’re close to Atsumu, his casual attitude and easy smiles are very convincing, but Kiyoomi knows him better than that. He knows how much attention Atsumu pays to the people around him, on and off the court. He knows that Atsumu understands other people to an unnatural degree, it’s what makes him such an outstanding setter. He knows he’s hard on other people, but only because he knows how to draw out the absolute best in them. But he also knows that every once in a while, all of that pressure, that knowledge of what he’s responsible for, becomes too much for one person to bear.

When they’d first started playing together on MSBY, Kiyoomi was surprised at how intense Atsumu was on the court. He’d watched him obsess over plays, always nitpicking himself for every mistake, whether it cost them a point or not. He never put much thought into how much all of that responsibility would weigh on him. After almost a year of playing together, Kiyoomi finally watched Atsumu break after a tough midseason loss.

Panic attacks are something Kiyoomi is, unfortunately, intimately familiar with; so when he’d walked into the locker room, thinking the rest of the team had already left, to find Atsumu hunched over on the floor he was caught off guard. Chest heaving and usually strong hands shaking, Atsumu hadn’t even looked up as Kiyoomi entered the locker room. Without thinking, Kiyoomi had immediately knelt beside the setter, speaking his name softly. “Omi…what the fuck.” another shuddering breath and then, “Am I fuckin’ dyin’? I can’t breathe a–and I feel like I’m dyin’.”

Hands he’d watched rocket volleyballs onto the wood of the court moved with such gentleness that Atsumu was momentarily shocked. With a steady hand on his arm to help ground him, Kiyoomi spoke softly, “You’re not dying, you’re okay, Atsumu. I think you’re having a panic attack.” Atsumu had never seen Kiyoomi be so…soft. His usually stern expression turned to one Atsumu found himself comforted by as he walked him through some breathing exercises. After a few minutes, when Atsumu felt like he could take a breath without his heart seemingly beating out of his chest, they left the locker room together.

The two of them had quickly grown closer after that.

Atsumu knows Omi’s his friend, though he’s never heard him explicitly say it, so his knee jerk reaction is to go along with the suggestion that they smoke together. Samu wasn’t wrong when he’d called him straight edge. He used to drink a lot, but after an unfortunate black out where he’d woken up in a place he’d never seen before and had to call Osamu to come get him, he’d stopped all together. Like he said, he’s never sought out much else, so the idea of trying something like this makes his heart flutter in his chest a little.

He’s going to say yes even though he’s kind of nervous about it. The truth is, he trusts Omi, and honestly if he’d asked him to snort coke in the bathroom with him right now he’d probably do it. That’s just friendship right? He’d do the same if it were Bokkun or Shoyo asking.

__________________________________________________________________________

Blonde Miya:

omi-kun can i ask a stupid question

>>> most, if not all of your questions are stupid questions

Blonde Miya:

mean (ᵕ—ᴗ—)

but seriously

what do i wear…

>>> ???

>>> your normal clothes?

Blonde Miya:

ommiiiiiiiii (╥﹏╥)

>>> we’re not going anywhere, so just wear something comfortable

Blonde Miya:

the gray sweats that make my ass look good?

got it (￣^￣ )ゞ

see ya at 4:00

>>> you’re an idiot

>>> i’ll leave the door unlocked for you

Kiyoomi sets his phone down on the granite countertop and goes to dig his stash bag out of the drawer in the bottom of the pantry, he’s still got a couple hours until Atsumu gets here. As a rule, he never actually smokes in the house, opting to sit on the balcony instead. Most of the time he prefers edibles anyway, he’s a professional athlete and values the health of his lungs. Every once in a while though, he lets himself indulge and enjoy a joint on the balcony.

Since today seems like a special occasion of sorts, he sets out his shiny purple grinder and his favorite papers. After quickly overcoming his surprise at the fact that Atsumu had agreed to this, he’d asked if he preferred smoking or edibles--to which he’d tilted his head and assured Kiyoomi that he was fine with whatever he chose, since he was the “weed expert”. He’s only mildly disgusted with himself for finding the blonde’s idiocy endearing.

On the short walk from his apartment to Omi’s, Atsumu tries to tamp down his unusually nervous energy, but when he thinks about it, it’s not the idea of drugs that’s got him so worked up. For the life of him, he can’t quite figure out why he feels the way he does. Every other time he and Omi have hung out it’s been at Atsumu’s apartment, or at a coffee shop, or restaurant. Maybe he’s just nervous about seeing Omi’s place for the first time. He’d never really thought too hard about where they’ve hung out before, he’d just enjoyed getting to spend the time together.

A few minutes later he stands in front of Omi’s apartment door. He turns the knob and it opens easily, left unlocked just for him. He toes off his shoes and calls out to let Omi know he’s here. A head of black curls pops around the corner of what seems to be the kitchen. “Make yourself at home,” he gestures vaguely with the chef’s knife in his hand. “You can leave your things by the door.” With a mumbled thanks he shrugs off his MSBY zip up and places his overnight bag on the floor before wandering further into the apartment. Kiyoomi had suggested he stay over so he didn’t have to walk home alone, and probably still high, in the dark. Atsumu wasn’t about to pass up the chance to see Omi first thing in the morning, soft eyes and sleep mussed curls. They room together for away games, so he knows there’s something special about being the first person to see him in the morning, before he’s woken up enough to hide behind his usual mask of grumpiness.

The genkan opens directly into the living room, with what appears to be a sliding door to the balcony on the far right wall and an open kitchen separated by an island to the left. Kiyoomi is standing at said island, chopping a rainbow of vegetables and placing them into a large container. “Whatcha makin’, Omi?” He points to a collider full of cooling spiral pasta--the fun, multicolored kind, “Pasta salad, surprisingly great high snack. Also I wasn’t sure if you’d eat before you came, so I figured something a bit more filling would be appreciated.”

Something in the way he speaks tells Atsumu that he’s put a lot of thought into his whole preparation for this. His chest feels a bit warm, and he thinks he feels his cheeks go a little rosy. He’s not used to being--for lack of a better word--doted on like this. A genuine smile lights his face, “That’s real nice of ya.” At this, Kiyoomi looks up at him, an unfamiliar expression on his face--eyes soft, almost expectant, like he’s waiting for something.

Atsumu clears his throat and turns towards the living room where a large, deep green couch is covered in soft looking blankets and plush throw pillows. Surprisingly, he notices all of the wooden furniture looks well kept but definitely old. A mid century coffee table and a low set console table beneath the wall mounted flatscreen. The whole room gives off a homey warmth. “Are these antiques?” He turns towards the kitchen where Sakusa has finished his chopping and is now filling an electric kettle with water. “Hm? Oh, yeah. I hate new furniture--think it looks cheap, so I got most of my things secondhand.”

Atsumu hums, “Your apartment’s nice, Omi--layout is better than mine.” Kiyoomi glances at him as he snaps the lid on the pasta salad container and moves to put it into the fridge, giving it a shake to mix everything together as he replies, “Yours is closer to the gym though.” Atusmu wanders back into the kitchen, watching as Kiyoomi wipes the counter down and pulls the spread of paraphernalia Atsumu hadn’t noticed before to the center. “I just set everything out so it’s ready whenever. I still need to watch the game footage from last week, have you seen it yet?”

“Nah, not yet. I’ll pull it up.” Atsumu walks over and flops down on the couch like he lives here, picking up the remote from the coffee table. He clicks around on the tv until he finds the recording of their last game against the Adlers. A mug of tea is placed on the coffee table in front of him and he hums his thanks. Kiyoomi takes a seat on the end of the couch, leaning against the arm and tucking his feet underneath himself. They settle in to watch the match, commenting occasionally, stopping to poke at each other’s form lightheartedly, and rewinding to review big plays.

At the final whistle, Atsumu stretches his arms over the back of the couch with a groan. The sun is getting low, bathing the room in swaths of soft light that illuminate the room through the balcony door. “Mmkay work’s over Omi, can we do drugs now?” Atsumu grins as he turns towards Sakusa and then falters as he takes in the sight of the man next to him, eyes widening.

The light coming in the window is falling just so, casting a warm glow onto the planes of Kiyoomi’s face with its hazy golden rays. His skin has a soft radiance in the warm light and he’s shifted close enough that Atsumu can pick out the faintest smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose. Lit from behind, his usually jet black hair takes on a warm amber glow around the edges, curls falling perfectly over his forehead to brush across twin moles. Atsumu clears his throat and rearranges his expression in a way he hopes looks casual as he feels his cheeks flame.

Kiyoomi gives him an amused look as he stands from the couch and wanders over to the kitchen counter, “Do you want to watch?” Atsumu squints at him, “Watch what, Omi?”

Sakusa narrows his eyes back; cute. “Do you want to watch me roll this?” he clarifies. The look on his face is doing something to Atsumu, and he chokes out a reply, “Yeah, sure. I’ll watch ya.” Kiyoomi points to the stool next to him and begins the process. Deft hands smooth out the thin paper and he begins to arrange the weed in a neat line with what looks to be an old school ID.

“Omi, are ya seriously using yer old high school ID to do this?” Atsumu laughs and points to the faded plastic card. Hands pausing, Kiyoomi looks up, mirth dancing in his dark eyes, “What else am I supposed to do with it?” Atsumu grins and shrugs in response. With eyes trained on Kiyoomi’s hands once again, he watches as he begins to roll the paper into a small cylinder, keeping the contents packed tight. When he reaches the end, he brings the edge of the paper to his mouth and his tongue darts out to dampen it.

Atsumu’s eyes track the movement and he feels a blush crawl up his neck, unable to look away from how Kiyoomi’s lips part to wet the paper. He coughs, collecting himself and points towards the now finished joint, voice rough, “Do ya smoke often, Omi-kun? Yer good at that.” Kiyoomi glances at Atsumu and he swears he sees a little blush on his cheeks too as he shakes his head, “Not very often actually, it’s not great on the lungs. I usually take edibles.”

Nodding, Atsumu stands from his spot at the kitchen island and wanders across the living room to the balcony door, temporarily escaping the suddenly heated environment of the kitchen. He can see a comfortable looking wicker couch with deep orange cushions and a mosaic coffee table sitting outside. There’s also one of those little propane heater lamps tucked in the corner, he assumes Omi uses the balcony throughout most of the year, fancy.

Kiyoomi watches as Atsumu pokes around the living room and glances out onto the balcony as he tracks down an ashtray and fills a couple of glasses with water to take outside, “Usually I sit out on the balcony, there’s a heater out there, it still gets a little chilly when the sun goes down.” Atsumu moves to grab his jacket off of the hook by the door and shrugs it on, “Sounds good, Omi-Omi.”

They make their way outside, Kiyoomi motions for him to sit first before settling in beside him, close enough that their thighs are brushing. The sun is only beginning to disappear behind the horizon, sending streaks of pink and orange into the surrounding clouds. The early spring air is crisp, but not cold. Atsumu’s cheeks are ruddy, and Kiyoomi has a sneaking suspicion that it’s not from the mild breeze.

Kiyoomi has long since come to terms with his feelings for Atsumu, but he’s stubborn enough that he wants Atsumu to figure it out himself. He didn’t invite him here with that specific goal in mind, but if tonight just so happens to be the night Atsumu finally picks up on his feelings he’ll have no qualms. He’s been all but throwing himself at Atsumu for the past four months so eventually something has to give, he thinks.

He pushes the thoughts away, picking up the joint and bringing it to his lips, lighter in his hand. He glances at Atsumu, “Ready?” He watches Atsumu’s eyes flick up from his lips and holds back a smile. “Yeah, sure Omi, let’s do this.” Kiyoomi can’t help but tease a bit, he already looks so flustered. He places the hand holding the lighter casually on Atsumu’s thigh as he speaks, feeling the tight muscle shift underneath the fabric of his sweats, “It’s fine if you’re nervous, and you can still back out if you want to.” His tone is teasing, but his words are serious; he wouldn’t make Atsumu do something he’s uncomfortable with. His voice combined with the light touch affects Atsumu more than he thought it would.

Atsumu freezes, his heart rate skyrocketing. Omi doesn’t like people in his personal space. Sure, they usually sit together on the bus on the way to out of town games and maybe Kiyoomi’s fallen asleep pressed against him, head pillowed on his shoulder, soft curls brushing his cheek a handful of times. But this feels much more intentional, he’s fully conscious, and he’s not even high yet. This is definitely not normal for them, but he realizes he likes it. The warmth of Omi’s hand has somehow spread to his chest and his heart gives a squeeze. He realizes Omi’s staring at him, an unreadable expression on his face, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

He steels himself, desperately trying not to look at his lips again where the joint rests, unlit. Forcing himself to relax back into the cushions, he motions Sakusa on, “M’all good Omi, go ahead.” Hands fidgeting with the zipper on his hoodie, he watches as Omi moves his hand from his thigh and flicks the lighter on, joint held steady between plush lips. He takes a small inhale and Atsumu watches tiny embers burn at the end of the paper.

Once he’s sure it’s lit, he takes a substantial pull, carefully blowing smoke away from Atsumu as he offers him the joint. He speaks softly into the cool air between them, “Go slow. Just breathe in a little for your first hit.” He nods and takes the object, holding it between his thumb and pointer finger to bring it to his lips. The thought that they’re sharing an indirect kiss rockets into his head as he takes a small inhale. Before he has time to think too hard about it, the smoke hits the back of his throat and he coughs several times, eyes watery as he fights for a clear breath. Sakusa is already passing a glass of water into his hand, his palm coming back to rest on his thigh again in an attempt at comfort, “Not too bad, yeah?”

Atsumu takes a few small sips and fills his lungs with fresh air. He turns, brows furrowed and a betrayed look on his face, “Why the hell didn’t ya cough?” Omi’s eyes crinkle as he laughs and he’s so beautiful Atsumu’s sure he’s dreaming. His laugh tapers off when he speaks, “It gets easier, the first time is always rough.” Atsumu pouts a bit before he raises the end of the paper to his lips again. Taking a full breath this time, he feels the heat of the smoke in his throat but manages to stave off another coughing fit as he exhales.

Kiyoomi leans even closer and Atsumu lets him take the joint from between his fingers, touch lingering. The brush of skin sends little sparks up his arm, the sensation intensified by the high he’s already beginning to feel. His eyes flick up to meet Omi’s, onyx pools glowing in the light of the setting sun. Atsumu suppresses a shiver and watches him take a long pull, the paper crackling quietly as it burns. “Omi…” he murmurs into the still air. Eyes still locked, Kiyoomi tilts his head, encouraging him to continue. He’s met with a stuttered gasp and then silence as Atsumu’s brain screeches to a halt.

Oh.

The realization slams into him--what he feels for Omi is not just friendship. He’s been so oblivious, unintentionally convincing himself that the way he feels about Kiyoomi is the same way he feels about his other friends. He loves Bokkun and Shoyo, he really does, but they don’t make his heart flutter in his chest like this. He wants Kiyoomi. His brain helpfully supplies the fact that he’s never seen Kiyoomi act the way he does with him with anyone else on the team, or his other friends for that matter. He’s not sure how he missed something so obvious.

Without thinking, Atsumu snatches the joint back, inhaling deeply and then hastily burying his face in his hands with a puff of smoke. His shoulders shake and for a fleeting moment Kiyoomi thinks something has gone horribly wrong. Voice soft, he reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder, “Hey, Atsumu wha-” The shaking intensifies and Kiyoomi realizes that he’s laughing. He’s drawing in gulps of air, desperately trying to form words, “O-Omi, I..” another break of laughter, “m’so stupid--Omi oh my god.”

It’s divine comedy that Atusmu would be hit with such clarity just as his senses are overtaken by the soft, floaty feeling of being high. His laughter fizzles out and he wipes the drops of moisture that have collected in the corners of his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. He sets the joint safely in the ashtray and meets Kiyoomi’s puzzled stare, “Omi m’sorry for makin’ ya wait.” His smile is blinding. He’s got this little scrunch in his nose and there’s a dimple on his left cheek that Kiyoomi desperately wants to press his lips to.

Kiyoomi’s response is cautious, he hopes he knows where this is going, but just in case he asks, “What do you mean?”

Atsumu’s smile softens, eyes warm like pools of dark honey, “Sorry for bein’ too dumb to figure out that I’m in love with ya.” For someone who seemingly just came to this realization, he says it with such confidence--any trace of doubt erased in the wake of hazy smoke rings, “I love ya, Kiyoomi.”

Kiyoomi tries to hold it together, he really does, but now it’s his turn to be overtaken by laughter. Atsumu melts as he watches him, his head is thrown back, joy uninhibited. Kiyoomi doesn’t laugh often, not like this. He gets the occasional snort under his breath or a chuckle here and there, but this… He’s beautiful in the soft light of the setting sun, and Atsumu does his best to burn the image before him into his brain. Kiyoomi’s mirth is contagious and he finds his own eyes tearing up with laughter again, bending to rest his forehead on Omi’s shoulder. He smells like green tea and citrus.

They float there together, in their bubble of mutual joy. Atsumu’s nose is buried in the bunched up fabric of Omi’s hoodie, until their laughter subsides into steady breaths. He feels Kiyoomi’s nose press into his hair, “I love you too,” he hums, “sorry for being too stubborn to tell you sooner.” Atsumu lifts his head, bringing them nose to nose, “S’okay Omi,” their lips are millimeters away from touching and he can’t help glancing at them as he speaks, “I can be a little oblivious sometimes…” he trails off as Kiyoomi presses forward past the tiny barrier of air between them.

The first press of lips sends little zips of electricity across his skin. The kiss is slow and unhurried, every sensation all consuming within the pleasant fog of their high. Kiyoomi’s plush lips slide against his own, heating the air around them as Atsumu buries a hand in dark curls. He tastes like smoke and something so distinctly him it makes Atsumu’s head spin. A gentle tug at his curls parts them minutely, drawing a breathy sound from Kiyoomi that he wants to hear again and again. Atsumu takes the opportunity to drag his tongue along his bottom lip, pressing in to slowly map out the ridges of Kiyoomi’s teeth, to taste him even deeper. He sighs low into the kiss and Kiyoomi brings a hand to his waist, pulling him closer and seeking the warmth of his skin beneath the thick material of his hoodie. The slick slide of their mouths together seems to last forever.

Eventually they separate, pulling only a fraction of an inch apart, their lips are swollen and their cheeks are flushed; they’re both breathing hard. Kiyoomi leans forward to place a chaste peck to his lips, unable to resist Atsumu’s pout, and points to the still smoking joint on the table without looking away from him, “Want to finish that?” Atsumu nods, now effectively putty in his hands. Kiyoomi turns to pick it up out of the ashtray, taking an inhale. Smoke drifts lazily in the air as he speaks, “Tsumu c’mere…” Atsumu hums low at the sound of the nickname on Kiyoomi’s lips, leaning in as he reaches out for him.

Kiyoomi brings his free hand to Atsumu’s cheek, pulling him closer as he takes a hefty inhale, paper crackling. Blindly placing the joint in the ashtray, he tilts Atsumu’s chin up and brushes their noses together. With a slight pressure on his jaw, Atsumu obediently parts his lips as Kiyoomi slowly lets the thick, white smoke trail between them. He watches Atsumu breathe it in, taking the air right from his lungs. Gently, Kiyoomi blows the last of the smoke past Atsumu’s still parted lips. With quickly waning control, he lets him exhale shakily before leaning in to take his bottom lip between his teeth.

Atsumu lets out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a whine as the points of Kiyoomi’s canines press gently into the soft flesh of his lip. When he pulls away Atsumu chases him to press another kiss to his mouth, loathe to break their contact for even a moment. Atsumu looks so desperate it’s making Kiyoomi feel out of control--his pupils are blown, their darkness consuming the soft brown of his irises, and his brows dip as he pants into the air between them.

Though the sun is almost completely set, causing a chill in the air, Atsumu feels like he’s on fire. He wants Kiyoomi so bad he feels like he’ll die without it. With strong hands and a rasp of his name he pulls Kiyoomi into his lap, using his grip on his hips to pull him snugly against him. He can feel Omi’s hardness through his shorts, already straining in the soft black fabric. He flexes his hips up and the friction makes them both groan, heat beginning to pool in Atsumu’s belly.

Kiyoomi drops his head to bite at the skin below Atsumu’s ear with a breathy whisper, “Want to take this inside?” He pulls away to watch Atsumu’s face as he speaks, feeling a firm squeeze at his waist as capable hands begin to wander. The corner of Atsumu’s mouth pulls up in a smirk. “Fuck yes, Omi.” Kiyoomi gasps as he’s lifted into the air, hefted effortlessly into Atsumu’s muscled arms.

He nips at the skin below his ear, deft hands finding the zipper of Atsumu’s hoodie as he stumbles through the balcony door. The dull sting of teeth has him squeezing the backs of Kiyoomi’s thighs in his hands. He’s out of breath as he pauses behind the couch. Kiyoomi pushes his jacket off of his shoulders and onto the floor. “Bedroom?” Omi points to a door just past the kitchen before capturing him in a searing kiss. He whines at the slick slide of lips and the feeling of long fingers brushing through his undercut.

They reach the bedroom where Atsumu sets Kiyoomi against the sheets on the edge of the bed, pressing forward to lean him back only to be stopped by a hand on his chest. He pulls back, a question on his tongue. Kiyoomi bites his lip, brow furrowing slightly as if he’s considering something. Mistaking his pause for reluctance, Atsumu tells him easily, “We can stop. Watch a movie on the couch, whatever you want, Omi.”

The earnestness in his voice has a smile tugging at the corners of Kiyoomi’s lips and he’s quick to shake his head, a blush staining his cheeks he replies, “No no, I just…” his eyes dart down and he trails off as he pushes Atsumu back far enough so that he can slide off the bed and sink to his knees in front of him. He watches the breath catch in his chest, lingering there for a second before it’s released with a ragged groan. Fingers lace gently into his curls as Kiyoomi runs his hands across the fabric covered thighs he’s been longing to get between.

The anticipation is palpable as he hooks his fingers in the waistband of Atsumu’s sweats, tugging them down and helping the blonde step out of them before tossing them aside. He wastes no time leaning forward to mouth at the tan skin before him, pushing his legs apart gently to gain access to the soft expanse of his inner thighs. He bites and sucks at them until he hears Atsumu’s breathing speed above him. He hums in response, laving his tongue over the patches of spit slick mottled purple he left behind and mapping the little valleys of his stretch marks. “Ngh--stop teasin’, Omi” There’s a gentle tug on his curls and he laughs lowly. He could do this forever, but he’s just as desperate as Atsumu is for more.

Kiyoomi moves eagerly, mouthing at him through the cloth of his boxers and drawing out pretty little sounds from the man above him. He runs a finger lightly over him, feeling the wetness that’s beginning to soak through the fabric between his legs. He uses his thumb to press against his clit through the cotton, reveling in the way his hips flex into the feeling. Impatient now, he uses nimble fingers to wrap around the waistband and pull them to the ground to be quickly tossed aside.

Atsumu barely has time to pull his t-shirt over his head before his hands are flying back down to grasp at silky black curls. For all of the teasing he did leading up to it, Kiyoomi wastes no time getting his mouth on Atsumu’s cunt, tongue pressing between his folds as Atsumu shifts slightly to put a knee up on the mattress, opening himself up and creating space for Kiyoomi’s shoulders between his legs.

At the first brush of lips against his clit he curses; unable to control the way his hands flex roughly in Kiyoomi’s hair. He starts to apologize, but before he can even get the words out Kiyoomi moans against him at the feeling, eyes flicking up to meet his as he swirls his tongue again, nose pressed into soft hair as he gently shakes his head. Atsumu moans low in his chest, breathing hard as he feels a spike of heat in his belly, “Fuck, Kiyoomi.” At the use of his given name Kiyoomi groans, moving a hand from Atsumu’s thigh to tease at his entrance before pressing in. He presses in with two fingers, pumping them in time with the way he’s slowly circling his clit before curling them to pet at the spongy spot that makes Atsumu tighten around him. Atsumu whines at the sensation, “Fuck--jus’ like that Omi.”

He thinks he might be dying. Every cell in his body feels alight, heated. Omi’s tongue is downright sinful as he swirls it over his clit. He takes a deep breath as he feels his abs tighten, the coil in his belly tight with pleasure. Suddenly, the sensations are gone and it rips an absolutely pathetic sound from his chest, he feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes at his stunted orgasm. Kiyoomi is on his feet quickly, pulling him in harshly with a hand at the back of his neck, the kiss is all tongue and teeth and the taste of himself.

Kiyoomi desperately speaks against him, out of breath, “M’sorry, I need–” he pauses to take Atsumu’s tongue between his lips and sucks, “I need--ngh, Atsumu…sit on my face.” Atsumu feels his cunt clench around nothing at the wanton tone of his voice. He nods vigorously, accent thickening as he’s nearly overtaken with need, “Fuck yes--christ yer drivin’ me crazy.” Atsumu pulls Kiyoomi’s shirt over his head as they move so they’re both on the mattress, his hands spanning across milky skin.

One hand wrapped around the head board and the other grasping at dark curls, Atsumu kneels above Kiyoomi, hesitant, “Pinch me if ya need a break, yeah?” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and pulls down hard on Atsumu’s thighs, tongue already on him before he can resist. It doesn’t take Atsumu long to get close again, every touch of Kiyoomi’s mouth against him feels all consuming. He’s circling his clit before sucking at it lightly, and he’s moaning against him like he’s enjoying this just as much as Atsumu is.

He can’t stop the stream of words coming out of his mouth as Kiyoomi licks into him, fucking him with his tongue. Atsumu’s hand tightens in Kiyoomi’s hair, grinding down into the feeling. Shocks of liquid heat dance across his skin as he moves his hand from the head board to his own chest. He brushes his fingertips against his nipple, drawing it into a stiff peak before pinching it firmly between his thumb and forefinger. He can feel Kiyoomi’s eyes on him, and at the same moment he sucks on his clit before ever so gently rolling it between his teeth.

Atsumu pitches forward as he comes, feeling the heat under his skin burn hotter as it pulses through his body. He curses loudly when Kiyoomi moves from his clit to press his tongue inside of him as his walls flutter. He doesn’t stop until Atsumu is whining from overstimulation, looking down to meet Kiyoomi’s eyes. He looks like a dream below him, with rosy cheeks and blown pupils, his curls a mess from Atsumu’s grip on them. His breath still comes in pants as the aftershocks of his climax flit across his limbs; he settles back lightly on Kiyoomi’s chest, reaching to palm him through his shorts. He moans, and grips Atsumu’s thigh a little tighter. “M’not gonna ask how yer so good at that,”

Kiyoomi huffs a laugh at the smirk in his words as he helps him wriggle down his chest until his thick thighs are bracketing his hips, but Atsumu keeps going until he’s on his knees between Kiyoomi’s spread legs pulling his shorts and boxers off in one fell sweep. Without hesitation he takes Kiyoomi’s cock in his hand, calloused palm giving him a few slow pumps before he dips to suck the flushed tip between lush lips. He licks a stripe from base to tip, eyes trained on Kiyoomi.

His hips flex up and Atsumu can tell he’s holding himself back from fucking up into his throat by the crease in his brow. He pulls off just long enough to smirk at him before taking him fully into his mouth. One hand drops to stroke across the delicate skin of his balls and the other pumps at the very base of his cock in time with the bob of his head.

Atsumu wants Kiyoomi to lose control, just a little bit--taking him deeper down his throat with each pass until his nose is nestled in thick, curly hair. It doesn’t take long before Kiyoomi is driving his hips up, seeking to fuck Atsumu’s throat deeper with each thrust and a hand splayed in bleach blonde hair. Atsumu moans deep in his chest everytime the head of Kiyoomi’s cock nudges the back of his throat, thumb stroking gently across the moles dotting the pale skin of his hip. Kiyoomi responds with a breathy groan of his own, thrusting into his mouth a few more times before pulling Atsumu off of him so he can sit up and suck his bottom lip between his teeth.

His lips and chin are slick with spit but Kiyoomi doesn’t care, surprisingly turned on by the mess he’s made of Atsumu. “It w’s good, Omi?” the blonde asks, voice rough. Panting and moving to sit in Kiyoomi’s lap so he can grind against him, they moan in tandem at the slick slide of his length against Atsumu’s cunt. Kiyoomi reaches for his bedside table, pulling the drawer open to fish out a condom but Atsumu stops him with a shake of his head. “W’nna feel ya,” he reaches between them, one hand at the nape of Kiyoomi’s neck while he uses the other to line himself up before sinking down just enough so the tip of his cock pops past his entrance.

He’s barely inside of him and it’s so wet and hot that Kiyoomi has to squeeze his eyes shut and grab at Atsumu’s hips to keep from coming embarrassingly soon. Atsumu snickers at him, his smirk is teasing and his accent is thick, “What’s th’matter, baby?” Kiyoomi replies with a strained, “Fuck off,” but there are stars in his eyes as he looks up from mouthing across Atsumu’s collarbone. When Kiyoomi loosens his grip Atsumu cants his hips, sinking down until he’s fully seated inside him, both of them letting out little whines at the sensation.

The stretch burns a little, but he can’t help flexing his hips again to draw Kiyoomi even deeper. There’s a pit in his belly, like a pool filled with heated metal, so hot it’s a silvery liquid. When he lifts himself just a little before grinding back down Kiyoomi brings a hand between them to circle his clit with the pad of his thumb, the movement made slick with Atsumu’s wetness.

They’re forehead to forehead, both sets of eyes locked on the way Kiyoomi’s cock disappears into him with each flex of hips. Atsumu says his name quietly between breathy moans, lifting a hand to his cheek. “Ngh--fuck, righ’there Omi,” he’s struggling to form coherent thoughts, the simmering want in Kiyoomi’s eyes driving him ever higher. He feels heat whip through his core, pressing forward to kiss Omi as his cunt tightens and his hips lose their rhythm.

Kiyoomi takes over with hands at Atsumu’s waist, pulling him down hard and fast as he grits out, “Come on my cock--fuck Atsumu,” he whines when he feels Atsumu clench hard around him, “pussy feels a--ah, so fucking good.” With one more harsh thrust Atsumu feels that molten pool spill over, flooding his limbs with heat as his thighs tremble. Kiyoomi pulls them flush, grinding deep as he rides out his orgasm. Their lips stay locked through it all, needing to be connected in as many ways as possible.

The desperate nature of their kiss wanes to something much softer as they come down from their climaxes. Atsumu’s got both hands on Kiyoomi’s cheeks now, holding him like he’ll break if he’s not careful, a slight tremble in his hands. Their lips slide together slow and warm. Atsumu whimpers at the overstimulation when his hips flex, aftershocks causing him to tense around Kiyoomi again.

The dark haired man pulls away with a nip at Atsumu’s lower lip, gently pulling out with a delicate hold on his waist. Atsumu whines at the loss as Kiyoomi gently lays him back against the pillows, leaving kisses on his chest and shoulders. “M’gonna get a towel, ‘kay?” Atsumu smiles softly at him and nods, relaxing back against the mattress. Kiyoomi returns quickly, now clad in clean boxers and offering the rag to Atsumu, not sure if he’d prefer to do it himself. Atsumu raises a brow playfully before he speaks, pointing a finger at him, “S’yer cum, I think that puts clean ya on clean up.”

Kiyoomi, honest to god, giggles as he moves to kneel beside Atsumu on the bed. He cleans the sensitive skin between his legs with gentle motions, apologizing when Atsumu flinches with oversensitivity, before tossing the rag towards the laundry basket in the corner of the room. He settles next to him, and Atsumu rolls to his side easily, pulling him against his chest like they’ve done this a million times. Kiyoomi hums against him, content as he tucks his head under Atsumu’s chin. A warm hand draws light circles on the soft skin of his back, and his own gently caresses the skin of Atsumu’s shoulder as they lay there quietly.

Kiyoomi thumbs over the now faded scars on Atsumu's chest, thoughts wandering. He’s struck by the realization that he hasn’t even checked in on Atsumu to make sure he’s feeling okay after smoking. Kiyoomi squirms until Atsumu loosens his hold so he can lift himself onto his elbows to see his face. Atsumu turns to meet his eye, relaxed as he presses a kiss to the twin moles on Kiyoomi’s forehead. “What’s up, Omi?” He puts a hand on Atsumu’s cheek, thumbing across his warm skin and noting the smattering of freckles across his nose. “Are you feeling okay?”

It takes a second for Atsumu to realize Kiyoomi’s asking him about his high. He stretches his arms above his head. “M’feelin’ great. Didn’t really know what ta expect but t’snice.” Kiyoomi smiles at him, relieved that he’s having a good time. “Wanna get dressed and watch a movie on the couch?” he glances at the alarm clock on his night stand, “It’s only eight.” Atsumu checks the clock as well before he responds, “M’kay.”

Kiyoomi offers to get his duffel from where he left it in the genkan, and Atsumu is sitting on the edge of the bed when he returns. He tosses the duffel lightly at his feet, sitting on the bed next to him and leaning back comfortably. He watches the planes of Atsumu’s shoulders as he shrugs a t-shirt on, muscles shifting beneath the soft fabric. “You should put the sweats you came in back on,” Atsumu turns to him, confused, “they do make your ass look good.” Atsumu laughs and rolls his eyes but bends to grab his gray sweats off the floor.

They drag the comforter from the bed with them into the living room, cuddling up on the couch as Kiyoomi scrolls through a streaming service until Atsumu points out something he likes. Totoro is dancing across the screen when Kiyoomi jumps up suddenly, sliding on socked feet across the floor to the kitchen pantry. “You want a snack?” he asks from the other room. Atsumu yells back, “M’not picky, I’ll just have whatever yer havin’!” Kiyoomi smiles at the easy domesticity of the moment. He pulls a few snacks from the cabinet and lays them out on a plate to share before carrying that and a bowl of the pasta salad he made earlier into the living room.

Kiyoomi notes that Atsumu looks lost in thought when he enters the room. Atsumu turns fully towards him as he sits, placing a hand against the bare skin of his waist in search of some sort of anchor. “Kiyoomi,” his voice is lacking a bit of its usual brash confidence when he speaks and it makes Kiyoomi’s chest ache, “You can say no, but I was wonderin’ if…” he makes a frustrated noise. “Sorry, t’just--I was wonderin’ if you ever bottomed.” He pushes on before Kiyoomi can say anything, “S’fine if you don’t want to–” he watches Atsumu’s jaw tighten, “or if you don’t want to with me because…ya know,” he gestures to himself.

There’s a moment of quiet, only the soft sounds of the movie in the background breaking it. Atsumu sinks back, pulling his hand from Kiyoomi’s waist to draw it close to his chest--preparing for the worst. Kiyoomi’s voice is hushed, deadly, “Who.” Atsumu is stunned by the seriousness in his demeanor. Kiyoomi asks again, eyes softer this time as he brings his hands to Atsumu’s face lightly. “Who made you think that?” Atsumu just blinks at him, his answer coming out jumbled, “Ya know it’s just–” Kiyoomi interrupts him gently, “We can do whatever you want, Atsumu. I just want to be with you, however you’ll have me.” Atsumu’s responding smile is warm as Kiyoomi continues on, “My offer to fuck em’ up still stands though.” Atsumu snorts, “Yer kinda goofy when yer high, Omi.” He’s realizing that this Kiyoomi has a lot less of a filter than sober Kiyoomi, who already has no trouble saying what he’s thinking.

They cuddle into the couch, Kiyoomi’s back against Atsumu’s chest as they both lay long ways, covered by the comforter from the bed. Although this outcome hadn’t been Kiyoomi’s reasoning for inviting Atsumu here, he doesn’t regret it for a second.

#haikyuu!!#sakuatsu #sakusa kiyoomi #miya atsumu #punkspice writes #sakusa “i'm very in tune with my own feelings” kiyoomi #miya "is oblivious atsumu

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