#kita is a rice farmer

[bokutoko]

routine

character: shinsuke kita (timeskip!kita)

word count: 639

warning(s): fluff!!!

content: kita welcomes the new additions to his daily routine.

a/n: this was totally meant to be smth for kita's birthday oopsie. happy late bday handsome <3333

Kita had always been an early riser; just like clockwork, he would wake before sunrise, work in the fields until the sun sets, and fall asleep after some dinner and a warm shower. 

But here he was, still lying in bed with the first light of day peeking through his curtains. He’d been awake for a while now, but in recent months, he’d been habitually a little slower to rise than normal. 

He had a new little addition to his routine: he wanted to see the soft morning light catch your face before doing anything else in the day. 

He fondly watched the rise and fall of your body as you slept, a soft snore escaping you every few breaths. He couldn’t help but crack a small smile at the sight of some drool on your pillow. 

You looked so content, so at peace. 

His heart practically melted at the sight of the morning sun shining on your sleeping figure—you were absolutely breathtaking. A soft chuckle escaped him when your expression contorted into discomfort from the brightness hitting your face, and he shifted his body to now shield you from the light. He was well aware of your bad habit of being a night owl, so he did everything in his power to make sure you got as much undisturbed sleep as possible.

But like always, right before he was about to get up and get dressed, you inched closer and closer to Kita until your face was pressed against his bare chest. And just like clockwork, he began running a gentle hand down your back as you nuzzled into him.

“G’mornin’ darlin’,” Kita greeted in a raspy morning voice that always had you swooning. You mumbled a “g’mrning” and wrapped your arms around him, clinging to him like a koala. You knew his morning greetings always meant he was about to leave and get up for the day. 

He sighed, wishing it were easier to leave your embrace. “Ya know I gotta get up now.”

You quietly huffed into his skin, mumbling, “Please stay, just for ten more minutes.” In an attempt to bargain, you peppered soft kisses against his collarbone and shoulder—his ultimate weakness. “Please?” You added, honey dripping in your voice. 

He hummed, his eyes fluttering closed, slowly beginning to succumb to your touch. “I wish,” he admitted as he tilted your chin up to meet his eyes. His warm gaze was filled with quiet adoration when he added, “But I gotta work hard ta make ya happy.”

“You already make me happy,” you argued, a small pout forming on your face.

He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “Good. Gotta keep it that way,” he whispered against your skin, “Go on back ta sleep, it’s still early fer ya.”

If anyone from his high school days saw him now, they’d fall to the floor and deny that this was the same Shinsuke Kita from their adolescence. Kita, the former no-nonsense volleyball captain who had his own system to the way he lived and stuck to it religiously—no ifs, ands, or buts. They came to know that his collection of small, daily habits was what shaped him into the man he was. So they assumed nothing came between Kita and his routine. 

They’d be shocked at this Kita, who now took longer getting dressed so that he could watch you slowly drift back to sleep. Kita, who now watered your own little garden every morning before venturing out into the fields. Kita, who now returned home before the sun set just so he could see you standing on the porch to greet him from a long day’s work. Kita, who now took an extra moment to watch as the golden hour of the evening sun caught your face just perfectly before going inside for the night. 

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[seiwas]

for your ask! kita and farmers market au where he has a little stand and sells his rice :)

heids!! thanks for playing with me 🥺 this is an adorable au!! shoutout to @mieiri for helping me find pics 🥹

kita + farmers market au

kita joins the farmer’s market on every other sunday of the month.

his rice stall is quaint, barely even a full stall if he’s considering the technicalities. the display on his table consists of baskets of rice, all in varying grains and types, along with a few spices from akane-san, the middle-aged lady he agreed to partner with to help her cut booth costs.

it’s a good partnership, he thinks—he’s learned a fair bit about spiced rice.

business today is as usual: slow in the early morning, but bustling once it reaches 8:30 a.m.; he’s become familiar with the locals just as much as they trust him and the quality of his rice. and everything is as it usually is, except—

“hello,” you approach his booth, your smile a little shy as you gather what to say.

akane-san glances from the side.

in your hands lie two jars of jam, one a deep purple, and the other a bright orange.

he tilts his head slightly to acknowledge you, “good morning.”

you offer the jars of jam while chuckling nervously, “we’re neighbours,” you gesture towards the booth beside his, “this is my first time here, so…”

akane-san rises from her seat, smiling at you graciously, “those look delicious, my dear. you made them yourself?”

you look at her, flustered as you nod. akane-san nudges kita closer, his feet nearly stepping over yours as he inches forward.

“this is very kind of you, thank you,” kita offers his palms for you to place the glass jars on. akane-san reaches for the purple one and pops it open, the scent of wild berries filling the space between you.

she hums, long and delighted. kita smiles softly, “welcome to the market. i’m sure your jams will be a hit.”

.

it’s your sixth farmer’s market now, the fourth one you’ve spent as kita’s stall neighbour. and it’s been nice, having your company around, he thinks.

you are sweet, just as the jams you make are, and you never fail to give him a jar or two before selling even starts.

in exchange, he gives you rice, different grains and different types; he learns about your cooking schedule, and what you intend to cook for the rest of the week, just so he can give you the correct ones.

akane-san tells him that he should ask you out.

“you smile a lot around her,” she mumbles to him as you walk back to your booth. you’d just finished grabbing some lunch with kita during your break.

“it would be rude to frown, akane-san,” he settles back behind the display, hiding his smile.

she tuts, jokingly hitting him on the arm, “don’t be all smart ass with me.”

kita laughs, its sound echoing down to your booth. you turn to his direction upon hearing it and end up locking eyes. much to his surprise, he doesn’t turn away, and instead settles into giving you a smile.

it’s not like he denied what akane-san said anyway.

.

something is different the day kita walks up to your booth with a carton of eggs in his hands instead of rice.

(you’d mentioned something about wanting to try your hand at a quiche—that must be the reason why, you tell yourself).

he stands in front of your booth, shirt tucked in a little more properly than it normally is, and hands over the carton.

“fresh from the farm,” he starts, “thought i’d bring you some.”

“you didn’t have to,” you reach for it gently, your fingertips grazing the dips between his knuckles as you lower your head slightly.

“thank you for your sponsorship,” you add on, teasingly, “i’ll have to let you try the quiche now, once i make it.”

he laughs, waiting as you take your time opening the carton.

and when you do, the look on your face makes him wish he captured the moment. maybe with that polaroid camera atsumu gifted him last christmas.

inside the carton of eggs is a small cluster of flowers, handpicked (you can tell) and joined together by knotted grass.

(it’s sweet, you think, that there are even a few stems of a rice plant in the mix.)

the expression on your face is a mixture of confusion and surprise, and kita has never been one to be flustered or nervous for anything, but—

“i,” he clears his throat, “have been meaning to ask, actually,” another cough. your stare shoots straight into his nerves.

“would—“ you begin.

“would—“ he manages to say at the same time.

you both giggle, and he clears his throat again, reaching his hand out, “sorry, please go first.”

(the sentence forms itself in your mind, and you stare at the flowers again, a glimpse of courage, before you speak—)

“would you want to make some quiche with me?”

and kita smiles. is ‘no’ even an answer to anything you ask?

[gardenofnoah]

there are reasons why a body stays in motion

summary: you work too hard—kita knows it the second he meets you. he’s not expecting you to take him up on his offer. you don’t either, until you end up on his farm.

tags: shinsuke kita x reader, strangers to lovers, fluff, smut (oral, reader receiving), afab reader (no pronouns used, terms for body parts used("clit")), reader is a first responder, kita is a mother hen wc: 4.7k

the farmer’s market is quiet. mostly because it hasn’t opened yet.

you walk between stalls as the owners of them set up, smiling softly at those who greet you. it’s still a little dark out—the grass under your feet still a little dewy without a sun to warm it. if you were anyone else, you might still be in bed.

but you never made it to bed. in fact, you’ve been up for more hours than you care to count. that much is obvious by the way you sway slightly on your feet in front of Hanaka’s tomatoes.

“hey, you,” she murmurs, affectionate and maternal—reaching beneath the wood top to grab the coffee she’s brought you, as is your weekly tradition. “long night?”

“mm,” you hum around the plastic lid, tipping your head back. the coffee is a little bitter and a little grainy, but it doesn’t matter. truthfully, you’ve been up for so long that things are starting to lose their taste. in this case, that might be for the best. “on call. the phone just kept ringing.”

she nods, sympathy apparent on her face, and you know she understands. Hanaka is retired now—blissfully so, she says—but when you met, she was your coworker. she’d adopted you as some sort of pseudo-child, teaching you and looking out for you. it was a loss when she left, but you were happy she finally was getting to rest. when you found out she’d reserved a stall at the market, you made the effort to be there. even if it meant losing out on your rest.

“silly of you to come straight here,” she admonishes you sweetly, in the way that only she can. it makes you smile.

“and let the coffee get cold? never.”

she rolls her eyes, turning to busy herself with stacking deep green cucumbers into weaved baskets. you let your eyes roam the spread in front of you, reaching to brush a fingertip over the waxy skin of a tomato. your stomach growls—abrupt, and loud.

Hanaka snorts, shaking her head as she calibrates the scale. “head down the row,” she says, pointing in front of her without looking, “there’s a stand that does rice.”

you feel a bit like a zombie as you move among the crowd—still mostly vendors, until you can smell someone cooking. your feet bring you to a halt in front of a grey-haired man, shaping neat triangles of rice around what appears to be pickled cabbage and bean curd. your mouth waters.

"we're not quite open yet—oh." he pauses when he looks up at you, concern immediate and all over his face, "you need to sit down, darlin'?"

it makes you laugh. "is it that bad?"

he smiles at you, directing the man to his left to bring you a folding chair. you thank him, plopping unceremoniously into the seat. when you look up, there's an expertly assembled onigiri in your face.

"ah." it's warm in your fingers and you fight the urge to unhinge your jaw and shove the entire thing in your mouth. "thank you...?"

"Kita," he says, and his smile is kind in a way that feels a little disarming this early in the morning, "don't mention it. can't have you passin' out in front of my stall—s'bad for business."

you chuckle around a mouth full of rice—and holy shit, is it good. you try to tell him that, but to stop eating does not feel like an option. it makes him laugh.

"glad to hear it. can't take credit for the recipe—but the rice is from me."

"you're a farmer?"

"mm. have been for more than a few years now. just started comin' to the market though."

you nod, shoving the last of the onigiri in your mouth and greatly suppressing the urge to lick the stray bits of grain off your fingers.

he goes back to work, packing and shaping in a way that feels casual, but you have a hunch that the motions are some that he's practiced greatly. your lack of sleep emboldens you to let your eyes wander—his hands are calloused and careful, and it's obvious what he does just by the look of them. corded muscle flexes under sun tanned forearms as he shapes each onigiri with great focus, and you find yourself fascinated by the repetition.

"y'think you're closer to livin' now?"

you look up and find his eyes already on you, mirth all over his face. you grin, caught, warmth spreading up your neck.

"think so. what do i owe you?"

"nothin'," he waves you off, brown eyes crinkling. "just go take a nap."

you smile—warmed by his generosity. you get up and leave of rough estimate of coins on top of his register anyway. "see you later then, Kita."

.

..

later comes quicker than you thought. the very next week, as it turns out. you're a little more rested when you see him again, and it's the first thing he notices.

"y'look like you slept." he says by way of a greeting, handing you another perfectly formed onigiri—this time with pickled plum and what you suspect is salmon. it falls apart decadently in your mouth, the flavors complimentary and not overpowering against the rice. it's good.

"i did," you tell him around a mouth full, "wasn't on call last night."

he smiles, gentle around his eyes, as he watches you. "work?"

you nod. "social work—kids, mostly."

he crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the counter. he considers you for a moment before he speaks again.

"so not sleepin' is normal for ya."

you shrug, avoiding his gaze. it's a little too early in the day to feel chastised by a man you only just met last week, even if he is admittedly a little handsome and insists on feeding you. he sighs, reaching for a stray piece of register paper.

"you like ducks?"

"like, the bird?" you look up at him, eyebrows arched in confusion. "yeah, i suppose i do."

he smiles down at the paper, scribbling a few lines down on it and handing it to you. "have a few babies that just hatched in the paddies. come by and see 'em if you ever feel like y'need a rest."

he waves you off, turning back to his work, and leaves you a little shellshocked as you look down at the paper. it has an address on it—for what you assume is his farm. you fold it neatly and push it down into the pocket of your jeans with the mental reminder of taking it out before you wash them. you shake your head, smiling to yourself as you turn and head back down the lane, dodging a few folks that are entering the market. you have a few hours before work—just enough time to knock out on the couch.

.

..

a few weeks later, you find yourself bouncing down a rocky lane, rice paddies on either side of the thin road. you figure you have to be in the right place, but feel a little nervous until you arrive to a little cabin at the end of the gravel, the numbers on your paper painted neatly on the side of the mailbox.

it's late—probably too late to be stopping by unannounced—but Kita didn't give you a phone number, and the day had been long. the thought of baby ducks and looking at anything that wasn't the blue light of your laptop felt like a lifeline.

he's leaning against the doorframe as you shut the car door behind you. you smile when you see him—maybe sneaking a little peak at the way his white t-shirt stretches around the biceps he has crossed over his chest. he doesn't say anything until you clear the porch steps.

"y'alright?" he asks quietly. it's a little startling—you're always careful not to let the effects of the day show. you feel exposed in front of him, and it has you shifting on your feet.

"i believe i was promised baby ducks."

the corners of his eyes crinkle and you find yourself genuinely charmed. he doesn't acknowledge your lack of an answer, and you're grateful for it.

"sit," he says, gesturing to a wooden rocker on the porch, "i'll grab 'em."

you do as he says, leaning back and taking in the view. the sun simmers a deep red on the horizon, bathing everything in it's hue. the paddies stretch on for what feels like miles. the house itself feels like an island—the one lane road it's only connection to life beyond it.

the rocker creaks as you push your toe against the porch, swaying gently back and forth. it's quiet, save for the chirp of the cicadas and the occasional bloat of a bullfrog. you jump when you feel something furry rub against your shin.

you look down and are greeted by an orange cat with the most round cheeks you've ever seen. old and a little ratty, it chirps at you, headbutting your leg.

"hello there," you smile, bending forward to scratch behind it's ears. "where'd you come from?"

"that's Barn Cat," Kita says, trudging up the wooden steps. "he hangs out in the fields."

you chuckle, looking up at him. "his name is Barn Cat?

"yup," his grin is contagious. you let your eyes roam around him, looking for the ducks he was supposed to get. they stop on the pouch he's created out of his shirt—widening as you hear several little quacks come from inside of it.

"hold out yer hands," he says, standing in front of you now. you do as your told, and a few seconds later, there's a teeny tiny baby in your palms.

"oh my god," you breathe, not quite able to wrap your brain around how something can be so small, "oh my god."

Kita chuckles, smiling when you look up at him. something about it brings you back to this moment—you're suddenly very aware that you've interrupted this man's evening and ordered him around at his own house.

"i'm sorry for showing up like this," you say quietly, running a fingertip over the downy-soft little body that's now nestled in your lap.

"no need. i'm glad yer here."

you can feel that the smile you give him doesn't quite reach your eyes, and you know that he notices.

"long day?"

you hum, watching the tiny duck tail twitch in its sleep. suddenly feeling a little envious of the rest it's able to get, and how simple its life will be. wake up, swim around, eat bugs, go to sleep. it won't ever think about anyone else. its little conscious will always be clear.

"yeah," you murmur. "it was."

he moves to sit down in the rocker next to you, smiling at the little duck that has taken up all of your attention. when you look up, his eyes are gentle and unwavering from yours. you're certain he's looking too deeply, but you know there's nothing you can do.

"i should get going," you say, mostly to convince yourself that it is true. Kita's mouth turns downward for only a moment, and then that soft smile is back again.

"give me yer phone," he murmurs, extending a hand toward you. you shrug, pulling it out and handing it to him. he types something quick and hands it back to you, Shinsuke Kita and a phone number on the screen.

"meant it when i said you can come by anytime," he tells you, hand lingering still in your space. "call me if ya need anything."

.

..

you get to texting, after that. it's funny—he's a man of few typed words, so you learn about his days through pictures. a criminally early shot of the rice paddies. the baby ducks that look bigger each day. Barn Cat sprawled out in the sun on the porch. dinner there, too—filleted tuna and rice under a waning sun. sometimes he calls, when your schedule allows it. the low timbre of his voice through the speaker frequently (and embarrassingly) lulls you to sleep. you have a hunch that he does it on purpose.

you've showed up at the farm enough times now that you're unable to use the excuse of the ducks anymore, especially now that they're bigger and far less cuddly, but neither of you acknowledge it. he starts showing you around. walks across narrow paths in the fields become excuses to bring you inside—into his home. the cabin is quaint and cozy, and decorated in a way that surprises you. pictures cover the walls—some of Kita as an adult, but mostly of Kita as a child, which makes him bashful and you smile. you stop at one of him as a chubby toddler, sitting in the lap of a woman he's clearly the spitting image of.

"that's gram," he says quietly, behind you. "this is her place. i moved out here when she got sick, and then i just..."

"stayed," you whisper, tracing the edge of the frame with your fingertip. he hums, closer to you now.

"didn't feel right t'leave."

you think it's admirable, but you don't want to embarrass him, so you keep it you yourself. he leads you down the hall, pointing out rooms as he goes—bathroom (you can't hide your surprise at the massive clawfoot tub in the center of it. he just shrugs, continuing down the hall—flushed up to his neck. it makes you smile.), guest room ("mostly unoccupied," he says, and you wonder if it was intentional). his bedroom is slightly larger than the guest room and considerably less decorated, but still tastefully so—the bed is large and looks temptingly soft, and the dresser adjacent to it is an antique, heavy and well-loved. you both linger in the doorway, coated in warm lamp light and shoulders brushing, not talking much and still saying a lot between you.

"you hungry?" he asks, voice a little gruff. you shrug, following him into the kitchen. you take a seat at the bar stool on the other side of the counter, watching him work.

he doesn't ask what you want and truthfully, you know he doesn't need to. there hasn't been a time yet that you haven't liked something Kita's made you. he moves with the same fluidity and grace he does at the market—he prepares your food with the same care, too. you watch him blatantly, this time. his brow furrows a little as he plates it. it's cute—it makes you ache.

you're expecting it to be good, but this is really good—unagi over rice, soft and chewy when it hits your tongue. you groan audibly, savoring each bite. Kita grins at you across the counter.

"good?" he asks, even though he doesn't need to.

you nod emphatically, not bothering to pause long enough to answer him.

"good." he looks awfully proud of himself. that ache twists in your chest again. "don't make it too often. glad ya like it."

it's quiet between you as you eat—you try to leave a few extra for him because he was nice enough to make you something so luxurious, but it's hard to stop yourself.

you linger in the cabin for the next hour or so, finding every reason to stay until you can't anymore.

"y'know," Kita mutters, looking a little shy, "yer welcome to stay in that guest bedroom. s'not like anyone else uses it."

he goes red immediately and it makes you smile. you fight yourself hard to keep from teasing him.

"i have to work early tomorrow," for the first time, that fact feels disappointing. "but i'd be happy to next time."

the smile he gives you leaves you a little breathless. "be careful gettin' home."

.

..

next time comes sooner than you thought it would.

the weekend comes and you shoot him a text, asking him what he's doing tonight. his reply comes immediately—whatever you're doing. come over—i'll cook.

you sit outside to watch the sunset after dinner. it goes down past the hills, extinguishing the light like the flame of a candle. you kick your feet out over the rail in front of you. the cicadas sing from their perches in the trees and the paddies look like an undulating, dark sea from where you sit. the only light is the dim bulb above your head, and the stars don’t pay it any mind. bright and shining, you can’t remember a time that you’ve seen so many.

“do you ever get lonely?”

he’s watching you—you can feel your skin warm where his gaze lingers, but you keep yours in front of you. Kita’s been the picture of hospitality, sweet in the way he’s shown care to you—but he’s seldom talked about himself. you feel vulnerable, toeing the line. he’s silent for a moment, and then it stretches on long enough that you start to regret asking.

“s’hard to, out here with all of this noise.” he says it lightheartedly, but you wonder if he’s deflecting. you have your answer a moment later when he says, quieter, “at night, mostly. y’notice when yer the only person for miles.”

you hum, picking at a splinter in the wooden arm of your chair. you feel the same, somehow. though you have trouble understanding how you can feel lonely being around as many people as you are. you tell him as much.

“they don’t really see you though, right?” he asks, but it’s rhetorical. “you help ‘em but it’s one sided. they remember what y'did but they don’t know who you are.”

it never fails to rattle you, his ability to see right through you. your face heats. “that’s the way it should be.”

“sure,” he says, smiling softly. “but it weighs on ya.”

you tuck your knees under your chin and close your eyes—frustrated, knowing that he's right and still wanting to fight him on it. you jump when his knuckles brush against your own.

"i didn't mean to upset ya, darlin'."

"you didn't," you murmur, shaking your head and willing your limbs to relax, "you're right. i just wish you weren't."

he smiles and keeps the back of his hand pressed to yours. it's a sonic interruption to the silence—you're so aware of the warmth of his skin that you feel it in your eardrums. you wonder if he can, too.

it's a while before you speak again—to bid him goodnight, even if you don't want to.

"goodnight, darlin'." his voice is low and soft, nearly a whisper over the cry of cicadas. you still hear it like he screamed it. "extra quilts're in the closet."

it makes you smile, how he can't help but make sure you're comfortable. it would be easy to mistake it for something else—something more.

"goodnight, Kita."

.

..

you get in the car and drive on muscle memory alone. eyes burning, you dial the number you now know by heart.

"hey darlin'," Kita's voice comes through the speaker like a warm blanket. it helps to settle you.

"hi," you croak, immediately wishing you'd taken a minute to get it together before you called him.

there's a pause. "you been cryin'?"

"only a little." you don't see a point in lying to him. "you around?"

"yeah, i'm here—where are you? i'll come get ya, don't want ya drivin' out here upset—"

you let out a wet laugh, shaking your head. "i'm alright, Kita. i'm already halfway there. i just wanted to let you know i'd be over."

there's another pause, and you can hear the way he's fighting with himself on the other end of the line.

"alright," he says finally, "be careful."

he's waiting on the porch steps when you pull up to the cabin. you're barely out of the car before he's pulling you into his chest. new tears threaten to spill over into the fabric of his shirt. you can feel the way he softens himself to hold you—like you'll shatter in his arms if he's not careful.

"c'mon," he whispers into your hair, "let's go in."

he takes your coat (and your shoes, and your bag) before he's pulling you closer again—keeping you tucked under his arm like something will swoop down and snatch you up if he's not careful. you'd laugh if you weren't soaking in every second of his affection like a sponge.

"can i run a bath for ya?" he asks, reaching to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. the callouses on his fingers brush the curve of it and it makes you shiver. you nod.

he only leaves you for a few moments before he's back, corralling you down the hall and into the bathroom. there's a pile of comfy sweats folded and set on the toilet, and a fluffy towel hanging on the hook.

"holler if ya need anything."

you smile at him, a little more genuine this time, and he leaves you to it. you strip the clothes from your body slowly, hoping that if you do it right, the day will come off with it. you sink down into the warmth of the water and sigh. your eyes start to burn again as you lean your head back on the rim of the tub, this time just at Kita's kindness. you feel guilty for relying on it.

you feel guilty knowing you've been keeping what's in your heart hidden from him.

you use his soap, knowing you'll smell like him—knowing it won't be enough to satiate the longing you feel, but doing it anyway. you're not sure when it started—if it hadn't been there all along—but it's been tearing up your insides for months. he makes it worse with the way he cares for you. it's almost cruel.

you drag yourself out of the tub eventually, drying off in record time just to be swallowed by his clothes , soft and warm and smelling of him. you brush your hair out in the mirror and tie it up on top of your head. you feel a little more like a person now.

Kita's up and hovering at the end of the hallway as soon as you open the bathroom door. you manage a little laugh this time—mostly content and only a little guilty, letting him mother hen over you. you close the distance between you, looping your arms around his middle. you feel him relax, just a little bit.

"you need to talk about it?" he asks, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pulling you closer. you shake your head. "alright. come lay down."

he penguin walks you down the hall, grinning when you laugh. he moves right past the guest bedroom and into his.

he arranges you on the bed to his liking—cocooned in blankets and reclined against his pillows. he lays down next to you, on top of the comforter. respectful of your space, even if you wish he wasn't.

"thanks for taking care of me," you whisper, turning your head to look at him. "sorry for turning up like this."

his eyebrows knit together like he's never heard a more wrong thing in his life. "i'll have ya any way you turn up."

you blink at him, feeling like you've short circuited. you huff out a laugh, closing your eyes. "how unfair."

"mm?"

you open your eyes and feel stuck, pinned to the bed underneath his stare. there aren't many other options than to spill your guts onto his sheets.

"you make it hard not to love you, Kita."

he freezes, eyes locked on yours. your stomach ties and unties itself, but you can't look away.

it's another agonizing moment before either of you even breathes, and then you blink, and he's hovering over top of you, hands planted on either side of your head.

"say it again."

"i love you." it feels like the easiest thing you've ever said.

"tell me i've got it wrong," he rasps, leaning in to nose along your cheek.

"you don't."

your hand fists around the material of his shirt and you yank him down to your waiting mouth. it feels exactly the way you knew it would—warm and soft, not unlike the feeling you get every time you walk through his door. it’s gentle and unhurried, and you know he knows no other way. you let him break you apart slowly. 

he pulls away from your lips, only to press soft kisses to your cheeks, your chin, your brow bone. his mouth brushes against your temple and to your horror, you let out the world’s most pitiful little moan. 

his eyes go wide as he looks down at you, flushed and breathing hard beneath him. your fingers still tangled in his shirt, he closes his own around them and brings them to his lips. he keeps his eyes on you when presses them to the sensitive skin of the inside of your wrist. 

you feel no control of your reaction—your eyes flutter closed as the rest of you shudders underneath him. it’s so little and it’s almost too much. you know he’s figured you out when you’re able to meet his gaze again—deep brown filled with as much adoration as they are hunger. 

“tell me what you need, darlin’.”

"your mouth," you whimper, feeling hot.

"where?" his smile turns a little wicked, still pressed to your skin.

"everywhere."

if you were overwhelmed before, it would pale in comparison to this—his kisses turn hard and heavy, soft lips sucking harsh bruises into your skin. you keen and whine underneath him, writhing both toward and away from his searching mouth. he doesn't take his sweatshirt off of you—he just pushes it up to kiss every inch of skin it exposes. he only pauses to check in with you, only stopping for a second to ask half of a question you'd already started answering before he'd asked it.

he cradles your waist in strong, wide hands and bends down to lap at your navel, nipping sensitive flesh, tongue slipping inside the dip of your belly button.

your hips buck violently, whimpering into the crook of your elbow while you reach down to card your fingers through silver strands. you feel yourself making a mess of his sweatpants.

"please, Kita," you hiccup, nearly slurred in his onslaught. he hums against your skin and you feel it in your belly.

"s'alright sweetheart," he murmurs, pressing gentler kisses between your hipbones, taking the elastic of the sweatpants down with them. "i got ya."

he reduces you to something less than human with the hot slide of his mouth against the inside of your thighs, licking and sucking his way up to where you need him the most and then back down, too far away. it takes a wholly unreasonable amount of begging to get him there, and to get him to stay.

"please, please i just need—oh," your spine bows off the bed and then pulls taut at the feeling of his tongue sliding slowly through your wet heat. he lets out a groan at the taste of you, and you watch through hooded eyes as he grinds his hips into the mattress.

one hand keeps a steeled grip in his hair, and the other one sneaks under his sweatshirt to pull at your nipples. it's sensory overload—the feeling of the pebbled flesh under your fingers and the way Kita suckles gently on your clit has you squealing. he opens his mouth, panting and tongue lolled out, encouraging you to ride it. you don't need to be asked twice.

every snap of your hips against his face pulls a weak moan from him, and a louder one from you. everything is wet and hot and your thighs shake around his head with every drag of your achy clit across his tongue.

"Kita," you whimper, feeling the warmth start to spread, "gonna cum—i'm—"

it damn near melts you into the mattress. every muscle in your body contracts and then releases, leaving you immobile under his tongue. he holds your thighs apart, sucking on your clit while you shake and cry under him. it doesn't stop—every brush of his tongue pulls another dizzying contraction from deep inside you. he only relents when he's licked up every last drop of you.

he kisses his way back up your body and you feel like you're on fire. when he presses his lips to yours again, finally, it douses it. you only smolder underneath him now.

forehead pressed to his, you can't help but let out a little giggle. he grins, his pretty mouth pulled up in the corners, and presses another round of kisses to your jaw.

"i love you," you sigh, pulling him closer. he hums.

"i love you," he nips at the point of your chin, "and you're callin' out sick tomorrow."

there's nothing in your heart that wants to argue with him.

[satorisoup]

it’s 1am and i’m in absolute SHAMBLES over this one edit i saw of bokuto & kita with one of my favorite audios ANDDD my favorite bokuto clip… somebody contain me i fear i’ve been screaming with tears in my eyes because it’s so precious to me… this edit will forever be engraved into my mind i fear T^T

the taggies are where things get out of hand methinks… </3

[tar0star]

im watching haikyuu season 4 rn omg I love inarizaki high like congrats for being the team that has rintarou suna 🤭

[chronically-moo]

I have just met Shinsuke Kita but if anything were to happen to him, I would murder everyone and then myself

[prokkoli]

little joys

02.09.2022

[artisticxlly]

Trying to brainstorm more hcs for characters (specifically the Miya twins and Aran) but now I'm thinking about timeskip Kita with really impressive arm strength (Aran challenged him to arm wrestling once and was HUMILIATED /hj)

[kitasuno]

i am thinking about kita shinsuke and i am thinking Hard # thought daughter

[ffsg0jo]

in the wise words of italian bach, i yearn for the harvest

[bokutoko]

you ATE with that kita fic oh my god it's so beautifully written and gorgeous!! oh to love sweet farmer shinsuke <33

omfg thank you so much!!♡ kita is just *chef’s kiss*🤌🏻

[liveloveshoyo]

love this art. Currenty writing an ff and his farm is mentioned AHHAHAHAHA

Happy birthday Kita Shinsuke🧑‍🌾🌾

IT AIN’T MUCH BUT IT’S HONEST WORK

[kon-konk]

Why does stopping to eat at a little middle of nowhere itty bitty family owned restaurant with someone you love while on a road trip sound so nice right now?

[captain-hawks]

steady

shinsuke kita x f!reader

a hot summer morning spent picking strawberries in kita's garden leaves you at odds with feelings you've spent years trying to forget.

wc: 2.2k

c: 18+ only, pining, fluff, feels, outdoor sexual activities, dry humping, fingering, see also: emotional smut

a/n: requested by @cheesypuffkins87!

SPICY SLEEPOVER WEEKEND — HEAT WAVE EDITION

“Yer doin’ it wrong.”

Part of the green stalk breaks in half along with the small, red fruit clenched between your fingertips, and you turn to look at the man bent down on one knee in the dirt beside you, his brown eyes focused on yours. 

“I thought you were just a rice farmer,” you tease, the strawberry bobbing as you twirl it by the stem. 

It’s a little strange—crouching down in the middle of Shinsuke Kita’s garden, a wicker basket overflowing with peppers and garlic and onions sitting on the ground nearby. Sweat prickles at your temples despite the light, breezy fabric of your sundress, the summer morning sun hanging bright overhead. 

It’s strange—after all these years. To see the corded muscles that make their way up Kita’s forearms, his skin tan from long days spent tending to his rice field. His hair is still the same soft shade of silver, black underneath, but there’s something less tame about the way he wears it now, the strands mussed like he’s perpetually been running a hand through it.

His smile’s still the same though, a careful, tentative thing, something that always feels like a secret when you earn it.

(The sight of it still makes your heart flip helplessly in your chest, too.)

You were close with Kita at Inarizaki High, close enough that all of your friends just assumed the two of you were dating (though you certainly weren’t). 

You’d confessed to him after your graduation, and he’d let you down as gently as possible, smiling sadly as he reminded you of the acceptance letters to universities overseas that you’d been mulling over for weeks. He couldn’t hold you back.

He’d seen you off at the airport, let his hand linger near your wrist, pressed a chaste kiss to your cheek that nearly brushed the corner of your mouth. 

(You’d replayed the moment over and over in your head the entire flight.)

Now it’s been six years and you’re moving back in with your parents for a little while, and you’d hardly been back in town for twenty-four hours when you found yourself face to face with Kita at the grocery store one morning, every compartmentalized drawer of feelings you’d carefully tucked away over the years crashing open and spilling out onto the bright, shiny linoleum floor beneath your feet.

This thing is, Kita doesn’t do social media.

So as your calls and texts naturally dwindled over time, you found the only glimpses you could get into Kita’s life were the brief times he appeared in posts from other old friends like Aran and the Miya twins. 

And sure, you knew he’d become a rice farmer—Osamu had once posted a particularly flattering video of him in the middle of wiping sweat from his face with the bottom of his shirt out in the fields, your throat going dry at the strip of his abdomen that was exposed in the process. 

(You’d thought about it for weeks.)

But still, you weren’t prepared for the way your heart caught in your throat when you saw him standing there in the middle of the cereal aisle in a white t-shirt and a pair of light wash jeans covered in speckles of paint. 

And you definitely weren’t prepared for the way your name still sounded on his lips—a warm familiarity that made you feel eighteen again.

Now you’re kneeling beside a row of strawberries wondering what your life would look like if you had stayed, if there’d be two chairs instead of one on Kita’s back porch. 

You drop by his house most days now, and there’s something tangible that hangs in the air between the two of you, unfinished business thicker than the late summer humidity and louder than the steady buzz of the cicadas nestled deep in the towering trees. It’s in the brush of your fingertips when he hands you a cup of coffee and the placement of his hand against your lower back when he hugs you goodbye, feather-light and yet deliberate all the same.

It’s in the vase of carefully picked wildflowers he sends you home with for your mother, and the way he won’t take no for an answer when he insists on helping you to get the old sedan in your parents’ garage running again to save you a trip to the local mechanic. 

(It’s in the nearly imperceptible shift in his expression when you tell him you haven’t dated in over a year.)

You’re not sure what he’s waiting for, if he doesn’t realize you’re still head over heels for him after all these years. If he doesn’t know how badly you want to feel the solid wood of his front door digging into your shoulder blades as he presses his body flush against yours and kisses you like you’ve always wanted him to. 

Kita sighs, equal parts fond and exasperated as he removes another strawberry from the plant with ease. “Ya might as well let me set up that garden for your mom.”

Balking with faux indignation, you grab a larger berry with much more success this time. “Are you doubting my green thumb?”

The corner of his lips quirks up, just a little. “We’re way past doubt, I think.”

Frowning, you stick out your tongue at him before bringing the strawberry to your lips and taking a slow, deliberate bite out of it, maintaining eye contact with him all the while. Kita’s throat bobs as he watches your eyes flutter closed for just a moment at the sweet, ripe flavor, and you can feel the sticky juice trail down your chin.

When your eyes open, there’s a hand on your wrist stopping you from taking another bite, Kita’s callused fingers resting against your pulse point. 

Idly, you wonder if he can feel just how hard your heart is beating as he holds your gaze while he leans in, taking the last bite of the fruit while it’s still in your hand, his lips brushing over your fingertips in the process.

He’s still staring at you as he wipes the back of his hand across his lips. “‘m not a strong enough man for this,” he exhales.

The skirt of your dress ripples in the breeze. “For what?”

Kita reaches out, slowly, and drags his thumb through the juice still on your chin, curving upward toward the corner of your mouth. “To watch you walk away again.”

Somewhere in the distance, the sound of tires on pavement echoes out across the fields. A bird shrieks. The wind chimes at the edge of Kita’s porch whisper and sway.

“Do you want me to stay?” you ask him.

The night.

The day after.

Until you lose count.

Until the well-worn footpath to the garden is carved out for two.

“Yes,” Kita rasps without hesitation, “C’mere.” His eyes are bright with something as you lean forward while he sits back, until his hands are clasping your hips and you realize he’s tugging you into his lap.

Straddling him, you let your arms loop around his shoulders, and his eyes fall shut for a moment as you let your thumb scrape against the nape of his neck, his skin warm to the touch from the relentless sun. When his brown eyes open back up again, they track a path to your lips as he brings a hand up to cup your jaw.

“Shoulda done this a long time ago,” he murmurs, tracing the curve of your bottom lip with a careful reverence that makes your heart ache.

And then his lips are on yours.

Kita’s lips are soft, far softer than you ever could have imagined, but they’re also more greedy, more demanding than you ever could have hoped. Years of want and regret and desire mold the shape of his mouth on yours, the slick slide of his tongue against the seam of your lips, the tightening of his fingers against your hip bone at the breathy little sound that leaves you as he deepens it. 

When you break for air, it’s almost regretful, the separation of your lips as both of your chests heave, his brown eyes a shade darker, pupils blown wide. With one hand splayed across the small of your back, Kita’s mouth traces a path along the curve of your jaw, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss against the sensitive place just behind your earlobe. You whimper as his tongue laves over the spot, your body arching into him, and his hand slides up higher against your spine, pulling you impossibly closer still.

“Shinsuke,” you accidentally gasp out while his lips are blazing hot and wet down the side of your neck, and he groans, tightening his grip on you as his teeth sink into the space between your shoulder and neck.

He exhales against your skin, rough and a little unsteady, his breath hot and damp. “Say it again.”

It was rare for you to use Kita’s given name—you were always afraid of the intimate weight of it on your tongue (it weighed enough in your heart, after all). 

And you’ve yet to use it now, not since you’ve returned, the syllables firmly, stubbornly trapped in purgatory behind your teeth.

“Please,” he breathes out, still waiting.

Your heart thunders in your chest as you crumble for him and whisper, “Shinsuke.”

Kita’s mouth comes crashing back into yours, engulfing your lips in a hunger that leaves you dizzy as his tongue tangles with your own, your body writhing against him as he tugs at your hips.

A searing wave of pleasure rips through your chest as your hips fully align with the movement, your cunt dragging against the erection tented at the front of his pants. Kita cups the back of your head, kissing you deeper as his other hand slides to your ass, dragging you against him.

You gasp into his mouth, your cotton underwear the only thing separating your folds from the friction of his pants with the way the skirt of your dress is rucked up around your thighs. Rocking against him, you whine as you try to chase the rising and falling tides of pleasure dancing over your nerve endings with each roll of your hips.

“Ya sound so pretty like this,” he murmurs against your mouth, a hand sliding beneath your dress to trace the waistband of your panties.

“Touch me, Shinsuke,” you beg.

His eyes meet yours as your mouths part, a trail of saliva snapping between your lips, and he cups your mound through your underwear. “Like this?” he asks, brows raised, his middle finger pressing against your slit, no doubt feeling the way the material’s already soaked through with your arousal.

You clock the moment he realizes how wet you are, his jaw ticking as he swallows.

Bucking a little in his grip, you exhale. “More than that.”

Kita takes his lower lip between his teeth, hooking a finger in your panties to pull them aside, and you watch the muscle at the side of his neck flex as he drags one finger through your dripping folds. “This all for me?” he asks.

You want to laugh.

You want to cry.

You want Kita to carry you inside and take you to bed, to fuck you until you can’t think straight. To make love to you until you lose track of where you end and he begins.

You nod, carding your fingers through the hair at the back of his head, and Kita lets out a satisfied hum before plunging a finger inside of you. 

There’s a dizzying rhythm to it, the way Kita rocks you in his lap as he massages your inner walls, one finger quickly becoming two. His voice is gravelly as he murmurs soft words against your lips, telling you how much he loves how wet you are, how good your cunt feels on his fingers, and the coil in your gut wraps tighter with each exhale, each plunge, each stroke. 

There’s something so deliberate in how Kita fucks you with his fingers, like he’s already mapped you out, as if he knows how to scrape up every dredge of pleasure boiling in your veins, how to orchestrate every moan and whimper he eases up your throat and past your kiss-swollen lips. 

And when you shudder and keen for him, he groans, like the mere idea of how fucking sensitive you are for him is a phantom stroke against his throbbing, untouched cock.

“Come for me,” he instructs you in a low, steady tone, his gaze burning into yours.

He drags his thumb across your clit and curls his fingers inside of you, and you see stars as your climax punches through you, every muscle in your body tensing with the hot, gushing damn of pleasure that comes unbound from your very core.

Kita’s patient as you ride out the aftershocks, kissing you softly while you shudder and whimper and gasp for air, holding you close as you try to catch your breath, letting your forehead drop against his shoulder.

When you finally look up at him, there’s a sparkle of amusement in his eyes as he muses, “I really was gonna take ya for dinner first, at least.”

Brushing your fingers through the mussed strands of hair over his forehead, you reply, “I’m also a fan of breakfast in bed.”

He smiles. “Think I can manage that.”

[satorisoup]

PLEASSEEEUH PLEASEEEEEE PLEASEEEEEEE PLEASUHHHHHHHHHHH PLEASEEEEEEEEEEEEEE WAHHHHHHHHHH PLEASEEEEUHHHSHWEHSJ PLEASEEEEE KITA SHINSUKE (24) RICE FARMER SAVE ME PLEASEEEEEUHHHHHSHSJW ( ˃̣̣̥᷄⌓˂̣̣̥᷅ )

[haikyu-mp4]

“Your back cracks like an ice tray every time you get out of that grandpa chair of yours, so please for the love of all things nice, hire some help!” Aran scolded, regretting it quickly when Kita hit him with a cold stare that sent chills down his back.

“I’m perfectly fine doing this on my own, thank you,” Kita answered calmly. His friend made a face, knowing he wouldn’t win this fight anyway, and let the topic go so they could watch the volleyball game as they planned.

Fast forward about two weeks and it’s time for the local market to start up. There was news of a new neighbour moving to town, looking for some work to get away from city life. Kita sure hoped you found something, and he wished he could be of help but unfortunately...

Oh…

Kita stopped the second he entered the market, carrying medium-sized bags of rice that he knew the ladies liked to buy. His eyes had caught something much more interesting than the stands. Namely, you.

You were so gorgeous, dressed in the cutest clothes that reminded him of what would pass as cottage core from what he had seen on Instagram when he checked it last month. Just as he was staring, you seemed to notice him as well, waving eagerly.

Instinctively, and a little stupidly, he dropped the sack of rice from one arm to wave, only to startle as the sack hit the ground. He rushed to pick it back up, blushing as your laughter rang and notified him of you moving closer.

Kindly, you tried to take one from him to carry but he assured you there was no need. “That’s just fine, don’t worry. You’re new in town, right?”

“I am! You don’t happen to need any help on your rice farm, Shinsuke?” He was about to ask how you knew his name, only to spot his grandmother standing over by his booth with a clever smile.

Kita shook his head and chuckled, looking back at you fondly. “Maybe I could use an extra set of hands.”

So when Aran visited next, you can imagine his surprise in seeing you wielding Kita’s equipment as you cared for the rice paddies, the farmer himself watching you with soft eyes.

masterlist