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haztory · 6 months ago

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october 17th ♡

– ceo!kuroo tetsurou x assistant!reader; timeskip au, slow burn, mutual pining

– summary: It’s October 17th. The day of which you can never get a semblance of peace. It’s the start of volleyball season.

part one

a/n: i saw the hq movie and remembered my roots. it's kuroo time. love that man. (w.c.: 6.4k)

It’s October 17th, your desk calendar tells you.

Marked in a quick circle in bold red pen for emphasis. Not like you could forget it, what with the building buzz that seems to escalate with every hour and the excited greetings bubbling in the office. And certainly you couldn’t forget the date with your boss reminding you of it every single chance he could get.

It’s October 17th. The day of which you can never get a semblance of peace. It’s the start of volleyball season. There’s a tally sheet in your mind that holds eight marks— one for every time he’s mentioned the damn day— and it’s not even time for your second cup of coffee.

The most wonderful time of the year, according to Kuroo.

There’s a pep in his step as he juggles his briefcase and files between hands and skips towards his third meeting of the day. His phone is tucked between his ear and shoulder, swarmed in the air of chaos and yet, there’s a wide smile on his face. Toothy and eager, almost maniacal. An exhilarated man, the ringmaster of madness, preparing a show for thousands with only coffee and sheer enthusiasm running through his veins.

The tiles beneath his feet practically turn golden as he passes by.

He stops before your desk on his way out, phone dutifully tucked yet ignored as he meets your gaze with burning excitement. The chatter on the other end of the line is audible, and he really should be listening to it, but instead his focus is maintained on you. You raise a brow in question, fingers hovering over the keyboard to your computer and e-mail to the finance department woefully on hold as your boss stares at you.

Tufts of his hair are pulled in various ways, the standard for a busy morning, and the sleeves of his white button down are rolled up to his elbows displaying the veins that no doubt pulse excitedly; But the most revealing part of him, the most captivating part in his day of havoc, are his eyes.

Honey auburn that burns alight in sheer joy— the kind of happiness that he wants you to revel in, hopes to convey in the intensity of his gaze. Sticky honey brown that coats the inside of your stomach and fills you with warmth. A gleam that can make flowers bloom with just his simple gaze.

Slowly, he points his finger towards your calendar that’s displayed clearly for the regular passerby. Fingertip presses the red circle on the paper, emphasizing the words scribbled inside of it detailing the events of the day.

1st Day of Volleyball Season!

His smile splits his face into two. You add another tally to the sheet.

Indulging him with a grin would be encouraging juvenile behavior, so it takes everything in you to bite back the tugging of your lips and instead roll your eyes. It doesn’t deter him. He all but clicks his heels together as he prances out the door, throwing his fist holding his briefcase in the air with a silent cheer, and answering whatever question was posed to him on the other end of his line.

It’s October 17th, Kuroo’s favorite day of the year.

Yours, too.

Although, you would never tell him that.

The starting game of MSBY vs. Tachibana Red Falcons is a match predicted to be vicious and brutal. Considering Japan’s top players had more than proved themselves to be powerhouses during the Nations League Tournament over the summer, the star power and media attention given to the players has given the entrance game to the season an anticipation that could not be tamed— not that anyone in the marketing department would want it to be.

The players this year have been nothing short of top tier athleticism— a detail that so graciously fell into the JVA’s hands and became their capitalized advertisement.

An unmatched season! A trial of power and speed! Japan’s best players go head-to-head in the best playoffs Japan has ever seen!

Kuroo practically played the lottery every morning with luck like this.

The Ariake Arena fills up like a lightning flood, waves of bodies decorated with black and red filling seats with heightened excitement. It vibrates throughout the stadium, transcends beyond the high beams and open space. It fills and suffocates until all that can be seen, heard, and felt is pure, unadulterated energy. It’s a straight shot of adrenaline to the heart. It’s the taste of a sweet memory.

The sound of excitement from guests and vendors steadily rises and Kuroo buzzes in place. His shoes tap incessantly on the wooden floor, fingers flutter with anticipation as he adjusts, then readjusts, the now wrinkled tie across his neck. His cheeks ache from the endless smile that pushes on them.

Carefully moved chess pieces, endless phone calls, and retina-burning contracts with sponsors have finally gotten him here: To the sweet smell of cool conditioned air and freshly waxed floors, to the sounds of chants and joy, to the sight of his successfully pitched logo printed beneath Miya Atsumu’s smug face on the large banner tacked on the left side of the arena. The veneration on his face is one that finds itself familiar to veterans. Standing on the shining hardwood of the court, his hands finally find rest on his hips, his gaze stilling at the sight of his months-long work.

Pride doesn’t really do much justice to the feelings inside of him— but damn if it isn’t a close enough guess. His hard work finally actualized, but it’s only just really beginning. This is where his fun begins, the shining light, the gentle reminder of how much he loves his job.

October 17th, the best day of the year.

“We need to see the players before warm-ups begin.” Kuroo says after a moment, not even needing to spare a glance backwards to see if you’ve heard him. Such is the consequence of having a good assistant, one that, even with all the eye rolls and dragging sighs, is always a step ahead of him.

“Coach Foster said that he could spare us ten minutes before he gives his locker room speech. Coach Sato said the same.” You tell your boss, stepping beside him as his eyes follow the movements of staff members dragging carts of volleyballs to their respective places. An approving look settles on his face, a delightful perusal.

There's a tablet held in your arms as you notate on a timetable, presumably a schedule with detailed notes that Kuroo has to be on in order for the evening to go well. Probably one you've put a lot of time and effort into. Knowing you, it’s probably color coded. A schedule that he would do well by both you and the company in abiding by.

He shoves his hand between the tablet and your fixed stare, wiggling his fingers obnoxiously in front of the work that holds your dutiful attention. "Stop paying attention to that and look around you. Smell the air! What is it you smell?"

The excitement held so passionately in his eyes bore into your unimpressed ones. "Stale popcorn and lemon cleaner, Kuroo-san."

"So negative, I think the long work days are finally getting to you."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Not mine. You love me too much to quit." He grins. He gestures his hand outward, panning it across the stadium to the sight of guests filling the seats. "It's the smell of anticipation! The promise of a worthwhile game! How can you not be excited?”

A ping resounds on your tablet that draws your gaze back down to the schedule. It’s a message from the volunteer coordinator. You write a note in the margin—volunteers in break room at 8:45, give thanks and gifts at 9.

"It’s hard to be excited when you keep yapping in my ear about what day it is." You mutter distractedly.

"You're telling me," Suddenly his fingers are poking into the skin of your cheeks, lifting the skin upward in a manufactured smile, "You look frightening."

You swat his hands away, your own palms connecting with his in a vicious slap. "If we don't get started now you're going to be late in meeting the President of the JVA at his box seats."

Kuroo waves his hand nonchalantly. "Ah, he'll wait for me. I am the reason we’ve got a turnout like this. It's the least he could do."

You roll your eyes, formality lost as you address your boss. "It's about the principle of it, Tetsu. He'll be upset."

"Have you forgotten what day it is? How can anyone be upset on this day?"

You stare at him in violent silence clearly exposing the extent of your disdain for him at this moment. It’s a futile endeavor. Your stare only fuels the fire of his need for provocation tenfold. His smile widens, teeth bearing a shit-eating grin. With little remorse, you tell him, "You're very annoying when you're happy."

His head tilts backward in a laugh, lean and tall figure elongating with the motion as he, genuinely, finds himself amused. “And you're even meaner than usual when I am. C’mon, let’s pay the Jackals a visit.” Accompanying the turn of his body, he taps the tip of your nose with his slender finger and begins a trek towards the main entrance leading to the corridors of the arena.

“No.” Your quick retort is the popping of a balloon. He deflates, hands thrown upward in exasperation as he turns around to face you once more. You swear he stomps his feet.

"God, what now?"

“Favoritism.”

He balks with a furrow on his brow, “Pardon?”

“Favoritism. It’s obvious to everyone in this building who you’re rooting for, so we need to minimize those details before someone catches wind and decides to tell the press that the games are rigged.”

“Now, that is an outrageous idea. No respectable reporter would use my words against me.” Kuroo smiles, annoyingly, confidently. To which your stare only digs further into him, the infamous memory of last year’s season playing quite clearly across your face in which his sarcastic comment about players salaries made headlines and resulted in a week of endless phone calls to your office.

“JVA DIRECTOR STATES DIV. ONE PLAYERS WILL NOT RECEIVE SPONSORSHIP BONUSES AFTER ASTOUNDING SEASON AS ‘WE DON’T PAY FOR MEDIOCRITY AND THESE PLAYERS SUCK, OBVIOUSLY’.”

It’s the conveyance of death in your eyes alone that really gets him going. Truly, there’s no one more impressive than you.

“I said, respectable.” Kuroo emphasizes, hardly batting an eye as you walk past him.

“C’mon. Coach Sato is waiting with the Falcons.”

“The favoritism allegation is ridiculous. Ask around the office, no one is able to tell that you’re my least favorite of them all.” He follows you into the hallway without prompting like the well-trained dog you’ve made him to be, “That’s how good I am.”

You turn back to look at him, “Oh, sure. So the names Bokuto and Hinata don’t mean anything to you?”

Biting back a smirk, he says, “I have no idea who you’re referring to.”

—

In the aftermath of a worthwhile game and an impressive start to the season, the stadium quickly finds itself abandoned. Scores of people taking to the street to celebrate their win or drink their sorrows away, their raucous din and lived delight exiting with them, leaving only a barren arena—save for the remaining staff who dutifully tidy the empty aisles and clean the floors. Yet, even with their humble presence, it’s quiet. Only the light echoing of shoes and brooms on the floor, the rolling of carts, the sounds of vacuums filling the space and providing life.

And standing on the second floor of the arena, leaning his body against the railing overlooking the court, Kuroo finally gets a second to just look.

There are very few times in which Kuroo is quiet. Or rather, there are very few times where he gets the chance to be.

It’s hard to walk the line between professional and man, not that he does a good job at it on a regular day. It's an all-consuming persona and his job demands the full devotion of mind, body, and spirit despite the relative nonurgency that comes with being a Marketing Director. And while he’s never been known for his outstanding polish as a young professional— particularly within the confines of his office— Kuroo has never not been one to commit. What is demanded of him is what he gives, and more.

These days he’s finding it almost impossible to switch the hat of boss for the one of man. The lines between the two become even more blurred with each passing day that he spends another sleepless night in the office, attends another soul sucking meeting that could have truly just been an email, brown noses at people with titles and credentials that he cannot bear to remember for the sake of money.

Humanity slowly depletes when met with the four walls of an office that never changes shades. Moments like this are brief allowances. The empty stadium is conducive to the quick slip into a memory, the removal of the permanent hat for the other one.

The game played not even an hour ago is replaced with that of what he remembers. The once erratic beat of his heart before the blown whistle, the feel of burning muscles in his calves, and the sting of the ball on his skin; He can almost taste the salt of the disappointment of a lost match, and the sweetness of the joy the game gave him. If he tries, Kuroo can recall the last time that he was on a court just like the one before him and remember just how wonderful it once was.

The sweet memory of it all. A sliver of happiness that he keeps stowed away in the back of his mind, meant only to be pulled out in times of emergency. When life gets too loud and work becomes exactly what it is—work. It’s the needed reprieve, the gentle vice. But much like everything else these days, it lasts for only a lingering moment before it fades into the nothingness of everything else.

There isn’t one particular thought that he can train on. He couldn’t even tell anyone what exactly it is that he thinks about, for it all blends together into the great variation of everything. A hectic whirlwind of things that fall over one another as they fight to take his attention.

The game schedule for tomorrow, the invoices he needs to have approved, the mountain of unread emails relating to a media sponsorship that needs to be finalized by the end of the month, the leadership training that he needs to attend next week. Seeing Bokuto and Hinata before the game was a slip of the hat into the relative calm of youth that he remembers so fondly, he should probably try and hang out with them more. His social life is already pitiful. There’s also the fact that he has to go grocery shopping since he just ran out of instant noodles, unless he wants to have takeout again—but he’s already racked up quite the bill this month in takeout alone and he hasn’t been able to go to the gym enough to counteract those great decisions. He needs to return his sister’s phone call, something he keeps prolonging, not because he doesn’t care to know the details about his nephew’s birthday party next Sunday but rather because that will inevitably lead to the discussion about their father’s well-being and truthfully, that’s not a can of worms he’s willing to open just yet. And also—

“Hey.”

Kuroo’s head snaps towards the intrusion, towards the voice that cuts through the storm of flying thoughts and stills them in their rampage.

You stand behind him, your blazer thrown over your purse and the sleeves of your dress shirt rolled up to your elbows. Your hair is no longer the neat style you had at the beginning of the event, but instead the reflection of a long work day. Your own work hat stowed somewhere deep in your purse, in favor of someone he’s rather fond of.

“Hey.” He returns, surprised but pleased. He had figured at the end of the game you would have made haste with the exiting crowd. Your duties done for the day, the schedule you made him stick to like glue finished and completed. Any other person would have run for the doors and be home by now.

But, here you are. Standing with a content smile on your face and a softening in your eyes as you meet his gaze. (Truthfully, he should know better. You’ve never been one to just leave without telling him, whether directly or through email, for home or for a date. Hell, you all but yell your plans in his face just to reduce the risk of confusion. But he assumes, still, that you’re smarter than him. That you know when to call it quits on a work day and head home.

He conveniently forgets that, above all, you’re good at your job. You never listen, too stubborn and insistent on doing your duties even when he tells you to go home early; to not worry about the final details on a draft or a missed message; tells you that he can handle it. That’s never been you, because aside from being fantastic at being his assistant, you’ve been committed to your craft no matter what it is. You care too much about your job and the things it affects.

Because that’s who you are. It’s who you’ve always been. It’s what he knows to be true and violent about you, and it's what he’s been able to see blossom since working with you. So, of course you’re here. Waiting for him, because that’s what you do. Commit to being there for him, through and through.

Because you’re his assistant, of course.

Just his assistant. That’s all.)

He stands straighter, manners not entirely drilled out of his subconscious, even if he was distracted. A beat passes, he looking at you and you looking at him, before he, finally, extends a hand— inviting you to join him. You do, settling next to him on the rail, and gazing over the object of his fixation.

It’s a content silence. The inhale of the aftermath, the exhale of the preparation. One you both know the extent of, have shared too many late nights for. There’s great relief in being able to revel in the fruits of one’s labor, but there’s something all the more satisfying in knowing someone else was basking in that reward too. In not being entirely alone, despite the job often making him feel.

This is your moment just as much as it is his, something he’s never been more convinced of.

Much of the success belonging to him would be nothing if not for your firm foundation, the depth of your support for not only him, but the game. The wondrous, joyous game.

It’s only a moment or two of the stillness between you two before you gently disturb it.

“Today went well.” You tell him.

He gives an affirmative hum, a small smile befalling on his face. Folding his arms across his chest, he tilts his head from side to side in consideration. “You don’t think the banner was too big?”

“It’s no bigger than it usually is.” You shrug and he hums again.

Another beat, then he says, “Did you notice the photo?”

“On the banner?” You ask.

“Yeah.”

“I did.”

“Good.” He says, resolutely, looking over the arena once more as two staff members begin folding up the commentators chairs on the sidelines of the court, “You chose it.”

“I know.” You say. He smiles again, a happy and content one; and you would tease him about it— (about the fact that he’s smiling as though this were a great victory fought between the marketing department and the photography studio, one that he emerged victorious in fighting tooth and nail for your input instead of the reality of the situation.

It was a cloudlink sent to his email on a Tuesday afternoon, filled with prints of various D1 players that he was asked to provide input on. A task that he, then, delegated to you by calling you into his office on your lunch break and having you play eenie-meenie-miny-moe with him. With a sandwich held firmly in your hand and Kuroo pecking at his snack bag of trail mix, you point to the smug face of Miya Atsumu.

“It’s because of the smile, right?” He had asked, his eyes squinting and head tilted to the side as though that would give him better understanding of the man’s face. “He’s a great player. He just has the look of a winner.”

“I don’t know. I just think he’s hot.” You tell him simply.

Kuroo chokes on a peanut. You laugh. He sends your choice over to the graphic design team.)

—but you let him have the small win. Four years of working together has taught you which of the battles to fight, and truthfully, there aren’t that many that you don’t give to him. Admitting sucha thing, however, would be a violation of everything you hold dear to your job so you obviously omit that.

Kuroo speaks once more, his voice soft as he continues to regard the court. “You did a good job today.”

There’s no tease in him, no wry smile or setup for a joke that you’re clearly walking into. For all intents and purposes, Kuroo Testurou stands before you as a man with more than his guard down. He stands honestly, made soft and tender by the trials of a hard work day and the victory of his labor.

The kind of man you know him to be, that you hold such deep admiration for.

“Thank you, Tetsu.” For fear of disrupting the quiet that surrounds the arena or fear of shattering the genuineness of the moment, you respond in kind. Equally gentle when you tell him earnestly, honestly, “So did you, but that’s not new.”

You feel it before you can even see or hear it. The turning of the tide, the impending slant of his smile; The red alert alarm that you have built into your head for Tetsurou’s moments of snarkiness blaring loudly.

The taunt is on its way and you begin a rebuttal before he even opens his mouth. Kuroo’s face contorts into an exaggerated look of disbelief.

“We were having—”

“I cannot believe it—”

“—a nice moment!”

“—Is that a compliment I hear?”

Rolling your eyes, you turn your head away from him. “If you’re going to act like that—”

“No, no! Can’t take it back. You said it already.”

“Nope. I formally recant my statement—”

“Ooh, big word—”

“—I forswear what I said—”

“—Forswear?! How do you even know what that means?”

“—You did an adequate job. Actually, you did exactly what was expected of you. Nothing more.”

“C’mon, give me some credit. You weren’t expecting me to land that invite for that GQ party next month. And how did I do that? Remind me one more time?” Kuroo leans his head towards you, tapping his ear repeatedly.

“By doing your job.” You insist and he throws his head to the side in hurt.

“By being the best at my job.”

“They invited you because you were badgering them in the box seats. What did you bribe them with?”

He levels a steady smirk at you, “Sounds like someone doesn’t want to go.”

You gasp, eyes narrowing, “You wouldn’t.”

“Admit it, then.” He grins.

“Admit what! That I kept you on schedule for the day so that you could actually do your job and get us the invites? Then I will admit that I did my job excellently.” You poke your finger into his chest repeatedly and he laughs.

He agrees with a small nod of his head, smiling widely, knowingly. “You did.”

“I did.” You affirm. “And with enough time to factor in potty breaks. Plural.”

Kuroo laughs again, incredulously, “Potty. Who even says that anymore?”

“Me. Your lovely, amazing assistant that you are definitely taking to the GQ party.”

Kuroo’s gaze fixes on yours, held firmly as the grin lingering so resolutely on his face reaches up to his eyes. The conversation peters out into another gentle silence, ambers meeting yours in a steady embrace, and voicing what remains to be said. Held tightly by the reciprocity of your own gaze.

It happens, then. The quiet kindling that has become so familiar between he and you. The settling of a warmth between the space that has been occurring more frequently; Found only in times like this. When laughter dissipates and ease takes over. When it becomes glaringly obvious that you enjoy your boss’s company a little more than you probably should, and that he doesn’t necessarily mind you all that much. There isn’t much to say about it even though your tongue feels heavy in your mouth and fiction dictates that this is the moment where someone should say something.

But what is there to say at this moment to the man who signs your paychecks? Who eggs you on in ways that no one would even bother to do? What could you express other than profound admiration and deep annoyances over his character? What could you tell him that he doesn’t already know?

(Maybe the truth that is buried deep within you. One that you haven’t admitted to yourself because honestly, you aren’t even sure you believe it yourself.

There’s bound to be affections shared between two people who work in such close proximity as you two. Regard, appreciation, fondness— but not that. No, it couldn’t be that. That would be ridiculous.

Because he’s your boss, of course.

Just your boss. That’s all.)

“You should go home,” Tetsurou is the first to break the stare. Fortunately, too, lest you become too absorbed in your thoughts and do something stupid like risking getting lost in the eyes of amber. He turns his attention to his hands on the railing, his thumb tapping repeatedly on the metal. “Get some rest. You deserve it, keeping me in line and all.”

He bumps his shoulder into yours.

“Are you heading home soon?” You ask.

He shrugs, before looking to the court once more. “In a minute. I’m going to stay for a little longer. Not ready to go home yet.”

You hum, “Then I’ll stay with you.”

There’s a beat of silence, one that, when you glance towards him you expect to see filled with amusement. Maybe a tease on his tongue once more about how hard you work, about how miserable you’ll be in the morning for staying up past your bedtime. Instead, you see only the calm stillness of his face, eyes fixed resolutely on the empty court before him.

He leans forward onto the railing, bracing his elbows against its fixture, watching the scene below him as though it were the most interesting thing in the world. Four janitors taking a break from their waxing of the floor to play a quick, and sloppy, game of volleyball. Soft laughter echoes throughout the room, broken apart by low mutterings of commentary on their plays that sends the four older men into even further laughter.

Then, “Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I went pro.”

To learn of other people in the course of a years-long friendship is natural, rightfully expected— and while there is much of Kuroo that you do know and can recite off the top of your head, the willful admittance of intimate details, especially in quiet times like this, is always surprising. Especially when coupled with the contemplative silence that follows his words, the genuine wonder, the longing written on his face as the rose thoughts of a first love bloom in the cracks of a fallen smile.

In the softening of his eyes and the deep sigh that he releases, you realize that there’s a Kuroo Tetsurou that you don’t know.

Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, you reach out to find him. You ask, softly. “Why did you stop playing?”

His eyes remain trained on the court, as though the answer were laid upon the hardwood floors. “It was time. I loved the game but, I don’t know. Just didn’t make sense for me to keep it going. There were other things I needed to do, and playing professionally would have taken up too much time.”

You can almost see it, then. A younger Tetsurou, even more chaotic and rowdy than you know him to be, with hopes and dreams that exist somewhere in the great web of could have been’s, cast to the side because of the “other things”. You don’t pry, not when he’s already being so forthcoming as it is, but you make a note. Store it away in the folder lodged deep in your mind dedicated to the man.

“Would you be happier if you did?” You ask, albeit hesitantly. Not entirely sure what you would do with the answer.

He rolls his broad shoulders gently, like a tide rolling in under itself, swayed under its own pressure and maybe that should mean something. “Well, it’s not like I’m unhappy. I’ve got a good life, good job, good people. I’ve got it all.”

He spares a quick glance to you. So quick you wouldn’t have caught it had he not already been the centerpoint of your fixed stare, but truthfully, when is he not? When is he not the center of your gaze, your life, your world? Everything in your routine seems to start and end with Kuroo Tetsurou.

“But I can’t deny how much I miss the game.”

—you don’t mind all that much. Especially not when he’s like this. Open, sensitive, and wanting to talk. When he actually takes the time to chew his thoughts out and speak them into existence rather than continue his sordid and pointed teases.

You lean forward onto the railing. “Do you think you would have made it far?”

He adjusts his figure next to yours. His crooked elbow touches yours, but he makes no move to remove it. “Well… I hate to brag, but…”

You scoff. “You do.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Hard to say.” He shrugs his shoulders wryly. “In another life, I’m still playing.”

It sounds sadder than he intends it to be, but it’s the truth. And you get it; have your own could-have’s stored deep in the recesses of your mind, your own forgotten dreams about who you wanted to be that haunt and plague in the twilight of hard nights where sleep is elusive and quarter-life crises spring forth in the darkness—but it’s not all bad.

“Well, in this other life, if you’re playing and I just so happened to know you,” You tell him, “I would be your biggest fan.”

He huffs at that. Looking at you with a tilt of his head and a handsome smile on his face. “Oh yeah? And if you didn’t?”

“I’d be Miya Atsumu’s biggest fan.” You say simply.

“You already are.”

“Yeah, but I know you have jealousy issues so I just don’t say anything about it.”

Tetsurou nods his head. Amused. “Well I’m glad to know you, then.”

It happens here, again.

The quiet kindling, the lingering warmth. With hopes and dreams laid out before you, and the brief allowance into the depths of his intimate details he holds tightly under the weight of himself, do you find the familiarity of the man again. The one you know, the one who laughed so hard at your banana costume that milk came out of his nose. The one who canceled all of his meetings for the day when you broke your pinky finger in the office and who stayed with you in the hospital until a cast was put on.

The one who smiles at you so gently, as if you are someone important. The one you can’t help but smile right back at. Kuroo Tetsurou, your boss, a friend.

Movement in the corner of your eye draws your attention to the court. The janitors that were once playing amongst each other slowly begin to stray from the court, picking up their brooms and exiting towards the sidelines. Looking at Tetsurou, you find that he’s still looking at you.

“They’re not closing the stadium for another hour. And it looks like the janitors have had their fun.” You say, “Wanna play a quick game?”

His brows raise to his hairline, “You know how to play?”

“We had to choose a sport to play for gym class back in high school and it was either tennis or volleyball. So I guess you can say I know a thing or two.”

“Ah, a professional.”

“Mhm. I’m here to give you a run for your money.”

Tetsurou pushes himself off the railing, standing to his full height as he accepts the offer. Towering over you at his 6’5 height, he begins rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, cuffing the white material until it reaches the crook of his elbow. A quick glance to the revealed skin is only a firm reminder of what you had pointedly forgotten. Long slender fingers attached to a thick and veiny forearm, sculpted through years of volleyball practice and continued exercise.

If he wanted to, he definitely could have made it professionally. You almost choke on your spit.

“Oh, I’m counting on it.” Tetsurou gives you a smile that rivals the smugness of Miya Atsumu in that stupid banner and you know for a fact that in that other life, you would’ve been Kuroo Tetsurou’s biggest fan whether you knew him or not— and not because he was a good player.

—

“You need to lock your elbows.”

“They’re locked!”

“No they’re not. Look at this,” Tetsurou steps underneath the net, approaching you in long strides before tapping his fingers against the elbows of your interlocked hands. He watches with little impression as your arms swing easily with his force, “Noodles. How are you supposed to receive with this?”

“I’m trying but it’s not comfortable!”

“So you’d rather suck?”

“Kinky.” You say with a waggle of your brows and he rolls his eyes.

“Stop it. Here, you need to—” Without a second thought, he steps behind you, wrapping his arms around your torso and fixing your hands. wrapping your right hand over your left and running the length of his warm touch down your forearms. Innocuous and gentle, but stiffening as you breathe in the musky scent of his cologne and the faded scent of his aftershave, and feel the hard planes of his chest press against your back.

“Straighten your elbows,” He mutters, voice heavy beside your ear. “And keep them locked. Helps you to have a steady receive for any kind of ball. If your form is perfect then you can always pass the ball using this part, here.” His right index finger touches the surface of your forearm, running between the length of your elbow and wrist to accentuate his point.

It isn’t a matter of fireworks when he touches you, the exploding kind that has butterflies and goosebumps erupting over the expanse of your skin. It isn’t as though your eyes have suddenly been peeled open and the realization has struck you hard across the face like every romance story that preaches about the magic of the first touch, the electricity of meeting hands across the table, the sudden realization of knowing.

No, this is entirely different. A comforting touch, not uncommon, but intimate and while it doesn’t have you reeling in revolutionary realization, nor does it have you fanning yourself from the flames of sudden desire, his touch does, eerily, have you sinking in further. There’s no fluttering and flustering with the confusion of flooding feelings, but rather, it has you looking at his hands with a slight furrow.

Wondering, when his hands suddenly got so soft, yet so firm. Wondering, in what part of the intertwining of his life with yours did his touch suddenly not only become okay, but felt as though it belonged?

Were this any other man, you would have a harassment claim sent to HR before he could even get near you. But it’s Tetsurou; And when his slender fingers wrap gently around your wrist, turning them upward slightly, you don’t go rigid in his embrace, but instead fall into it. Settle into his grasp, entrust yourself in his hands.

Because how could you not?

“Like this?” You ask, quietly. No need to exert volume considering he’s right next to you. In search of approval in how you’ve adjusted your hands, you turn your head to the side to look at him, only to realize how close he is to you. Eyes able to see the steady pulse of the clench in his jaw as he focuses on your form, the sharp angle of his jaw, the closely shaven hairs of his stubble.

“Yeah, just like that. Good.” He answers, before removing his hands and bracing them against your shoulders, straightening your posture for the receives that you are no longer focused on getting.

If Kuroo Tetsurou turned his head to you, there would be nothing stopping his nose from bumping into yours. You must be silent, too caught up in the overwhelming nature of it all because he’s suddenly stiffening from his position over you. Then, at a speed you’ve never seen him move before, he’s rescinding his body entirely from you. And it should sting. The speed at which your boss acted as though you physically burned him, his body essentially repulsed from touching you.

He’s putting great space between you two as he ducks back under the net to his side of the court, yelling over his shoulder, “T-that should fix it. Try, uh, try now. Try serving.”

“I thought I was receiving?” You ask his retreating figure and he stills, considering for a moment, before waving his hand in the air— obviously embarrassed and confused at the fact that he’s just jeopardized everything and made his assistant uncomfortable.

“Whatever, just give it back to me.” He says, frustratedly.

And you allow yourself, just for a brief moment, to store another could-have in the sanctity of your fantasies. One where he isn’t your boss, and you aren’t his assistant, and you are able to admit to the true and honest parts of yourself—

“Nice return! See? Better already.”

—you rather liked the way he touched you.

a/n: HEEEEELP i love him your honor. sorry for always ghosting. i wish i could say i wont, but i know i will. lol

#kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsurou x reader #hq x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu drabbles #hq fluff #kuroo tetsurou fluff #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo tetsurou

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sassycheesecake · 6 months ago

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MEET AND GREET DAY 6:

#4, Captain and Middle Blocker Shūgo Meian of the MSBY Black Jackals

Meian can't remember the last time he had some peace and quiet

A crazy team to keep under control honestly requires a medal for patience

But lately, his mother is getting on his nerves as well

Telling her son to find a girlfriend, a boyfriend, a partner to finally settle down with

She calls him almost every day and whenever she would bring up his love situation, he automatically rolls his eyes at her annoyed tone

Meian is currently tying his shoes in the locker room, ready for the upcoming match against the Tachibana Red Falcons, when his mother called again

"Son, I have found you a compatible match! They're--"

"Mum, I have a game in a little bit, can we do this later?"

"Just promise me, you will go out with them tomorrow! They are very nice and I am not getting any younger here and neither are your reproduction tools!"

Meian is now at his limit, his mother mentioning his private parts is just getting too much for him

"Okay fine! If I go out with this person tomorrow, will you PLEASE stop bothering me about it?"

"Yes. Have a good game my son!" She hangs up and Meian is relieved, now he can focus on the game

"Miya! Stop using my deodorant! Buy your own!" "Give me my shoes back!" "WOOOO! GAME TIME!" "MEIAN! TELL THAT ASSHOLE TO GIVE ME MY SHOES BACK!"

Aaaaand off we go to the next problem

Luckily enough, the Jackals won by 5-4, so Meian is in a good mood the next day

As he waits for you by Komeda's Coffee around noon, according to the details his mother has texted him early in the morning

Honestly, Meian just wants to go back home and sleep, maybe if he's lucky enough, his blind date has both a terrible personality and terrible looks and he can just leave and go back to bed and finish the third season of Bridgerton

As he waits in front of the café, scrolling through Instagram, he hears the sweetest voice his ears have ever encountered

"Are you Meian?"

As he turns to look at you, his eyes widen at the sight of you

Like wow

The way your body moves, the way eyes your shine, the way your skin glows in the sun

When you are close enough to him, he gets an intoxicating scent from you, like gosh he wishes he could just hug you and inhale your fragrance for days

He internally slaps himself for thinking such intrusive thoughts on your first date

You keep talking, Meian guesses how happy you are to meet him because his heart is doing somersaults and his brain feels like it's constantly restarting

"You okay? You look distracted."

"No, no, I am fine I promise. I just have never seen such a gorgeous person before."

And now it's your turn with the somersaults

You both go inside the café, him holding the door open for you, pulling the chair before you sit down (sigh, a true gentleman)

Honestly, when your mother told you you would be going on a blind date with a professional athlete who plays volleyball, you honestly expected an arrogant ass who only talks about how great he is and how this sport is the greatest in the world

Meian is not what you expected

Sure, he is very good looking: tall, muscular, broad mouth-watering shoulders, a body that looked like it was carved by Myron himself

His personality is sweet, a bit inexperienced sure but he solely focuses on you and gives you compliment after compliment

He tells you about his profession, about his team and invites you to his next game in a week

Meian's teammates of course notice the constant smiling looking at his phone and the small nod of his head into the VIP section

Yet the ravenette doesn't care, already planning on marrying you in the future

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! x reader #haikyū!!#hq x reader #hq fluff #haikyuu meian #meian x reader #meian shugo #msby #haikyuu msby #msby black jackals #msby black jackal #haikyuu headcanons

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struwberrii · 1 month ago

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chapter 3 : terms and conditions ⋆⭒˚.⋆

masterlist

you look up from your bakery duties, prepared to greet those who just walked into your shop, when you hear a familiar laugh. standing in the entrance of your bakery was osamu, atsumu, suna and a guy you hadn't seen before. you felt your heart skip a beat when your eyes locked on suna.

you quickly catch yourself and go back to helping the current customer youre with. all you could do was hope he didnt catch you staring, hed probably think you were a total weirdo or something, or even worse, you could just be boosting his ego.

in between helping customers and packing orders, you exchange quick glances at your phone to check on what akaashi is up to

after 2 more customers you finally reached osamus group.

"heyy y/n! how've ya been?" osamu smiles at you, you smile in return and greet him and all his friends.

"so you're the infamous y/n" the friend you hadnt seen before holds out a hand to greet you. "infamous?" you question, worry rushing over your body, what have these guys been saying about you?

osamu kicks aran in the back of the knee from behind the counter so you werent able to see. "i talk very highly about yer bakery, these guys know all about ya!" osamu nervously chimes in, followed by a forced laugh.

"yeah, nice to finally meet you, i'm aran" he smiles shaking your hand firmly. you take his order and add osamu’s regular to the order as well, then you take atsumus order, then finally sunas.

“what do you suggest, y/n?” suna speaks up after examining the menu for a minute. “our cheesecakes are pretty popular” you smile, pointing to a few flavors in your display case. “is that your favorite?” you look up from the display only to see suna staring right at you, he had no interest in the cheesecakes. you felt your face heating up at the interaction.

“uhmm…. my favorite are the chocolate chip cookies, i put a lot of work into those” you smiled “i’ll try those then” he smiled lazily. you returned the smile and added the brownies to his tab. you then go to package his brownies and hand him the bag. “thanks” he says taking the bag from you, he turns to make his way over to his friends at their table, but stops and turns back to you. the business in the shop had kind of died down, you had started to make you way to the back until you heard your name called out

“y/n”

“yeah?”

“do you want to, uh, sit with us?”

“uhm, sure!”

you feel your palms get sweaty as you make your way around the counter to the table, one of your employees taking over the register

just as you pull out your chair to sit down you hear the doors of your bakery open. you look over and see akaashi staring back at you with a confused look on his face as he walks up to the ordering area.

“i think it’s bout time i properly introduce myself to ya, im atsumu miya, but cha can just call me tsumu’, i play volleyball on the msby team” he grins at you while tearing UP the banana bread and milk tea he ordered. it’s a little funny watching him talk about himself with bread crumbs all over his face, you couldn’t help but smile, it seemed like everyone was really enjoying your baking.

“oh, and i’m aran, i also play volleyball but for the tachibana red falcons, ive known these 3 idiots since high school though” he laughed, leaving the floor to suna

“we’ve already met, but yeah, i also play volleyball” he replied flatly. jeez, why even ask me to join you. “aren’t cha’ gonna tell her what team you play for!!” atsumu nudged him on the arm “i play for ejp” he says to you turning his phone off and putting it down for the first time since you’ve sat down

“so, how’d you meet osamu?” aran asked. “well we opened a few weeks ago and osamu was kind enough to bring some onigiri over as a welcome gift, after that we’ve kind of just been friends” you smiled. “wow, samu being nice, almost hard to believe” aran says side eyeing osamu next to him.

“woah” suna suddenly speaks up, you look over and see him taking a bite of the cookies you made. “these are actually a lot better than i thought they’d be” suna says looking at you with stars in his eyes. this was the first ounce of emotion he’d shown since you first met. “it’s like, you can taste the love that was put into these” suna smiled genuinely. “that’s probably the $45 flour yer tastin’” samu laughed. “yeah i must say, your baking is other worldly y/n, you’ve got serious skills” aran says validating sunas claims. “thank you guys so much” you smiled feeling your face heat up again

the rest of the night went smoothly, the conversation even continuing after closing at 8pm. akaashi had left about an hour ago and you felt yourself finally feeling comfortable around your new found friends.

“hey, how bout we all go to karaoke later, my treat!” osamu suggested.

everyone agreed and started to pack their belongings up. “i’ll have to close up shop but i could meet you guys there!” you smiled. “that’s fine, we’ll just go get a room and order drinks and food while we wait, it shouldn’t take you long right?” aran asked. “nope! maybe 30 minutes? and then i’ll be on my way”.

“here, put your number in my phone and i’ll text you the information” suna said handing his phone over to you. you knew he was just giving his number over to give you directions, but you couldn’t help but feel your face heat up at this gesture.

“i already have y/ns number y’know?” osamu cocked a brow at suna while you typed away on his phone. all suna did in response was shrug at the brunette in front of him, earning an eye roll from osamu. “i’ll text you soon” suna smiled at you as everyone waved goodbye on their ways out.

just as you begin to lock up shop you get another notification from suna

you already decided you weren’t going to sing but hearing everyone else sing sounded really fun, especially suna, you wondered what type of song he would pick or how his voice would sound. once you got to the karaoke spot you noticed someone waiting outside. suna? why was he out here all by himself.

“hey suna! why are you out here?” you asked curious.

“just getting some fresh air, oh, you’re here” he said standing up straight. “to be honest, karaoke isn’t really my scene” he admitted sheepishly.

“oh, me neither” you laughed in return

“wanna ditch?”

taglist: @karasusrealwife @iluv-ace @cc1306 @wakashudou @kawahearts @weirdowithaphone @sugacor3

(comment to be added to the list :)

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creative-crybaby · 2 years ago

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Fly on the Wall

PAIRING: yan!timeskip!Sakusa Kiyoomi x fem!reader

GENRE: smut | dark content (18+)

Minors DNI

TAGS + WARNINGS: yandere themes, noncon, stalking, somnophilia, semi-public masturbation (m), nipple play, fingering (with leather gloves), dacryphilia, cum eating, creampie, size kink, breaking and entering, panty stealing, basically Sakusa is a perv

Let me know if I missed anything.

WORD COUNT: 8.7k

SUMMARY: The new Black Jackal’s manager catches Sakusa’s eye. Unfortunately, whatever distance, physical or otherwise, is between you two, is too far for his liking. All characters are 18+

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Not meant to be a Christmas gift, but my timing does wonders, I guess :/

The Black Jackals getting a manager didn’t excite him the way it did his teammates. The idea itself didn’t bring him dread, of course, but the knowledge that certain players may get distracted–or worse: rowdier–brought more stress to him than he’d appreciate.

Bokuto and Hinata were already babbling on to each other about what you might be like, reminiscing their high school days when they both had two managers on their respective teams. Atsumu joined in, whining that Inarizaki wasn’t as lucky to have a girl manager, let alone two attractive ones. He also bet that you’d be cute—Sakusa could only roll his eyes at the exchange.

You carried yourself with a grace often unfound in volleyball when meeting the team, offering a polite smile as you introduced yourself. Even when bombarded with questions from the boisterous ones (you know the ones), you didn’t falter, even assuring Meian that you didn’t mind the energy: “It’s nice to know I’ll be supporting a passionate team.”

Pretty, Sakusa thinks. You didn’t blow him away, but it was enough for him to acknowledge upon first laying eyes on you. Even he found himself momentarily frozen when you two made brief eye contact.

Regardless, you’re not here for a modelling contract; you’re here to help the team grow to its full potential. The wing spiker may not be praying for your downfall, but he certainly isn’t going to celebrate your arrival too soon, either.

Anyone can refill water bottles and hand out clean towels to sweaty giants. The same goes for taking notes on their progress, especially since you should know how volleyball works. From what Sakusa has observed, you do more than well in that department, too, always ready to correct someone’s form or have a report prepared for Meian in no time. You’re organized, punctual; it helps that you also sprinkle in some encouraging words when necessary. (Certain members are more than happy to gain that praise, which means more headaches on the ravenette’s end.)

It doesn’t take long for you to get him to accept you into the team—in his own way. He doesn’t avoid you like the plague, per se; he merely never saw any reason to put in as much effort to get to know you the way someone like Bokuto or Atsumu would. He was just glad to have one more person to give him some proper feedback.

That distance Sakusa created is seemingly one-sided. There’s no special occasion, either: it was after a practice that partook a few days after a game against the Tachibana Red Falcons. A close match where the Black Jackals managed to pull through, though that wasn’t precisely what consumed the wing spiker’s thoughts at the time. You handed him a neatly folded towel during the athletes’ break, and he nods his thanks. You stay before him, and he peers up at you curiously after wiping his face. Stretching your hand to him, you carry a mini hand sanitizer pack. Nothing special: it’s a standard bottle in a dark red and attachable case.

“Noticed you weren’t a fan of the gifts from some of your fans and would look grossed out when a kid would touch you,” you explain, offering a small smile. “Hope you don’t already have one of these. This was the only normal-looking one I could find. Wasn’t sure how you’d feel about having a giraffe case dangling from your bag.”

You offer a sheepish laugh that Sakusa would refuse to admit is something he’d want to hear again. Not wanting to leave you hanging any longer than he already has, he takes your gift, eventually muttering his thanks.

It’s like a boy clinging onto that one compliment he got a few years back because it’s all he received. A rational voice in his head dismisses your observation as something someone on the team probably mentioned to you—maybe Atsumu made a joke about him being a germaphobe, and you took it seriously.

Still, that’s not a possibility the wing spiker wants to entertain. Not as he goes on with the rest of practice, not when he’s in the changeroom, not when he’s attaching that case to his gym bag, not when he gets home, and certainly not when he goes to bed that night. A small gesture, one probably wouldn’t overthink, lingers in his thoughts until Occasion #2 appears.

Coming back from an away game is one of the few opportunities the volleyball players get to recharge. After packing everything into the bus, each member sits in their unassigned-assigned seat. Or, at least, most of them would. Some chose to sit wherever it was convenient for them: they wanted to carry on their conversation with one of their teammates or maybe get some shut-eye. Sakusa was the latter, opting for a window seat far away from his boisterous colleagues as possible. Ready to close his eyes, he only got a few seconds of relaxation before he sensed some shifting next to him. With furrowed brows, he opens his eyes, ready to tell Atsumu off (let’s be honest, it’s always Atsumu), only to find you making yourself comfortable in the spot next to his instead.

You turn to him somewhat sheepishly. “Hope you don’t mind. I wanted to get some rest, and you’re pretty quiet, so I figured having you as my seating buddy was my best shot.”

You don’t say anything afterwards, waiting for him to tell you to leave him alone. To his surprise (and yours, he’s sure), the wing spiker mumbles a stoic “Go ahead,” his eyes trailing towards the window as he readjusts his mask. Even with his gaze no longer on you, he could hear the smile in your voice as you thank him.

For the next several hours, Sakusa remained awake, thinking about everything and nothing all at once as he’d glance over to your sleeping form every few minutes. Even people like Bokuto and Hinata lost enough energy to fall asleep, but the ravenette didn’t notice. If anything, his entire world dissolved into nothingness as soon as your frame unconsciously leaned on his shoulder. His whole body froze, but surprisingly, not out of disgust. Awkward, perhaps, but he didn’t feel the need to wake you up, let alone push you away.

His senses heightened. With you so much closer, his eyes scanned every detail your face had to offer, every reaction you had in your sleep, from stirring after hitting a speedbump to sighing whenever Saksua dared to take a breath too deep. Speaking of breathing, even with yours being so shallow, he can hear the steady rhythm loud and clear, despite Bokuto’s snoring somewhere in the distance. Your scent attacked his nose, even with the mask shielding most of his face, and he can at least admit to himself that it was refreshing to smell something that wasn’t a bunch of sweaty athletes. It’s just your head on his shoulder, but the ravenette felt you burning your mark into his skin, one he didn’t ever want to wash off. Every sense except for taste—

A speed bump. The last thought retreated as fast as it invaded. The remaining hour and a half to return home flew by with his guilt as a distraction. Even when Atsumu woke up and teased the wing spiker for trying to get close to you, Sakusa didn’t feel the need to reply. He merely looked down at your still-sleeping form for several seconds more before eventually trying to wake you up. He’d rather he didn’t, but something about others seeing you in such a vulnerable state irked him in a way he can only describe as filthy. No amount of water and hand soap can scrub away that dirt, but as soon as your eyes opened and met his before anyone else’s, that itch got scratched. He didn’t register your profuse apologies until a couple of other teammates decided to join in on the teasing, and suddenly Sakusa found his voice.

“It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. And it still isn’t. Maybe you forgot about it or saw that moment as a funny story to share over drinks with friends, but it’s different for the wing spiker. He knows it shouldn’t be, yet here he is, replaying every minor interaction between the two of you. There was a reason for him keeping his distance from you when you first started: you both stick to your tasks during practice and games, only interacting when progress and strategy are the focus. Otherwise, the athlete is back in whatever vacant corner he can find, shrinking his almost 6’’4 frame as much as he can in hopes that he can avoid possible interactions. (And if that means he gets to watch you laugh at something Atsumu said or go over strategy with Meian, then those times in his hiding spot have come with new benefits.)

But he’s not in a corner right now: he’s at Onigiri Miya with his team and EJP Raijin, eyes boring into your frame as his cousin says something he doesn’t quite catch.

The ravenette hums. “What was that?”

“Your new manager’s pretty cute and all,” Komori starts, not too loudly for others to hear, “but if you keep staring at her, you’re going to look like some creep.” Sakusa’s head snaps to the libero, who sheepishly smiles as he scratches the back of his neck. “I mean, I get that you were never all that good with girls, but even you should know this stuff by now.”

The wing spiker scoffs at his cousin’s joke, opting to take a bite out of his onigiri instead of replying. You’re listening to whatever story the blonde Miya twin has to share, laughing whenever the younger one butts in with commentary to embarrass the former. Now you watch in amusement as the two lookalikes bicker, and it makes Sakusa realize something: besides the few moments he recalls oh-so fondly, you don’t interact with each other much outside of volleyball.

He glides his thumb across the nori on his food in irritation. The moments shared between you rarely involve anything outside of the sport. For someone as observant as him, the ravenette is almost ashamed he let his very few one-on-one memories of you two distract him from such an obvious (and somewhat embarrassing) fact.

You’ve probably spent more time with a handful of his other teammates. Sakusa recalls Bokuto and Hinata inviting you to a movie marathon at the latter’s place on your day off, though through all that excitement exchanged between them, all he could do was mutter under his breath about them wasting your time. It probably doesn’t matter whether or not you accepted their offer; they still approached you.

The same goes for whatever Atsumu says to you that makes you two snicker under your breaths. Inside jokes, Sakusa is sure of it, though it doesn’t make him scoff any less. If anything, his mood grew sour with every interaction you had that wasn’t with him. Another fact he wasn’t aware of until the blonde setter asked him if the stick up his ass was bigger than it used to be. (The wing spiker’s response to the harmless joke needn’t be shared.)

“Just talk to her.” Komori’s voice brings Sakusa back to Onigiri Miya. Staring; again. Lovely. The ravenette faces his cheerful cousin once more, who offers a chuckle. “I’ll even play wingman if you want.”

The quieter of the two finishes his onigiri before getting up from his seat. The libero watches as his relative puts his MSBY jersey on before heading for the exit. “I’m good, thank you.”

The ravenette risks a glance your way once he makes it to the door. You don’t meet his gaze, still occupied with the twins. No surprise there, but that doesn’t stop the disappointment plunging into his chest as he exits the shop.

That one-sided has seemingly returned since then, though the roles are reversed. Even with the few moments exchanged between you two, Sakusa struggles to pinpoint when he started to care for your attention in the several months you’ve been part of the team. The days when he felt indifferent involved less overthinking and even lesser restless nights; now, he can’t stop nitpicking at whatever detail catches his eye. You styled your hair differently one day; you’re snacking on cheesecake-flavoured Kitkat because it’s your new favourite snack. These notes follow up with nothing on his end except an extra bullet point in his brain’s buzzing list.

It’s a winter evening when he adds his first crucial fact: your home address. An abyss swallows the sky at what seems to be only half past five. Not a usual time for practice, though nothing that disrupted Sakusa’s schedule. He’s making his way to his car when he sees you standing aside, eyes glued to your phone. A rare sight, though not an unwelcomed one.

You’re frowning, the wing spiker notices. He’s approaching you, he notices too little too late. You notice him.

“Oh, Sakusa!” you smile, pocketing your device. “Good work today.” The ravenette doesn’t need his mask to hide his contentment at your praise, though the pride that swells inside him grows challenging to swallow. “Off home to relax?”

His tongue rests between his teeth as he nods, and you hug your coat tighter to your body. His brain screams to carry on a conversation, no matter how small or meaningless, but his eyes seem to do enough as they rake through the parking lot. He’s looking for your car, he realizes, but has no clue as to what it looks like.

“Had to bus here,” you explain sheepishly. Sakusa watches you from the corner of his eye, internally sighing in relief at your (alleged) mind-reading powers. “My car needs fixing, and with practice taking place later on in the day, finding a bus worked better.” Your gaze trails to the streets only a few meters away, exhaustion making them droop. “Guess my supposed ride is being held back, huh?”

“Let me take you home.”

Your head snaps in the wing spiker’s direction, whose eyes slightly widen in shock at his proposition. Now he decides to talk. He digs his nails into the strap of his gym bag, jaw clenching as he tries to appear calm as he awaits your response.

Your brows crease ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t want to cause you any trouble.”

Your voice shrinks at your concern. Sakusa imagines you shrinking under his gaze as well. “You never cause me any trouble.”

Not how he would’ve liked to word it, but it’s too late to take it back. You beam at him, offering your thanks and letting him know you owe him as you step closer to his tall frame. He doesn’t flinch away, instead facing the parking lot once more as he chews on his bottom lip under his mask.

The car ride holds silence throughout the fifteen-to-twenty minutes on his end, with you giving the ravenette directions and discussing the team’s progress. He only offers curt nods and soft hums, not that he minds this time; your sunny tone and presence in such a closed space were more than enough for him. Besides, his brain is occupied with carrying your guidance as you get closer to your destination. Because he’s the driver, and you ought to return home safely. It’s been a long day for both of you: you’re exhausted, and you don’t hide this fact as you slump in the passenger seat and sometimes yawn.

And when you finally tell Sakusa to pull up into your driveway, he can’t help but scan your home with his eyes, wondering which windows expose which room. He sees one with lavender curtains from the interior, and he’s willing to bet that’s your bedroom.

You thank him, and the thought evaporates. He’s tongue-tied once more; he nods, unlocking the passenger door. Offering one more smile, you exit the car, and the wing spiker’s eyes bore into your frame as you walk up your porch and enter your home.

He’s backing out of the driveway when he begins to wonder if there is something different he could have done. The small talk was calming, but he found that he wanted more.

The drive back consists of Sakusa glancing over at where you sat every chance he got. He swallows harshly, fingers tapping impatiently against the steering wheel at a red light. Even with practice done a while ago, he feels hot. His clothes hug him uncomfortably, and it isn’t until his brain entertains the idea of peering down does he understand why.

He recognizes this street. The ravenette pulls over to a secluded area, quick to unbuckle his seatbelt before throwing his mask off. His chest heaves as he slowly looks down once more as if the first time was just a trick of the lights.

He’s hard. Being alone with you for less than half an hour is enough to make him fucking hard.

He’s also alone. For a second, he recalls keeping a pack of tissues in the glove compartment.

He’s also in his car. His home is not too far from yours, he noticed as you gave him directions.

You were also in his car. The passenger seat pulls Sakusa’s gaze towards it. He’s leaning into where you sat not long ago, and if he focuses hard enough, he can catch a whiff of your perfume.

His cock stirs in his slacks, and the ravenette climbs over the gear shift before his brain can reason with his body.

The passenger’s seat is still a bit warm, he notices upon making himself comfortable in his new spot. The wing spiker shakily exhales as he unzips his pants with great haste, shimmying them down to his thighs. His pace doesn’t slow down when he gets to his briefs, either, opting to tuck the waistband between his balls and dick’s base to free his shaft of its confinements. Only then does he pause, breathing still trembling as he tries to calm himself.

There’s not much time. An empty parking lot when he got there, but it won’t stay that way forever. Sakusa spits into his palm, needing some makeshift lube to start slowly stroking himself. The relief has his eyes fluttering closed and lips parting with a sigh. It isn’t long until he feels some precum sliding down from his slit, and he spreads the stickiness to help with his movements. He takes a deep breath through his nose and again catches your scent.

What if it was your hand pumping his cock instead? It should be. You’d be smiling as you do so, peering up at the wing spiker through your lashes as you ask him how he likes it. Always there to help during practice; how is this any different? You want what’s best for the team, for him. Anything for him—

Sakusa’s choking on a groan as he paints his hand and the glove compartment a creamy white. He doesn’t open his eyes until his high finally descends him back to earth, where he realizes what he’s done.

He groans, in both exhaustion and disgust from the mess in his car and thoughts. He was a teenager when he lasted this long, though the quantity of his release takes him by surprise. Has he truly been pent up for too long? Did you do this?

Sakusa’s quick to take out that tissue pack.

You thank him for the ride home once more the next time you see each other at practice. Other than that, the wing spiker continues to keep his distance. Mainly due to the shame that follows remembering what he’s done after dropping you off, but the one time you two shared eye contact for more than a few seconds when you handed him a towel during a break brought another feeling into the mix: excitement. What for, Sakusa has yet to find out. Or maybe he’s trying to avoid that explanation. Like any minute, you’ll tell him, you know, eyelids heavy as the emphasis tells him more than enough of what you’re talking about. The thought makes his lower stomach churn in an agonizing blender. Then, you’ll pull him into the storage closet, where you’ll—

Say his name. Well, no. Not you. Someone else is saying it. Again and again.

The ravenette blinks back into the real world, masking his fantasy with a blank slate for a face as he turns to look at whoever could need something from him.

“Oh, so yer awake?” Atsumu. Of course. “Still got some energy in me, and I need t’kill a bit of time. Wanna set fer ya fer a bit.”

The grin the faux blonde offers isn’t reciprocated as Sakusa notices front the corner of his eye some of his teammates entering the changeroom. A part of him wants nothing more than to follow them, the clothes clinging to his body from all the sweat making him internally recoil as he wishes for a shower. He also knows this is an opportunity to improve without you there: as much as he enjoys your presence, you become a distraction as a drawback.

The wing spiker sighs. “Only for a little bit.”

Atsumu beams at his teammate’s (albeit reluctant) acceptance, already jogging to fetch a ball to begin.

Sakusa finds his focus coming back with every spike he lands on the other side of the court, slowly but surely returning to normal. Another way to release some steam; he tries not to cringe at the memory of the other tactic from the night before.

The attempt fails as soon as you enter the gym with Meian by your side. The two of you are speaking to each other—about what, the ravenette isn’t sure. He doesn’t get a chance to listen in, anyway.

“Nice kill!” Atsumu chirps, gaining the attention of not just his teammate, but his captain and manager as well. With a final nod, you and Meian go your separate ways; him towards the changeroom and you, the other two athletes.

“Don’t push yourselves too much, guys,” you chuckle. “You already worked hard during practice. Take the time to relax as well.”

Sakusa can barely give you a nod while the setter grins at you.

“I’m gonna get cleaned up before we head out, ‘kay?” The wing spiker’s head snaps towards his teammate with a raised brow. Neither you nor the faux-blonde acknowledge his confusion.

You smile. “Take your time. I’ll just put the net and volleyballs away while you’re at it.”

Atsumu nods before slapping Sakusa’s back and jogging to the changeroom. The ravenette can only look down at a stray ball and pick it up. He remembers enjoying the silence between him and whoever he was with.

“I’ll help,” he mutters, walking away before he can witness your reaction. It’s ridiculous, like some middle school crush: wanting nothing more than to be close to you, but freezing up as soon as it happens. And he can’t avoid you forever–he doesn’t want to–because you eventually meet him at the ball cart, dropping the armful of volleyballs into it. “What was that with Miya earlier?”

His voice finds itself whenever he’d rather it didn’t. He’s curious, sure, but he didn’t need his tone to give away his distaste. He can only hope you dismiss it as Sakusa being Sakusa and nothing more.

With the small smile you give him, the ravenette is certain he’s safe. “Oh, ‘Tsumu invited me to check out this restaurant that recently opened with him after practice. Heard they made some of my favourites there, and I wanted to try them ASAP.”

Sakusa pretends that you being on a first-name basis with the setter doesn’t bother him. He doesn’t respond to your explanation and remains silent as he brings the net down with your help. The next time he acknowledges you is before he rushes to the changeroom to shower, ignoring Atsumu as they cross paths.

He’s at the wrong house.

You’d think one knew the directions to the place they called home, yes? At the very least, have an idea of the area. Yet, it’s only until your driveway makes it to his peripheral vision does the ravenette realize his mistake. And he’s just in time to watch you walk up your porch.

After another restless night, the wing spiker needed to clear his head. His home brought him no distractions, already too tidy to clean, and his mind continuously drifted away when watching recordings of volleyball matches. With a day to himself, he might as well go around town—there’s a mall not too far from his place, he recalls. It was a better attempt at keeping him occupied, though he couldn’t help it when he passed a perfume shop and wondered what scent was your favourite. Or the neighbouring lingerie store, putting whatever scandalous pieces of lace out on display, giving the athlete’s spiralling mind suggestions on what you would look best in. (White, he concluded before processing.)

He didn’t want much, nor did he need much. More or less satisfied with his purchases (and dissatisfied with failing distractions), he’s in his car, ready to head back home.

But he’s not home. Or rather, his house. The latter is a mere building; the former, a sense of comfort. And while there’s guilt bubbling in his chest, witnessing you carry on with your everyday life has him relaxing in his seat.

You were on an errand run, Sakusa observes. Groceries, from what he sees. What would you be making for dinner tonight? He’s too far away to catch what exactly is in your bags. The weather’s fallen to a frigid slumber—stew, perhaps? Or maybe you’ll make some umeboshi—those appeared to be your favourite whenever the team stopped by at Onigiri Miya. He and his teammates have had the opportunity to try some of your cooking firsthand; the ravenette is positive whatever you make will be just as delicious.

Then he remembers yesterday’s interaction, and his grip on the steering wheel tightens. Where did you two go? And when did Atsumu get so comfortable with you to take you out? You seemed content and—

And getting angry during this opportunity won’t do him any good. Surprised, Sakusa manages to calm down a little, opting to distract himself with other scenarios.

What could you two eat together? What would you serve him? He lets his thoughts waltz. The two of you share a meal after a long practice, or maybe you cook together on your day off. He’s seen a few romance movies in his life; he can imagine hugging you from behind as you prepared the food, him nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck as you both talked about whatever was on your mind. The conversation would continue as the two of you ate at the dinner table, his hand itching to find yours across from him.

And for dessert, he’d have you sitting on the kitchen counter with your legs wide open as he ravaged what’s in between them, your hands clawing at his dark curls as his greed controls his tongue. Or, maybe you’re feeling extra generous and decide to help him relax after a tiring practice, lowering to your knees to take every inch of his—

You’re struggling to open your front door. Too many bags in your hands—the wing spiker has half a mind to get out of the car and help you. As crazy as you drive him, he still has some sense to remind him that whatever excuse he has to be in your neighbourhood won’t be convincing, even from him. And with the evergrowing tightness in his pants, he has another problem he can’t hide. Worse, he doesn’t feel as bad as he used to anymore.

You finally manage to get inside, and the athlete starts the engine to find a secluded area once again.

Sakusa has to refrain from spiking the ball at the faux-blonde’s face in the following practice. A match among teammates, and noticing the setter’s little pep in his step upon entering the gym that morning had the ravenette glaring hard. A part of him was relieved being on Atsumu’s opposing team, doubting he could work alongside him for the day.

For now, the wing spiker aims his spikes at the older Miya twin. Anyone could view the action as part of his strategy; aiming for the setter to prevent them from setting is an old trick in the book, but still in the book.

“Damn it, Omi!” Atsumu exclaims in frustration after not properly receiving Sakusa’s spike. “Quit pickin’ on me! Ma arms are gonna fall off!”

A twinge of satisfaction plucks at the ravenette’s chest from the outcry, though he masks it with a huff before walking back to his position. His eyes automatically make their way to your form on a bench, keeping track of the points while scribbling some notes whenever possible. You don’t catch his gaze, seemingly occupied with whatever’s on your clipboard. The lack of attention makes Sakusa frown, as he had hoped you’d see him on his little winning streak.

It doesn’t stop him. If anything, it adds fuel to the fire, the flicker of pride from before blooming into something dangerous.

His plan doesn’t change: Atsumu will remain his target until he decides otherwise. The next time he’s given a chance to spike, his eyes make the mistake of gluing themselves to his victim. Barnes quickly steps in front of the faux-blonde’s spot, flinching from the impact but still blocking the ball perfectly.

It’s just one point, one that he can easily take back. Still, Sakusa can’t help but aim his glare at the setter on the other side of the net, something that doesn’t go unnoticed. A hand lands on the wing spiker’s shoulder, snapping him out of his spiralling daze.

“Take a seat, Sakusa.” Meian’s expression appears relaxed, though there’s a rough edge to his tone telling him it’s not a suggestion.

The bench you’re sitting on is opposite his team’s side of the court. Had that not been the case, the ravenette would try to take the opportunity to sit with you, even if words wouldn’t be exchanged. Instead, he settles onto a bench too far from you for his liking. Even if he were to try and take a peek at you, players from the other team block you from his vision, what with their constant moving.

He’s observing their movements; anyone can assume that. Sakusa can no longer remember the time he’d do something like that unless he was watching videos of matches at home. If he’s not keeping the ball in the air on his side of the court, then he’s scavenging for a chance to even be reminded of your existence: you handing the athletes water and towels, the captain calling your name to gain your attention. Anything will do. So no matter the frustration that comes with the package, he’ll find a way to catch you.

It isn’t until he watches you rise from the bench does Sakusa realize that practice is done for the day. He didn’t notice his teammates walking away from the court and giving him a clearer view of your frame; he was glad he could see you at all. His posture straightens as he watches you approach Atsumu, and his hands ball into fists when you rest your hand on the faux-blonde’s arm. Whatever you two may be discussing, the ravenette can only assume it has to do with his teammate being on the receiving end of his pent-up aggression.

Your conversation ends short and sweet, with you walking towards the storage closet. Sakusa’s only half-listening to his captain when he asks if everything is okay with him. Meian is offered an unenthusiastic response of “Everything is fine” before the younger athlete stalks away.

You’re struggling to roll out the ball cart from its spot when the wing spiker enters the storage closet. He doesn’t hesitate to approach you from behind and grip the handle about an inch away from your hold. You gasp, jolting back slightly before turning your head to face the brooding ravenette.

“You startled me, Sakusa,” you sigh, clutching your chest. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Always so eager to please, aren’t you? The wing spiker has to refrain from smirking at the thought.

Still, he ignores your question. “The wheels on this cart have been acting up lately.” With newfound confidence, he places his free hand on your shoulder to gently pull you out of the way for him to yank the cart. It jerks out of its place with a loud screech, and you wince. “You just need to give it a tug. Until it’s fixed, anyway.”

Sakusa looks down at the cart upon realizing this is probably the most words he’s spoken to you without having you carry the conversation.

You grip the handle after a few seconds of silence. Your voice, suddenly meek, shakes as you thank him. He’s blocking your way; nothing you need to point out to him, but your silence says plenty. His feet stay planted on the ground, and your loss of confidence makes his cock stir in his pants.

“You were pretty tough out there earlier,” you point out. The wing spiker knows you purposefully left out who he was giving a hard time. He also knows, based on your concerned tone, that you’re asking him for an explanation.

You aren’t offered a response. Sakusa only takes his time turning his head to peer at you, the darkness of the storage closet and the way his black curls frame his stoic face giving him an intimidating aura. But what has you subconsciously shrinking into your corner are the onyx caskets for irises boring into your frame, beckoning you to crawl into the empty pools of demise.

“I have to be if I want to win,” is his response before finally leaving you be, exiting the changeroom with the same intensity you witnessed mere seconds ago.

He’s back: closer.

Parking his car nearby doesn’t cut it for him anymore. Sakusa doesn’t think it ever did. With the amount of patience lost for every practice with his team, the initial distance was just a formality.

Now, his car hides nearby as he approaches your home, giving a quick yet thorough peek over his shoulder to make sure he’s in the clear.

It took him the third visit to learn where you hid your spare key, having seen you take it out from under the cushion of a little bench on your porch. And luckily for him, it hasn’t left its spot.

Even with his morals flying out the window, the wing spiker neatly places his coat, scarf and boots aside after removing them, then ponders over his leather gloves until ultimately deciding to keep them on. He eyes the spare slippers by the entrance before concluding they won’t be necessary (for this visit, anyway).

Based on the house’s layout, it shouldn’t take long for Sakusa to find your bedroom. But it’s not going anywhere, and neither are you. Why not get to know you via your home?

It’s a small house: one story and cozy. The ravenette wonders how you afforded it, even with your salary. With how minimal the style appears, he can only assume most of your income went into the building itself. Would it be too much for him to buy you things for the interior? As a gift, perhaps when the occasion calls for it.

Then again, is he really in any position to ask himself about doing too much? He almost chuckles at the thought.

A quick yet thorough tour of your home gives him a more detailed layout, though he’d love to stay longer had he had the time. Or better yet, your company. As satisfied as he was to find your living room and kitchen tidy–and by his standards no less–he’s not done getting to know you.

People don’t really need an exploration of the bathroom. It’s as clean as any other room, though it’s a cast-aside note when his eyes land on your laundry basket. Half full, too. Squatting closer to the dirty pile, a subtle yet musky scent hits his nose. Sakusa almost groans, cock stirring in his slacks; for such a clean freak, he’s never been more excited.

His eyes scan the basket’s contents, eventually landing on flimsy lace. Part of him wishes he wasn’t sporting gloves for the occasion, but he doesn’t let that stop him as he picks up the article of clothing. Underwear, of course it is, and a flattering magenta nonetheless. You wear this to practice? Or are there other times you put it on? Do you have a matching bra? The wing spiker can’t find anything in the basket, though he’s sure–no, he knows–you’d wear it like it was made for you.

Are you wearing something similar right now?

The ravenette stands from his position, pocketing the lacy undergarment before exiting the bathroom. Consider it a welcoming gift.

Again, it doesn’t take long for him to find your room. Being in such an intimate location is a different experience compared to looking in as an outsider. Everything is you: the way you organized your shelves and vanity, the colour palette—your scent is more prominent here. Sakusa doesn’t catch his eyes fluttering shut until he distinctly hears shifting.

To his right, you lay on your mattress, your sheets messily hanging off parts of your body. You’re barely a silhouette in his eyes; the moonlight stalking past the crack between your curtains is the only thing helping the ravenette navigate your room. Parts of the glow highlight a bit of your face, though a shimmer from the light’s reflection teases his peripheral vision.

You have a bookcase headboard, and on it lays a necklace in its case. Nothing fancy; a golden heart hanging off a thin chain. It’s more the note next to its box that catches the ravenette’s eye:

Thought this would look good on you ;) Hope you like it!

— Tsumu (your favourite setter <3)

If it weren’t for the fact that you’d notice, Sakusa would crumble that note and follow up with the faux-blonde’s neck. When did you get this? He surely would’ve noticed if you received it during practice.

There’s a good chance the setter gave it to you before or afterwards. The wing spiker’s aware that the two of you spent time together outside of training, though for it to happen enough times that Atsumu found it appropriate to give you a gift as intimate as a heart-shaped necklace has the ravenette glaring at the piece of jewellery. (As open as his teammate may be, Sakusa doubts he’d buy something like that for someone after a single meet-up.)

He hears a sigh: yours. Your body shifts in its spot again, opting to lay on your back. The wing spiker freezes for the slowest seconds his alarmed brain can count, only to relax once you stay in your new spot.

They say an average of eight spiders crawl into your mouth yearly while you sleep. A myth, of course, but maybe that’s what we tell ourselves to ease the paranoia. Maybe, that’s what he is, Sakusa thinks; a spider. Soundless, observant—he’s certainly made himself at home.

Maybe not, he reconsiders. Most people would carefully trap the eight-legged creature before bringing it outside. Or kill it; no mercy necessary. You have yet to do either.

Then again, you aren’t like most people. Not in his eyes, anyway. No, his eyes entertain themselves with your every move, and no matter how deep those holes in the side of your head are, you don’t catch his stare. Whatever he may be, he’s always the perfect distance to observe you.

Sakusa’s brain buzzes mindlessly as his hands draw closer to your form, long fingers pinching the hem of your pyjama shirt before lifting the material. No bra: not a surprising observation, what with your nipples poking at the fabric from the cold. Even with how dark it is, the ravenette salivates from the sight, his cock stirring in his pants. He’s grateful for the lack of witnesses, though it’s still embarrassing to be as affected as he is. You’re not even fully nude. Yet.

He waits for a reaction. Other than you moving in your sleep, the wing spiker receives nothing. He exhales through his nose, never thinking that gaining the knowledge about you being a heavy sleeper early on would be an advantage for him. His fingers twitch before slowly landing on your stomach. Again, no reaction; he then lays his palms to join the digits. With a deep and shaky breath, the ravenette glides his hands up your torso until they reach your breasts.

They feel perfect in his grasp, even with the thick layer of the leather gloves creating that barrier. Your face scrunches when he gives your mounds a light squeeze, though you remain asleep. As deep of a sleeper as you may be, one wrong move could ruin everything. Sakusa gulps, dragging his middle finger to flick at your nipple. A shaky breath from you is enough for him to shift into a more comfortable position on your bed before he continues his ministrations more confidently.

He’s careful, he assures; eyes flickering from your chest to your face, reading your expressions to discover what you like and making sure you don’t wake up. All the while, the athlete tries to ignore the tightness of his pants, although watching you squirm beneath him because of his touch makes that a challenge.

“Hnngh….”

It was barely audible, but enough to make the athlete stop everything. You’re still asleep, of course—he’s almost impressed, a bit jealous, even. Countless nights of insomnia on his side because of his fantasies playing on a loop, but yours give you a good night’s rest.

Regardless, the wing spiker gears to earn another reaction like that. Dipping his toes further into the water, he gets a little rougher, tweaking the sensitive buds between his covered fingers. Your back arches in his hold; more than enough confirmation for him.

Shifting his position once more, Sakusa wraps his lips around one of your nipples, dragging his tongue against it while groping the other breast. You whimper when he begins sucking: a shallow sound, but it travels down to his crotch. He already has to deal with the embarrassment of finishing early because of you; if he cums in his pants without any stimulation, you’ll surely be the death of him.

He can’t rely on you being a deep sleeper forever: the wing spiker must work quickly. Pulling away from your chest, Sakusa brings his attention to the lower half of your body. His hands glide down to your hips, hooking his index fingers past the elastic waistband. He wonders whether he should take his time removing the article of clothing or pull them down in one motion. You help him make a quick decision when your leg accidentally brushes against his hard-on. And while he refrains from letting out a groan, his hands make fast work of harshly tugging your pants to your knees.

Silence: not a sound from you, not a breath from him. Your thighs clench momentarily out of reflex once the cool air hits the exposed skin. Not fast enough—Sakusa managed to catch a peek at your drooling cunt. And it isn’t until you finally relax again does he exhale with a light shiver from the sight.

Now, with a clear view, the athlete reaches for his opportunity by swiping some of your essence and bringing that same finger to your clit. Your hips buck into his touch as he rubs slow but tight circles on the pearl, making his brows furrow in concentration and chest swell with pride. It isn’t long until he adds to his pace and slides a finger from his other hand into your sopping hole. Your thighs clench on impulse, a mewl leaving your throat as the air remains stuck in his. His movements are forced to a halt due to your hold, and it takes several seconds for you to settle. Do you enjoy the sturdy material of leather rubbing against your insides? Maybe you’re unaware of the answer, but God, wouldn’t the ravenette love to know.

Dipping his toes in the water is long out of the discussion; if anything, he’s in too deep, the water rising every second he proceeds. He might as well follow the rest of him down, no? Take that final gulp of air before dipping his head in and letting that frozen abyss swallow him.

Sakusa experimentally wiggles his finger inside you and, after gaining no reaction, slides in another. With how wet you already were, it doesn’t take much effort on his part. You gasp, but your eyes stay closed. Even with his morality slipping away each day he sees you, the wing spiker still finds himself surprised (and grateful) that you can sleep through his actions. He wonders how far he can go.

The longer and deeper he pumps his digits inside you, the more reactions he earns from you. The squelching noises between your legs also become louder, especially with the leather material of his gloves. He’s no longer worried, just curious about what sounds and expressions he can pull out of you.

A particular response tells him he’s found your sweet spot. With a drawn-out yet breathless wail, you lift your hips off the mattress once the ravenette prods at a certain part inside you.

Where there is darkness, there is also light, and that’s exactly what could be said to describe the glimmer in his eyes upon discovering this hidden gem of information. He continues his ministrations, watching in fascination and lust as you grind into his touch.

Meanwhile, his cock is begging to be released from its restraints, throbbing due to the display. Sakusa was hoping to hold out for a bit longer, mapping out your body in ways he hopes no one else has, but along with any logic and morality, his patience flies out the window.

You whimper when the athlete slides his fingers out; he almost wants to coo, assure you that he’ll make you feel all better. He can’t, of course, so he opts to taste you, lick his digits clean of your slick. He’s certain he almost cums on the spot, your sweetness consuming his tastebuds (as well as a hint of bitter leather) and leaving its mark in his memories. The wing spiker’s eyes roll to the back of his head as he tries to refrain from groaning.

When his gaze returns to your form, he’s swift with your pants, further sliding them down before doing the same to himself. Having his cock out of its confinements already does plenty for him, but not enough. Sakusa recalls how your cunt squeezed his fingers, practically sucking them in. You were warm, dripping, even with his gloves in the way. And with how eager he is to have you make a mess on his dick, he knows he’s no longer the same person he was before meeting you.

The athlete taps the tip of his cock against your clit a few times, just to watch you squirm, before sliding into your entrance. Only a few inches in, and he already has to dig his teeth into his bottom lip. None of this was a part of his plan—he’s not even sure he had one in the first place; he just needed to see you, feel your presence in some way, shape or form. And the latter is more than he could ever ask for, your insides hugging him just as tight as they did his fingers. The lack of a barrier is the icing on the cake.

He’s bottomed out before he knows it, and Sakusa doesn’t know where to look: your face contorting from being filled to the brim or your cunt stretching open to accommodate his size. Either one intensifies the swirling of his lower stomach. All he can do for now is play with your clit until you appear to feel better. (And if that means you clench harder around him, then so be it. He’s come this far as is.)

After a few minutes, the wing spiker reels his hips back with a deep breath. His thrusts are gentle, as much of a challenge as it may be to hold back. He bites his bottom lip as he feels you hug every inch of his cock, threatening to milk him for all he’s worth when he’s barely begun. You’re so much better than his hand; no fantasy can compare.

A few strokes in, and Sakusa’s restraint is thinning. Every time, he thrusts in a bit deeper, a bit faster, a bit harder. You’re quietly moaning between pants, your face twisting from a pained expression to one much lewder. Pretty lips parted with brows both furrowed and raised, you have the ravenette throwing his head back with a silent groan.

Unfortunately for him, that’s when he catches sight of that damn necklace again. His grip on the sheets next to your head tightens, his thrusts sloppy as his mind races. What made Atsumu think he had the right? Does he think a necklace is all it’ll take to get you? Sakusa drops his head to glare daggers as you continue to mewl and whimper. What do you think is happening right now? Who are you thinking about right now?

His mind keeps reeling, and the wing spiker fails to notice how he’s taking out his aggression in his thrusts.

Your whimpers grow to pathetic cries, tears forming in the corners of your eyes, and his hold on your sheets move to your wrists on instinct. With the mental spiral and physical force, the ravenette fails to notice your eyes shoot open.

Then, you gasp. “Sakusa!”

He hears the fear in your voice, no doubt. Yet, in a situation like this, with you beneath him, tears streaming down your cheeks as your sobbing and panting mix together, he can’t help but create a more beautiful scenario. You’re begging for him, his cock, needing him to fuck you stupid and fill you up to the brim, the pleasure so overwhelming that your nails are digging into his back, only his shirt shielding his skin from the potential marks.

The athlete doesn’t think; he slams his lips against yours, his tongue quick to explore your mouth as his release hangs on to the edge. And when your pussy flutters around his dick, creams around it, it’s the push he needs. Hot spurts of cum paint your insides white as Sakusa kisses you harder, his hips stilling. Even as he groans against your mouth, he can hear your choked moans, and he never wants any of this to end.

But that’s not how it works. Eventually, you both come down from your highs, his cock going soft and out of cum to give you. The wing spiker doesn’t pull out, but it doesn’t stop the white liquid from trying to seep out. It makes him shiver, slowly ending your kiss for you both to catch some air. The string of saliva connected to your lips that follows him as he sits up distracts him; something else to bind you two together. It’s messy, so so so messy.

He loves it.

You’re both breathing hard for the next several seconds, your terrified expression not faltering as your body trembles lightly.

“Wha—How?” you gasp, sob, you’re not sure, and neither is he. He’s only half-listening, still floating on that release and too far away. “Sakusa, how did you get in?”

There they are again: those eyes. Empty pools, yet always full of judgement. Like you’re the crazy one. Tracing the river streams down your face and clumps of shields for lashes, they seemingly do more talking than his mouth.

Then, Sakusa reaches a hand out to cup your cheek. You flinch, but it doesn’t stop him from wiping a stray tear. Even with your helpless sounds quieting down, the silence isn’t any less deafening. And when his voice, smooth and deep and a little too nonchalant, invades the room, you shiver.

“I was always here.”

#haikyuu #fanfic #fanfiction #hq #haikyu #haikyu!!#smut #haikyuu x reader #sakusa kiyoomi #sakusa x reader #yandere sakusa x reader #yandere haikyuu #sakusa smut #dark content #sakusa dark content #itachiyama #msby bj #msby sakusa

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suitstars · 6 months ago

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NOSTALGIA — s. rintarou smau

m.list | next

⤷ INTRODUCTIONS: best friends forever + atsumu

suna rintarou ⭑.ᐟ

first year physics education major!! is getting transferred from university of hyogo to university of tokyo alongside with atsumu to play for their volleyball team. is pretty trendy on social media and gets a lot of fangirls and partnerships because of it. former emo kid. is roommates with atsumu because he thought it would be easier than living alone (it’s not).

miya atsumu ๋࣭ ⭑

also a first year physics education major!! got scouted out to play for the university of tokyo with suna and is having a BLAST. had no problem adapting to the city boy lifestyle except some nights he cries bc he misses osamu and his parents, will never admit it tho (suna has so much blackmail on him). is pretty well known online, posts a lot of thirst traps on his tiktok account. his pr manager is fighting for THEIR LIVES.

ojiro aran ٠ ࣪⭑

professional volleyball player!! currently playing for the division 1 team tachibana red falcons and has a pretty well established career as a volleyball player! started uni but ended up dropping out after he got his first big offer. misses the country life deeply but overall having a good time. uses his social media mostly to make fun of his friends.

miya osamu ‧₊˚.

gastronomy student!! currently studies at university of hyogo, but is planning on moving to tokyo so he can open his own business :) he loves his major but is currently struggling with school because he’s used to cook stuff at his own pace and style. cried like a baby when atsumu got scouted and misses his twin like crazy but would rather jump in front of a moving train than admit it. facetimes suna almost daily since highschool just for the sake of it.

shinsuke kita ‧₊˚.

an actual mystery!! no one really knows what is going on with him because he barely talks on the groupchat, but apparently he’s going to school for agricultural and rural policy. still lives in the same house with his grandma and does not intend on moving out. has no social media except for twitter bc aran made him download it (even though he never uses it).

#🎧ྀི nana's works #suna rintarou #suna rintarou x reader #suna x reader #haikyuu smau #haikyuu x reader #hq smau #hq x reader

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yeahthatwouldbedark · 25 days ago

Text

Yen per second

tropes: death trope, friends to lovers, rivals to lovers, bully romance bestie, college au, friends with benefits I guess, Oikawa and reader have known each other since childhood.

trigger warnings (for the entire series): child abuse, domestic abuse, sexual abuse, bullying, depression, child neglect, terminal illness at some point, broken home, mental breakdowns, panic attacks, anxiety, death, injuries (Oikawa’s bad knee for example), substance abuse.

Chapter 7

11k words

January 17th

It’s such a cold day that it’s a wonder there are humans around with their limbs still functioning. A week has passed since the people of Tokyo last saw a sunray spear through the grey clouds. You could argue that at least there is snow pelted on the earth, a child’s dream come true, but even that isn’t enough to rid people of the desire to rush inside cafes where the promise of warmth and a cup of coffee is sure to be kept.

That’s the good thing about days like this. Tables are occupied which means more money for the cafes. There’s also the part about not being able to hear yourself think or your partner talk seeing as there is not a table at which a conversation isn’t being had. The world is alive with whispers, laughter, sighs, shoes clacking, fingers tapping, and the aroma of coffee.

It's been 17 days since they struck the deal. A week ago, Tooru helped her move into her apartment in the same building where Rin lives. Every day, he waits for her at the University’s front gate and when they’re both finished with work and volleyball training, he accompanies her back to her apartment. It takes some time to get used to him getting her hot cocoa with extra sugar (and a caramel mocha latte for himself) or him helping calm her nerves when she’s thrust into a discussion during class by rubbing soothing circles on the back of her hand with his thumb.

It’s honestly nerve-wracking. Almost overwhelming. Once or twice, she’s had to flee from him and to the nearest restroom. When she returns, he’s always there, waiting for her with a smile. She always feels anxious, entranced, and flustered when she sees him smile. It’s frustrating.

Yet, here they sit at a café after he suggested she change her study setting once in a while.

“So,” Tooru begins, eyes roving over Y/n’s face, which is presently buried in her ‘Social Psychology’ textbook, “There’s this gathering with volleyball players that I’ve been invited to.”

Her gaze barely flits upward before it’s back on the page, “That’s nice. Which teams are attending?”

Encouraged by her polite interest in the topic, Tooru smiles and puts the book aside, ready to enumerate.

“EJP Raijin. MSBY Black Jackals. Tachibana Red Falcons.” He counts on his fingers, “A bunch of other teams. And us, of course, The Tokyo Black Jaguars.”

He takes a sip of his coffee before continuing, in hopes that it will steel his resolve against the debilitating fear of rejection.

“And I was hoping you’d come with me.” He pops the proposal.

This time, Y/n’s eyes are alight with something akin to surprise and confusion. Hesitation is apparent in the way her fingers toy with the corner of the page she was reading prior to looking up.

She looks away and supports her head on her left palm. “I don’t think I should.”

Tooru’s face falls. Before he can wallow in self-pity, he takes the time to study her expression, concealed behind a curtain of dark hair though it may be. She’s not as focused as she was before he brought up the topic of the gathering. Unable to concentrate, her eyes flit from the top of the page to the bottom and her face now sports a barely perceptible frown. She’s frustrated at herself for not managing to get it together.

“If this is about you being scared that I’ll do something,” Tooru assures, absentmindedly tracing the curve of the cup’s handle. “I promise I won’t.”

“It’s not about that,” Y/n says at once. Realizing the speed at which she delivered the response, she looks up, almost startled. Looking anywhere but at him, she elaborates a little further, “Rin is in EJP Raijin. And he’s mad at me.”

Tooru’s eyes are as wide as saucers. “Suna? Mad at you? I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, I managed to piss him off.” She shrugs and brings her cup to her lips. “As is my habit.”

Tooru wants, more than anything at this moment, to help her understand that nothing about her warrants mistreatment. When he looks back on how things used to be, he can’t think of a single moment at which his personal issues didn’t distort his perception of her. For years, his image of her had been painfully unfair. For years, his fractured perception of himself had gotten in the way of them being there for each other.

He makes an effort to smile. “There’s another reason, isn’t there?”

Y/n can tell there’s some cream on her lips as she puts down her cup. It makes heat rise to her cheeks as she licks it off. Normally, she’d be glad of the warmth if it weren’t for the fact that she doesn’t want to be ‘gross’ in his eyes. Not when they’re trying to be friends for the first time.

“Are you sure you want to go with me?” She tries to ask without betraying a hint of nervousness.

“I’ve been rehearsing how to ask you since I received the invitation.” His lips spread in a grin. “So, yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

“And you won’t be ashamed to have me by your side?”

“Honestly,” Tooru croons, leaning forward on his elbows, “I’d be upset if you weren’t there.”

For the first time since they met again, she feels like laughing. Truly laughing. It sounds downright absurd to hear him say that her absence would spoil his mood. All she allows herself is a small, close-lipped smile.

“Is there a dress code? Or theme?”

“Yes, it’s formal.” He affirms, nodding, “And I’d love to help you assemble your outfit.”

She doesn’t take him seriously. “Okay, Oikawa.”

Without him realizing it, Tooru’s lips morph into a pout.

“Ugh,” He groans, “When are you gonna get used to being on a first-name basis with me?”

“Sorry, force of habit.” She answers honestly. “So, when’s the gathering?”

At that, Tooru perks up like a toddler being told that the most recent Barbie doll is now available at the nearest store. Hope is alight within him.

“This Saturday at 6 PM.” He says, “I’ll pick you up at 5:30 since it’s almost a 40-minute drive to the destination.”

“You wanna be fashionably late so bad.” Y/n rolls her eyes.

Placing a hand on his chest, he acts offended, “And what’s wrong with that?”

“Are you not embarrassed?”

Tooru pretends to inspect his nails.

“I’ve done worse things.” He says nonchalantly.

“Yeah, you once forgot to delete the porn from your flash drive-

He snaps up his head and raises an eyebrow. “That presentation was iconic I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then you started panicking after accidentally clicking on it.”

“It was adorable.”

“You literally had mating press in there.”

Tooru’s brain stops working for a second. “I thought nobody caught on.”

“Well, they didn’t because they were slow readers.” She says, tugging down the sleeves of the sweater under her desert brown coat. “Their English was awful. And you did some damage control pretty quickly.”

He shuts his eyes and an air of unfathomable flamboyance possesses him as he rubs at his temple in feigned agony.

“God, I was so iconic for that.” He recalls fondly.

Again, Y/n has to make a significant effort to suppress the mirth that fights to escape her chest. Maybe she should let loose, feel the laughter vibrate within and all around her. She only laughs when she’s drunk, and the memory is something her mind spurns. Her joy likes to collect dust, that of home, classrooms, parties, gatherings, and so on. It hoards the dust, concealing itself in its particles. It would take a typhoon to blow away the dirt.

Across from her, Tooru’s watchful gaze roams every part of her it can reach. Her complexion has always been pallid, bordering on sickly, but sometimes it takes on the rosy hues of cherry blossoms. On certain occasions, when he wasn’t being utterly vicious toward her or when Mattsun would wrap his volleyball blazer around her shoulders, her cheeks would bloom.

Her hair, far from ashen, stood in stark contrast with the majority of her features. It was a dark shade of brown and straight while her lips were pink and heart-shaped. Her cheeks, unlike her body, still carried some of the plumpness of childhood, with some semblance of a jawline to provide some polarity. She reminded him of the liminal space between winter and spring.

Y/n catches him staring, the corner of his lips angled upwards and his head tilted.

“What?” She asks.

“Nothing,” He answers, “Was just wondering what color would look gorgeous on you.”

When he doesn’t elaborate immediately, she shoots him an expectant look, “Well, which one is it?”

“Hmmm, black for sure. Emerald and forest green. Sapphire or midnight blue.” He pauses, picturing her in the entire spectrum. “Red. Maroon, garnet, and wine red specifically.”

“Well… damn.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You disagree?”

“No, I just don’t have dresses in those colors.” She confesses, scratching the lip of the table. “My formal outfits are more on the preppy, academic style. I just never imagined I’d get to attend any formal gatherings so I didn’t bother with the dresses.”

Tooru wants to point out the ridiculousness of it all. Being the best student in their year means that she’s bound to receive offers and be invited to gatherings in the near future. But maybe that’s it. Maybe she believes that, just like in high school, her achievements will be downplayed in favor of someone else’s charisma, popularity, or wealth. That she will only be given crumbs of the recognition she deserves.

Not under Tooru’s watch.

He grins so stupidly that he can sense the wariness in her posture.

“You know what this means?” He asks, leaning forward once again.

“What?”

“Guess.”

“Why are you so excited all of a sudden?”

His leg won’t stop bouncing in anticipation. “C’mon guess!”

“Jesus, Tooru I don’t know.” Y/n sighs, exasperated.

“I,” He declares, threading the fingers of her left hand, which have been chipping away at the edge of the table for the past few minutes, with those of his right one. “Get to take you shopping. And no, you may not refuse this offer. Thus, it has been decreed by moi that we shall promenade about the mall on Friday.”

She’s so startled by the boldness of his proposal slash decision that she can only stare in shock. Tooru has offered to take her shopping or eat out before⸺ the day after Chiharu and she brought him up to their apartment, drunk off his ass, the festivals during which his mom would entreat him to keep her company, and only once before… when he got his pride so severely wounded by a girl that he just had to show her what she was missing.

In retrospect, these moments were somewhat nostalgic, and bittersweet, with heartache and lessons built into them like steel in the foundations of a building. She couldn’t just shake off every past experience, as uncomfortable as it made her to relive them in her flesh. She couldn’t be rid of the thought that, if she took him up on the offer, she would essentially be indebted to him. This changed everything.

“Any thoughts you’re having about paying me back,” he says softly. His brown eyes are warm and inviting. “Silence them.”

She nods silently and flips open the book. Their fingers remain threaded.

The popsicle all but melts down to the heel of Tooru’s palm as he stands with his back to the open window in his bedroom. It’s the peak of summer heat and there is little to no wind to ruffle the curtains, which makes any activity a pain in the ass. That’s why the four of them are here; gathered in his room instead of sweating the hours away. Iwa, Maki, and Mattsun are seated on the floor where it is cool, the fan not far to Maki’s left. They’d be afraid of catching a cold if it weren’t for their hatred of the heat, a sentiment shared by Tooru. There’s only one annoying, prickly problem.

“Where does she even go every summer break?” He voices out the question that has been gnawing at him for the past two weeks.

Maki looks up at him. “Y/n?”

The mere mention of her name has him cringing.

“The fuck you talking about?” Says Iwaizumi, throwing down two cards, the sight of which makes Maki groan. “You know she goes to her aunt’s house in Tokyo.”

Tooru frowns briefly before it turns into a teasing smirk. “How come you know so much about her, Iwa?”

“Just because you don’t want her around,” Iwaizumi states, “Doesn’t mean others don’t either.”

That makes him want to roll his eyes, but his eyes seem dead set on staring at the floor. Suddenly, the creamy tiles are the most interesting thing that ever existed. Maybe if he stares at it long enough, he’ll think about something other than the fact that the room sharing a wall with his has been empty for exactly 14 days. That’s a hard ‘maybe’, as I well know.

“Woohoo,” Whistles Maki, his grin a stark contrast to the frustrated groan from before. “Our Tooru misses Y/n? Look at him frowning.”

Mattsun follows up with, “Oop, he’s glaring now. So scary.”

“Motherfcuker probably just misses making fun of her.” Iwaizumi joins in, focusing on the cards for the most part. “Your turn.”

What Maki says next as he plucks two cards from his spread stuns Tooru. It sews his mouth shut, barbed wire woven into his lips, and the words tug on it like enraged prisoners within a cell.

“To be honest some of the things he does could be considered criminal offenses.”

Fingers curling under the windowsill, he fights to select the right words. And fails.

“Like I’ve done anything serious.” Tooru mumbles, “You guys are mean.”

It’s quiet for exactly 37 seconds, with the exception of the fan working its magic and the boy’s muttering, before Iwaizumi decides to bring up the topic of her again, much to his Captain’s chagrin.

“She has a boyfriend last I heard.” He says ever so nonchalantly.

But Tooru has never, and I mean never, wanted to pummel Iwaizumi into the dirt as much as he does at this very moment. He wants to grab Iwaizumi by the hair and drag him down the stairs and then across the concrete until he’s nothing but a pathetic version of his handsome self. Because, no matter how much he tries to convince himself that the words just spoken are but a figment of his imagination, the incredulous looks on Maki’s and Mattsun’s faces force him to confront this disillusioning reality.

“What?!” the two boys bark out in unison.

“Why the surprised faces, you bastards? She’s a cute girl and extremely smart.” Iwaizumi says, frowning, “Never met anyone so intelligent before if I’m being honest.”

Maki nods, sighing. “Whenever she speaks, I feel so fucking dumb. Still like hearing her talk though.”

“Yeah,” Mattsun says, almost as if he’s daydreaming as he abandons his spread to lie down on the floor. “She has really pretty lips.”

“Which lips?” Snickers Maki.

Mattsun side-eyes him and Iwaizumi kicks him in the shin.

“Don’t be a pervert man.” He chides. “She’s our friend.”

“C’mon, you know I didn’t mean it,” Maki grumbles, rubbing the sore spot. “Who even is this guy, anyway? Did she tell you?”

“Beats me.” Iwaizumi shrugs. “I just complained about being stressed out and she started talking about aesthetics and psychology and how she and this guy send each other moodboards. Making them helps them to relax apparently. Sharing them is good too because you get to talk to the other person about the meanings.” Tooru can almost feel his best friend’s gaze on him as he continues, “Didn’t mention the guy’s name though.”

If she had told him, would his best friend tell him anything or would he keep it a secret in fear of Tooru jeopardizing the one good thing that’s happened to her in a long while? Was that why she hadn’t told him the guy’s name? So that Tooru would have no way of knowing? Why did he want to know? Why was there this gnawing need to know everything about her, this urge that only serves to reduce his conscience to nothing? He doesn’t feel in control. It’s all hurtling down a downward slope at full speed.

“He could be just a friend.” Mattsun points out.

Iwaizumi doesn’t appreciate it in the least when people simply assume the worst of Y/n. To him, from the moment they met on the playground as kids, she’s been the sweetest; quiet but assertive when it counted and willing to help if help was sought. Her appearance is naturally fragile, delicate, and sometimes unhealthy looking to the point where he has to watch her eat in order to be able to sleep at night.

Then there’s always her quiet admiration of Tooru and his blatant disregard for her feelings. Voice full of mockery. His touch always a tad too rough. His obsessive need to be near her followed by his repulsion at the proximity. The constant verbal harassment (and sometimes physical) that those mindless sheep at school put her through just because his best friend decided years ago that she would be the recipient of his pain.

It’s about time she met someone who would cling to her words and be in awe of her. It’s about time Tooru stopped being the undeserving recipient of what she wanted to give.

“Why is it so fucking hard for you fuckers to believe that someone could like her.” He grits out.

“Not that. It’s just…” Mattsun shoots a meaningful glance at Tooru, which the boy doesn’t catch as he’s far too preoccupied with the way the underside of the sill feels against his fingertips. “You know.”

Tooru, who has tuned out everything after learning that Iwaizumi doesn’t know the guy’s name, feels anger bubble in his chest. A frothing, mordant thing.

“That’s nonsense.” He bites out.

The three boys regard him with expressions that vary just the slightest from one another. Iwaizumi’s frown of displeasure says enough about how he feels about Tooru’s unsolicited input, despite the conversation taking place in his bedroom. Maki remains unfazed, having gotten used to his Captain’s antics whenever Y/n was concerned. As for Mattsun, he looked equally curious and confused.

“No one could ever like her.” Tooru’s throat feels tight yet his voice comes out as grave. “She’s odd and short and weak and a social reject.”

Nails scraping under the sill, he resumes his tirade.

“She’s so fucking annoying with her silence and even more annoying with her rambling. She’s so fucking useless and worthless but thinks she’s above everyone else.” His gaze bores holes into the floor. “I wish she would just leave once and for all. Maybe I’d find peace.”

A few seconds later, Maki scoffs, “No, you wouldn’t.”

Tooru can’t stand to look him in the eye but resolves that he must if he is to show that he’s convinced of the things he’s just spouted. The game is over, having long been abandoned in favor of the latest gossip.

“She’s not even here, and look at you.” Iwaizumi gestures to him, eyes roving all over Tooru’s body, “All worked up. Spouting hatred for her. Acting like a little bitch desperate for attention.”

It takes everything in him not to stomp his foot like a toddler at a convenience store who has just been denied his favorite candy.

“You guys,” He cries out, internally begging them to see where he’s coming from, even if Tooru himself doesn’t, “She’s the one who wants to take everything away from me! She’s the one who’s desperate. She-

“Look man,” Mattsun says, supporting his weight on his elbows, “You may have convinced the rest to be assholes to her. And we may not be able to stop them all. But don’t try to do the same with us.”

It’s true. It’s wasted effort to try and make them see her through the same distortive lenses that settle over his eyes when in her presence. They will never understand the feeling of perceiving every little thing she does as an attack on his pride. Every smile is an attempt to steal something that rightfully belongs to him. Every word is her trying to worm her way into his life, coating every thought with her essence, and threading her presence in the little things that were his alone until his heart rate accelerates.

He’s always trying to accomplish things at a faster rate when it comes to running from or toward her, appearing godly or hellish when he knows her eyes are set on him. He’s never at peace. He’s not sure he knows what that is.

“Whatever.” He says evenly and crashes on his bed.

Not a minute later, Mattsun whispers, “What does he have against short girls?”

“Not against.” Maki snorts. “Just ‘in’.”

Tooru hurls a pillow at his head.

“Y/n-chan!”

Ayame’s voice can be startling thing sometimes. Like finding an open bag of candy on the countertop; surprising but welcome.

“You sound happy.” Said Y/n with a smile, hoping it didn’t show in her speech.

She could hear rustling on the other end. Probably Haru rummaging through plastic bags.

Ayame got straight to the point, as she always did whenever overcome with excitement.

“Haru-chan said I can help with the organization of the exhibition.”

“Really?” Y/n wished Ayame’s enthusiasm would rub off on her. She wished she could let it happen. “That’s good. We’ll have to set like a time for our meetings.” Tapping the pencil on the open notebook, she looked at the calendar on the computer. “Is Wednesday and Thursday fine with you? I know you’d rather go out with Kuroo on the weekends than do this.”

She could practically see Ayame do that pronounced shake of her head.

“That’s fine.” The girl said. “Should we do it at your place or ours?”

“Mine is fine. You can spend the night here when we’re done.”

For a moment, Y/n thinks the line has gone dead or that Ayame has hung up after relaying the message. But if that is so, why can she still pick up on the girl’s breathing? The sniffle that trickles through the device; how can emotions pass through something that had died?

“Y/n-chan.” Ayame speaks her name, and it startles her.

Y/n hums, the pencil going still. “Hmm.”

And with that, comes the deluge… the apology.

“I’m sorry.” Her friend says, and for a moment Y/n cannot put her finger on what the apology refers to or tell if it is true. Still, the girl on the other end continues. “I’m sorry for what I said that night. I didn’t mean it. I really didn’t. I was angry but I didn’t mean it.”

It is a deluge. Y/n does not know which of them is drowning. But she can picture Ayame, right there, crying as she poured her heart out. She can see herself, submerged, with only the following words bubbling up to the surface.

“It’s okay.” She sounds firm, even, all the things she’s been forced to realize that she’s not.

More sniffling on the other end, and then a feeble, “Really?”

“Really.” But is it the truth of what she feels? Y/n isn’t ready to face that, to feel it, and the pencil grows heavier between her fingers. “I forgot to mention. We can’t meet up tomorrow. I’m… attending this event with Oikawa so I won’t be home until midnight. If not later.”

That’s when Chiharu gets closer, so close even, that the phone call is sticky with the sound of her chewing. “Wait. Tooru invited you?”

Y/n nods and little stars begin to take shape on the margins of her notebook. “Yeah, today.”

More chewing. “You guys are basically buddies now, huh.”

“We’re taking the same classes and presented a project together.” She pretends that it’s nothing, that speaking of him isn’t like dragging a heavy suitcase while all she can hear is the screeching of its broken, missing heels. “Also, he’s your cousin and hangs out with us on the regular. More often than I do, that’s for sure.”

“That’s because you won’t get your nose out of those fucking books for one second!”

Meeting her barking tit for tat, Y/n mutters, “And I’ll keep doing just that.”

“Please, Y/n we need love!” Here come Haru’s theatrics, making her smile. “Why are you starving us?”

“Kuroo copycat.” Her wrist keeps moving and the stars come alive with color.

The chewing stops. “I’m going to block you.”

Y/n shrugs even though they can’t see her. “Wouldn’t you hate that more than me?”

“Oh, fuck you!” The girl on the other end cusses out, laughing and choking at the same time. “You’re right.”

January 19th

Tooru is thinking of her while the fury of winter bangs against his bedroom windows, howling for entry. He is thinking of her pulling down the sleeves of her sweater, the expanse of her neck hidden under that thick blue scarf, the supple flesh of her palms, and the purple hue that took over as his gaze traveled up to her fingertips. He is thinking of the stealthy yet sincere smiles, their existence further dimmed by the shade of a tree, the haze of a rainstorm, or the brightness of a summer day.

Tooru is in his sleepwear, a pitcher of water and bottle of pills on the nightstand to soothe the migraine that overran his wish to stay up until late just an hour after the two of them parted ways. Tooru is just about to swallow another when he hears the notification sound. The number is not one he recognizes, and he would have blocked the person on the other side if it weren’t for that very first message.

Unknown number: Tooru-nii

It has him getting into a sitting position with such haste that the phone almost slips from his shaky hold.

His little half-sister, Shigeko, already has his number and she messages him whenever she wants or can. Tooru’s responses are far and few between but… he’s playing his part. The point is that her number has long since been added to his contacts. There is only one other person who refers to him as an older brother.

Unknown number: It’s me, Isaac.

Heartbeats grind to a halt.

Unknown number: How are you?

Each text sends another shot of anxiety coursing through his veins. It is worse than the spike of adrenaline he gets when he feels that he might not be able to reach the ball, yet still reaches for it in some way or another. Right now, he doesn’t fight or flee. Tooru is frozen on the spot.

Still, swallowing the jagged stone of fear, he manages to type the following.

You: Hey, buddy! I’m good :D. How are you?

You: What have you been up to lately?

Not even five seconds later, he receives a response from the boy.

Unknown number: Tooru-nii!!!

Unknown number: It really is you! I wasn’t sure if I got the right number!

Tooru can almost hear Isaac vibrating with excitement. Or perhaps… it is a sigh of relief.

Unknown number: Nothing :) (replying to “What have you been up to lately?”)

Unknown number: I’m studying for exams so I’m really tired

Before Tooru can attempt to ask him about his social life, maybe about a girlfriend if he has one, or how his parents are faring, the boy says the one thing he was hoping he wouldn’t.

Unknown number: but I really need to ask you something

Despite knowing where it will inevitably lead, Tooru tries to act normal. He can barely get his hands to stop shaking before he types in the one-word response.

You: Shoot!

Hours later, he will think about what he could have done to derail the conversation. He will drink himself until he is but a heap of muscle and bone and his sheets are damp with his snot, sweat, and tears. But now he can only sit here, feeling the vibrations of his phone as the texts surge in.

One after another. Desperate. Pleading. Oikawa is not ignorant of the trickle of shame within him.

Unknown number: do you know where nee-chan is?

Unknown number: no one knows

Unknown number: no one

Unknown number: she just left

Unknown number: and she didn’t say goodbye

Unknown number: I didn’t say goodbye

Unknown number: but no one talks about her. It’s like no one cares and I can’t do anything

Unknown number: I just thought maybe you did

Tooru can feel his eyes warm up. The sting of tears is an all-too-familiar sensation by now, as is the clogging of his throat.

I just thought maybe you did. Tooru doesn’t have the time to ponder why that is. His hands are trembling and he’s holding the wrist of his right hand in place as he types so it won’t slip from his sweaty grip. It still does. The device remains on the bed for a moment, and Tooru stares down at it, chest heaving.

Then he plucks up the nerve to type a response that is both truthful and… disappointing.

You: Isaac

You: I know where she is

He considers divulging the details of her address, putting the young boy out of his misery, but then he tries to remember the last time she spoke of her family- truly spoke that is. Since their reunion, rare have been the occurrences when she’d let some childhood memory involving her family slip past her lips. Even then, it was mostly hushed, unintelligible, broken phrases, chopped bits she bit into and chewed; a process of regurgitation. He wonders if her tongue aches, if the words wear away at her throat.

She will perceive Tooru informing Isaac of her whereabouts as a confirmation that he hasn’t changed, that he is still that boy who would humiliate her or sit back and watch as others picked up his slack.

You: but I can’t tell you, buddy

He hesitates before typing a second message.

You: she doesn’t want to see anyone from back home

The message is clear, concise. It doesn’t divulge her whereabouts, only her boundaries. Tooru cannot imagine it stings any less.

Unknown number: Tooru-nii

Unknown number: nee-chan is in Tokyo?

Panic grips him by the throat. He can only let out a choked sound as he scrambles to kneel on the bed. Was it something he said? Did he overlook some small yet significant detail in his message?

One shaking hand holds up his phone as he types frantically. The other clutches the blanket for dear life.

You: Isaac please don’t look for her

He waits. He waits for the “typing” to cease and for a message to appear, conveying the boys understanding of the situation. Minutes pass, and Tooru waits.

When it becomes clear that his plea will receive no response, he sinks his teeth into his trembling lower lip, biting down until he tastes blood. The phone makes no sound as it slips his loose grip and the hand, now empty, finds purchase in the blankets alongside the other. He heaves and chokes as curses slip through his parted lips.

Suddenly, his every need, objective, urge, and base instinct converge to set a scene before him. He sees himself in this play. In this wretched, foul play. To become one with it, Tooru runs out of the bedroom and into the moonlit expanse of the living room and opens the first bottle he can find. The glass is cold. On its way down, the liquor does not burn.

Rin is on his second joint, eyes fixated on the movie playing on the TV⸺ the story of a young man and woman who are obviously in love and clearly never meant to be seeing how he never even invited her to prom⸺ when Atsumu turns to him and gives him the same look as the night he stormed home with a storm in his eyes (as he’d called it) and slammed his bedroom door with such force the hinges rattled in the otherwise silent apartment.

“You look down.”

Rin answered with the same old, “It’s nothing.”

Atsumu has let him be for the past few weeks. Whenever he asks, Rin answers to the worst of his abilities, and so he drops the subject. Not tonight, apparently.

“Why don’t you talk to me, bro?” His friend asks, and Rin feels him shift on the sofa.

He can feel those brown eyes of his pinned to his profile, brows scrunched in worry. It is a tentative kind of worry, the kind that has you feeling guilty for being unforthcoming and vague in your responses even if it’s not to burden the same person who worries for you.

Rin does not move to face.

“New Year’s Eve.” He releases a puff of smoke. “Y/n and I kissed. And then something happened so I left.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Atsumu’s eyes widening. Maybe he’s excited for Rin but knows better than to show it considering the kiss… apparently didn’t lead to a happy ending.

“What happened exactly?” His friend asks instead.

Rin shrugs and for a moment he wants to drop the blunt on his lap and watch the tip burn into the fabric.

“One thing led to another and it ended up with my tongue in her mouth, touching her while she described how I flirt with the people I end up fucking.” His throat constricts a little at the end. “She said that I don’t disappear with her the way that I do with them because I don’t see her that way.”

To his credit, Atsumu doesn’t speak. He lets silence and all that preceded it settle like dust on furniture. Rin rubs his finger on the arm of the sofa, picking at the fabric.

“I’m sorry man.” His friend says, uncharacteristically hesitant. “She probably-

“Why does she always feel the need to dictate how others feel about her?” It comes out of him unbidden. The words had fermented in his saliva for weeks and now they were good enough to spit out. “Why does she always assume she’s forgotten?”

Rin sort of hopes Atsumu can’t see the way he has to swallow before picking up where he left off. He hopes the dim, grey glow of the screen isn’t enough to strip him naked.

“It upset me so I left and when I went back looking for her… she wasn’t there.” Another couple in the bed where he’d kissed her and the sweet scent that lingered faintly on the silken bedsheets; apparated before his eyes with every word. “She wasn’t at the party at all.”

Atsumu looks at the TV, but Rin knows it’s him he’s watching, not the girl… Marianne is her name.

“So, you think she’s mad?”

“Maybe.” Answers Rin. The blunt in his hand gets smaller by the second. “Not sure about ‘mad’. But she’s confused and upset for sure.” Maybe guilty, he thought. “And I don’t know how to approach her without sounding like a douche.”

“Well, fuck.” “I mean my girl and I; we argue sometimes. It’s mostly my fault cuz I can get really annoying-

“Color me surprised.”

“I’m trying to be cool and supportive here!” That provokes a chuckle out of Rin which, in turn, makes Atsumu smile. “You know I’ve always been a player. I always thought I wanted someone or something but changed my mind once I got what I wanted. It’s the reason she didn’t really want me in her life at first.” The smile grows and it looks genuine. Rin has only ever seen it when he speaks of his brother or in the showers after a victory. “But I’m trying to be good for her. It’s a nice change of pace.”

Then, Atsumu pats his shoulder in encouragement, giving him a crooked smile as a treat.

“If you’re sorry for leaving, then just apologize.” Rin side-eyes him. Atsumu has never been one for apologies, unless you count the insincere, forced, and petty strings of words that he insists are good enough to express regret. “I’m serious, dude. Even if she doesn’t forgive you, which I doubt, then at least you’ll know she’s no longer wondering what she did wrong.”

That’s the thing, though. Atsumu doesn’t know her as well as Rin does if the latter ever knew her at all. He has counted the stars on his ceiling until they fell asleep, cuddled next to each other, splashed her with seawater, felt her arms around his waist… and she feels no more familiar than a ghost that haunts his dreams.

Still, he sighs out the smoke, stumps the blunt into the tray, and concedes, “Alright. I’ll try.”

“You won’t have to try too hard. She just moved in next door.”

His neck hurts from how fast he snapped it in Atsumu’s direction. For a moment, he is certain a wintry chill has infiltrated their apartment. Rin feels it beneath his clothes.

“Stop shitting me,” Rin bites out in disbelief.

Atsumu must not be feeling the cold because he grunts out. “I’m not shitting you, dude. She lives three doors down.”

January 21st

It’s raining when Tooru comes to pick her up. He’s cladded in a black turtleneck, dark jeans, and a grey coat that reaches a few inches above his ankles. His hair is a bit damp from the few minutes he spent crossing the distance from his car to the entrance of the apartment building. How he was able to find parking in such unforgiving weather, is a miracle, but Y/n isn’t complaining. Neither is her roommate, Livia, who announced his arrival with a shout and barged into her bedroom demanding Y/n spill everything she knew about the scrumptious young man currently sitting on their living room couch. Y/n told her his name, which she’d learned by then, that he was her classmate at the University, and that she was to accompany him to an event tomorrow. Livia had let out a dreamy sigh, grabbed her by the shoulders, and told her to make the night count.

Y/n herself shoves on a black turtleneck, a checkered beige skirt with black tights underneath, black boots, a beige coat, and the midnight blue scarf to top it all off. The last item doesn’t match the rest of the outfit, which she’s well aware of, but it’s so smooth and warm that she can’t bear to part with it.

Tooru greets her with a beaming smile and they head out after bidding Livia goodbye.

“Is there a brand you like?” He asks after turning the key and the engine roars to life. “So that we can narrow down our options.”

Y/n bites her inner cheek, trying to come up with an answer that’s not entirely embarrassing. One glance at him out of the corner of her eye and she can tell he’s waiting for an answer.

“I mean, it’s not like I know much to begin with. I mostly thrift.” She answers truthfully. “But from what I’ve seen on Pinterest… Dior and Chanel, I suppose. The 90’s vibe. And Elie Saab.”

Tooru hums, picturing her in dresses from each brand, then smiles. “Elie Saab it is.”

Then, because an awkward silence has taken over, one that Y/n finds as uncomfortable as a pair of too-tight shoes, she decides to continue the conversation as he rounds the corner that leads out to the main street.

“I know their work from Pinterest,” She says, “But you must have seen it up close and personal.”

Tooru chuckles.

“Well, yes.” He admits, glancing at her only briefly. “For all his absence, my dad has never failed to pay child support for both my older sister and me. So, we’ve always been loaded and spending money left and right.”

Y/n huffs and faces the window. “Rich people behavior.”

“Can’t argue with that.” His laughter fills the car, and it’s suddenly a little warmer. “Growing up, our mom would try to make us see the value in the small things. Like saving up and sharing. And she did succeed with one of us. Sayako-nee grew up to be generous, kind, understanding, and caring. The only person she is nothing like this with is our father, which is understandable.” There’s a pause and Y/n thinks he’s finished talking so she turns to look at him. His grip on the steering wheel, as he stares ahead, could shatter bones. “And I’m me. Always hoarding whatever I’m given, relentless in my greed, with corrosive envy and ravenous pride. Always spending because I know my future is set in stone, for better or for worse.”

Y/n doesn’t know how to respond to that. She’s not sure whether she’s supposed to say anything at all. He looks a little lost like her presence in the seat beside him barely registers in the fog of his mind. If her intuition doesn’t deceive her, Tooru looks torn and indescribably lonely.

The wet strand of hair that he tucked behind his ear when she came out of her bedroom has dried and taken the shape of a wave. She’d always wanted to ask him if that was his natural hair pattern. Had never dared to. Well, now she knew the answer.

The rest of the car ride is spent in silence even though Tooru knows he could fill it with small talk or his usual teasing, but the energy for that is nowhere to be found. Certainly not within him. He wishes she would strike up a conversation, any conversation, just so he could hear her speak. She has such a whimsical voice after all, like that of an old soul with millennia worth of stories to tell. He wonders how her singing voice would sound. Breathy? Eerie? Remote? Would he ever know?

But after 30 minutes of driving and an additional 10 minutes of trying to find a parking spot in this godforsaken weather, Tooru decides he’s had enough of the unyielding silence. No more.

“We’re here.” He announces, unbuckling his seatbelt.

Unlike him, Y/n remembered to bring an umbrella, which meant that he would be the one holding the black thing above their heads as they practically ran toward the high-end store two blocks south. Her hand is in his, and he has to stop himself from bringing it to his lips so he can kiss each finger. It’s such a silly thing to wish for while they’re trying to get away from the merciless downpour. But he just can’t help it.

Once they walk through the glass doors of the boutique, they can breathe properly without the fear of catching a cold. The employees greet them- greet him, to be exact. Either he is a regular or it’s obvious how much wealthier than her she is. Either way, they’re kind and helpful as they answer his questions and lead them toward the section with the garments that best fit his description.

Y/n is so distracted by the rich fabrics and bewitching designs that she barely catches what Tooru is saying. He’s standing to her right with what appears to be three dresses hanging from his arm.

“Here,” he says, smiling as he takes her by the elbow and toward one of the changing booths. He hands her the dresses. “Try these on, pretty.”

Tooru takes a seat on the couch and beams at her as she slides the curtain of the changing room to cover her from view. To remark that the dresses are beautiful feels like an understatement. They’re so exquisitely tailored that the design almost seems to come alive; the midnight sky, a silky bed of emeralds, and rubies melting against the balls of her feet. They must cost a fortune.

She takes off her clothes and tries on the emerald green dress first. The material slides down her body with ease, and Y/n finds herself wondering how it is that Oikawa knows her size with such accuracy. Could he tell with just one look or had he perhaps asked his cousin, Chiharu? Either way, it clung to her meager curves just right, even adding them where there were none; the exquisitely cinched waist and the puffed chest area.

“So,” She began after sliding the curtain to the side, “What do you think?”

Tooru can only try to swallow his gasp at the sight of her. His first instinct is to abandon the comfort of his seat and rest his hands on the small of her back. But he doesn’t have that privilege, so all he can

“How does the fabric feel? Is it itchy?”

She nods. “A bit.”

“Thought so.” He hums, pensive, and then points behind her to the clothes hanging from the hanger. “Try the midnight blue dress. The velvet one with the spaghetti straps.”

So, she does and the sense of comfort that envelops her is almost instant. The fabric is smooth to the touch, meaning she could rub her palms over the expanse of her thigh in case the nerves got to her. It is enough, she thinks, to have an escape route even if it’s only in the way of zoning out.

“Should I try another one?” She asks as she stands before him.

With a smile on his lips, Tooru shakes his head and rises to his feet. At his sides, his hands twitch, almost as if they wish to shed their skin.

“What do you think,” He says instead, “About putting an accessory around your waist?”

“Like a necklace you mean?”

He nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, some kind of necklace to emphasize your waist.”

Y/n looks down at her feet and just shrugs.

“If you think so.”

Tooru’s hands itch all the more at her response, and before he knows it, the urge to touch her has won over his restraint.

“Now, on to the shoes.” The enthusiasm bleeds through every word as he takes her hands in his. “You’re a size 37, right? European size.”

She lets him lead the way and when the employee asks her which type of footwear she has in mind, she answers, “I don’t usually go for heels because I have horrible coordination so maybe something that will make me look taller that I can comfortably walk in.”

“Certainly, miss.” The employee waves out her arm. “This way, if you please.”

The employee graciously shows them three pairs of heels she thinks may be a good fit. Tooru takes it upon himself to help her put them on after thanking the woman for her service. The first pair, the color of midnight blue studded with crystals, turns out to be a tad uncomfortable given that the heel exceeds 4 inches in height.

“There.” He fixes the clasp of her left heel. “Are they a good fit?”

She nods, walking to and from the glass shelf a few meters from where they’d been sitting. The second pair has turned out differently, it seems. The heels are not above 3 inches and the backs of her feet don’t feel sore after walking in them.

“I like them.” She tells him once she stops in front of him.

She expects that to be the end of their shopping spree. But Tooru is nothing if not a man full of surprises.

“Now, I know you’re probably gonna freak out about this but hear me out.” He rushes the last part once he catches her wary glance. “Jewelry is absolutely fundamental for the look we’re going for, and you already said yes to the one around the waist. So, I think that a pair of earrings would look stunning on you.”

Y/n places the heels on the floor. “You’re overdoing this.”

“What do you mean?”

She looks up to see him tilt his head in confusion.

“You’re spending too much on me.” She clarifies while putting her socks back on. “You shouldn’t.”

He expects him to groan and whine but Tooru catches her off guard by taking a seat next to her and leaning in close.

“But it’s because I want to. I really, really do,” There it is, the whining. “So please let me.”

“Would you give up if I refused?”

He looks down at his hands, biting the inside of his cheek. “I don’t want to, though.”

Y/n doesn’t know why but she relents. He tells her that the earrings will be a surprise. Even after she tells him there can be no surprise when he’s already told her, he insists their exquisiteness will take her unawares. He pinky promises to catch her if she should faint at the sight of them.

July

The afternoon boils with chatter, sweltering heat, and the music blasting from Chiharu’s speakers. They’re at Kuroo’s vacation home, the size of which never fails to amaze Y/n. If she weren’t subconsciously reigning in her facial expresions, she’d be gawking, staring at the huge gate, the fountain before the stairs that led to the main door, the walls of the foyers lined with paintings of exorbitant value, the lush garden with it’s bizarrely trimmed bushes, and so much more of what Chiharu likes to call « rich people bullshit ». She says so right to Kuroo’s face too and he responds by headlocking her as the lot of them file into the house.

They’re halfway up the front steps when Y/n feels a hand on her shoulder, peeling off the straps of her sunset orange backpack. She looks up to find Rin staring at her as if to ask for cooperation.

« Let me help you. »

« It’s not that heavy. » She tells him. « I can carry it upstairs. »

His mouth twitches. « You’re can’t afford to lose 10 inches of height. Give it to me and stand up straight. »

« Your posture is worse. »

« Yeah, » He hooks his index under one of the straps. « But my height can afford it. »

Not wanting to seem weird, Y/n chooses to feel like a burden by letting the boy carry it up to her room, which is opposite hers on what is referred to by rich-boy-Kuroo as the western wing. You’d think it was a castle and not just a really big house. A gargantuan house.

Rin sets her backpack on the bed, carefully might I add. He knows how careful Y/n is about her possessions and doesn’t want to upset her.

After that, they take turns taking showers, Rin letting her go before him while Chiharu and Kuroo get into a shouting match about the towels. Kenma flees the scene with a roll of his eyes while Ayame tries and fails to get them to cool off. Rin ushers her into the bathroom before the quarreling duo have the chance to set their sights on her.

The shampoos smell nice, and they even have labels with their names on them No wonder Kuroo pestered them about their hair types before the trip was decided. His efforts have paid off because Y/n has rarely felt so relieved and clean before.

Maybe it had something to do with the environment as well. This is Kuroo’s house. They aren’t blood related. He does not remind her of home but in a way… she feels that this is what it must feel like. This is how children feel when they come home after a long day of classes. How she wishes the year was made of summers and summers only.

They join Kuroo’s parents, who are delighted to have them over for two weeks, for a light lunch. Y/n sits between Rin and Kenma and joins the rest in their laughter with smiles of her own before catching herself in the act and looking down at her reflection in the bowl of clear summer soup. She’s so embarrassed to have smiled and so anxious about anyone having noticed that she internally scrambles to find refuge in something. Anything that isn’t the joy of those at the table.

Rin reaches for the salt shaker and in the process, she catches a wiff of mint shampoo and the pine scent of his perfume. For a split second, she contemplates easing him down so she could brush her nose against his pulse and breathe him in. But then he’s sagging back into his chair and sprinkling salt onto his vegetables, baring his teeth in a grin as Kuroo cracks another joke. Y/n shakes her head lightly and swallows a spoonful of soup.

They spend the afternoon in their respective bedrooms, and Y/n is glad to see that the maids have turned on the air conditioner so that the room isn’t the equivalent of an oven by the time she gets back. Even the blinds are drawn so that the sun may not heat the carpet, bedding, or furniture. The 2-hour nap she gets is pure bliss.

Ayame wakes her up with a knock at her door, announcing that they are to go for a swim at the beach nearby in about 30 minutes. Y/n promises to join them and tries to remove the sleep from her face by spalshing some water on it, applying some cherry lipbalm, and braiding her hair in a loose crown around her head. She throws on a pair of olive green shorts and a white shirt above her two-piece sage green swimsuit, shoves her feet in a pair of white slippers, and then she’s out the door.

Rin throws his arm around her shoulders, says something she can scarcely hear, and keeps her at his side the entire walk. Y/n doesn’t mind. He smells so good after all, like a pine forest by the sea, and the scent reminds her of the green of his eyes.

Only, she feels warm where his knuckles brush against her own. The evening breeze and the seawater cool down every part of her but the spot that tingles.

She’s content with burying her feet in the sand and watching the rest of them play volleyball⸺ Kuroo and Ayame vs Rin and Chiharu⸺ while Kenma assumes the role of the referee at her side. At one point, Chiharu almost goes for Kuroo’s jugular and it’s only by the grace of Rin’s strength that she does not. The bickering idiots soon get distracted by the promise of the meal Mrs. Yukimiya, the housekeeper, had the maids pack for them beforehand. This way they can ravage the sandwiches instead of each other.

It is then that Rin comes to sit to her right, Kenma having left to nibble on a piece of watermelon.

« Wanna go for a swim? » He asks her.

Y/n tilts her head. « Again? »

« Is there a limit? »

So they head in, submerging before rising to the surface once again. He shakes his head before combing back his wet hair with his fingers and swiping that same hand down his face. His eyes settle on her chest.

« I think your top is loose. » Rin tells her, and her arms instinctively shoot up to shield herself. He cracks a small smile. « Turn around. I’ll tie it for you. »

As he does, her cheeks go aflame, as if it were possible to blush any harder.

« Don’t worry. » He utters, loud enough for her to hear him above the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. « I didn’t see anything. »

She sighs and, when she thinks he’s no longer listening, mutters, « Not like there’s much to see anyway. »

« You have nice tits. »

That single sentence stuns her and the coming wave almost sweeps her under. Luckily, Rin’s fingers wrap fiercely around her forearm, steadying her, and Y/n looks up at him through her wet lashes. He’s laughing but it doesn’t make her feel… small. She feels like joining him.

« I should do that more often. » He says, splashing water over his toned torso. « It’s fun. »

Y/n follows his example, shivering as a particularly cool breeze sweeps over the beach.

« What is ? » She asks.

There’s a twinkle in his piercing green eyes as his hand comes up to cart through her wet hair. « Catching you off guard. »

As if to distract him from her flaming cheeks (the temperatures are not to blame by the way), Y/n splashes him and swims away. He’s hot on her heel, intent on catching up. Not that it takes long until he does. They swim away and toward the shore time and time again until their limbs tire and the only solutions are to either get out or float. So there they remain, backs to the seabed and faces to the darkening sky, until the edge of the horizon has swallowed the final remnants of the sun.

That night, they gorge on watermelons and lemonade. They’re almost bursting with it by the time Kuroo’s parents have turned in for the night, leaving the teenagers to enjoy the song of the crickets in the garden. The temperatures have significantly decreased and a pleasurable chill hangs in the summer night air.

Y/n is on her 5th glass of lemonade. It trickles down her chin. Before she can grab a napkin from the roll at the center of the table, Rin swipes his knuckles across her lips and chin, effectively doing the job. His attention is elsewhere as he licks off the residue. It’s almost as if the gesture is second nature.

The following two weeks can only be defined as bliss. An unprecedented era of peace in Y/n’s life. She’s surrounded by people who don’t hate her, and even seem to tolerate her. The days are filled with the summer heat, the conversations at dinner after Kuroo’s parents have bid them goodnight, smoking weed when no one is looking, lemonade, watermelons, movie marathons, volleyball and shouting matches, card games the rules of which Y/n can barely understand (it embarrasses her greatly), late night swimming in the outdoor pool, and quick trips by bike to the convenience store. Ayame sits behind Chiharu, Kenma behind Kuroo, and Y/n behind Rin.

« You’re gonna stretch out my shirt. » He says jokingly the first time she settles in the back, her fingers curled around the sides of his shirt. « Here, just warp your arms around me, okay. »

At first, the proximity seems daunting. It isn’t just proximity after all. Her front is flush against his back, and Y/n fears that Rin will sense her heartbeats through the layers of cloth, flimsy as they may be, and find it pathetic that she feels dizzy because of human contact.

But these thoughts are short-lived. With her cheek pressed to his shoulder, arms around his middle, enveloped in the fresh sea-scented air, Kuroo’s and Chiharu’s hooting laughter, and the way Rin turns his head just the slightest to smile at her… there is no more reason to be ashamed of her rapidly beating heart. They are all on the same page.

She still tutors Rin in the gaps of time that they can’t fill with sleep but everyone else can. They sit smack in the middle of the living room with a fan turned on as she explains trigonometry to him, all while they munch on sandwiches and cantaloupes. Lemonade, of course, is not missing from the menu. At one point, while Rin is laboring to solve a problem and she takes a sip of her lemonade, a laugh escapes her that the boy does not fail to notice.

« What is it? » He asks with a smile on his lips. It’s the first time he’s heard her laugh at… seemingly nothing.

Though she stops laughing, a smile still plays on her lips. « The lemonade looks like you. »

« Like me? » Rin raises an eyebrow, twirling his pen. « How can I resemble a drink? »

Y/n sets down her drink, watches the outer walls of the glass sweat.

« Your eyes. » She clarifies. « When you look at me it feels the same as when I grab a glass of cool lemonade and drink it. »

« You mean to say I am refreshing. » He teases.

She meets his smile with her own. « I do. »

Too lazy to go to their rooms, they fall asleep on the floor, the glasses of lemonade sweating on the table.

On the last night of their vacation, with his parents’ departure having taken place two days prior, Kuroo decides they need to go all out, and by that, he means they should go through his dad’s alcohol stash and steal some. Unsurprisingly, Chiharu fervently agrees, Kenma doesn’t give a shit, Ayame tells them to be careful, while Rin and Y/n take a bite out of the cold cherry pie.

That is not to say that when Kuroo and Chiharu succeed in their endeavor, the rest do not willingly participate in the debauchery. They drain up to six bottles altogether while singing along to the songs in Chiharu’s playlist. In a rare display of agreeableness, Chiharu and Kuroo shout the lyrics with their arms swung around each other’s shoulders while Ayame tries to blink away the coming sleep.

At one point, the rest of them head inside to cause some ruckus, leaving Rin and her to sit by the pool. You can still hear the music playing loud enough to keep Y/n’s neighbors back home awake. But she doesn’t want to think about that place. It’s nice to dip her toes in the cool water, in new experiences.

“Oh,” She lifts her head, looking in the direction of the house when a new song starts playing, « Depeche mode. »

Rin looks at her in silence for a few seconds, then rises to his feet.

« Let’s dance.” He says, hand outstretched.

Y/n takes it, and together they head to the garden, away from their friends’ prying eyes. The grass cushions their steps as they sway in each other’s arms, and the scent of the flowers envelops them in some feeling akin to excitement and tranquility. This moment, drunk on so sweet a scent, feels a little like falling in love.

“You smell nice,” Y/n mutters into his chest.

His hands travel up from her waist, settling between her shoulder blades. “You feel good.”

They cling to each other like sweat on your sweaty skin during the summer heat. It takes a chilly breeze to sever the embrace. Rin’s hands are still where they were before, fingers trailing up and down the ravine between her shoulders as his eyes photograph the sight of her in his arms.

“I bet kissing you would feel like a leap through time.” He says, smiling a little.

Y/n suddenly misses the cover of his chest. “Why?”

His eyebrows come together as a ponderous expression takes over his features. He seems to be trying to word his response.

“Because it’d be so brief.” He says with a teasing smile. “Hours would feel like a split second. And you’d become impossible to catch up with.”

For a second, her heart stutters in her chest. Her heartbeat becomes an irregular, spluttering thing. It takes all of her drunken courage to look him in the eye and respond to his teasing in kind.

“I’m gonna bet on something too.”

He raises an eyebrow, mouth slightly parted. “Yeah?”

“Bet it felt the same to kiss your cousin’s crush.”

He must not have expected her to bring that up (she’d seen him making out with a girl and later learned that it was indeed his cousin’s crush) because his ministrations on her shoulders come to a halt. Not for long though. He recovers at the speed of sound, his right hand coming up to cup her cheek. His thumb brushes back and forth over the flaming skin.

“You’ve lost the bet then.” He whispers, and somehow Y/n hears him over the music. “I win.”

She hears their breaths synchronize as he leans down, head angled. With her hand over his chest, she can make out the violent waltz of their heartbeats when his lips ghost over hers, the sliver of space between them begging to be consumed. She hears the wind passing through the garden as he leans forward and presses his lips on hers, tongue flicking at her bottom lip and she feels compelled to let him in. It is euphoric to be touched, and he touches her so kindly every time.

His hand, previously on her shoulder, slides down to her waist, pulling her closer as he deepens the kiss. In their state of drunkenness, it is amazing they haven’t tumbled to the floor by the time he releases her and they both come up for air.

The music has stopped. Their friends have settled in a quiet rhythm. Or perhaps they have fallen asleep on the couch.

“See?” Rin whispers, slurring his words as he drags his thumb along her bottom lip. The flesh feels so soft and bruised under his touch. “Too brief.”

Y/n doesn’t know if smiling would be too weird. What matters is that she’s drunk so she doesn’t care about that. She looks up at him with eyes filled with wonder and a smile on her lips. It stays that way long after they’ve fallen asleep in each other’s arms beside their friends.

It is a tragedy that she remembers none of it when the morning creeps up with claws of gold and a promise of tearing them from this summer. Or the summer from them.

Don't even know if there are ppl still reading this fic lmfaooooo

But anyway i still remember some of the people that asked me to tag them. @invyou @kurookinnie @tuttumi the last one is my best friend she's obligated to read my shit you can't escape hoe

#yen per second #haikyuu #oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa tooru x y/n #oikawa tooru angst #suna x reader #suna x y/n #suna rintaro angst #suna rintarou #oikawa tooru #oikawa fic #suna fic

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