If You Have Nice Hair, Respectfully Please Don’t Stand Next To Me.

DEI does not mean lower standards.

You are thinking of white privilege.

You guys remember frat boy!osamu?

Well, you guys broke up.

It was stupid. You spent maybe half an hour yelling at each other. Just because Osamu wasn't like his frat brothers didn't mean he wasn't a frat brother, and fuck, you just wish he would say something to the dozens of girls who threw themselves at him daily. It hurts! How doesn't he get that?!?

After a couple of months, Atsumu begs to you come back around the house. Just because you and his brother stopped dating doesn't mean that Atsumu had to lose someone he now considered his best friend.

After the blonde twin blows up your phone with invites to a party at the frat house, you decided to say fuck it.

You show up in some tight jeans and a lace-up cami. You don't necessarily want to impress anyone; all you're going to be doing is talking to Atsumu and drinking a couple of beers, but it's nice to dress up sometimes.

You expect to see Osamu in his room like he usually would be. Even before you dated, he never participated in a party, but 20 minutes after you arrive, you see him walk into the house from the backyard with a girl on his arm. Atsumu tries to place himself in front of you to act as a human shield, but it's already too late, and you're making your way out of the house as he yells for you.

Once back at your dorm, you check your phone and see a snapchat from Suna, but you don't bother to open it. Instead, you wash off your makeup and cry yourself to sleep.

You don't get to sleep very long though. A loud knock at your door wakes you, and you check the time to see that it had been an hour since you'd left the party. You assume it's Atsumu trying to make you feel better, so you open the door.

"'Tsumu, I appreciate your efforts but-" You stop talking when you see who it really is.

"Wrong twin," Osamu says, running a hand through his gray hair. He holds out his hands. "I, uh, the store didn't have yer favorite flowers, but I thought ya'd like these ones..."

You only stare at the flowers. "What do you want, Miya?"

"Can I come in?" He asks. "I just want to talk, and if afterwards, ya never want to see me again, I understand."

You let him in, and he thanks you. After he sets the flowers on your desk, you flick on the lights. You gasp as you see a bloody nose and bruised eye. "'S-Samu..."

He chuckles. "It's okay," he reassures you. "It was just 'Tsumu. No big deal." He waits for you to calm down a bit before speaking again. "I miss ya," he tells you. "And I'm so fucking sorry for what I did to ya. I love ya, and I can't believe I ever allowed myself to let ya feel insecure. I should have just told all those girls to back off. If the situation were reversed, I'd want the same."

Your eyebrows furrowed in frustration. "I don't get it 'Samu," you say. "Why did it take you months to get it? The girl you were with tonight was one of the girls who I asked you to tell to back off!"

He puts his head down in shame. "I know," he admits. "And I..." He takes a deep breath. "I overheard 'Tsumu and Hinata talking before the party, and 'Tsumu said he invited you, and Hinata said he was excited to see you again, and I just... I guess I got upset that ya were hanging out with my dumb brother, and I wanted to make ya jealous."

"You're a fucking idiot," you tell him.

"I know, but I do love ya and miss ya," he says. He walks over to you and holds your face in his hands. "And I promise to be better for ya. Just give me one more chance."

You look up at him, your gaze softening as your hands reach up to brush under his bruised eye. It'll need to be iced in the morning. "You really promise? I can't let you in just to get shattered again, 'Samu. You're the only man I've ever loved."

He nods in response. "And if I break my promise, which I won't, I'll let ya beat me up with 'Tsumu next time."

You laugh at his words and lean up to kiss him. "Okay," you whisper. "One more chance."

Osamu grins like a kid on Christmas and picks you up to spin you around before pulling you in for a passionate kiss. "Ya won't regret it."

He sleeps in your dorm room that night. You lay on top of him with your head on his chest as he plays with the ends of your hair, and he falls asleep with a smile on his face.

...

...

...

BONUS:

The next morning, Osamu sits on your bed, holding a bag of ice up against his eye. He's got a childish pout on his face.

"Ya can stop watching it now!" He grumbles.

Meanwhile, you're standing across from him, gawking at your phone. "Damn, baby, 'Tsumu really got you this time," you tell him. You wince as you watch Atsumu's fist makes contact with Osamu's nose. "Suna's a great camera man."

Copyright © 2022 oooobokuto.tumblr.com - do not copy, modify, repost, or translate any of my works. any action to do so will be considered plagiarism.

i took the color quiz and i got grey/black damn ig i’m cooler than i thought 😎

theyre heading out!

You don’t win alone. That’s just how it is.

your TAGS i cannot afford to fall in love with another miya brother PLEASE i will die

Osamu crowds you against the worn door at the top of Onigiri Miya’s narrow back stairwell, drawing a heated palm up the curve of your side through the thick felted wool of your coat.

“Cut it out,” you giggle as he jostles your hand- key clasped tightly in your fingers- away from the rusty lock.

“Don’t wanna,” he protests, dipping his nose into the hollow of your temple. You can feel his smile against the top of your cheekbone. He still smells smoky and savoury from the teppanyaki place, with the warm flush of two- no- three glasses of red wine rising to his cheeks. He isn’t drunk, but even if he was, it wouldn’t show.

“That was the best goddamned steak I’ve ever had,” he mumbles into your hair, curling one thick forearm around your middle.

Not drunk on wine, anyway.

“Yeah, I’m…” You trail off, concentrating long enough to get the key in the lock, turning and pushing inward. You have to brace your shoulder against the door a little to shove it open, since the frame’s a little warped, and together you stumble into the entryway of the tiny apartment above Osamu’s shop.

“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t get any better than that,” you finish, but he’s not interested in finishing this conversation anymore.

Osamu flips you around between his hands, bracing both palms on your hips and dipping his forehead to yours. The soft strands of his dark hair come loose and fluffy away from whatever style he’d mussed it into earlier that evening, sharing the bathroom mirror with you as you slipped on your rings and adjusted your top.

“Hmm,” he sighs, and his shoulders drop with all the bliss in the world. “I love ya.”

“You’ll say anything on a full stomach,” you purr, planting your hands on the soft plane of it. He lets out a low grunt and slips a hand into the folds of your coat, pinching the tenderest part of your waist to make you yelp.

“I love you too-mph.” You’re cut off by the courteous press of his mouth to yours, and after a heartbeat of polite fumbling, you settle into the rhythm of his kiss and let him slowly divest you of your coat.

You tilt your head to one side, gasping quietly for breath and letting him trail wine-flavoured kisses down the bared column of your throat. He’s setting your skin on fire, lifting shimmering sensations to the surface that the wine in your own system only amplifies.

“Mm-bedroom,” you sigh.

“Don’t hafta tell me twice,” he mumbles into your skin.

Once you get there, however, he tugs you into his arms, collapses backwards onto the bed, and doesn’t move. You give him five whole seconds to do something, and when he fails to, you stir in his magnetic hold.

“Baby?” Your voice comes soft and prompting.

“Mmm?” He opens one eye, peering down at you over the curve of his cheek.

“Weren’t we about to…?”

“Oh, god, no, I can’t,” he groans. “I’m so full I could die. Y’don’t want me messin’ around in there tonight, promise.”

“But…” You can hardly protest. The longer you lie there, the heavier dinner’s weight begins to settle in your gut. He’s right. Expecting sex after all-you-can-eat teppanyaki was beginning to feel like expecting snow in Mexico.

“Let’s do it in the morning,” he brushes, and that pulls a giggle from your chest. When you lift your head, the little smirk that tugs at the corners of his lips proves that he’s still having fun.

“I’ll make it up to ya real good. I swear.”

And the next morning, in sun-drenched sheets of white linen, he does.

cool kids

summary: Kunimi x Reader. "reader's the one simping hard for kunimi and kunimi's just like "😑😑😑" but secretly likes them too" as requested by an anon!

word count: 2k

cw: uhhh two swear words

a/n: tysm for the request!! hope i did your boy justice

You just think Kunimi is nice to look at.

His hair is straight and natural and never greasy or obviously gelled; it looks soft and shiny. He probably rinses with cold water. You like how dreamy his eyes are— they’re deepset and often narrowed into a lazy smirk, but they have a faraway quality to them that makes the gray-brown shade reminiscent of the misty moors you’ve read about in books and seen in movies. You like the lean muscle on his thin frame, the way you can feel how deceptively strong he is whenever he decides that you’re his makeshift pillow at school.

“Is this comfortable?” He asks, slumping over you, forcing you to wilt over your desk beneath him.

“Not at all,” you answer honestly. “Your elbows are pointy, ow ow ow—” you wriggle until it no longer feels like he’s pressing directly on a pressure point— “but by all means, keep crushing me.”

“Hmm, thanks,” he hums into your back. “Class was so boring today.”

“The teacher is still in the classroom, Kunimi,” you say, voice muffled as he tries his best to become dead weight. “He can hear you, because we’re still in the classroom, missing lunch.”

“Nah,” he says, but graciously gets off, standing next to your desk while you gather your things, then holds out a hand to help you up. You take it, and it’s more the feeling of his skin on yours that makes you wobble on your feet than anything else. Your heart beats fast in your chest as you follow him, although he’s already let go.

“Where are we going?” You say into his ear, over his shoulder. He gives no indication that he heard you, so you do it again, speeding up your pace so you’re walking in stride with him.

“Gotta get a spot on the rooftop before everyone else shows up,” he says offhandedly, dodging a group of people standing still in the hallway. Obnoxious, you know he’s probably thinking.

“Ooh, the rooftop?” You tease. “Planning a confession?” There’s a saying about how all the best jokes have a grain of truth in them. In this case, you’re joking with a silo of hope.

“Too corny,” he wrinkles his face up, casting a disgusted glare towards the students who walk by in pairs, joined hands swinging between them. “PDA is gross, you know.”

You grab his hand again, his lack of protest reassuring you.

“You’re just jealous because you’re single.”

“Not for too long, I hope,” he says, eyes sliding to your face. You blink and drop his hand.

“What? Who? What?”

Your questions go unanswered, his volleyball seniors choosing that moment to swarm him. You wait on the edges of the group, mind spinning as you consider who your friend— your crush— would be interested in. You’re pretty sure that the only person he spends more time with than you is Yūtarō, and from the way Kunimi speaks about his teammate, you know it’s not him. You hope that it’s you, considering that you’ve been flirting overtly with him since the festival last summer, since you’d developed feelings for him. He’s never rejected you directly, after all, only made general comments on the futility of love and romance and relationships. You blow out a breath.

“Hi, sorry,” a face you recognize as a girl in another first-year class bows her way through the group of volley-boys. She’s biting her lip, clearly nervous, clearly clutching a letter behind her back. She has the locker next to Kunimi’s, you recall. A sick feeling rises in your stomach while all the others make a path for her straight to Oikawa. She makes a turn just before she reaches the third-year. “Um, hi, Kunimi, do you, ah, have a moment?”

You can’t look. You pay attention instead to the third years, watching Iwaizumi clamp a hand over Oikawa’s mouth before he can coo over his junior’s first confession. While they struggle, you bite your lip hard, shoving your hands in your pockets, feeling suddenly too hot and too cold all over. You’re probably allergic to watching people you like get confessed to or something, and now you have a fever.

Unwillingly, your gaze slides back to Kunimi, who, for once, looks wide-eyed and surprised. The girl appears to have finished her part, and he looks frozen as his eyes dart to the other people around, then back to her, then away again. Finally, he lands on Oikawa, who appears to have escaped his friend’s grip and has a disturbingly wide smile on his face.

“...Fine,” Kunimi says, and you watch him walk behind her to the stairs.

“Ah, so cute,” Oikawa says, leaning on the wall and sticking his nose up, an air of great wisdom and experience surrounding him. “Young love is in bloom today!”

You don’t want to wait for Kunimi to get back, so you adjust your bag and start to walk away, blinking rapidly.

“Don’t say shit like that,” you hear behind you, and then Iwaizumi is running up behind you, grabbing your shoulder. “Are you okay?” He sounds hesitant, and a little like he’s choking as he speaks.

“Yeah, of course I am,” your own voice sounds far off and too quiet for your words to be true. “Thank you for asking, Iwaizumi-san, don’t worry about me.”

“You’re crying,” he notes, and your eyes widen in alarm as your hands fly up to pat your cheeks, checking for wetness. “Well, not quite crying, but when Oikawa said that, your face, it kinda,” he gestures to his own. You look at him quizzically, unsure what he’s trying to mime. “...Crumpled?”

“Oh,” you say. “Yeah.” Both of you seem at a loss for words, then, but he walks with you all the way to the lunch stand and then he follows you to the back of the gym, where you sit with your knees curled up to your chest.

“Sorry you wasted your lunch period with me,” you mumble after twenty minutes of picking at your food.

“I didn’t want to leave you alone to wallow,” he says, mouth full of melon bun. “It’s bad for you.”

“Is that your professional medical opinion?” Your voice is watery, but you can feel the corners of your mouth lifting.

“For sure,” he tells you. “Are you feeling any better?”

“I guess,” you sigh, and look down. “I just really, really like him.”

“I get that,” Iwaizumi has a reputation for being loud and kind of rough, but his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“Thank you for staying with me, Iwaizumi-san,” you say, standing.

“No problem,” he smiles sympathetically at you. If Kunimi were here, he’d call it pity. You’d rather call it kindness.

The bell rings, and Iwaizumi bounds off around the corner.

“Sorry,” you hear him apologize to someone before his footsteps echo away. When you turn the corner yourself, you see— shiny hair, dark eyes, and a tall, narrow frame. One plus one plus one equals heartbreak.

“Y/N!” He says in greeting, then tilts his head upwards, seemingly searching for something to say.

You pause in front of him. “So?”

“So what?” He looks confused.

“The confession,” you say.

“Oh,” he says, straightening a little. “It was whatever. Look, I just wanted to tell you, uh…”

“Yes?” You say. You’re late for class. You’re not sure why you’re still standing here, face hot, waiting to hear whatever he has to say.

“Wait for me?” He asks, and you blink. You weren’t expecting that, of all things.

“Why?”

“I don’t,” he tucks his chin into his jacket collar, dark eyes resting on you warily, and despite yourself, you smile a little. “I don’t want to rush things, and I’m not— I don’t wanna mess up something I know’ll be good, okay? So just wait a little longer for me.”

“What about the, uh,” you swallow. “The girl who you were talking to earlier? I’m not waiting if you’re not.”

“Her?” He makes a grossed-out noise. “I rejected her. Why would I want anyone but you?”

The ‘12-’13 Seijoh VBC ten-year reunion is nothing short of chaotic.

You’re there because you joined (in the form of management) shortly after Iwaizumi sat with you during that fateful lunch period, and everyone else is there because playing volleyball with Oikawa apparently results in some kind of gravitational effect that keeps one circling him loosely forever. You, Kindaichi, and Kunimi huddle in a sort of commiserating bunch, even though the three of you have more than kept in touch over the years; where Oikawa is an Argentinian celebrity and Iwaizumi is well compensated for his career in athletic training, the former first years are barely out of undergrad, still working and suffering beneath the weight of recent student loans.

It’s Hanamaki who opens up the conversation, complaining about his recent bout of failed interviews, while Watari pats him on the back and Yahaba lists off places he could begin networking.

“What have you been doing?” You address Matsukawa, who is slumped on his elbows on the table, a slight smile on his features as he watches Hanamaki talk, formally.

“Me? Oh, I’m a mortician, or working towards it, anyway.”

“Of course you ask Mattsun first,” laughs Kindaichi. “You still think he’s ‘tall, dark, and handsome?’”

“No,” you groan, while the others at the table perk up considerably. “Don’t bring that up, please, I’m begging.”

“You had a crush on Mattsun?” Smirks Hanamaki, laying an arm across his shoulders.

“Not really!” You protest, waving your hands in front of you. “He was only the best looking of the third years, anyway.”

Oikawa makes a wounded noise, and Mattsun sticks his tongue out at him. Next to you, Kunimi lifts his glass and takes a long sip.

“Only the third years?” Asks Yahaba, raising his brows. Kindaichi grins. In your peripheral vision, you can see Kunimi drawing a line across his neck and mouthing shut the fuck up, shut up, shut up, shut up.

“Everyone knows that Y/N only had eyes for Kunimi, really,” Turnip-Head says anyway, and every head at the table swings toward your seatmate, who drops his hand and shuts his jaw with a click. "You were obvious!" He says in response to your embarrassed expression. He's not wrong, but you're still covering your eyes with your hands, peeking through the gaps.

“Do you have eyes? Why haven’t you changed your haircut?” Kunimi says, his voice bored. “Don’t you get tired of being called names because of it?”

Undeterred, Kindaichi takes another swig of beer and continues, nudging Kunimi hard, which only has the effect of pushing him into your side as he tries to escape his friend.

“He used to get jealous, after Y/N called Matsukawa-san hot, anyway,” Kindaichi adds. “He’d try harder in practice and everything.” There’s a chorus of oooohs around the table. Kunimi groans and drops his head onto your shoulder. You pat him reassuringly. His hair is soft.

“Kunimi has a crush,” Shido grins.

“It was a decade ago,” you feel the need to defend him.

“Yeah,” Kunimi says, sitting upright. There’s a scowl on his face, but his ears are subtly red.

“You should’ve said yes to dating back then,” Hanamaki butts in. “Then you wouldn’t be single now.”

“What do you mean I’m single now?” Kunimi arches an eyebrow. “That’s news to me.”

“Why didn’t you bring them, then?” Mattsun points at him. “That’s bad etiquette, you know.”

“Yeah, Akira,” you murmur affectionately, tucking his hair behind his ear. “You have bad etiquette.”

There’s a moment of silence as your former classmates look at you, then at Kunimi, then back at you. Then at both of you, holding hands under the table.

“You’re dating?” Yells Yahaba, standing up and swaying a little. General clamor ensues as you laugh and Kunimi brings your hands up to rest on the table, his eyes narrowly focused on Matsukawa, who seems happily oblivious as he knocks back more of his drink and attempts to rouse Makki into a thumb-wrestling match.

“He’s rubbed off on you,” Kindaichi tells you later, as you exit the restaurant. Kunimi drapes his jacket over you and rests his chin on your shoulder, putting his hands in your pants pockets.

“I hope so,” you smile softly. “Almost ten years together will do that to a person.”

On the way home, Akira asks you, almost sardonic (but you know he’s being genuine), "Was the wait worth it?"

You beam and kiss him, pulling him close by his shirt collar.

"Of course it was."

tagging: @crystal-lilac , @kohi-zeri

I know I've said this a hundred times but if you're worried about palestinian fundraisers being scams at least consider donating to MSF. It's a highly reputable organization which has broken its long-standing neutrality to denounce Israel in front of the UN. Here's all the aid MSF is providing to Gazans (documentation available in multiple languages).

IMPERFECT FOR YOU (18+)

you, doing a friend a favor, have to tutor miya osamu. but instead of learning about chemistry, he’s more interested in learning about you.

WC: 5.8k (send an ambulance)

WARNINGS: explicit drug (marijuana) usage, dubcon (sex under the influence), mentions of female anatomy and female identifying reader, use of ‘baby’ as petname, this is severely under-edited i’m so sorry

TAGS: frat/popular!osamu x nerdy/unpopular!reader, f!reader, porn with (some) plot, college au, post-timeskip, smut, hair-pulling, cunnilingus, petnames, reader has anxiety somebody pls give her a hug, if you get a magnifying glass osamu has a corruption kink

NOTE: i needed a palate cleanser so i can get back into writing so thus this was born. i intend to make this a mini-series (maybe?) or maybe just blurbs/headcanon series, who knows! let me know what you guys want <3

“Absolutely not.”

“C’mon,” Your friend whines, folding her hands together in mock begging, giving you the best puppy eyes she could muster even throwing in a quivering lip for her dramatic performance. “He’s a perfectly nice guy!”

“So what you’re telling me, this guy–” You begin, dumping a sugar packet into your coffee.

“Who I’m tutoring.”

“Right. The guy you tutor, who never comes to class–”

You stir your coffee. She nervously chuckles.

“Who is on the verge of failing–”

You stab your straw into the cup. She lets out a tense ‘mhm’.

“And needs to pass this final to avoid being on academic probation–”

You raise the straw to your mouth. She nervously fiddles with her fingers.

“... Needs to be tutored by me instead?”

You take a sip of your coffee as your friend shrinks into the booth seat. 

“Well, you didn’t have to put it like that,” she grumbles through a slurp of her drink.

You should have known that when your best friend offered to take you out to your favorite cafe, on her, she was up to something. And you knew that when she bought you your favorite muffin, she was going to be asking you something ridiculous. The last time you were offered a free muffin, you ended up having to pretend to her parents that you were dying in the emergency room so that she could sneak out to her hookup’s place. 

The plan almost worked until they came to visit you out of concern, only to find you both not there. She was grounded for another two months.

You turn to her.

“And why can’t you do it?” Your friend was supposed to be the one tutoring him, so you were confused about why it suddenly had to be you instead.

“Because,” She grumbles as if it were obvious. “I’m already busy trying to pass my own exams, that stupid research paper for Professor Takeda is driving me crazy, babysitting my piece of shit brother–”

Translation: I’m in over my head.

“Besides, everyone knows you’re a genius and you’ll pass no matter what, so why not take on a charity case in your free time, huh?” 

She grins at you, not bothering to hide her obvious attempt at fluffing your ego to convince you.

“Does this guy even have a shot at passing?” You sigh, taking a sip of your latte. “I mean, if he doesn’t bother to come to class, how much effort do you think he’s gonna put–”

“He’s a smart guy, trust me! It’s just… y’know how college is.”

Right, he’s a college guy. He was probably knee-deep in parties instead of his textbooks.

“Why’s it on you to let this guy pass? I mean, it’s not your problem–”

“Well, his brother sorta said if I’d help him, I’d be invited to all the frat parties on campus this semester…” There it is.

She trails off but still stares at you with pleading eyes, and you notice her sliding her muffin towards you.

“You’re not gonna let up on this, are you?” You ask as you inspect the blueberry-crusted pastry now on your plate. 

“Nope,” she replies, popping the ‘p’ and grinning with her coffee straw dangling in her mouth. “Does it help that he’s super cute?”

You sigh again and pinch your nose bridge. She takes your lack of response as a victory.

“Great! I already told him that you’d come by tonight. I’ll send you his address and phone number–”

“You told him I was coming before you even knew I’d agree?!”

“Well, what else were you gonna do tonight? And don’t tell me you’re gonna watch that shitty soap opera again.”

Again, you don’t have an answer. Maybe because she’s already said it for you. But it’s not shitty! It’s romantic, moving, thrilling– okay, yeah, you’re starting to hear yourself. Maybe you shouldn’t stay in tonight.

“Fine, where does he live?”

“You have to be fucking kidding me.”

At no point did your friend mention to you that the address she was sending you to would be a frat house.

You thought it was odd that the address was in the dead center of campus– but you figured that whoever you were tutoring happened to get an apartment with a great location. It should’ve been obvious to you that this area would be Greek life housing when you realize all the houses on the block were way too nice to be afforded by a typical college student. You have never stepped foot on this end of campus. Well, you hadn’t, until now.

You should’ve stayed home, nose-deep in the romance novel weighing down in your bag. But now, you’re standing on the front porch of one of the most popular frat’s on campus.

“I’m gonna kill you,” you sneer into the phone pressed to your ear.

“Quit your yapping! It’s not like there’s a party going on or something.” You could practically see your friend rolling her eyes through the phone.

You anxiously dart your eyes throughout the house exterior. It’s massive, obviously well-funded based on how nearly every window seems to be polished, and definitely better than the shitty dorm you lived in a few blocks away. You couldn’t help but dread imagining how many frat brothers lived inside.

“I’m gonna leave–”

“Hey brat, put that down!” She screeches to presumably her younger brother on the other end of the line. “Ugh, gotta go. Have fun!”

“Wait!--”

She already ends the call before you can say anything else, and you fume at her contact information staring back at you. Seriously, if somebody axe-murdered you here, you’d make sure to haunt your friend for the rest of her life.

You weigh your decisions– a part of you wants to bolt back to your dorm, imagining the comfortable blanket and pillow resting on your bed practically awaiting your return, or you could not chicken out and actually fulfill the promise you made to your friend.

Damnit, you knew you had to pick the latter. You’d feel really shitty if you didn’t.

Besides, you’d never hear the end of it if you ran out with your tail between your legs.

You ready yourself to knock on the door, admittedly through a few deep breaths first, and as your fist is about to meet the wood of the door, it swings open from the inside. Had you been a second quicker, you probably would have tapped your tutee in the face.

Except, now that you’re looking at him, he’s quite tall. It would be more at his chest than anything. His broad chest was covered in a tight black shirt, with strong shoulders… In fact, you couldn’t even see his face if you were simply staring forward. 

“Ya the tutor?” He states simply, breaking your train of thought.

You look at him to notice that there’s a face attached to the chest you were staring at. You look up, and dammit, your friend was right. He was super cute.

His hair is dark, with heavy gray eyes– bored and lazily staring at you, dumbfounded on his doorstep There’s a series of tattoos snaking beneath his shirt and piercings you couldn’t even begin to count– you nearly forget that you have to respond.

“Uhm– yeah, that’s me,” you reply, trying to regain your mental footing. “You’re Osamu, right?” 

“Mhm, come on in,” he says, sticking his hands into loose gray sweatpants…. You should really stop staring. Or at least pretend you have a semblance of class.

You step inside and slip off your shoes as you briefly inspect your surroundings. The frat house is above all else, what you expected. Minus for the fact it actually seemed clean despite the typical frat stereotypes you heard– though, you’re sure their cushy funding got them cleaning services. There’s no way a bunch of college guys living together could keep a big house like this clean without some help.

However, that makes you take note that there is a lack of frat brothers in the frat house.

“Are ya just gonna stand there and stare or come inside?” Osamu remarks and your spine grows twice as stiff. You nod quickly and follow him inside and he leads you to what seems like a living room area– some couches and chairs around a TV and coffee table.

Osamu gestures for you to sit and you cautiously sit down, as if the couch had a trap door, leading you to fall into whatever scary basement sat beneath the house.

“Where’s–” You clear your throat, hoping you can keep a firm voice. “-- the rest of your brothers?”

“All of ‘em left on a trip for the weekend, somethin’ ‘bout a party at another school, but I gotta stay back and study for this damn final.”

You quickly pull out the textbooks and notebooks from your bag and place them on the table to ignore Osamu, who takes a seat beside you. He makes you unbearably nervous like you’re about to drop on a rollercoaster. But Osamu is… He’s… stoic? No, that’s not right. Maybe calm was the right word. You wouldn’t know– you’re anything but calm right now.

No, because, quite frankly Osamu looks like he was plucked straight out of one of the daydream sequences you fall asleep to. And you feel like your heart is about to burst out of your chest from how fast it was racing.

“So, you need help with medicinal chemistry?” You notice your voice is an octave higher than what it usually is.

“Yeah, I missed too many classes and now I don’t have a fucking clue what’s going on,” he sighed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. Whatever you do, do not look at the way his arms are flexing or the distinctive veins charting throughout his forearms.

“We can start–” you flipped through your textbook to avoid staring at his arms any longer, “with the chapter on structure-based relationships–”

“Yer not who I thought Yuki would send.”

“I’m sorry?” You sputter back, and you think that your glasses pivot off your face. You were taken aback, did he think you were somebody else? Was he expecting someone else or?--

“She’s one of my brother’s friends. And my brother… Well, I don’t think ya would hang out with the likes of him.”

Oh, that’s what it was.

He was disappointed that you weren’t… someone more interesting, like your friend, or the people he knew in his frat, or…

It doesn’t matter. You should’ve expected this. After all, you’re just the tutor he has to tolerate for a few lessons until he passes his final. 

But still, you feel some sort of rejection. You couldn’t blame him, his Friday night was being wasted on some nerd who couldn’t even look him properly in the eye because she wasn’t used to being near cute guys, let alone one of the most attractive guys she had seen in, well, ever.

“Don’t look like that, I think that’s a good thing.”

“I look like what?” Your hand flies to your face, instinctively going to hide it.

“Like I kicked yer puppy,” he muses. 

You look back at him, and you see that he’s almost amused by your nerves. Your cheeks burn and you feel the need to wrap the cardigan you had on tighter around you, as if the wooly cotton would act as some sort of shield. But Osamu’s still right beside you, and you feel as if he’s intercepting some sort of barrier between you. But he sits still next to you.

“I like it, ya seem chill, and better than the damn morons I’m always ‘round. Yer a nice change of pace.”

A nice change of pace? You didn’t think that anyone would find your company… enjoyable.

“Please,” you laugh. The idea of you being chill momentarily makes you forget about your nerves. If only Osamu knew half the thoughts racing through your mind. “I’m a goody-two-shoes, and definitely not chill.”

“What, ya a good girl or somethin’?” 

You falter. You glance back at him and notice that his eyes still haven’t left you.

“What?” You say, but it comes out more like a squeak. You’re not dumb, you could hear the indication ever so slightly tinged in his voice.

“Ya just interest me, I guess. Wanna know ‘bout ya.” You hear slight amusement in his tone. 

“So tell me, what makes you a goody two shoes?”

“I, uhm–” You barely are processing an answer with the way his dark-rimmed eyes bore at you. “Well, I haven’t ever smoked–”

“Weed or–?”

You shake your head. “Neither.”

“Ya drink?”

“Sometimes. Not often. I don’t go to parties or anything like that, and drinking alone is kinda depressing so–”

He snorts. You aren’t sure why you were answering his sudden questions, you were just here to tutor him in chemical structures. But something about his presence beside you is commanding and you feel the need to comply.

“Maybe we can change that sometime.”

You barely compute what he just said before he turns to the textbook in front of you.

“So what’s this ‘bout structure activity?”

Osamu’s smarter than what you expect for a student possibly facing academic probation. Honestly, you question if he had ever needed you in the first place. He’s quick to pick up on the topics you lay out, and he probably could have self-taught himself most of the material if he applied himself. 

Or showed up to class, but you keep that thought to yourself.

“That’s pretty much all of chapter five,” you say, closing the textbook in front of you.

“I honestly think if you just kept studying on your own, you don’t need me to tutor you, I can send you some videos too if you’d like, but I think that you’re fine–”

“Nah, I’d prefer if ya came over.”

He says it simply in a lazy drawl. But for you, it sends your brain into overdrive. You feel like a computer whose code has an error but keeps trying to run its system. 

“Oh– Alright– I can come around sometime next week then.” You barely maintain to keep your composure. You just needed to be on auto-pilot until you got home, where you could properly freak out in the sanctity of your own room.

“Ya okay with late nights? Stupid frat schedule keeps me busier than I’d like to be.” He asks.

You nod your head. “Mhm, I’m fine being over late.”

“That too much for ya?” And there’s a lazy smile across his lips. “Ya got a bedtime or something?”

You give him another small laugh. “No, I usually stay up late anyway.”

“Ya stay up late? Doin’ what?” 

There it is again. That sliver of amusement in his tone, as if he knows something that you don’t. But he keeps his calm demeanor, the one that makes you question if you’re just reading too much into things.

“Reading, watching shows, y’know, the normal stuff.”

Reading the stack of romance novels piled in your dorm until you see the sun peak through your blinds, watching soap operas until the screen asks ‘Are you still watching?’ because they assumed you left it open when in reality you’ve watched about five hours worth of television, dreaming, and wondering if someday you could attain even a fraction of the romance you see in fiction.

Yeah, the normal stuff.

At least for you, anyway. But hell would freeze over before you admit that. 

Especially to Osamu, who you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of a flutter in your chest for.

“That’s all ya got planned for Friday night?” He hums, fingers absentmindedly twirling a pencil in his free hand.

“Yup,” you reply, softly. Great, now he probably thinks you’re a loser just like everyone else. You should have just told him you were going to head to a party, like any other normal college student your age.

“Ya wanna do somethin’ with me, then? I’m bored as hell being in this house all alone.”

For a moment, you think that you hear him wrong. Certainly, a guy, as hot, as intimidating, and– and so many things you’re not, and certainly couldn’t match to, was offering to hang out with you. No way, this doesn’t happen. Not to girls like you.

“You wanna hang out with me? Like right now?”

“Would ya prefer a different time, then?” His tone though, doesn’t suggest that he wants to reschedule. It’s painfully sardonic. It seems like it would be now, or not at all.

“N-no. I’d…”

For once, you have a chance to not have a nose in a book. To not spend your weekend alone wondering if that was going to be the rest of your college life. You have the chance to do something for yourself. 

And something as simple as hanging out with a cute guy on a Friday night could be the start of that.

You sit up straighter and hold your head up. Something is tickling in your chest as you look back at Osamu, finally meeting back those eyes that couldn’t seem to stop studying you.

“Yeah, I’d like to.”

Something is screaming inside you. This is unfamiliar territory. This is foreign. Leave now. Abort mission. But you shove it down, you weren’t stopping while you were already ahead. New is good, you told yourself. But you still feel the urge to bolt out the door to cower under your covers.

You had put all your school supplies back into your bag and nestled yourself into the corner of the couch, making yourself as small as can be. Osamu said you two could ‘watch a movie and chill’. You could do something as simple as a movie, right? 

“Ya comfy?” He asks.

“Yeah, thank you,” you say quietly, as if speaking up would take up more space in the room.

“I can tell that yer nervous,” he comments. It was that obvious, huh?

“Yeah, I don’t…” you pause to collect yourself, “usually do this.”

“Hang out with guys only after a few hours of meeting ‘em?” He laughs, relaxing himself on the couch.

“Hang out with guys,” you mutter under your breath.

“What’d ya say?” He says, looking over at you questioningly. It seems he heard you.

“I don’t hang out with guys, at all,” you replied, tone clearer now, “much less cute ones–”

Shit, shit, shit. You didn’t mean to say the last part.

“Ya think I’m cute?”

You wondered if you sank deeper into the couch, that’d you’d disappear completely.

“I mean, yeah– you’re attractive, of course.” He has to know that, right? A guy like him definitely knows he’s attractive. “And usually… guys like you don’t hang out with… people like me, that’s all.”

You’re not sure where the sudden gust of courage comes from, considering you were so anxious moments ago– but the question spills out from your mouth before you can think twice about it.

“Why’d you want me to hang out with you?” You ask suddenly, turning to him.

“Maybe ‘cause I think yer cute,” he states simply as if it were an easy answer, leaning back and looking back at the TV.

You haven’t been paying attention to whatever movie Osamu turned on– What was this? Some slasher flick?-- Something with a girl shrieking at the top of her lungs while obviously fake blood pours out of her. It’s ridiculous and you would laugh if there wasn’t a weight weighing on your mind– the weight is also sitting right next to you.

No, you can’t notice the terrible special effects when you know Osmau is beside you– warm and taking up the majority of the space on the already small couch you’re both sitting on.

You can’t help but have your brain go into overdrive over what Osamu said. Did he just call you cute and then drop the topic? What were you supposed to do? Just watch the movie and just not address it? Is this what guys did? Is that how you flirt?-- you have a lack of answers. Mostly due to a lack of experience.

You spend the first thirty minutes of the movie wondering if you were just imagining Osamu slowly inching towards your half of the couch. By the time the first half of the movie is through and the killer is on his third victim, you decide you’re right when you realize that Osamu’s thigh is ghosting yours.

Now you really can’t deny it. 

A part of you thinks Osamu wants to be closer to you. 

But also, he could just be doing it subconsciously.

It’s probably the latter, but maybe…

“I can hear yer heartbeat from here,” Osamu practically chuckles from beside you.

“What?”

You try not to stammer it. You fail, anyway.

“I can tell that yer nervous, relax. I don’t bite.”

No, you’re certain that Osamu doesn’t bite. But you know that he’s close to you. Which could be worse. In fact, that is worse.

It’s worse because your senses are going haywire from how close he is.

You can tell he smells good. He smells better than whatever cologne sample you’ve ever smelled in a store or magazine. He smells like– what’s the term? Musky? Woody? You aren’t sure, you just know it’s slowly becoming your favorite scent.

You can feel his body heat, warm and consuming. You can hear his breaths– low and steady. You focus on all these other things to ignore the fact he’s boring his dark eyes straight into you.

“I got something for ya,” Osamu suddenly remarks. “Stay right there.”

You barely process what he says before he removes himself from the couch, and heads out of the living room.

Your brain isn’t able to overanalyze like it usually does because Osamu is back in about a minute. Your defenses are still up. What could he possibly have for you? Your mind is sprawling with questions as Osamu plops himself right back beside you.

“C’mere, this should help yer nerves,” Osamu hums, as he wraps an arm around your waist to pull you closer to him.

You don’t ignore the way you feel his hands skimming over the sliver of exposed skin between your sweater and jeans, like hot coals brushing against you.

 “Ya never smoked before, right?”

“No, I’ve never…” You realize that what he was holding in between his fingers was a freshly rolled blunt.

“Would ya like to try?”

You couldn’t lie, you’ve always been curious to try, especially since your friends were always talking about how ‘amazing’ it made them feel and how it would do wonders for your nerves. 

You look at the blunt between his fingers cautiously and peek back at him.

“It’ll be okay, I got ya, nothing to worry yer pretty little head about.” 

Pretty. Did he call you pretty? He has you?-- Fuck it, you needed something to put out the fires of your nerves.

“Okay, let’s do it,” you nod meekly.

“Attagirl,” Osamu grinned lazily. You don’t even bother to think about that comment, either. If you did, you’d be dead in a minute.

You watch as Osamu digs around the coffee table for a lighter, which is conveniently laid out on the table, as if ready for this moment. You watch as he flicks a flame to the blunt. He languidly takes a hit, and the smoke that hits the air is pungent. You’re glad there’s a window cracked open so the smell doesn’t collect in the room. 

You should be studying his motions to mimic them for when it's your turn, but instead, you drink in the fact that he looks oh so fucking attractive. 

He leans back on the couch, and you watch the way he tips his head back to blow out the smoke into the air above. You study the way veins flow through his neck and the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he exhales. You feel– fuzzy, warm. Are you high already? There’s a heat creeping from your chest, and you think you feel dizzy.

Yeah, you’re high. Totally. That has to be it.

When Osamu takes a look back at you, you avert your stare to your lap– reminding yourself that you’re acting odd. Cool girls don’t gawk at a guy smoking a blunt, they would– Well, you have no idea what they would do actually because you’re not cool.

And that’s obvious from the way you look at the blunt in Osamu’s hand like he’s handing you an unpinned grenade.

Osamu clocks in on the terror painted on your face. It’s so obvious somebody ten miles away could probably sense the nerves emitting from your body. You’re hoping you aren’t giving the deer-in-headlights look you usually have.

But you definitely are.

Osamu’s face softens at you.

“Do ya still wanna try? Ya don’t have to if ya don’t wanna–”

“Nono! I wanna try it.” you nearly jump at Osamu’s words. You’re a lot of things– nervous, nerdy, probably weird if you asked the guy who sat next to you in chemistry, but maybe that’s because he’s seen you write in three separate color-coded planners before. 

“Alright,” Osamu chuckles as he watches you take the packed roll from him.

But you’re not a quitter.

There’s a sudden adrenaline rush for you, almost like you’re taking a shot of tequila. You pinch the blunt and raise it to your lips before taking a hit– your very first.

You make sure not to inhale much. You’re already on the verge of coughing from the taste alone. You pull it away, letting out a meek cough, as smoke expels from your mouth. It tastes shitty and gross, like you expected. But you feel good? 

“Not bad,” Osamu muses, and you realize he was watching you the entire time.

Osamu looks at you. He’s been looking at you a lot tonight, you realize.

But that doesn’t mean anything.

“I have no idea how you don’t cough,” you say, as you pass the blunt back to him. 

“Taste bad?” He grins lazily. His arm is still around your waist. It feels good, too.

“Horrible.” It doesn’t stop you from inhaling more of the sour smoke.

“Look at ya,” Osamu chuckles. “Like it, don’t ya?”

You’re making Osamu smile, laugh even. And it makes your head spin even faster.  It’s so good.

Good, good, good. 

Everything feels so fucking good.

Osamu makes you feel good.

“What are ya mumbling about?” Osamu asks plucking the blunt from your fingertips, and you snap out of it. Well, almost, the feeling is still pooling in your chest, head– everywhere.

“I just– I feel–”

“Feel what?”

You start giggling. Doesn’t Osamu feel it too?

But maybe he does because he’s smiling at you. It’s not the same giddy heart-melting feely smile you have plastered on, it’s more relaxed. But you almost could see… a bit of amusement.

“Figures ya would be a lightweight for yer first time– probably shouldn’t have given ya the strong shit, but’s all I had.”

“I wanna do it again,” you sleepily smile waiting for Osamu to pass you the blunt. 

But he doesn’t. Instead, Osamu pauses to look at you again. This time he seems… inquisitive. He looks at the roll between his fingers, and you can tell that he’s calculating something in his head– then he looks at you.

“Ya wanna try something?”

His voice is low and there’s that tone of interest again. 

“Try what?”

“It’s a… different way to take a hit.”

It doesn’t take much to convince you and you nod at him. You just wanted more. More of the good feeling, more of Osamu.

You expect him to pass you the blunt, maybe with some sort of instructions, but instead, he takes another hit. You’re about to ask whatever question you had before Osamu reaches for your chin and takes it firmly.

Despite your brain being foggy, your brain is working overtime. Osamu is touching you– staring at you. And now his face is ghosting yours. You’re close enough to notice the slightest freckle ghosting his left cheek. Were you always this warm? No, you’re burning. There’s a fire sweeping in your chest, your head, your face– everywhere. You’re so warm– Osamu’s so warm.

And there’s a moment where you zero in. Osamu isn’t exhaling.

You realize what he wants to do.

The smoke inside his mouth isn’t for him– it's for you.

Your lip doesn’t even quiver in the way it usually does whenever you blurt out something nervously. Instead, your lips part invitingly, and you barely even register Osamu has closed the distance until his lips are brushing against yours and there’s a wisp of smoke pooling from his mouth to yours.

Osamu still had one hand steadied on your chin and the other was caging you into the couch corner. The further the smoke spills into your mouth, the more you sink into the couch. You barely even register there’s no more smoke to inhale because your back hits the seat of the couch, and Osamu’s on top of you.

“There’s a freckle on your left ch– mmph!”

Osamu’s mashing his lips into yours in an instant. You didn’t even think there could be any more room for Osamu to close in– he was already so close to you– but you were wrong. 

The kissing– it’s sloppy, depraved, even. Your glasses press against your face painfully from how quickly Osamu pounced on you, so you pull them off your face, not even caring where you throw them. You both feverishly want more, more, more. Osamu’s grabbing at your hips, his hands big and pawing at you. Your own hands are mapping the outline of his shoulders through his shirt. Osamu’s large body dwarfs your own, his weight resting on you. Your hands feverishly grabbed at him as your lips chased after the feeling you’ve been relishing– the good feeling– the feeling is pouring straight into your lips like rushing water and you’re drinking it in. It marries itself with the dizzy euphoric feeling clouding in your mind. So, so good.

He’s everywhere– you feel him everywhere. Your head is spinning. Osamu’s lips– coated in saliva mixing with your chapstick, pull you in even further. You don’t even know how you’re breathing, you haven’t gone for air in what feels like years.

But Osamu, selfishly, wants more. And so do you. So you don’t protest when you feel him rut his hips directly into yours– the throbbing bulge in his pants hitting that sweet spot you weren’t even aware was wanting for more. You moan feverishly against Osamu’s lips, the sound barely spilling out against him.

Osamu pulls himself off your lips, burying his face into the crook of your neck so you can feel every rugged heavy breath against your skin.

“Fuck, baby.” He’s panting, his hips grinding deeper into yours. The sweatpants he’s wearing, the jeans you have on, it’s too many layers. You’re unashamedly pawing at Osamu’s pants, begging for him to take them off so you can feel more.

“‘Samu, please,” you whine. You don’t even think of the nervous, shy, girl who walked into the apartment a few hours ago. She had been replaced with someone more desperate, unashamed in being so greedy for more.

Osamu doesn’t need to ask what you’re asking for, before shrugging off his pants and kicking them off somewhere on the floor. And in a moment, he’s unbuttoning your pants and pulling them off you like it’s burning you. Osamu’s already dark eyes– grow even darker at the sight of the wet spot growing on your panties and your sweater riding up your stomach.

“Please, please,” you cry with moans of his name in the absence of movement.

“Tell me what ya want,” Osamu pants.

“Wanna feel good.”

“Fuck,” he groans, before lowering his face to meet your stomach. He trails wet, firm kisses along your stomach, trailing down until his face is centered with your dripping cunt– clearly begging for more the way it clenches when you feel his hot breath ghosting the outside of your panties.

You absentmindedly grab at his hair, pushing him further to your aching cunt, encouraging him to continue– practically pleading the way you attempt to grind your pussy into him.

Osamu yanks off whatever panties you had on, and you swear you hear fabric ripping. But you couldn’t care less when you feel Osamu’s tongue languidly lick a stripe against your slit before beginning to circle your clit.

Your back arches off the couch and your wanton moans fill the empty air. You hope that Osamu’s didn’t have thin walls. But when Osamu suddenly slips a finger into your– it’s suddenly the least of your worries. 

The combination of Osamu’s tongue suckling at your clit and his now two fingers pumping in and out of you sends you into ecstasy. Every nerve in your body was vibrating as your head clouded between the weed running through your system and Osamu buried in his pussy eating you out like his life depended on it. Fuck what you smoked, Osamu was the real drug.

There’s a moment where your nerves pinch together– and everything in your chest collects, all those funny feelings turning hot and heavy in your lower stomach, before you cum. And you cum, hard.

You grab Osamu’s hair at the roots with a moan– no, scream, almost reflective of the horror movie actress you were making fun of earlier, as you coated Osamu’s face with slick. You don’t even realize how much it was until Osamu raises his head and his mouth reflects glossily.

You’re swimming in the hazy cloud of pleasure for a while, until your breathing steadies and you’re settling into the couch with heavy pants.

“Not bad for yer first time, right?” Osamu chuckles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What?” H-how did he know–

“Yer first time smoking?” Osamu smirks as he pulls himself up so he can sit on the couch.

“Oh, y-yeah,” you mumble, pulling your sweater down so you can cover your lower half.

You avert your gaze from Osamu, embarrassed by the lack of clothes you had on. You felt a tinge more sober now– enough to realize that it was way past the time you thought you’d stay. The movie credits weren’t even playing anymore– the TV had just gone into sleep mode. Osamu notices this too when he takes a glance out the window.

You think about what he said. Your first time was good. And maybe… Maybe you should try having more firsts.

“It’s late, ya shouldn’t be walkin’ home at this hour–” So that’s why…

“Ya wanna just crash here?”

You let Osamu take another first.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

LIKES, REBLOGS, COMMENTS, & TAGS ARE APPRECIATED + HELP ENCOURAGE YOUR LOCAL WRITER (ME)! ♡

Kuroo

Fluffy socks

Hopefully I did this right LMFAO

You did dw 😗

“Is that my sock?”

“…. No?”

It’s one of your favourite pairs. Pink, fluffy, perfect for winter, covered in tiny white hearts. Its twin is missing, the other clutched in your husbands large hand. And peeking out of the sock is a tiny, black, fluffy head, complete with tiny ears and a tiny pink nose.

Your husband put your kitten in your sock.

She wears an expression like his, a blank stare, and then she squeaks, blinking her pretty amber eyes at you.

“Care to explain why you put her in my sock?”

He sighs. “I may have seen a video online. But look,” he says, holding up the cute, fuzzy bundle in his palm with a grin. The bundle yawns, her little teeth on display as she blinks sleepily, clearly warm and comfortable. “She likes it.”