Fill-a-Page February Day 23!

SAY MORE ABT DAD NANAMI W SWIM TEACHER READER RN !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

‘kay!

minors & ageless blogs dni, i am an 18+ blog!

gn!reader, one mention/reference to drowning, no powers au, single dad nanami au, nanami is oblivious (or is he)

"excuse me."

you almost drop the teetering pile of foam bubble belts you're carrying.

actually, you do drop them. it's just that nanami kento—father of one and the oblivious bachelor of the year for the entire swim school despite his blunt demeanor—catches them without pause. his bicep flexes with the movement, the muscle rippling beneath his skin.

you swallow.

(your friends all grumble about how lucky you are to have little yuuji in your class.

you are not lucky.

yuuji is darling. you always hear him calling out a delighted, chirpy 'hi!' to everyone he passes before his little head of hair—the soft pink of still-ripening strawberries—pops into view. he's got a smile like the sun and an energy output to match. you think he could probably power a small city.

but lucky people do not have to try and keep a handful of young children from drowning as they learn to swim while nanami kento is busy being attractive by just existing, raking a big hand through his damp golden hair until it feathers out, gleaming beads of water trickling down the thick column of his neck to pool in the dip of his clavicle.

you should have been a camp counselor, you think miserably, looking away from his broad form just in time to catch the kickboard that's rocketed out from under nanase, a powder blue foam missile. at least then the parents keep their shirts on.)

"sorry. i didn’t mean to startle you,” nanami says. he’s acquired stickers since you last saw him, the bright little stars sprinkled across his cheeks like neon freckles. you suspect that yuuji has matching ones.

"it’s okay, nanami. thanks," you say, reaching out for the belts. "for uh, catching those. i just rinsed them, so—"

he brushes your hands away gently, adjusting his grip so he has a better hold on the belts. “i wanted to speak to you.”

“okay—what about?” you ask, your hands lingering before you let them drop to your sides awkwardly.

“i’d like to know which of your coworkers conduct private swim lessons and of those, who you feel would be the best match for yuuji.”

“oh.”

nanami’s brow raises a bit. he examines you for a beat, his umber eyes keen. “you know yuuji’s skill level better than anyone,” he tells you. “and i assume you know which of your coworkers would do best with his personality.”

“i find it hard to believe that there are people who don’t do well with yuuji’s personality,” you say.

his lips quirk into a tiny smile. it’s small, but you’ve learned to catch them over the last few months, those little flashes of contentment. of pride. he briefly glances back to where yuuji is chattering at his friend megumi.

(even your boss had commented on how yuuji managed to pry stoic little megumi out of his shell.

having witnessed it firsthand, you’re not sure that ‘pry’ is the right term. it reminds you more of when seagulls smash clams against the shoreline rocks to break their shells open. megumi never stood a chance against yuuji’s weaponized sunshine.)

you reach out for the belts again, desperate for something to fidget with as that hint of a smile melts through you. nanami gives you half of them; you don’t bother to protest. it’s not the first time he’s helped you put things away after class has finished. 

“true,” nanami concedes. “but yuuji can be difficult to keep up with.”

“i guess,” you say, tugging at your lower lip with your teeth.

for a breath, you think nanami’s eyes drop to your lips. but you blink, and he’s simply looking at you, waiting for a response.

“yahaba would probably be best, i think,” you say softly. “she’s a great teacher. yuuji’ll like her. she likes to play games with her students a lot.”

“thank you,” nanami says. “it’s appreciated.”

“sure.” you bite your lip again, fidgeting with the edge of your swimsuit. “do you have concerns about what i’m teaching yuuji?”

he blinks. “no. have i indicated that i do?”

“no, i just—i know it’s come up that i offer private lessons too. of course you don’t have to use me, it’s completely up to you, i understand if you want someone else to teach him, but the group lessons don’t end for another few months, so i guess i wanted to be sure that you felt like he was learning? in case that’s why you wanted to go with someone else instead of me. that’s—that’s all.”

“ah,” nanami says. it’s almost a hum, the word rumbling low in his chest. if he was anyone else, you would say he looks faintly pleased. “no, i have no concerns. i wouldn’t have kept yuuji in the class if i had any.”

your cheeks burn. “oh.”

“it’s simply that i don’t start personal relationships with people i employ,” he says, matter-of-fact. “which means that hiring you isn’t an option, because then i couldn’t ask you to get dinner with me once the group lessons have ended.”

you drop the bubble belts again.

Confessing Through Kabedon But It's a Failure (HCs)

A/N: High school setting. This is all crack. I think I’m funny sometimes. Tagging @sempiternal-amour and @miki-snake, who helped me with this idea.

Miya Atsumu

Was too overexcited to kabedon you, he ran straight for you. In your fear of being barrelled over, you dodge and Atsumu ends up running straight into the wall. His face was red as fuck when he hit the wall with a loud “THWACK” and he falls on his back. Suna has it on video. Osamu looks satisfied. Omimi is dying from laughter. Kita is confused. You are also confused what the fuck just happened.

Miya Osamu

Slapped the wall so hard, the sound made everyone around you two look. You look up at him staring silently wondering what the fuck is going on; but then there’s a tinkling sound and Osamu’s off running after the ice cream truck. You just stood there going, “What the fuck?!” Suna and Akagi walks up to you with a muttered, “Condolences.” Atsumu felt so bad, he gave you his pudding. Aran is facepalming.

Kuroo Tetsurou

Kabedon-ed you but leaned in so closely that you had to crane your neck up to look at him. You got annoyed and tug on his tie to lower his face to your level. Which short-circuited his brain and now he forgot what he was going to say as he gapes at you like a fish. You thought he was messing with you so you just left. He stayed there staring at the wall, face red and brain still fried. Yaku saw and told the entire team.

Kenma Kozume

Did it because Kuroo pestered him enough about it. He sighed as he kabedon-ed you and he looked so done you thought he was leaning on the wall because he was about to faint. You didn’t listen to his claims of being fine so he ends up dragged to the clinic. Kuroo was passing by the clinic and you ran up to him telling him how Kenma is sick. When you left, Kuroo is cackling, unaware that he’s about to be murdered.

Hinata Shoyo

Too excited, jumped at you, ended up doing the two arms and two legs kabedon. He screamed in embarrassment. “GWAAHH!” You screamed in fear. “HWAAAAH?!” Tsukishima’s busy wheezing on the floor. Kageyama, supposedly to the rescue, run straight to you guys to pry Hinata off but only succeeded in scaring you even further. You bolted, now traumatized of the volleyball gym.

Kageyama Tobio

Unwisely followed his team’s advice so now he has you trapped against the wall as you wonder if this will be your last moments before you die in the hands of an intimidating, stuttering volleyball team player. Hinata tried to pull him out of it (seeing you’re also about to bail) by serving a ball to the back to his head. Kageyama bolts off after Hinata. You wonder what happened.

Nishinoya Yuu

Did it confidently, but was too awestruck by your face to speak. Realizes how close he is to your face…and your breasts. Definitely flicked his eyes down before staring determinedly in your eyes. His hand, sweaty from nerves, slips and he’s about to fall into the valley of your breast (his brain doing the slow motion, frame by frame) but your hand is quicker and you slap him. Wore the handprint on his face as a badge of honor.

Tsukishima Kei

Did it in his typical tsundere fashion (with a matching “Tch”) that it scared you. Before he can even speak, you were bowing apologetically offering his class notes back with a matching “I promise never to borrow your notes ever again.” Took the notebook to play it cool even if he was dying inside. Yamaguchi had to eat his fist to not laugh out loud. “Shut it, Yamaguchi!” “Sorry, Tsukki!”

Oikawa Tooru

Did it so suavely and smooth, you were actually impressed. Matched it by leaning on his elbow as he runs his fingers through his hair. Your eyes locked on the mosquito landing on his cheek. A loud slap. Cue Iwaizumi, Matsukawa, and Hanamaki’s laughter and wheezing heard from around the corner. You stand there frozen about to apologize. But the four just pats you on the back, “Great slap!” “Good one!” Oikawa whines.

Iwaizumu Hajime

Did it because…shoujo manga tropes work, right? (No, Hajime.) You stare at him, feeling slightly intimidated but you stand your ground. He stares back. …He didn’t think he’d make it this far, he didn’t actually think or rehearse what he wanted to say. After an awkward five full minutes of just staring at each other, he puts his arm down. You nod at each other and both walk away. Was there a bond formed? No one knows.

Kyoutani Kentarou

Did it for the same misguided reasons as Iwaizumi. He was definitely growling when he did it. You were super intimidated but kept a brave face on. Remembering his “Mad Dog” reputation, you shouted in alarm, “Heel!” It worked. Kyoutani immediately drops his arm and stopped growling. Oikawa’s now asking you for tips. Iwaizumi nods approvingly. Yahaba is amazed. Kyoutani facepalms when he remembers what happened.

Terushima Yuuji

So used to the art of kabedon, that he can do it effortlessly and smoothly. Unfortunately for him, you’re also used to his antics and playboy reputation. Before he can even lean in, your palm was already on its way to uppercut his face away from you. You walk away and he just sighs longingly, looking at your form. Damn, you look good when you walk away.

The Winner: Ushijima Wakatoshi

Huge, hulking man towering over you as he traps you against the wall. You stutter out asking what he wants. He replies, “I wanted to confess my interest in you and have been informed this is the proper way to do it. Would you like to go out with me?” Of course you say yes. Of course you should tell him that’s not the proper way to do it. Tendou is 2000 Yen richer after that day.

Bonus Winner: Kita Shinsuke

Asks you to meet him in an isolated location after school. Confesses to you like a proper guy, politely asking if you’d be interested in trying out dates with him. Of course you say yes. Of course you schedule your first date and he promised to walk you home that day. Aran, being the supportive wingman, was watching around the corner and told the twins afterwards. The two idiots went, “Ooooohhhh.”

Bonus Winner: Bokuto Koutarou

Forgot he was supposed to kabedon you. Came running at you in full speed, you fucking bolted off your seat in fear. Ended up in a chase around the school building, but you can’t match his stamina. When you stop and wheeze, he stopped right in front of you.“I LIKE YOU. PLEASE GO OUT WITH ME!” You stared at him for a full minute, you’re brain trying to process as you gasp for air. You say yes when your lungs agree with you again.

unicorns and pomegranates

summary: Suna x F!Reader. "Do you ever feel like you were born to serve and die for someone in glorious battle," Suna says, valiantly failing not to flick his eyes back to you. You're frowning at your drink, trying to pick a particle off its rim with a nail. "Sexually, I mean."

"You are not normal," Atsumu tells him.

word count: 1.4k

cw: angst to fluff, friends to lovers, mild objectification, suna has strange inclinations, intoxication, one or two references to sex, …hand mention

a/n: i almost titled this "stop picking fights with knights and come wear tunics with the eunuchs"

You can't believe you were actually looking forward to this team dinner. It's the stupid fancy gala EJP Raijin puts on annually, in a stupid beautiful venue covered in white marble and stupid crystal chandeliers. You'd been so excited when Suna said, offhandedly, I get a plus-one, you wanna come with?

You should've known it would end up like this, feeling self-conscious in your expensive clothes while Suna stands far away and doesn't pay attention to you at all. He's not your date, you're his plus-one, gifted a glimpse into the world of professional athletes for one night only. He expects you to mingle with his friends, maybe even get yourself a real date to the next team event. It's such a stupid, cruel joke of the stars that he's the only one of these talented, handsome men that you want.

You take a sip of champagne and try not to think about it. He'd come to pick you up in his ridiculous fancy red car and stared at you with his inscrutable features and said I don't know, I'm sure it's fine, when you asked what he thought. Glowing praise, you thought, sitting among models and Olympians.

Across the room, Suna is trying to pretend that he is a eunuch. Eunuchs don't throw their best friends over their shoulder and carry them home and make sweet, sweet love to them all night long.

"There's something wrong with your face," Atsumu says.

"Do you ever feel like you were born to serve and die for someone in glorious battle," Suna says, valiantly failing not to flick his eyes back to you. You're frowning at your drink, trying to pick a particle off its rim with a nail. "Sexually, I mean."

"You are not normal," Atsumu tells him, "but yeah, I get the feeling."

They lapse into silence for a moment. One of the guys who came stag walks up to you and jumps into conversation. Suna imagines spiking a ball into his face several times.

"Are you feeling like that because of—" Atsumu starts, but Suna cuts him off with a violent slashing motion across the throat.

"If you say the words out loud, they become true," Suna says. "Shut your fat mouth."

"She does look good," Atsumu muses. "Nice necklace."

"Don't look at her," Suna says. "I actually don't even know who you're talking about. She's wearing a necklace?"

He glances back. You aren't, which soothes his concern that he'd been so distracted by the generous amount of décolletage revealed by your top he'd missed major details of your appearance, which he planned to burn into his memory and then never speak about until he died. His last words were probably going to be "the top button was undone."

"Maybe you would be failing less miserably if you actually talked to your date," Atsumu says. "How did you ask her to be your date without actually dating her?"

"It takes a lot of skill to put yourself this deeply in the friendzone," Suna says. "Someday you'll understand."

"I hope not," Atsumu says with feeling. "Hey, look, they're doing shots."

The rando who’s talking to you is clinking his glass against yours, making unnecessarily intense eye contact. Suna frowns; staring at you like a weirdo is his job. You glance away from your drinking partner for a second, your gazes connecting, and that’s all the invitation Suna needs to cross the room in the space of a split second. He snatches your shot from you with two long fingers and tosses it back, grinning widely at the other man when he’s swallowed.

“That was mine,” you say without vitriol.

“That was vodka,” he says, feeling the warm buzz of it in his belly. “You’re allergic.”

“Not allergic,” you roll your eyes, “just a lightweight.”

It’s true. Vodka gets you way too drunk, way too fast. Why hadn’t you said anything to this other guy? You only ever drink such hard liquor when you’re upset.

Are you upset?

“I’ll buy you another drink,” he promises. He’s glad he took the drink from you. It’s having a strange, dizzying effect the longer he looks at you, your darkened eyes, your parted lips. He reaches up and sweeps the back of his hand just over the curve of your neck, a light touch. He’s pleased when it leaves goosebumps in its wake, a short-lived mark he can leave on you.

“It’s an open bar, dummy,” you roll your eyes. The guy you were talking to has faded into the distance, though you don’t even notice.

He’d meant to stay away from you tonight. He’d meant to be a respectful friend, one who didn’t steal glances at you that he shouldn’t, one who didn’t want to punch out anyone else who looked at you with lust on their face. Every time he steps away, though, you seem to be tossing back another drink, giggling and leaning on a new shoulder, and he’s back at your side, plucking your hand away and glaring at whoever tries to talk to you.

Finally, he follows you down the hall to the bathroom, where you spin and lean heavy on the wall, facing him. Your eyes are bright and teary, all the gloss rubbed off your downturned lips, but he still wants to kiss them, for some reason (because he’s a creep, he scolds himself).

“What are you doing,” you sigh, and he blinks, taken aback.

“Just watching out for you, I guess,” he says. You pout.

“You don’t even care,” you say, voice catching. “You’re hovering like a jealous boyfriend and I don’t even know why.”

“I’m not,” he protests lamely.

“I know!” You explode, pushing away from the wall and wobbling dangerously. He clamps a hand down on your arm and supports your body with his; you are a bamboo shoot and he’s the stake. “I know. You think I’m ugly, you’ll never like me. I get it.”

“What?” Your skin is warm to the touch, and you smell a touch sweet, a touch spicy. He wants to lick the skin behind your ears, where your perfume is spritzed strongest. You couldn’t be more wrong if you declared that Atsumu was going to win a prize for scientific achievement.

“This is stupid,” you say, and oh, oh, no, there are tears welling up and streaking down your face. He pulls you in firmly, playing with the short hairs on the back of your neck. You cry into his chest, even though he’s the reason. “I want to go home. I just wanted to have fun.”

“I know,” he says, voice low, like he’s talking to a wounded animal, “I’ll take you home.” For some reason this encourages a fresh bout of sobbing. “I’m sorry I ruined your night.”

“I just wanted you to think I was pretty,” you hiccup on the last word, and his heart stops.

“I think you’re so pretty,” Suna says. “I think you’re gorgeous. You don’t think you’re pretty?”

“I know I’m pretty,” you say, and he keeps trying to step back, walk away, pull himself out of a situation he has to be misunderstanding. “I thought you did, too, enough to invite me to this stupid thing, enough that I was so excited to pretend we were together or maybe that we would be together for real someday. Fuck, I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not,” he begs you to believe him.

“I thought just because you’re beautiful and you look at me—sometimes—like you want me or something and you touch me all the time, it might mean something. I am an idiot. And a bad friend. I even like your hands, Suna, you’ve made me so crazy I can’t even look at your hands without thinking about your fingers—”

Suna grabs you before you can finish a sentence that will surely land you pressed up against the wall with one of the hands in question in your pants. He says your name, serious, voice grating against all his instincts.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do,” you insist, looking like you’re going to start crying again. “I—fuck. I love you, Rintarō.”

It’s the final nail in the coffin.

“I’m going to enter noble and valorous combat to prove my worthiness,” he says instantaneously. You peer up at him, expression simultaneously baffled and cutting.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Suna says hurriedly. “Let’s go home. You should lie down, and tomorrow I need to clear some things up, repeatedly. Possibly for the rest of our lives.”

@HAIKYUU : MAKE SURE TO GET IT ON FILM, BABY!

a lewd anthology series of haikyuu men filming you and him fucking; after a party, while he’s at work, as you’re making pasta.

one thing is for sure: you’re always, always the star of his film.

nsfw content, minors do not interact ˖  ݁ . ࿓ each part has its own warnings. please be sure to read them all thoroughly < 3 kiss

starring ˖  ݁ . ࿓ miya atsumu, sakusa kiyoomi, oikawa tooru, akaashi keiji, matsukawa issei, kuroo tetsuro, miya osamu — more characters may be added.

reblogs are incredibly appreciated >3<

001. LA SANTA

✩ ˛˚ . miya atsumu is your best friend — you do everything with him. and so, obviously, you’re gonna ask him how you’re supposed to suck dick after attending a halloween party. and maybe he’ll show you other things, too.

002. TELL ME THAT YOU LOVE ME

✩ ˛˚ . your husband — sakusa kiyoomi — wants to treasure every moment of your honeymoon with photographs and videos. giving you every ounce of his raw heart and stuffing you with his cum as he records is part of that whole ordeal.

003. ME PORTO BONITO

✩ ˛˚ . your boyfriend is shit — doesn’t know the first thing about pleasing you. so, why not let star athlete oikawa tooru wrap his gold medal around your neck as he fucks you dumb? as he records the dirty deed and sends it to your (soon to be ex) boyfriend?

004. EFECTO

✩ ˛˚ . akaashi keiji is convinced you’re a nymph with the way you make him feel. especially as he’s fucking you in his bathroom, in front of the mirror — one hand on your pussy, other holding his phone to record the unfolding events before the two of you.

005. I FALL TO PIECES WHEN I’M WITH YOU

✩ ˛˚ . you’re matsukawa issei’s favorite shot girl. you’re so sweet, so pretty — he wants to absolutely ruin you and record the whole process.

006. A LOVE FILLED LUNCH

✩ ˛˚ . kuroo tetsuro — your beloved and doting husband — loves it when you take time out of your day to make him a love filled bento and adores it when you take it to his office, since you always make sure to stay for dessert.

007. BREAKFAST AT ONIGIRI MIYA’S

✩ ˛˚ . your boss — miya osamu — asks you to come in early on sunday mornings, the busiest day of the week. today, though, he might have to close shop to rearrange your guts in his kitchen.

© kentoangel — do not copy, repost, modify or translate my works.

rintarou plays with a bit of ribbon left strewn across the floor, twirling it around his long, lithe fingers idly. it's green and velvety, and slips easily between his digits as he winds it slowly between the valleys of his knuckles, humming a little tune to himself.

as you approach him in the living room by the christmas tree, he looks up at you with a soft, content smile on his face.

"here you go," you say, handing him the cup of coffee you've just prepared, steam curling from the surface. it's in a novelty mug he got you last christmas, shaped like a cute little character from a sci-fi franchise you've loved since you were a kid, and he takes it with an appreciative nod—careful not to spill a drop as the cup passes from your hand to his own.

you take a seat at his side with your own cup of coffee once he's taken his first sip.

"mmm," he hums once he's swallowed the mouthful. "it's good."

"i put some cinnamon in the french press," you tell him, leaning a bit against his arm, your cheek resting on his shoulder as the two of you sit tucked together on the living room floor beneath the tree.

"festive," rinatrou says with an approving nod, shifting so you press even closer to his side, his arm snaking back around your waist.

it's been a slow, easy morning in your nagano apartment. you insisted on opening gifts first thing, because that's what your family always did growing up, and even though rintarou wasn't much of a holiday person to begin with he indulged you without question. it wasn't a grand, elaborate ordeal, just a couple of gifts exchanged between the two of you; some new headphones for rin, some perfume for you, little bits of clothes for each of you here and there. your mother had sent each of you a new pair of mittens (though your card had included an unsubtle but endearing note about how it would be a shame to cover up the new ring you've recently started wearing on your left hand) and rin's sister sent you a popular local tea from the town where she's attending university.

"did you have a nice christmas?" you ask rintarou as he takes another sip of coffee. he hums in agreement, looking down at where you're tucked into his side.

"did you?"

you echo his earlier hum.

"we should clean up," you say, looking around the room at the torn gift wrap and boxes on the floor. "i need to clean up from making the coffee, too."

rintarou dips down and presses a kiss to the top of your head. "you do that, i'll take care of this stuff."

you nod, pulling yourself away from the warmth of his side, pushing yourself back up to your feet as rintarou crawls towards the mess at the bottom of the tree.

you're just about to cross the threshold to the kitchen when you hear him say.

"oh, there's another gift under here."

"what?" you ask, turning back to face him. heat suddenly floods your face when you see him kneeling underneath the tree with a familiar gift in his hands. it's not a very large gift—a slim little package only a bit bigger than the size of his hand—so while you're not surprised it went unnoticed at first, you're mortified when you realize what's about to happen.

"it's for me," he says in confusion after reading the tag, glancing over at you.

"um," you stumble a little over your feet as you try to cross the room towards him. "what if you wait to open that until late—!"

rintarou's finger is already under the edge of the wrapping paper, though he hasn't properly ripped into it yet. he's watching you curiously as you approach him, a glint of something in your eyes that's caused you far too many headaches in the four years the two of you have been dating.

"rin, stop," you say to him, and though you make every attempt to sound firm, the demand comes out more pleading than anything.

"what did you get for me?" he asks, a lilt of mischief in his tone as he peels up the corner of the wrapping paper ever so slightly.

"it's nothing important," you insist, falling to your knees beside him and trying to cover up the present with your hands. "you can have it later."

"but it's christmas now," he counters, slipping the gift out from your hands and holding it away from you. "plus all the other presents are opened, it'll be lonely under the tree all by itself."

"rintarou," you groan, tipping yourself face first into his chest to hide your shame. the telltale sound of wrapping paper tearing tells you that as much as he might love to indulge you, he delights in tormenting you even more.

"what is this?"

you refuse to pull yourself away from his chest.

its quiet for a moment. you hear some shuffling, and you can clearly picture rintarou turning the little package over in his hands as he scrutinizes it.

"was this supposed to be for me?" he asks after a moment, clearly confused.

you don't say anything.

you don't even move.

"did you fall asleep?" rintarou teases you, rubbing at your back as you keep your face hidden against his chest.

"no, i died," you answer, but the words are muffled by the material of his hoodie.

"oh no, not on christmas. how tragic," he drawls jokingly, but you don't laugh.

"...baby..."

"...babe."

"why did you buy me a present i don't understand just to get mad at me about it?" he mutters when you don't respond to any of his beckoning.

finally you separate yourself from his sweatshirt to peer up at him resentfully.

"it is for you," you mumble under your breath, answering his earlier question. you snatch the package out from his hands, tucking it against your chest with your arms crossed over top of it. "but i'm the one who's supposed to wear them."

you watch the realization dawn on rintarou's face. if you weren't so hideously embarrassed, you might even find it in yourself to laugh at the almost cartoonish expression of enlightenment.

"oh," he breathes. "oh."

suddenly he's in your face, dipping down to meet you at eye level, his nose brushing yours.

"you got those just for me?" he asks, and you can almost taste the cinnamon on his lips.

"yeah," you answer quietly, and he kisses you to muffle the little groan the slips out of his lips at your answer.

with one hand cradling the back of your head, rintarou lowers you back onto the ground, slotting himself between your thighs as they part to welcome him. his tongue slips between your lips to meet your own, the warmth his hands gliding up over your hips towards your chest.

you don't resist as he slips the little box out from your grasp.

rintarou pulls away, and you look up at him from your position on the floor as your chest heaves. the look in his eyes as he appraises the gift lacks any of the confusion it had a moment prior, replaced now with a heady, palpable lust.

he turns the box around towards you, and you have no choice but to look at the silky sheer tights in their luxurious packaging.

"this is a very thoughtful gift," he says to you quietly, his voice low and a little strained. the bulge in his gray sweatpants, which has only gotten larger since his moment of realization, does not go unnoticed by you.

"it's easy to buy gifts for a pervert," you mumble, hiding your face under your hand.

slowly rintarou lifts your hand from your face, and you watch under heavy lidded eyes as he lifts it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles tenderly—right over the ring he put there a few days prior.

"are you gonna put them on for me?" rintarou speaks into your skin, his lashes fluttering in a way that might seem sweet if the circumstances were different. you take the package from him, slipping your fingertip under the lip of the packaging to pry it open.

you glance up at him again.

rintarou laughs breathily as he meets your gaze, and you catch a glint of teeth biting down into the plush of his lip like he's trying to restrain himself.

there's a sudden thickness in your throat. a knot in your stomach. anticipation thrums just underneath your skin, prickling up to the surface with every gentle touch of his hands.

you tilt the opened package back towards him.

"don't you wanna put them on me yourself?"

he'll be the one tearing them off you in a few minutes anyway, so he may as well enjoy them while they last.

net positive

summary: Suna x Reader. Weirdo on weirdo high school flirting.

word count: 1.3k

cw: sex jokes and cursing and terrible, sleep deprived writing

a/n: i’ve genuinely gotten so little sleep recently but i was like “i need suna to be more insane” so this is the product of that. it’s not feral enough. i can’t guarantee the quality of the grammar. i may edit heavily once i’m properly rested and sentient again

Suna thinks this is love at first sight.

Suna is prone to making grand, sweepingly overdramatic statements with a completely deadpan expression. He does this often entirely within his head, his inner monologue just as monotone as his actual voice tends to be. Occasionally, he references these statements out loud, and people just accept it, because Suna has the kind of self confidence that lets him get away with the weirdest shit.

“When’s the wedding?” Are his first words to you, but you don’t hear them, because you’re head down, ass up in a dumpster, legs floating inches above the ground. You push yourself up, hair matted to your head with sweat, eyes just a little crazed. He thinks you’re radiant. He thinks you have a nice ass.

Keep reading

i can’t reblog anything bc my stupid phone doesn’t work.

on a morning just like any other, miri goes looking for rei in the bathtub to wake him up. but this time, unlike any other morning, she finds that he's not there.

she stares, perplexed, at the basin where her papa normally sleeps, blinking down at the empty space in confusion. she makes her way back upstairs with the same confused expression on her face all the while.

the sound of the bedroom door opening at the end of the hall on the second level takes her by surprise.

"rei papa," she says, almost like she can hardly believe her eyes, "did you sleep in your bed last night?"

the aforementioned papa pauses in the doorway to his bedroom with one foot across the threshold, as though he's frozen mid-step.

"ah," he grunts, struggling to meet the little girl's inquisitive gaze. "hm."

not even his affirmative hum is enough to satiate miri's need for details.

"why?" she asks, her head cocking to the side. she eyes him, and rei is suddenly uncomfortably reminded of the training he's endured to withstand his composure under unimaginable torture and violence. somehow this is worse. "is rei papa sick?"

"no," he murmurs.

"then why is rei papa so red?" she steps towards him tentatively, intent to get to the bottom of her papa's strange behaviour and very pink face.

"miri!" the little girl is suddenly swept up from her feet, wooshing through the air as kazuki scoops her up into his arms while he sing-songs her name. he holds her up in front of his cheerful face. "your breakfast is getting cold, miri-chan!"

miri blinks into the grinning face of her blonde-haired papa. her gaze slides to the side to peek at rei, and the goes back to the man in front of her. she holds up a hand to cover her mouth from view (though it's on the wrong side to actually hide it from the brunette at the end of the hall.) "kazuki papa, rei papa sleeped in his bed," she mutters from the corner of her mouth, her little lips pursing.

kazuki looks at the man at the other end of the hall, completely still and looking at him with uncharacteristically startled eyes, and then back to the little girl in his arms.

"hmm," kazuki hums, "is that so?"

miri leans closer, and kazuki dips down too.

"maybe," she whispers, her tone even quieter and notably more conspiratorial, "he had... an accident."

kazuki relies on every modicum of self restraint and rigorous training he's endured not to outrightly laugh. instead, he hums thoughtfully with a solemn nod.

"we should be nice to him if he did," miri adds, "he might feel embarrassed."

the laughter kazuki feels welling up inside of him is as real of a threat as any gun that's ever been pointed his way.

kazuki sets miri down and she shuffles over to her other papa, who closes his bedroom door behind him just as she stops at his feet. she stares up at him, with a look that might be considered sympathetic if it weren't on the face of a four year old. she pats him comfortingly on the leg.

"it's okay, rei papa," she says pensively, something almost wistful in her tone. "it happens to the best of us."

and on that note, she spins on her heel and skips towards the stairs, heading to the breakfast that kazuki had promised.

"hold onto the railing!" the blonde calls after her as she sets off down the staircase, and she chirps back affirmatively before humming a little song as she goes.

the two men listen to her footsteps retreat, then the sound of her chair at the table downstairs being dragged across the floor, and eventually the sound of cutlery scraping across her plate.

kazuki turns, peeking at rei over his shoulder, a wicked grin on his face.

"did you have an accident? rei-pa-pa?"

"shut up," rei mutters, his shoulders slumping as he finally relaxes.

behind him, his bedroom door creaks open, and you poke your head out from inside.

"that was close," you say breathily, brushing your hair back from your face, and the two men watch as you slip through the door into the hallway. you have one of kazuki's hoodies on your frame, and a pair of cozy slippers on your feet.

rei looks at you, and you avoid his eyes, staring up at the ceiling and trying not to laugh. he pouts.

"you two are mean," he complains.

"rei," you laugh, reaching for him, but he shies away from you woundedly. the act only last for a few seconds before he's allowing you to slip your arms around his waist from behind, leaning against his frame while you embrace him.

"who are you calling mean?" kazuki sniffs, "i just expertly diverted miri's attention because you wouldn't get out of bed in time to get in the tub before she woke up."

rei and kazuki glower at each other for a moment, but there's no real animosity behind either gaze.

"no fighting," you pipe in from behind rei, peeking out from around his shoulder.

"this is your fault too, you know," kazuki points accusatorially in your direction and you gape.

"me?" you ask, offended. you slip out from behind rei's frame and stalk towards kazuki. "if i remember correctly you're the one who was begging me to stay over last night, and you're the reason why my clothes needed to be washed before i could leave." you poke him harshly in the chest, and he winces–though there's virtually no way it did any real harm.

kazuki chuckles, a breathy little heh, looking away guiltily with your fingertip still prodding his chest.

"speaking of," you look around the hallway, "where are my clothes?"

kazuki perks up, shuffling over to the laundry basket he'd dropped at the top of the stairs and fishing out your freshly-laundered clothes from underneath a pile of miri's. he brings them over to you and places them in your outstretched hands.

"thanks," you say, a little smile pulling at your lips. kazuki offers you his cheek expectantly, and you roll your eyes but crane up on your tiptoes anyway. he turns his face at the last minute, just like he always does, stealing a proper kiss.

you giggle as you pull away, kazuki's greedy hands reaching for you to pull you back, and you let him man-handle you into his hold while you sift through the clothing in your hands. you quickly notice something's missing.

"where are my panties?" you ask, tipping your head to peer up at kazuki who's draped over your back. his brow furrows in confusion, looking at the articles in your hands and then back to the laundry basket.

"there weren't any," he says in confusion, certain that he would have noticed something like that in the load of laundry he'd risen to do at dawn.

rei slips past the two of you quietly, heading towards the stairs.

it occurs to you just a second too late.

"rei," you hiss, careful not to make too much noise and draw attention to yourself. "rei!"

he glances at you over his shoulder, pulling his hand out of the pocket of his sweatpants to reveal a familiar ball of lace in his grip. he shoots you a smug little look, and then continues to descend the stairs, muttering something as he goes that sounds suspiciously like 'it happens to the best of us.'

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

Link: https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-zinh-rebuild-her-life-and-achieve-her-dream

I was contacted personally by zinh in gaza to help her cause. She is so close to her initial goal! (39000/50000 as of 6/8)

gofundme.com

Donate to Help Zinh Rebuild Her Life and Achieve Her Dream, organized by Miranda Harris

My dear friend Zinh Dahdooh is asking for support to gather enough fun… Miranda Harris needs your support for Help Zinh Rebuild Her Life and

This is the initial costs are 50000, but with hopes and goals to cover each family member as you all know the extortiinate prices of crossing the border. goals to help evacuate the rest of her family, including her younger sibilings and mother. More details are on zinhs twitter. https://x.com/zinh_1?mx=2

https://x.com/zinh_1?mx=2

Her last GFM was frozen because of the amount of money withdrawn, but the problems are all cleared now. She manages her campaign herself and reaches out to a lot of people. We can pick up the slack and lessen her stress by spreading and engaging- like i said, repost away any version of this QR code or drawing. Please do help, or if you can’t, RB, or repost as you please.