Sending So Much Love To Everyone Who Feels Like They’re Never Chosen As The Best Friend, As The Partner,

UGLY SWEATER | AKAASHI KEIJI

holiday/christmas drabble. husband keij. corny shit. gn reader. jus…fluff n (christmas) crack.

“wh-what..” keiji asks, face flushing and fingers growing restless at his sides.

oh heaven love him. you married your husband for many reasons; his thoughtfulness is unparalleled, his preciseness is unmatched, his cooking is simply to die for. he’s a sweetheart, through and through. he seems to always know how you’re feeling or what you want before you even do. he’s able to read you like he’s known you forever and can recite your entire being like it’s the back of his hand. there are countless reasons that you said i do.

but his fashion sense is definitely not one of them.

“nothing, it’s just—“

you bite your lip to stop the laugh threatening to bubble out of your throat. because, granted, keiji’s fashion sense is pretty good eleven months out of the year. sophisticated, clean, attractively slouchy. but then comes december, and december brings, well.

“keij, that sweater..”

it is absolutely horrid. it’s like christmas threw up on it; tinsel and ribbons and buttons in four separate mismatched shapes and, god, who even knew there were this many different shades of red and green? when did he even buy this? because you most definitely wouldn’t have let him make it to the check out line with it in hand.

“what about it?” he asks, and—sweet man—his face is completely serious too. his fingers grip the hem of it, tug at it a little as he looks down. his eyes scan the fabric, a once over for himself, then he’s glancing back up to you with furrowed brows. “is it a little too much?”

“babe.” a small giggle finally escapes you as you step up to him, patting his shoulder and watching as a string of tinsel drifts to the floor. “i think it’s a lot too much. i mean is this—are those bells on your collar?”

and oh, keiji doesn’t really get embarrassed a lot, but now pink is flooding his cheeks so fast he thinks he might just faint on the spot.

“well it’s just a christmas party. and you said to dress festive so i—should i change? yeah, i should change. let me just—“

“no, no! wait,” you protest with a chuckle, grabbing his hand to stop him and smiling at the slight pout he gives you. “it’s..cute. in a quirky sort of way. give me a little spin.”

“yn..”

“nuh uh,” you tut, dropping his hand and twirling your finger around. “you chose to put it on, no whining. now spin.”

the pout tugging at your husband’s lips deepens, the flush in his face following suit. but nevertheless he follows your order and does an awkward little spin for you in the middle of your living room; much like a kid showcasing the shirt he’s just tried on in the dressing room for his mom. and the sweater looks just as dorky and ugly after the twirl than it did before, but (and you blame keiji’s natural allure for this) it somehow is a little charming now.

“do i go change..?” he whispers, fingers fidgeting with one of the ribbons hanging off the front of the godawful thing.

you so badly want to say yes, to have him put on the outfit you already picked out for him in your head so the two of you could take cute pictures together in front of your friend’s fireplace. but then you look at him; at the blush high on his cheeks and the bashfulness in his slouch and the jitters in the teeth gnawing at the corner of his lip and you just..

“nah,” you smile, straighten out a bow on his sleeve, fix a button on his chest. “i think you should keep it on. you know, it’s actually kinda cute. almost makes me jealous that i don’t have one.”

it’s instant, the way keiji’s eyes light up at your admission, and suddenly he’s tugging at your hands and his bashfulness is shifting to a new form.

“well, actually, i may have bought one for you too? they were just on sale and there was one in your size so i thought i might as well and..”

you’re lost for words as you follow after him, smile stretching your lips as you listen to him ramble through explanation after explanation. the sweater he pulls out of the closet for you is just as hideous as his own, just as disgustingly festive as the one he’s donning. you take it from him as soon as he hands it to you, and try not to laugh too much at the excitement written all over his face as he watches you change.

it’s dorky, and your christmas pictures in front of your friend’s fireplace look totally dumb compared to everyone else’s, but it’s worth it to see the grin on your husband’s face afterwards.

even if you have to physically restrain him from using that photo on your christmas cards.

reblogs appreciated !

if i was a star and you were a star i would wink at you and blink at you and twinkle at you and the earthlings would call it science.

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

summary: it’s the little things that make him realize he’s in love (alternatively: the four times suna pretended to be asleep and the one time he didn’t). 

pairing: suna x reader

genre/warnings: fluff, n/a

wc: 3.5k

i. 

( a blanket )

Despite the gray clouds overhead and the scent of lingering ochre, rain refused to fall. Hyogo was cast into a monochromatic haze, colors washed and worn away. Suna stares out the window in your living room instead of working on the next math problem, lethargy crawling into the hollows between his bones. His gaze flickers over to you where you’re sitting on the other side of the coffee table, chin propped in the palm of your hand, writing calmly in your workbook. 

Tutor turned friend, you’d been helping him with his homework since the middle of second year, and he’d grown used to your presence. Unlike his teammates, you didn’t require him to spend copious amounts of energy just to keep up with the conversation, and so at the start of third year he’d accepted your invitation to study on weekends together. 

He looks back down at the half-finished problem. He didn’t actually get much studying done, but the quiet ambiance of your house was preferable to the cluttered noise of his; having younger siblings and parents with naturally loud voices meant it was rarely silent.

Plus, Atsumu and Osamu didn’t know where you lived, so they couldn’t drag him into another one of their weekend adventures that would ultimately result in disaster. 

(He was still annoyed at narrowly escaping arrest. It took a lot of energy to jump a fence.)

Keep reading

we love to see what your faves put as their contact name for you, but what do you put as the contact name for your faves??

#24 on ur spotify wrapped describes how 2024 will go, how screwed r u

"are you like... into that?"

you tear your eyes away from the screen a few seconds after rintarou says it, too rapt by what's unfolding in the movie scene to look away too soon.

"what do you mean?" you ask, glancing over to the other end of the sofa where he's seated. he's slumped down in the corner of the sofa, nestled right into the valley between the cushions where he always sits—which has resulted in a permanent sort of vaguely rintarou-shaped indentation that you hide using throw pillows when company comes over.

he's watching you very intently from his side of the sofa, too intently almost. you'd thought you'd felt his eyes on you while you were watching the movie, but you aren't exactly sure how long he's been staring, and now it leaves you wondering what exactly he's up to.

rintarou nods towards the television on the other side of the room, you look back at the screen once more and see the male lead still at the centre of the scene. he'd just gotten into a fight—shirtless, glistening with perspiration, and a strangely erotic trickle of blood trailing down his philtrum. you swallow a little as you become engrossed in the movie again, forgetting momentarily that you were ever asked a question at all.

"so?"

your eyes snap back to rintarou—who's still focused only on you, but with a slightly more disapproving look this time.

"what?" you ask him, a bit huffily. you're still not even sure what he'd been asking you in the first place.

"you've been ogling that guy since he got the shit kicked out of him," rintarou says pointedly, lifting a hand and gesturing towards the television. "you into that or something?"

there's something kind of accusatory in his tone.

"wha—hu—no," you stumble over your words in your haste to defend yourself. "i've told you i'm not into hardcore stuff. and that would constitute like... doctorate level BDSM."

rintarou's lips purse slightly. "do you think that guy's hot?"

"i mean... yeah," you answer after contemplating it for a moment. "i didn't really think so before but he's kinda sexy in this scene."

"he just got the shit kicked out of him," the boy at the other end of the sofa responds flatly.

"so you've pointed out," you answer. you turn back to the screen, watching as the battered male lead winds a roll of bandages around his ribs, then drags his knuckles roughly across his lips to clear away some of the blood that clings to them. your tongue peeks out to moisten your own unconsciously. "don't you think there's something kind of hot about a guy with a bit of blood on him?"

"is this a trick question?"

you look back at rintarou again, and find him still fixated on you rather than the film. he's pouting a bit, and it kind of makes you want to laugh. instead, you push yourself up from your own little nest at the opposite end of the sofa, crawling down towards him.

"rintarou, are you jealous because i called the bloody guy sexy?" you ask him as you pause at his side, resting back on your haunches.

he nibbles on the inside of his cheek—a habit he's had as long as you've known him—and for the first time in possibly the entire 54 minutes this movie has been playing, he averts his eyes from you.

"...no."

you do laugh then, swinging one leg over his lap to perch yourself atop him.

"you're being silly," you say to him as you balance yourself with your hands on his shoulders. his own come slithering up to settle at your waist, and his grip is a little tighter than you expect. he's still sulking though, refusing to look at you.

there's a loud crash in the film playing on the screen behind you, but you don't turn to look at it—you doubt that would help the situation at hand very much.

"rin," you coax him, making your voice as sweet as possible.

he doesn't look at you, but he does seem to bite the inside of his cheek a little harder now.

you dip down close to him, your mouth hovering over his and your eyes level. "rin-ta-rou."

he finally looks at you, his lips parting in surprise at your sudden nearness. you're so close that your mouths brush slightly thanks to that subtle movement, and he leans into the warmth of your lips to kiss you properly after getting such a small taste of it.

rintarou pulls away after one long, deep kiss, slouching back into the sofa again—but this time pulling you down with him into his little him-shaped indentation—holding you tightly to his chest as he gets you both comfortable. you let him maneuver you however he wants to, placating him with your docility to make him feel better, and keeping any comment about his jealousy to yourself—at least for now.

the two of you eventually find a comfortable way to rest, entwined together on his end of the sofa but both with a clear view to the screen to resume your spectating of the movie.

"what's so hot about a guy with a nosebleed anyway? i used to get them all the time when i was a kid," rintarou mumbles bitterly after a few moments, and you feel the words reverberate through his chest as you rest with your head upon it.

you laugh lightly, and your boyfriend's arms tighten around your waist.

he pipes up again after a few moments more pass in the film.

"you don't want me to start fighting or anything, do you?" he asks you skeptically.

you've effectively lost track of the movie's plot now, but you don't really care that much.

"no, rintarou, i don't want you to start fighting," you reply, patting his chest reassuringly. "you'd get your ass kicked anyway."

"well, apparently you're into that," he mutters.

"will you be quiet and just watch the movie, nosebleed boy?"

(a week later, rintarou sends you a photo from practice—having gracefully taken one of motoya's receives to the face—with an angry red welt on his cheek, blood dripping from his nose, and an obnoxious smirk on his lips. unfortunately, you are kinda into that.)

‎♡‧₊˚ ꒰ CONTENTS ꒱ : MDNI. mentions of sex but nothing too explicit. barou being emotionally unavailable until he isn’t >_<

exboyfriend!barou who doesn’t let you move on, won’t let you forget about him as he texts you every night at 2am asking if you’re up.

exboyfriend!barou who knows you’ll always come back to him. laying under him so perfectly as he plunges into you, telling you how much you need him and ignoring the fact that it’s actually the other way around.

exboyfriend!barou who says he doesn’t care that you’re starting to date other people again because he knows you’ll always come right back to him. or at least, that’s what his ego is feeding him.

exboyfriend!barou who doesn’t know what to do when you stop answering his texts and start posting pictures with your new boyfriend. the sweet, heavenly smile you used to give him was now being given to someone he thought as undeserving. 

exboyfriend!barou who is too prideful to ask for you back, so he tries to move on too by going to the club on the weekends. even though he spends most of his time there lurking on your social media, hoping that you’ll end up at the same club as him. even so, he’ll reluctantly find someone else to warm your spot, not even realizing that every girl he takes home has some resemblance to you.

exboyfriend!barou who starts to feel emptier and emptier after hooking up with the other girls. his heart craves more, it craves you. in the morning he finds himself scrolling through your old pictures together and the twinge of pain in his heart grows into something bigger — something larger than his pride.

exboyfriend!barou who finds himself in front of your door to your apartment, absolutely drenched from the thunderous rain that was coming down. but he doesn’t care, he couldn’t play this game anymore, the storm in his heart far more dangerous than the one outside.

exboyfriend!barou who is shocked to see you answer the door full of tears as you explain your boyfriend dumped you recently. as much as he loved to see you cry, he never wanted you to be in actual pain. he finds his heart swelling when you bring him a towel to dry off and invite him in for hot tea.

exboyfriend!barou who listens to your every word as you tell him what happened, hanging onto them like if he didn’t you’d disappear again. he reached over to softly wipe your tears away, feeling like an absolute hypocrite as he told you that your newest ex was a piece of shit. a flicker of anger igniting in him at the guy that hurt your heart, only to quickly extinguish when he realized he was probably no better in your eyes.

exboyfriend!barou who explains how much of a mistake he made by letting you go, finally opening up his heart to you in the way you always craved. even if you didn’t accept him back into his arms, he was surprisingly okay with it, but he just needed you to know he would fight for you anyway.

exboyfriend!barou who suddenly feels himself choking back tears as the last of his pride melts away as you wrap your arms around him, comforting him in a way only you could. even though he knows he has a long way to go to earn your forgiveness, he plans on getting you back no matter how long it takes.

exboyfriend!barou who takes his time with you that night instead of his usual rough, animalistic nature. he treats you tenderly, kissing away any tears you shed as he tries to gently mend your heart after he had been so careless with it.

exboyfriend!barou who makes love to you for the first time, whispering proclamations of his adoration for you as he brings you over the edge over and over again. the usual degrading turning into breaths of praise that fill your heart with hope.

exboyfriend!barou who holds you close when you two finish as if his embrace will piece together your hearts once again. his large arms wrapped around you as he can’t stop placing kisses over every inch of your skin.

exboyfriend!barou who vows he will never take you for granted again. who showers you with all the love he held back from you before, adamant on never letting you feel unloved. and he’ll do it every day for the rest of your life, if you’ll let him.

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.”

lgbt (linguine, garlic, basil, tomatoes)