IN THESE STOLEN MOMENTS

bakugou x f!reader

wc: 7.9K

MINORS DNI

summary: fed up with his inability to deliver the way he wants to in a relationship, bakugou turns to a dating app for casual sex and companionship. he assures his friends he’s capable of maintaining a platonic sexual relationship, despite his own misgivings. After things go well the first time, you establish a casual thing, and bakugou finds himself prying you open.

a/n: incredibly overworked reader and bakugou engage in a series of escalating casual hookups, bakugou falls for you, you fall for bakugou. choking, spitting, degredation, impact play, bondage, sir kink, daddy kink, praise, degradation, bakugou’s BIG on communication and aftercare, reader has corporate job and body is unspecific but she does have acne scars. bakugou is a mean hard dom right up until he cums and then he’s needy and affectionate, but if you’re uncomfy w degradation, this is not the fic for you. villain/hero predator prey kink roleplay is discussed but not described really. part one.

network - @http-404-error-unknown​

After the first time you sleep with Bakugou Katsuki, you avoid eye contact with him. You’re yanking your clothes on as quickly as possible, anxious to get as dressed as possible before he turns the lights on and you have to perceive yourself, perceive what you’ve done, been doing.

“Hey,” Bakugou says, “Should we uh, should we talk? About that?” You feel something cold wrap around your heart, a drawbridge closing.

“Um,” you swallow, “Um, I’m good. Don’t need to talk.” He looks over his shoulder, a little confused, but you’re focused on lacing your sneakers up again, ignoring him. “No need to um, to talk.” You reiterate and he nods slowly, inspecting you.

“Can I uh,” he walks across his bedroom, and when he rests a hand on your shoulder you jump like he’s shocked you.

“I don’t need the uh,” you gesture to the bed, “The cuddling and stuff, I’m all good.” You stretch a little. He narrows his eyes.

“Was it uh, good, for you?” He’s embarrassed at how relieved his is when he reads your genuine smile.

“Yeah.” You say brightly, punching him in the arm. “Thanks for having me, buddy.” He physically recoils at the nickname, glancing at his phone, he knew the people used tinder to date online casually, but he didn’t think you’d be this indifferent.

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hey friends just wanna quickly put it out there that if you pull shit like this with a blank blog:

and i give you a nice and polite response, saying how the way to get people to stay is to reblog and like their stuff, not just to demand them to stay when you have never fuckin interacted with anyone before,,, and your response is "ah alr"

i will block you without a second fucking thought. it's so entitled and selfish to pull a stunt like this. fuck off.

what’s thicker than water - pirate bakugou x witch f!reader

ch 1 /  ch 2

summary - in a world where magic is formed by the bonds between  humans and gods, love is the only pathway to power.

a/n: vaguely pirates of the carribean themed au, eventual smut, violence(phsyical), guns, piracy, witchcraft, allusions to past torture under suspicion of witchcraft, bakugou is simp who cant articulate his feelings. murder.mention of major character death(readers husband, offscreen)(not voodo or anything that feels weird and appropriative.) eventual smut. 

minors/ageless blogs dni

wc: 6,644

The mast doesn’t snap, but smolders, bursting into flame at the top as the sea begins to toss the ship. Bakugou cocks his gun, pressing it harder against your forehead as the white light wraps around your bodies as the wind picks up. 

“Calm the sea,” he barks, the light becoming blinding. 

“Take the gun from my head,” you snap back. “Hecate doesn’t like to be threatened.” He looks at his crew, at the barrels starting to roll across the deck, and holsters his weapon. Almost immediately, the sea calms, and a gentle rain begins to fall. It’s not often that the deck of a pirate ship is silent, but as the streams of light connecting you and Bakugou fade the only sound is the slap of the waves against the hull. Without another word Bakugou grabs you by the hair and drags you forward, leaving you gasping in pain, scrambling to crawl behind him. You slide down the stairs, bruising your palms when you lose your balance. He kicks open the door to his bedroom and throws you on the ground. 

“Start talkin’.” He snarls. “I wanna know how this shit works, where it comes from, everythin’. Right fucking now, and if you leave anything out I will tie your ass to our anchor, and throw you the fuck overboard.” You take a deep breath. 

“Alright, alright, Captain.” You wipe your tears and he feels a twinge of unbidden remorse that he shoves down. He hands you his handkerchief, refusing to make eye contact while you dab at your face. There’s a knock on the door, 

“Ah,” Sero calls, “Where too?” 

“Open fucking ocean.” Bakugou calls. “I’ll be back soon.” He turns to you, pulling the chair at his desk out, and sitting down, leaving you kneeling at his feet. “Any minute now, dumbass.” You reach for your voice, and find it, somewhere, deep within yourself. 

“M-my grandmother, she was engaged to a violent man, and on the eve of her wedding, was going to throw herself from the clock tower in her village.” Bakugou nods. “But at the last moment, Hecate appeared to her, and offered to take care of the man, and to grant her the power to protect herself, and two generations of daughters.” You look up at him, trying to read his perfectly neutral expression, seeing only tanned disinterest. 

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Ahhh I am such a sucker for hurt + comfort hcs, your sleeping on the couch one gave me CRAZY butterflies 🥰 could I request a hurt/comfort hc of arguing with the character and you unexpectedly start crying/sounding like you just want to give up arguing with Kyotani, Iwaizumi, Ushijima, Tsukki, and Atsumu?

CRYING DURING AN ARGUMENT [HURT + COMFORT]

Kyotani, Ushijima, Tsukishima

a/n: hurt/comfort always gives me butterflies too aksjsjsks. I'm sorry only do three characters per headcanon :( but I'll keep your other characters in mind if I do a part 2! Hope you enjoy love!

(italicized is boys speaking)

warnings: arguing, crying, set in time skip (no spoilers)

Kyotani

You and Kyotani hardly ever fought, mostly because he babies you, but he’d never admit that. That being said, wow was he good at it. He just gets very defensive, which ends up spiraling into an unnecessary argument.

It was just past 1 A.M. and your boyfriend’s yelling was starting to fade into gibberish as other thoughts occupied your mind. You knew that Kyotani could be aggressive, but he was usually so sweet to you, it only made the insults and yelling hurt more. You could only take so much before your emotions overwhelmed you and tears started rolling down your cheeks.

“You’re so mean sometimes tarō,” you whispered trying your best to wipe away the tears that couldn’t seem to stop falling.

Kyotani fell silent as realization washed over his face while he watched you leave the living room and head towards your bedroom, the only sound left in the apartment was your quiet sniffles.

He didn’t mean to take the fight that far, let alone hurt your feelings. He only said those things out of frustration, but he was hoping you knew he didn’t mean them. No one had ever loved him the way you did, and the last thing he wanted was to lose you.

He gave you a couple of minutes before walking into the bedroom to see you laying on the far side of the bed, back facing him. He slotted himself under the blanket without a word and pulled you into his chest.

“I‘m so sorry,” he whispered as he pulled you in tighter. You didn’t give him any reaction, simply staring at the wall in front of you.

“I didn’t mean any of it, baby I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, please don’t leave me” his voice cracking as he tries to get the words out. He finally takes a sigh of relief when you relax into his arms.

“I love you.”

“Love you too tarō,” you mumbled back sleepily. You knew you’d talk it out in the morning, but for now, this was perfect.

Ushijima

Fights with Ushijima were more frustrating than anything else because he always had trouble grasping how much certain things actually affected you. This usually led to him dismissing you, not on purpose but it hurt nonetheless.

It’s been 40 minutes of arguing and you’ve reached your breaking point. He continued to speak as you finally let the hot tears spill down your face. You maintained your eye contact with the ground as your crying intensified, finally catching his attention.

“I don’t wanna do this anymore,” you mumbled as coherently as you could while your crying started to intensify. You didn’t know if you were crying out of frustration or hurt, probably both, but the tears were there nonetheless.

He rushed to you immediately with panic filling his eyes, pulling you into his chest and holding you tightly. You didn’t fight him, but you don’t hug him back either.

He didn’t realize how insensitive he was being by insisting that there was nothing wrong. The only reason he felt that way was because you were always so perfect for him, how could he have relationship problems with someone as perfect as you?

“I’m sorry love, I didn’t realize,” he said softly as he leaned down to leave a kiss on the top of your head.

You continued crying into his chest as he ran his large hand up and down your back comfortingly, whispering apologies into your hair every few minutes.

“I think we should get some rest and talk about this tomorrow, I know I haven’t been the best lately but I’ll try harder.”

You nodded softly as you wiped away the remaining tears before finally hugging him back.

“Are we okay?”

“Yeah Toshi, we’re okay,” you responded nuzzling your face further into his chest.

Tsukishima

Arguing with Tsukki was the worst because he never realizes the weight of his words until after they’ve come out of his mouth. He often forgets that most people are a bit more sensitive than him, you included.

You could only listen to so much before your tears got the best of you, betraying the cold facade you put up.

“God, I’m so sick of this Tsukki, I’m going for a drive you can finish criticizing everything I do when I get back,” Bitterness was laced in your tone as you grabbed your car keys and wiped your face with the sleeves of your sweatshirt.

Before he could respond you left the apartment and headed towards your car. Your drive was far longer than you anticipated but strangely it helped a great deal. Your crying subsided a few minutes into the drive and soon after you got a text from your boyfriend that read,

I’m sorry. Please drive safe, I love you.

You knew he didn’t intend for his words to be so harsh, you just weren’t used to that behavior from him considering how little you two fought. You took the time to relax and start forgiving him.

You made it back to the apartment 40 minutes later and walked into a worried-looking Tsukki rushing to the door.

“I know I upset you but you could’ve at least texted back, I was worried,” his rambling fading off as he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you into his body.

“I’m sorry for being mean, I have no idea why I said all that. I never want to make you cry,” he uttered the last part shamefully.

“I know.” He felt you nod as you hugged him back for a few minutes before he pulled away.

“I have something for you,” he muttered as his cheeks began to flush. He led you into the living room to find a pile of pillows and blankets on the couch and your favorite fast food on the coffee table.

“I really am sorry.”

You giggled thinking about how frustrated he must have been setting it all up.

“Thank you Kei, I’m sorry too I know I said things I shouldn’t have,” you told him sincerely as you leaned up to peck his lips.

“I love you, brat.”

likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated!! <3

my masterlist

requests are: open

© babydai 2021- do not copy, edit, or repost

aoba johsai, one darling

.word count. 2.7k

.warnings. yandere, polyamory, swearing, degrading, manipulation, some explicit mentions, threats, dubcon-ish? .author’s note. some headcanons right now since i’m not great writing yanderes yet! i hope you enjoy it though, and hopefully i’ll be able to write full fics for our favorite obsessive boys some time soon. characters are all aged up, they are first-, second and third years in college!

↦ The instigator is most likely Hanamaki. You could be their new manager or a particularly enthusiastic part of the cheer squad, the point is they notice you. The type of overwhelming warmth and energy you bring to the team is refreshing, since you care about encouraging every single one of them just as much as their fan-favorite Captain.

↦ So while Iwa is most likely the one to bring you up in casual locker room conversation, Hanamaki is the one who makes it his mission to return that affection.

↦ Makki is charming and kind, so it’s no wonder you’re glad to spend time talking to the handsome man a class up. He takes time between classes to come see you, chatting about anything and everything.

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┌─ “ ! „ DECAY

tw. ddlg, noncon, daddy kink, dom & sub themes, forced threesome, patronization, manipulation, objectification, size kink wordcount. 4.4k

a/n. ♡ i wish i could have done more about this idea but i gave myself a bit of a word count limit for kinktober but don't be surprised if i end up writing more for this in the future jhydgusgfy i wanted to go more extreme but i was a bit bummed by the self imposed limitations kHdyugs iT IS What it is ily thank you for reading

miya atsumu x fem!reader x miya osamu

You’re pouting somethin’ fierce, and thick crocodile tears bead your lash line like diamonds.

Osamu’s not entirely sure when it started. If it started at all. Maybe things just happened to play out this way, and it was entirely coincidental, a whisper in the grander scheme of your relationship with his brother - all too small to mention. Maybe safer to say, he’s not sure when he started noticing it— but once he began, there was nothing to keep him from seeing it too vividly in every interaction.

You’ve been with Tsumu since your last year together in high school. Stuck with him through thick and thin, every busy month, each and every match and scandal and fallout - and Osamu’s nothing but grateful for that. You make him happy, Hell, even a blind man could see how the blond blossoms open when you’re around. Becoming a more grown, dependable version of himself. Some days Osamu blinks and it’s like his mirror image has far surpassed his own grounded maturity, leaving him behind in the dust. And it’s definitely you that brings that out in him - and he’s grateful.

But — he remembers the early days. More than maybe anyone else, Osamu remembers that it wasn’t always this way. You were definitely more soft and gentle than they were as teens, but you were no shrinking violet either. A decade ago, Atsumu would’ve been caught dead underestimating ya like he does with a glitter in his eye now. Like it’s a game the two of you are clued in on. Osamu’s eyes glide over the scene painted before him, sipping his beer from the couch.

“Aw, pet, you’ve gotta watch where yer goin’. C’mere, did that hurt?” Atsumu is knelt before you, cupping your face between two rough palms, as he kisses up and down your face. Your wobbly sniffles get hidden in his chest when he pulls you in, and rubs your back like you’re a toddler with a scraped knee. Your hands fist into his shirt before you take a deep breath, going up in his warmth. And his twin beams like he’s the happiest man on the planet, before going to pick you up with a bit too much practiced ease.

Osamu’s not against the pda. You’ve always been touchy, and Tsumu’s a clingy bastard at the best of times. “‘M so sorry, baby. Daddy almost walked straight over ya.” It’s more that he has a problem with. He looks away when Atsumu’s hands slide down to grip your ass and squeeze you extra close, looking down for another kiss that you give like it’s been practiced a hundred times. He’s not sure if the slight pout you have on is truly the pain though, or more the embarrassment he can see creep up your ears and cheeks.

“I’m sorry for getting in the way,” you whisper back, and by the time Osamu looks up Atsumu has made it back to the couch with a fresh beer, with you now positioned on his lap and wrapped around him like a baby koala. You don’t look over at him though, barely acknowledging the strange situation. Almost makes him feel like he’s the one that’s out of place, even though he came over on Atsumu’s request. Even though he was invited.

Samu takes another chug of his drink, before raising his brows, leaning in with an attempt to catch your eyes. “Yer not gonna have any? ‘S yer fridge we’re looting.” You only disconnect yourself from Atsumu’s chest to look at him with heat on your cheeks, perfectly treated hair shining as it falls along your shoulders.

“No, thank you. Atsum- uhm- d-daddy doesn’t let me have any unless we’re going out. It makes me get all bloated, so ‘s better I don’t.” Your long lashes flutter, before you smile again, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I appreciate you looking out for me, Samu.” There’s a beat of silence where his twin seems to give him a look -one he can’t really make out- where Atsumu puts his own beer aside to pull you closer by your hips and wrap his arms around you like you’re best molten to his front. “Hey,” you whisper then, and Atsumu looks up, “can I move? My knees hurt a little like this.”

“‘S that right? Ya wanna turn so you can look at Samu too?” His brilliant smile is almost bright enough to make him ignore the possessive hands that travel too far down when helping you turn, or the almost-subtle groan he lets out when you wiggle back onto his lap. Osamu stares off into the kitchen instead. “You wanna sit ‘n look at someone else ‘cause I won’t do anything. Is daddy not good ‘nough? Maybe I spoil ya a lil’ too rotten.”

“‘M not rotten~, I do like sitting in your lap,” you squeak out almost sadly, starting to leave little pecks all over Atsumu’s lips as if to shut him up. That would probably be good, Osamu thinks. He doesn’t want to consider the possibility that you’re actually tempering him, but it sure does seem like it. “I’m just tired.” And though your voice drops to an almost whisper, he’s too aware of your pouted, glossy lips to not hear every word. Your hands trail through his hair, sliding down his neck with each slow breath. “Just- Daddy, don’t be upset. I’m trying my best.”

You look almost pained to say it, not that his twin cares. “Please don’t get mad.” Anything else passes over Osamu’s head. He just places the empty bottle by his feet and tries to ignore the way you’re now draped onto Atsumu’s lap like you two will start dry humping any second.

“‘M not mad, pretty girl.” The blond grabs two handfuls of ass and rocks your waist against him, making you squeak, before he runs his tongue along his teeth with a noise. “I’m just thinkin’ that I don't want Samu ta see ya like this.”

You whimper when Atsumu’s mouth glides along your jaw and throat, falling back into the couch -crown brushing Osamu’s thigh- when his twin pushes and presses a few kisses down your throat and chest. “Alright, let’s go out.” Then he pulls back flushed, and gets you up along with him. “Before daddy ends up fucking that pretty pussy with a live audience.” He ushers you towards the door with a few pats on your butt. “Go an’ get yer shoes, I’ll tie yer laces for ya, little girl.”

“I- I can really do it myself, ‘s fine.”

It only makes Atsumu puff out his chest, and stare you down with a hungry stare. “Go on, baby. Yer little enough to need my help.” You don’t say anything, but there’s a tense breath of silence that covers the room before you look away with shame written all over your expression.

Osamu’s too speechless to do much but just stare at the side of his brother’s face, who barely shows any emotion other than enjoyment at all. Seriously. It’s not like you to let someone just walk all over you. Or at least, it wasn’t like you, as far as he was concerned. Things have clearly changed. He frowns. “Do ya really have ta talk about ‘er like that when I’m around, stupid Tsumu? Keep it in yer pants, wouldya?”

Instead of the normally snappy reply that he’d expect, the blond just shrugs, tugging at his waistband like the tightness is a little uncomfortable. “Can’t help it. She’s so fuckin’ cute whinin’ and crying out for me.” Brown irises find Osamu’s, and he smiles. “You’d feel the same if ya saw what she can do.” He pats his thighs when you come back from the hall, and holds out his hands. “Come ‘ere, little princess. Daddy’ll dress ya right up.”

+

Your frilly little implication of a dress is bunched around your hips as he lets you down from another bear hug, and puts on a slight pout. “I’ll be back soon, baby. They need an emergency setter for just an hour of practice. Maybe two.”

“It’s never just one hour.”

The overly whiny request only makes Atsumu glitter more, as his eyes flick down your body and his tongue is caught between his teeth. Truly, the guy has absolutely no decency. This was supposed to be a fun weekend away from work for the three of ya. Not that Atsumu seems bothered by that. After a few seconds he kisses your forehead though, letting you lean into his arms and looking ever so teenie tiny compared to your boyfriend -they’ve both filled out in both size and muscle since high school after all- and it becomes even more apparent when Tsumu squeezes you under his chin. “If ya need anything ya’ll ask Samu, alright? Just pretend he’s me.”

You bat your lashes at him, but let your grip on him slowly be peeled off. “... Okay. Can I have dinner while you’re gone?”

“Hm, sure.” The blond runs his fingers through his hair. “Daddy’s gonna miss ya. I’m not gonna be gone fer long.” Then he eyes him with a grin that Osamu kind of wants to slap off of his cheeks. “Thanks for ‘sittin ‘er.” He doesn’t reply with a smart remark about him treating you like a dog, and just gives a vague hum instead. With that he gives the brunet a quick wave, and gathers his phone and keys on his way to the door. You linger around the entrance a bit longer, before slowly returning to the dinner table with slightly heated cheeks. You tuck your knees to your chest when you sit and reach for one of the side dishes — and he can’t help but say it when the door falls into lock.

“So, what’s all that about?”

“Hm?” Your head drops to the side slightly as you put some pickled radish in your mouth and hum. “Mm, this ‘s really good, Samu! Can I have some?”

“Help yerself,” he nods, and also slides the plates you can’t reach closer. It’s not like he doesn’t understand it at all. You’ve got that sort of puppy-eyes look down, big and round and soft wherever you look, no matter who you’re talking to. It’s the kind of gentleness that calls for protection, and he’s not even the possessive type, but despite that the feeling of being needed sits on his chest and longs to come out. But still. He can’t help but think Atsumu’s overplaying his cards. “Seriously though. You know ya can tell my shitty brother no, right? I’ll straighten ‘em out for ya.”

The words seem to process for a moment, before you load some more food onto your utensils and swallow it with a little noise of thoughtfulness. “I- I don’t know. Atsumu says he likes being the provider. At first it was just little stuff he helped with, and I thought it was nice to be cared for.” You fumble a little with the chopsticks when a piece of fish is extra slippery, and smile when he helps you out and picks it up, carrying it towards your mouth. “You don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve fed myself instead of Tsumu doing it for me,” you softly mention. That’s weird, ain’t it? That’s definitely weird.

Still he’s carrying the food to your mouth, and be it instinct, or habit, you look too fuckin’ sweet waiting like a puppy for him to help out, big, doe-eyes and all.

You let the piece onto your tongue, before wrapping those pretty lips around and gratefully humming and — fuck. You don’t notice the way his brow ticks, but his stomach rolls with the realization. Instead of lingering too long on the implication that he might feel the same exact way as his twin, he lets you talk, after chewing for a while. “I just- I don’t like that he doesn’t ever take me seriously anymore. He thinks I can’t do anything by myself, even brushing my own teeth, or picking out clothes! It’s so- so frustrating-” you continue until you run out of air, and seem to suddenly realize who you’re talking to. “Oh, don’t tell Atsumu that. Please don’t tell him. He gets so upset and I don’t like it when he’s mad.”

Samu can’t help but just nod in agreement, not sure what else to say. He doesn’t think his brother would ever hurt ya. Then again, Samu also didn’t think his brother was much of a kink lifestyle sort of guy until the last few months— so clearly he doesn’t know everything anymore. And you seem… okay with it, right? He’s not sure, really. Would he even have the guts to tell Tsumu off if he was sure you weren’t? Instead of lingering on that uncomfortable possibility, he pivots. “Let’s watch somethin’? What do ya wanna see?”

Your eyes shimmer when they flick up, and you swallow before smiling. “Can I choose?” You wiggle in your seat. “Atsumu -w-well- daddy doesn’t let me watch scary stuff, but I’ve been dying to watch the Ring again.” You then lean into his space a little more, and he feels his heart skip a beat. “I assume I don’t have to snuggle up to you though? He did say to pretend you’re him but…” You wrap your thin sweater a little closer. “I’ll hold your hand? He can’t get mad that way.”

How can he say no when you’re staring at him with those fucken stars in your eyes? His fingers find yours on the table, and your hand feels way smaller and softer than his own work-worn ones. “Yeah, sure. But ya shouldn’t watch nothin’ ta give ya nightmares though…” The urge to pick you up and wrap you nice and safe in his embrace becomes stronger by the second, and his eyebrows furrow.

+

Atsumu is quick to descend on you in the safety of the separate room. His hands glide down your sides and hike up your shirt over your arms, before running his fingertips down the valley of your breasts. “Samu was nice to ya?”

“Mhm,” you bop your head a few times, shivering when the cooler air peaks your nipples and Tsumu brushes his thumb over them. “He was- r-really- ah daddy, that tickles.” Your voice trembles when he eyes you down, before letting his fingers trail down to your shorts instead. He motions your butt up and you lift yourself politely, letting him slide those down your legs too as he lifts one and starts placing kisses down your ankle up your leg. “You said we’d get ready for bed~”

“We are gettin’ ready,” his smile goes a little crooked when you bite your lip, “just curious ‘s all. Ya think Samu likes ya?” He lets you fall back onto the plush covers before walking into the ensuite and coming back with some skincare that he places unceremoniously onto the bedside table- and you frown. If your boyfriend asked you a few years ago, you’d assume he was just genuinely curious. About you getting along with his family, his twin, his other half. But now, there’s an agenda woven into the words. Always is.

“We get along well. Why?”

His lips jerk up, and with a simple shrug he continues. “He’s good too ya, ain’t he? An’ I’ve been thinking I want Samu to watch us some time.” You’re too shocked to say anything, but your mouth drops open. No.

No, it’s already embarrassing how he makes you whine and whimper like a pet for him when you’re alone. It’s embarrassing when he makes you call him daddy when there’s people around with no shame- like he gets off on it. But this- his hands find your face with a soaked cotton pad to start cleaning you with gentle motions, and you find your eyes starting to water. You hate that you’ve become this fragile little flower that can’t speak up when it matters. You’d like to think you’re still the same. But your lip wobbles too easily as Atsumu continues, and your voice cracks.

The mortification is too much to bear, it swallows you up whole. He couldn’t possibly make you. “I don’t want that.”

“What’s that?” he coos, eyelids hooded. He leans down to you more.

You push his hand away from your face and frown, but tears still spill over. You fucking hate being such a crybaby. “I don’t want Samu to watch us.” You still frown though, doing your best to blink away the waterworks. And instead of taking you seriously - of course - Tsumu tilts his head in that sort of understanding that you’re throwing a tantrum like a toddler might. But you’re serious. You mean it. His freshly washed hair falls over his brows, but his hands still find your shoulders to keep you in place below him.

“Aw, baby. Poor girl.” The soft rubbing of his thumb along your skin only makes you more shaky in that feeling, his eyes roaming your body before he pushes you back onto the bed and crawls onto it beside you, pulling you into his touch. It doesn’t escape you that you’re already naked and he’s still dressed, keeping you tight. “I didn’t mean to upset ya. Shhh, shhh, it’s okay.” You swallow, and push against his chest with a slight whimper - why can’t he take you seriously?

“I mean it, Atsumu.”

Before you can say anything else he pinches your cheek hard, and his dark brows lace together. “Don’t be rude.” The darkness fades quickly, but he still doesn’t show any intention of letting you go. In fact, because of his strength against you you’re only forced deeper into his embrace, head pressed to his warm chest. “Daddy’ll take care of you. Always do, don’t I?” You open your mouth to retort, but he interrupts again, and squishes your cheeks together before placing a few patient kisses onto your pouty lips. “Listen to daddy. It’ll be fine.”

It’s so frustrating.

You want to move. You want to remove yourself from the situation he’s putting you in, or put on some fucking clothes, and instead you’re being mocked by him. Once more you try to give him a push for some space, but because he barely feels it or pretends not to, you don’t make a dent. “Tsumu, I don’t want to have sex with your brother watching~” you end up crying out, feeling the tears well up again. “Get off of me.” You start wiggling, as his hand wraps around your wrist and forces it to wrap around his body, clamping your hands together behind his back as he rolls over and starts kissing the top of your head.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry. Everything’s gonna be okay.” You want him to leave you alone. “My sweet little girl. You don’t gotta fight me, ‘m not doin’ nothing. I’m here for ya.” His heartbeat is so steady against you that it makes you want to shove him and scream in his face to fuck off, but of course you don’t. You don’t scream. You don’t push, or fight, or make yourself clear. All you can do is cry into his shirt as his smell wraps around you and you struggle to make the waterworks stop.

“Let go~” you sniffle into his shirt, and shiver when his hands start sliding down to pull you back onto him, forcing his thick, strong thigh between your legs. Your straining muscles give up after a while of pushing back, and his embrace still stays.

“Shush, little baby. I got ya, don’t worry yer pretty little head.”

“Daddy~” you whine softer this time, and don’t fight him when he nudges you face up to kiss him. He groans for a moment in what can only be satisfaction at winning the fight, before rolling over so you’re trapped under his heavy body, chest rising and falling against him. And as you try to stop crying, Atsumu has the nerve to rub your head like all of this isn’t his fault.

+

You can’t escape the heavy gaze anywhere you look. It’s suffocating. Not that you have much room to think about it between the way Tsumu’s taking up your space and forcing one of your legs over his shoulder so he can spread you open. It’s a brief reprieve from the prying eyes blocked by his broad back, but you know it will end. Because Tsumu didn’t just drag his twin here to know that someone’s watching. He wants to make a show of you. To show off the type of power he- oh. Your half-lidded eyes flutter open wider when his fingers spread open your slick and your pussy clenches around nothing.

And Atsumu grins. “Yer so quiet, baby. Are’ya shy?” You don’t answer that, instead trying to chase after his hand when he moves away, wrapping comparatively small hands around his wrist. You can feel the heat of Samu at the foot of the bed, uncomfortably perched onto it with his knee before he dips the mattress further, and your blinks get more rapid.

“Daddy… I- I don’t-”

“Hush,” he moves your other leg aside more, leaving you spread embarrassingly open before he dips his body and glides both hands under your ass, lifting you a few inches. His mouth descends without thinking, kisses and then tongue making you whimper as he eats you out. Not gently, but possessive, demanding licks that drag your split attention right back to him - only until Samu leans forward a little to get a better view. This is so fucking embarrassing. “Mh- Taste good, pretty thing.” Atsumu’s eyes have that same cocky, knowing look he always does when he gets you like this. You won’t do anything back, and he knows that. “Yer droolin’ all over my chin.”

You are. The slick’s coating his lips when he pulls back, trailing kisses up your thighs, before he slides two fingers inside your squelching pussy traitorously slow, and watches your face scrunch. He’s big. He always is, and knows it too, big hands, big thighs, chest, shoulders. Most of all, he’s fucked you enough times now to know that you can’t take him easily without prep, and even that is embarrassing. You could have gone a whole lifetime without having Osamu know that. Why did he even agree to this?

“Little brat,” Tsumu says after a few seconds, flicking your nipple painfully as he stares, clenching his jaw. “Don’t be rude. Samu came all the way out here to see ya, ‘n yer gonna lock up the whole time?” You swallow, and try to talk, but he instead curls his fingers inside your pussy and slides them deeper. Right where you can’t handle them, until you have no choice but to curl and wiggle away from him, mouth pulling open to moan.

“Ah, agh, daddy! Daddy, daddy.” Samu’s broad shouldered figure being barely dressed in a tank and boxers, along with Atsumu’s almost godly physique hanging over you is too much. You shut your eyes. “I can’t- f-focus.” You hold onto his arm as he fucks his fingers in and out of you for long enough that your entire body starts tingling, before he peels you off and turns you over. Rough hands hike you onto your knees, and your ass up in the air before his rough palm lands hard and sends a stinging heat through your legs. “Ow, ow~”

“That’s more like it. I know yer a noisy little bitch.” He rubs your lips up and down with his thumb a few more times, before you hear the sound of boxers being peeled off. “Now, what do ya say when daddy will give ya something ya want?”

He presses the hot head of his cock against you but doesn’t push in yet, and your poor pussy clenches around nothing as tears fill your eyes and you grip two fistfuls of pillow. You can’t say it. Not with Samu sitting right there, judging you both for- another sharp spank makes you shiver, and you whimper into the pillow. The sting aches until heat blooms under the damaged skin, and you unclench your teeth. “Please, daddy? Please fuck me.” You doubt you’re stretched enough to take him comfortably, even with the fingering and all the wetness coating your puffy pussy and the inside of your thighs. “Pretty please?”

There’s a few moments before his hand presses down on your back and his cock slides inside, and you do your best not to gasp too much feeling him force you open. It aches though, and you have to widen your knees to make room and— God it feels so good. You’re not sure whether to cry because of the feeling, or because you can’t stop yourself from moaning high pitched and whiny like a whore putting on her best performance. You really can’t help it. “Agh, ah- d-daddy, move, please.” The heavy weight of his cock bottoms out and he presses his heavy balls against you for a few seconds, before pulling out with a groan.

The motion pulls your entire body back, only stopped by his hand, like you’re some cocksleeve— and you cry harder. “Ah, ah, ugh— Atsumu,” you pout, and he pets your head.

“I’m right here, doll. Does that feel good?” You nod, and cling on, before opening your eyes to look at him with his thighs right next to your head and stroking his cock with an almost torturous pace. You whimper when being bottomed out into, and then your eyes shoot open. You can’t turn, but the low groan Samu lets out when you clench hard around him, says enough— and Tsumu laughs as he watches you panic and your bottom lip wobble, petting your head. Like this is all some big game, keeping you down under his hand while you shake your head.

“No, no- you said- you said he’d watch- agh, daddy! No, no no no, you promised! You promised.” You can’t stop yourself from moaning when he hits deep inside, fucking you much too well. Your mouth falls open as you try to stop the sound, but Tsumu’s touch only gets more demanding as his twin picks up the pace.

“Shhh, shhh, Samu likes ya so~ much. It’s just this one time. And then daddy’ll take good care of ya, promise.”

All Rights Reserved © IWAASFAIRY 2023. Works are exclusive to this Tumblr.

Cardigan - John Price x F!Teacher!Reader

Part 1: It Starts In A Bar

summary: your friends take you out to a local pub when you would much rather be grading assignments. a/n: hello! big surprise, me writing for john price! I don't know how long this will be, but I definitely have a general idea of where I want this to go. I hope y'all like it!

thank you @lethalchiralium for dragging me into the clubhouse kicking and screaming LMAO

Why did they pick this place again?

Ah, right. “It’s a hometown pub, a staple to the community,” they said. That was clear from the couple dozen men and women, ranging from middle-aged to elderly, scattered about, and a few younger folks peppered into the crowd. It wasn’t run down by any means, just…a dive. You mindlessly picked at the peanuts and pretzels in little bowls, elbows perched on the edge of the sticky table, for hours. You chatted and occasionally laughed at the stories they shared about their homeroom students and the shenanigans the other grades got up to. You’d been teaching year thirteen for a while, students taking their A-levels in history. 

It was supposed to be a quiet evening, spent with a stack of papers to grade, surrounded by glowing candles scattered around your apartment accompanied by soft white string lights stretched across the ceiling. Instead, your friends somehow managed to drag you out of your cozy home to a dark dive in town. You loved them dearly (really, you did), but you had a routine. Your ideal Friday night wasn’t in a damp bar.

Your kids could be challenging at times in their late teens. They occasionally cause trouble, known for getting into fights, interrupting class, or bringing drama into the classroom. Nevertheless, you’d never had a set of students that was more than you could handle. They turned their work in on time and were always nosy about your personal life, which – much to their chagrin – was uneventful. Your love life was stale, to put it nicely. And your friends tried everything in their power to set you up on dates, every single one striking out miserably. It didn’t feel natural to meet some guy at a restaurant for a blind date.

One of them talked about themselves the entire time, barely letting you get a word in. The next ordered about three more drinks than you and a meal that cost twice as much as yours but demanded you split the cost of the date. You were all for splitting the bill but on the first date? Not a good impression.

The rest were uninteresting and immemorable.

“Seriously? You haven’t been on a date since – Oh, what was his name again?”

“Zachary,” you pointed out, taking a long sip of your drink. “You should know; you set up the date.”

“I know, I know. I didn’t realize he was such a bore one-on-one.”

“Thanks for that, by the way. Loved talking to myself for two hours.”

You all laughed at the memory, starting to finish drinks and gather belongings. “Let’s get to the next spot to find you a man!”

Bar hopping was the absolute last thing you wanted to do, but you knew better than to resist. It would all be over much faster if you just went along. Your companions were much quicker on their exit, considering the nearly-full drink that you felt like you just bought, and they were already moving on to the next dig. You threw the rest of your drink back, flinching as the big gulp of alcohol burned down your throat, and hurried to catch up with them. You took one of their outstretched hands, giggling as they just about pulled you into the circle exiting the pub–

“Excuse me, miss!” a deep voice called out. You’re not sure why, but you turned, feeling like the man was calling out to you. Your assumption turned out to be correct, and a tall, dark-haired man with a beard and a soft smile approached you. “Sorry, you left this.”

He held your cardigan to you. You must have abandoned it in your haste.

“Oh! Thank you so much. That’s kind of you,” you said, taking the garment back and draping it over your forearm. “I’d forget my head if it weren’t attached,” you added, tapping your temple with a soft chuckle.

“Quite alright.” Behind you, an elbow nudged your spine; you barely caught yourself from making a face and snapping at whichever acquaintance decided to egg you on. “I’d offer to buy you a drink, but it seems you’re heading out.”

He certainly was handsome. His beard was well-groomed, just like his hair. It looked like he went to a barber fairly recently. He even dressed well, in a cream, ribbed polo tucked loosely into his jeans. Dark chest hair peeked out where the top two buttons were undone. It was an enticing offer…

“Um, yeah, but….” You looked over your shoulder and met expectant glances. Some looked like they were about to bust apart at the seams with glee, which made you roll your eyes. Clearly, you wouldn’t be missed. “I could hang for a little while longer.”

The man's smile grew, and his stance shifted to open a path toward the bar. “Are you sure? Y’don’t have to,” he amended, his hands in his pockets. His energy was warm and soft but still masculine. He held a confidence that not many people carried, at least not the men you’d been on dates with recently. And the Liverpool accent? Maybe things were starting to look up.

“No, no, I honestly need another drink.” You flashed your teeth back to him, folding your arms over your chest with your sweater in hand.

“In that case, after you.”

Before taking his arm, you realized you’d yet to even ask for his name. “Thank you…?”

“John.” John’s right hand hovered before you and he flashed his bright teeth. His hands were clean, nails neatly trimmed. Although, one nail bed was bruised.

Man, he’s pretty for a grown man.

“Y/N,” you replied with an easy grin. He kept a steady hold on your gaze, carefully examining the bright twinkle they held. You didn’t know it, but John had just returned from a long mission. One that had left him yearning for a shower, a haircut, and somebody to come home to. He’d never had anything to look forward to and stay alive for; no affection or comfort after a rough assignment, no one to care for and spoil.

And he wanted that.

“A surname to that, John?” you asked, sliding your hand through the loop he created with his elbow. Holy shit, he was strong. Your hand rested on the soft but well-built muscle of his bicep. You figured he must have a labor-intensive job, or he goes to the gym frequently. John didn’t seem like the type to spend hours at the gym in his spare time, so you went with the first option. You’d keep that in mind when making small talk later.

“John Price.”

“Very regal name.”

John scoffed but laughed nonetheless. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that.”

John couldn’t take his eyes off of you. You were unbelievably bubbly, especially for interacting with a stranger who only gave back your forgotten cardigan. He’d been watching you from his spot at the bar, laughing with your friends but zoning out every once in a while. He was no stranger to giving himself a mental break, particularly in a hectic environment like a packed bar on a cool, Friday evening.

“I’ll call you when I need a ride!”

You and John watched the giggly group exit the pub, happily waving as they piled into a cab. You waved back with your free hand, your other palm still pressed against his warm skin. They didn’t embarrass you too badly, thank god. You met John’s eyes, a dark color twinkling with mischief.

“Your friends seem chipper.”

“I’m so sorry. They’re just happy to see me talking to a man.” 

“Oh? Is that right?” he chuckled, nodding to your previously held table. John broke away briefly to retrieve his unfinished drink and denim jacket from the bar.

You followed his lead back to the booth, attempting to keep control of the flush you felt beginning to heat your cheeks. “They’ve set me up on many an unfortunate date. Not saying I don’t get along fine on my own, but–”

“It’s rough out there?” he finished, sliding into the cushioned seat across from you. When you nodded in return, John smirked. “Believe me. I get it. My career makes it difficult to find time for much of anything.”

“Yeah, well, I have sixteen kids.”

The man sputtered, choking on what looked to be an old-fashioned. Possibly a bad joke, but it was such a great opportunity; you were feeling frisky, and you couldn’t help the giggles that erupted following his reaction. “I teach history for year thirteen.”

“Oh, thank Christ.” John wiped the cocktail off his lip with the back of his hand, shaking his head at your laughter. “You had me going there. Five minutes into our date, and I’ve made a mess of myself.”

You quirked a brow. “So this is a date?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Well, I would consider it light conversation. Getting to know each other.”

“That’s a date.”

“Mmm, I’d say it’s more casual than that.”

“I’m not looking for casual, love.”

You paused, examining his calm demeanor. He didn’t seem cocky, but honest, a welcome change to the pattern you’d observed over the last few months. None of your dates had been so bold as to know what they want and make their intentions clear. Especially not so quickly. It was refreshing.

“Me neither.”

“Good.”

You both sat in peace, pausing your conversation for the waitress. You ordered another drink, as promised, and folded your hands on the tabletop, fingers laced. “So, what do you do, John?” you asked, tapping your thumbs together.

“I’m in the military.”

You paused, expectantly waiting for him to continue, only to be met with silence.

“Care to elaborate?”

He tutted once with his tongue pressed against the back of his teeth. “I would love to, but I can’t.”

Interesting. Normally, resistance like that would be a red flag. On the other hand, his job could be “classified” or whatever is said in the movies. No alarms went off in your mind; your intuition told you that John was trustworthy, so you let it go. The pretty brunette dropped your new drink off and another for John.

“I can tell you that I’m a Captain.”

“So you have pretend kids too?”

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he hummed, swirling the whiskey in his glass. A slight tinge of the citrus notes from the expressed orange peel wafted across the table. John’s laugh was distinctive, chesty and rumbly, inviting. “Of course. Mine are bigger, though, I’m sure.”

“Oh? They’re not scrawny little soldiers?”

“No. One’s almost two meters tall.”

“Jesus. How many?”

“Five. Gaz, Ghost, Soap, Alex, and Farah.”

“Well, I for one can’t wait to meet them.”

“Likewise.”

You fussed with your hair for about the thousandth time in your bathroom mirror and huffed when it wouldn’t settle right. John was to meet you in about fifteen minutes. Knowing him, that meant he would be buzzing up to your apartment any second. You’d been on a few dates and knew his date habits pretty well. If you’re not fifteen minutes early, you’re late. You had been out to dinner, grabbed coffee once or twice; you even grabbed an ice cream. So, it was a surprise when John suggested a trip to the museum. It didn’t seem like his thing, but you weren’t about to turn down a trip to the history exhibit.

As you expected, a familiar BZZT BZZT reverberated through your flat, signaling his arrival. The first time he picked you up, you let him into the building without using the intercom. You tried explaining that the speaker broke and your landlord had yet to fix it (shocker), but John wouldn’t hear it. You could have been letting in a random creep pressing buttons until some tenant unlocked the door. He insisted on creating a little system, so you would know it was him downstairs and not a kidnapper. From then on, he always rang the bell twice.

You gave up on your hair, switched the light off, and paged him in. Your unit was on the first floor (which wasn’t ideal), so it only took John a few seconds to reach your door. When you heard a knock at your door, you peered through the peephole (as promised) before unlocking the deadbolt, revealing a very well-dressed captain. John’s hair was a bit shaggy, but it suited him well. Your heart fluttered helplessly at the bright smile that appeared when he laid eyes on you, his gaze obviously taking in the sight before him.

It was a weeknight, and you didn’t have time to change between school and your usual errands. You threw a plaid skirt, thigh-high socks, and loose sweater together; just a sliver of skin showed between the top of your socks and hem of your skirt. You felt underdressed compared to John, but there wasn’t much you could do about it. 

“Hi,” he said, leaning to kiss your cheek. “You look lovely.”

“Same to you. You always clean up well.”

“If you saw the state I’m usually in at work – you’d understand why.”

John kept a watchful eye to make sure you turned both locks for your door before guiding you outside to a waiting taxi with a hand on the small of your back. He held the door to your building and the car open for you. The drive was short, but the weather was starting to catch a bit of a chill, and you didn’t want to walk too far.

Ever the gentleman, the captain followed closely behind you up the steps to the gallery. Even if he weren’t perceptive, with years of experience reading people, he could tell you were excited to be there; however, he wasn’t so experienced in the ‘romance’ department. John honestly couldn’t even remember the last time he visited any museum, let alone a dedicated history exhibition. But when he suggested it and assured you that he would have a good time, he was only being partially truthful. Secretly, the man just wanted an excuse to listen to you talk. What better place to bring you than an exhibit where he knew you would talk his ear off for hours?

You slowly worked your way through each exhibit, explaining some pieces you recognized and their significance to the period; at displays you weren’t familiar with, you both quietly hovered closer to the title cards, reading through the description. While that kind of date wasn’t John’s usual cup of tea, he was glad he planned it; it helped him figure out how to slow the fuck down and try to be normal outside of a military setting or a pub.

His breath nearly stuttered every time you laid a gentle hand on his arm and drew his attention to the next section, beaming as you animately but quietly pointed out the tiny details in a Renaissance painting hung on the wall. The man couldn’t help but stare at how your lips curved at every syllable, wide eyes glued on the intricate scene portrayed. John hadn’t spoken much so far aside from the occasional affirmation that he was listening; he was very much in his head, unsure if you were excited to be there with him or just excited to be there. But, standing in front of the big painting, you went quiet. You met his gaze, and his lips pulled into a lopsided grin, which you returned before you both shifted back to the artwork. It was peaceful, absorbing the atmosphere and just existing together. Suddenly, John was jolted out of his reverie by the feeling of something brushing the side of his palm. 

You were itching to hold his hand all night but were too nervous to take that leap. What if he rejected you? That wasn’t likely after so many dates, but still. Your nerves got the better of you for the better half of the self-guided tour. Regardless, you had managed to work up the courage, cautiously grazing your pinky against his wrist and hand before wrapping it around his. You didn’t look away from the illustration, but he did, moving to you, then down to your hands.

He simply stared for a moment, surprised but positively giddy at the same time. Surely enough, John took your hand in his, interlocking your fingers and leaning just a bit closer to you. He could stand there forever, basking in your warmth and energy, the sound of your voice sinking into his every thought–

“Oh no,” you said, breaking the silence. You looked up at him worried, wrinkles forming between your brows. “I-I’m sorry. I was teaching again.”

He immediately gave you a reassuring squeeze, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Don’t be. I like hearing you talk.” Jesus, did he have a way with words. He liked hearing you talk? With that accent, he could spew nonsense, and it would still draw you in. But hearing John Price give you compliments and praise? Flattery? You were a goner. “Tell me more about the next one?”

As if he could get any more fucking perfect.

“Okay.”

Copyright © 2023 as-is-above-so-below. All rights reserved.

rugby player bakugou

- random thought or headcanons? idk idc -

TALL A LITERAL GIANT WITH MUSCLES HE WORKED ON FOR YEARS

rugby player bakugou is one of the teams best player and the most aggressive strong players they have on the team

yea he comes to you with a busted lip, almost got a concussion, bloody forehead or a black eye from time to time but at least his team won!

sweats a lot ew

seeing him running for the ball, with the ball or tackling someone to the ground makes him look so fucking badass and he knows it especially because your watching him rn

never lets anyone tackle him for too long, with his strength he immediately gets back up, that fucking score is his!

or he never gets tackled at all sometimes, hes smart and knows where and how to out run bitches

rugby player bakugou always gets into a fight with someone, almost physically if it werent for kirishimas strong ass dragging him away from the soon to be under 6 feet in the ground guy

when he steps into the field he always makes sure to check where you are. he always hope your watching his game, he feels a sense of hope of winning even more because of you

dont tease him too much because if you try to run away… youll never make it💀

a lot of people want his attention, doing and wearing whatever to get him to just look at them but it never works. all he sees is you wearing one of his spare team unifroms

what the fuckkkkkkkk

BORN TO DIE

bonten x fem!reader

summary: you thought loving them would be enough.

genre: mini series, bonten timeline, smut, angst, romance

warnings: fem!reader, explicit smut, gang violence, explicit language, drug abuse, alcoholism, mcd last chapter — warnings will vary by chapter

update schedule: sporadic (LDA priority)

status: incomplete

notes: this stemmed from brainrot from eris’s reblog game 🥹 anyway, the “chapters” can be read as stand alone one shots, but if you’re gonna read the last part with all of bonten, you’ll want the background from the character specific chapters. kindly ignore the fact that brooklyn baby isn’t on the born to die album, i had an idea too good to pass

MILLION DOLLAR MAN HAITANI RAN

BLUE JEANS HAITANI RINDOU

NATIONAL ANTHEM KOKONOI HAJIME

CARMEN AKASHI TAKEOMI

BROOKLYN BABY KAKUCHO

GODS & MONSTERS SANZU HARUCHIYO

SUMMERTIME SADNESS SANO MANJIRO

DARK PARADISE BONTEN

REBLOGS FOR BOOST GREATLY APPRECIATED

࣪ ⊹ 𝐍𝐎 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐘 — tsukishima kei.

⁰¹ — 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈 : the best part of me…

part i summary : your winter trip was supposed to bring you a sense of relaxation and relief after the long fall semester. however, there's a bit of trepidation about seeing your long-time crush, daichi, for the first time after he introduced his new girlfriend. yet, you quickly find yourself wrapped in a much more complicated tryst than you had anticipated.

contains : fem reader (she / her pronouns), slight angst, mentions of unrequited feelings (reader → daichi), college au, friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, tension (romantic and unamed sexual), eventual smut (none in this part, mdni), mentions of anxiety, fake dating, misunderstandings, reader is shorter than tsukishima, teasing, pining tsukishima

a/n : this fic is definitely my baby and I hope you all enjoy it! i plan on having two parts, but it may turn into three if I cannot fit the smut in with the plot for next chapter! also, I pictured the until dawn lodge as the cabin in this fic, but I tried to make it as vague as possible for you all to imagine <3 reblogs / tags / comments are loved and appreciated! thank you so much to sweet risu for helping me whenever I got confused <3

word count : 14.6k

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There are many instances in life–different paths to take, different decisions to make–in which you do not come to understand their meaning until after they have passed. 

Looking back, you suppose this was the start of one of those instances. 

The sting of the cold is alleviated soon after you push open the large glass doors of the metropolitan museum–though the coolness of the door’s metal handle lingers on your skin. You can still feel the grooves pressed against your palm even as you walk through the main entrance, and you mindlessly run your thumb over the small indents to soothe them away. 

It’s strange–the echoing of your footsteps, the blatant sound of your footfalls; they bounce off the walls, ringing slightly in your ears as you make your way past the exhibits. With the evening sun dwindling behind you–the day’s last rays beaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows surrounding the front door–the shadows of the museum’s exhibits stretch across the hard, grey floor. Seeing a place usually teeming with gleeful families and exuberant, easily-excitable children devoid of people is almost eerie, but you find comfort in the vivid emptiness. 

The lights are dimmed as you traverse down the main hallway, and the excitement at what’s to come continues to swell inside your chest. You swiftly take a right until you spot the second door–somewhat propped open, allowing any outside viewers a peek inside the office. 

“Hey stranger,” you make your presence known, though the likelihood of surprising Tsukishima is slim to none. 

Leaning against the wooden doorframe, you cross your arms, waiting for your best friend to turn around and greet you with his usual charm of sarcasm and teasing. 

Tsukishima leans over his desk, shoving a book and miscellaneous supplies into his brown shoulder bag. The jacket he’d sported this morning–the same one he’d worn a week ago, before he spilled a splotch of coffee on the grey tweed–is already shrugged over his shoulders. It’s long, reaching down his back, framing his tall form in a way that compliments him. 

Not that you’d ever tell him that. 

“Sorry–we’re actually closed,” Tsuskishima is smug, throwing a lopsided smirk over his shoulder. His glasses fall down the bridge of his nose at the action, and he casually pushes them back into place with his pointer finger. “Didn’t you see the sign?

His attempts at teasing are lost on you; you scoff, rolling your eyes in such a manner that only comes from being friends with the tall man since your adolescent years. “There was no sign, actually,” you chide, hugging your arms to yourself. The cool chill is back–something that is not uncommon in such a large museum. Without the numerous people milling about, families having taken off an afternoon to explore and coo over the exhibits, the warmth that comes with so many bodies in a building is absent. 

Tsukishima furrows his brows as he finishes gathering his belongings. Turning to face you briefly, he grabs the gloves that hang on a small hook by the door, tugging the leather over his knuckles, pulling down until they cover his wrists. “Well, the sign is metaphorical; you can easily check our hours online. Besides–does anyone actually use ‘open’ and ‘closed’ signs anymore?” 

You shrug, lips downturned into a thoughtful look. You humor Tsukishima–your specialty. “I dunno. Small businesses, maybe. The restaurant down the street from Suga’s uses one,” you point out. 

Knowing his routine, you quickly snatch his thermos from his desk–the one he religiously uses for coffee and nothing else–and offer it to him with a supercilious grin. 

Tsukishima glares at you, though it holds no bite, before gratefully grasping the mug's handle. With a slight frown–a pout, by any other means–he opens the lid, taking a peek inside. He swirls the cup, and immediately, a woeful look crosses his features–empty. 

You hypothesize that the probable lack of coffee that usually lingers in the metal thermos will lead to a more easily irritable Tsukishima, and brace yourself accordingly.

“How do you even know that?” Tsukishima asks, astonishment evident in his tone. He doesn’t mask his surprise at the tiny bit of knowledge, though you do feel slighted by your best friend. 

“Are you really asking me that?” you retort, raising a brow in mock disbelief. Your tone is jokingly flat, as so to convey your feigned irritation. It’s notorious among your friend group that you hold an abundance of random, oftentimes useless, pieces of information. It’s a small thing, yes, but you blame it on your years of trivia night at the insistence of Yamaguchi–every Tuesday in the campus’s library and–if you’re lucky enough–you could even win a free parking voucher.

You’d won eight times throughout your tenured years at the university. 

“Okay, smartass.” With a huff, Tsukishima pulls the thick strap of the bag over his shoulder, motioning with one hand for you to relinquish your commandeering of the doorframe. Readily, you push off of it, moving to wait in the hallway as Tsukishima flicks off the light in his office with one hand, turning his back to you to close and lock the heavy door. 

“What–no ‘closed’ sign?” you bait him, though, with the lack of coffee in his cooled metal thermos, you take heed to continue with care and caution. 

“Careful there,” Tsukishima warns, ducking his head in to give you a scornful look. It has the opposite desired effect–you haven’t been intimidated by the tall man since you were years younger, and even then, it was always more of a kind of admiration. Instead, you merely grin. 

To be friends with Tsukishima Kei, you must have a certain amount of bite. 

“Alright, princess.” Your arms are still crossed, attempting to trap the body heat close to your chest. You’re becoming restless–more than ready to escape the large, echoing, empty museum, looking forward to the warmth his car will provide. “Let’s get you some coffee. Have to get you more amicable before we join the masses.”

“Princess?” he glares, adjusting his grip on the handle of his tumbler. You bite back the urge to laugh as Tsukishima seems to hold onto it like it's his lifeline–you don’t feel the need to risk your neck quite this early in the evening. 

“Well, yeah,” you reply thoughtfully. Your attention is temporarily stolen by a stray piece of thread hanging off the hem of your sweater sleeve, layered neatly underneath your coat; you pick at it, a pinch forming between your brows as the offending string snags. After losing interest in the string, you let it hang, instead deciding to eye the singular bag Tsukishima holds. “You’re taking forever to get all your stuff together–probably longer than I did. By the way, is that everything you’re bringing? You know we’re going to be gone for, like, two weeks.”

The winter trip is not uncommon; every year since your first in university, your group of friends have made an effort to get away after the fall semester had ended. This year, a large lodge cabin nestled in the mountains was calling your name, and you had only a few misgivings about attending this year. 

You did not know if you were quite ready to face him. 

“Hey–listen, you,” Tsukishima falls into step next to you, and his words are paired with wide eyes and a dismayed expression. “I’ve had it to about here today,” he raises his hand to mimic a high bar above his head, “and the last thing I need is your attitude.”

His words, while harsh, are offset by the warm, affectionate tone in his voice. He doesn’t mean the bruskness–and hardly ever does with you–and the familiar teasing banter that bounces effortlessly back and forth between you is gratifying. It has you grinning widely, knocking your shoulder against his body to pull a similar smile from him. 

“Right. Hence the…” you wave your hand around, gathering your thoughts,”...the bribery of more coffee.”

You trail off in a singsong, wiggling your eyebrows in what you hope is an obnoxiously humorous enticing manner. 

Tsukishima snorts, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. They never stay in place, and you make a brief note to remind the man to ask for more rounded temples the next time he finds himself needing a new pair of frames.

“Is that what that was? A bribery?” Tsukishima walks steadily beside you–just as he has for years, purposefully slowing his pace, shortening his strides in order to fall into step with you. The gesture, while likely unconscious after many years, is still appreciated. You doubt you would be able to keep up with him otherwise.

“Duh,” you simply state, framing your voice to emulate a sense of aloofness–as if the answer was obvious. “We have a long drive ahead of us–one that you’re soldiering, I hope you know–and I don’t feel like dealing with your grumpiness the whole way.”

“Really? My grumpiness? You’re one to talk,” Tsukishima easily bites back, tilting his head your way with a slight raise of his brow. “Also? I never agreed to drive. When did you come to that conclusion?”

You pretend as if you miss his question.

“Whatever. One of us will be grumpy by the time the drive is over,” you glance at Tsukishima with shock written across your features. “Also, you never answered my question.”

“And you never answered mine.”

Your glare is met with an annoyingly self-satisfied smirk; Tsukishima is smug, and his intonation only further has the frustration prickling at your chest. 

After a few seconds of silent stand-off, you finally break eye contact. “Please drive,” you mumble, tucking your chin a bit further under the thick scarf you wear. “I really don’t feel like it.” 

You’re grateful for the added warmth of your winter clothes as Tsukishima sweeps open the front doors of the museum. Immediately, the cold welcomes you, the brisk chill causing you to shiver slightly in your coat. The sounds of the city immediately greet your ears, and if you squint, you can almost see your and Tsukishima’s reflections on the blacked-out windows of the building on the opposite side of the busy street.

“Ah–there it is,” is Tsukishima’s cryptic response. 

He turns around to lock up the museum, pulling out an old key from the front pocket of his long coat. You remember the first time you’d seen it, one instance three weeks ago. Tsukishima had been tasked with closing and locking up, just as he is now, and you recall laughing at the sight of such an old-looking key for a new, modern museum. 

You pull your attention away from the tiny key as Tsukishima turns back to face you, tucking it safely away in the previous pocket. 

“What is where?” you ask, confusion lacing your words. Another cruel breeze brushes past you, and with your hands shoved in your front pockets, you curl your fingers towards your palms–aching to return warmth to the appendages. 

“Are you that determined to ignore it?” Tsukishima pauses as he begins walking down the sidewalk, making his way steadily to the car. He always parks at the sixth parking spot down from the front door–far enough away to allow museum patrons a spot, yet close enough to not warrant a long walk. You follow him quickly, itching to feel the warm blast of heat in his car. 

As you annoyingly tug at the handle of his car, you feel the twisting of unease settling at home in your chest. You hate the feeling–you had been attempting to ignore and push it aside as much as possible this past month. Yet, with a friend such as Tsukishima Kei, you find that hiding your emotions is more difficult than not.

“Ignore what?” is your poor response. You wince as the words leave your tongue, feeling heavy, stilted, and awkward even as they meet the cold air. Heavy, stilted, awkward, and undoubtedly not believable.

Tsukishima scowls over the hood of his car at your continued tugging and pulling on the handle. Finally unlocking it, the car makes a small beeping sound, and you let out a similar noise of relief when the handle gives, and you’re able to duck your head inside.

“You’re a bad liar,” your friend states, though not unkindly. 

He settles in the front seat, pushing his keys in the ignition and letting out a sigh of ease when the warm air from the heater immediately begins filling the small space. Sinking against the leather cushions, you refrain from taking off the scarf, still feeling the lingering chill that creeps through the thin pane of the window. 

Gathering a feigned smug composure, you smirk. “Only to you,” you tease, hoping that the fondness in your tone will distract Tsukishima from his original observation of your sour mood. 

But, your wishes are for naught; you've never been able to hide anything from the blonde, and as he carefully pulls out of the parking space–one hand on the steering wheel, one hand braced on the back of your headrest–he offers you a knowing glance.

Then, after a brief moment of silence, a sigh. It’s rough–as if Tsukishima is hesitant to bring up the thoughts so obviously plaguing his mind. “It’s about him, right?”

For a moment, you’re silent. Your stomach sinks at the reminder of him–at the reminder Daichi, of your feelings, of what never was. The chill outside is nothing when compared–a pit inside you widens as it gnaws on your gut, filling your lungs with thick ice at the unpleasant reminder of it all. You find yourself unable to focus on anything for a moment as your mind is filled with memories of him–friendly memories, yes, but the once rose-colored haze they were all colored in is now gone, along with the crush that you harbored on Daichi for years. The remainder of your unrequited feelings leaves a bitter taste on your tongue, one that you have yet to replace with something sweeter, and while you're confident any romantic feelings have gone, it is still challenging to move past.

“Yeah, it’s about him.” 

The car falls quiet, and you feel a sudden surge of gratefulness for the moment of silence Tsukishima grants you. 

The state of quiescence is not unwelcome, nor is it strained; Tsukishima lets the subject teeter off the edge–though you know to expect him to bring it up again soon–and the lapse in conversation allows you time to think. 

Daichi has been a friend for years; just as Tsukishima, just as Yamaguchi. Just as Kiyoko and Yachi and Hinata and a plethora of others. Unlike Tsukishima, Yamaguchi, and the rest of your friend group, your feelings for Daichi had always run a bit deeper. Perhaps it started when you were still in high school–bright-eyed, excited, and entirely head-over-heels for the captain of the volleyball team. Or, maybe it began when you entered college–on the night when Daichi, always acting as the sweet, dependent upperclassman, saw you studying in the library one evening and made an effort to join you until you'd finished.

While you do not know when your feelings began, you do remember when you discovered your feelings were entirely unrequited. It wasn’t until a few unfortunate weeks ago that a party Suga hosted resulted in your friend group being introduced to Daichi’s new girlfriend, Michimiya. 

A sweet, unassuming girl. She’s cute and acted especially shy that night. You recall how a permanent blush coated her cheeks, likely due to being under such adoring care from Daichi–an arm constantly slung over her shoulder. She had been kind to you, and it only made you feel worse when she offered you a friendly smile in greeting, accompanied by a genuine compliment of how much she adored your outfit.

You couldn’t bring yourself to dislike her. Despite the rolling of your stomach–a dark green monster perched on your shoulder–she was too sincere in her words and actions, caring and giving to a fault. By the end of the night, she had smoothly integrated into your group, and your throat felt as if it had a thick wad of cotton shoved deep inside. 

The crush started as it ended–abruptly, with little fanfare, and an exuberant amount of emotions you weren’t necessarily prepared for–or ready to face. 

You have not seen nor spoken to Daichi since that night, and you feel a strange sense of nervous suspense and trepidation at the prospect of seeing him in a short few hours. Likely, Michimiya would also be in attendance because who would go on a long post-college, trip without their new girlfriend?

You don’t know who you wish to avoid more. 

“What’s up?” Tsukishima breaks the comfortable silence. His fingers flick over the adjustments for the heater, raising it two degrees. Silently, you grin, and you know that Tsukishima picks up on your thankfulness simply by the almost indecipherable tilt of your head in his direction. You receive your own in turn: a small tug of his lips, a quirk of his mouth in a telling grin. 

“Oh, nothing really,” you tuck your hand between your thighs, crossing your legs in an effort to warm your fingers. You make your voice light–teasing and derisive. “Just doing my best to keep the impending dread at bay.”

His grin is immediately gone, twisting into a displeased expression. Then, a scowl. 

“Self-deprecating jokes don’t suit you.”

It’s a brutally honest statement, and while you’re used to hearing Tsukishima speak that way to others–his peers, other students, your rambunctious group of friends–it is rare he speaks that way to you. It has a strange feeling swirling in your chest, and all you can do is attempt to brush it off with another ill-timed joke. 

“Yeah, okay. Like you know what suits me.” To lighten his mood again, you make your tone pleasant–easy. A teasing manner to rope Tsukishima back into the playful give-and-take you so often take part in. 

However, his frown only deepens uncharacteristically, and he keeps his focus solely on the road, even while stopped at a bustling intersection. 

Tsukishima’s reaction is strange, and you decide to brush it off. 

You attribute it to the lack of coffee.

“Maybe I do,” he concedes, glancing in the rearview mirror before tapping his turn signal. As soon as the light turns green–the metal pole of the traffic light dancing precariously over the crosswalk as a gust of wind likely disrupts it–Tsukishima makes a left turn. 

You’re left in silence, mindlessly scratching over the material of your coat. Was Tsukishima implying that he knows what would suit you? Was he, therefore, insinuating that Daichi is not what would best suit you? It’s almost as if he had something else in mind–something troubling his mind? What exactly Tsukishima was referencing, you can’t fathom, yet his words bury themselves uncomfortably in your heart, and you feel an inexplicable urge to swiftly apologize for your likely crass words. 

It’s infrequent that the air between you and Tsukishima feels stilted and heavy; you can recount on one hand the number of serious fights you’ve been in–and, even less, the number of times you’ve felt awkward around him. The niggling at the back of your mind returns, and you bite back the urge to ask for clarification: what’s that supposed to mean? you want to ask, though, with the state of his mood, Tsukishima would be prone to take your words the wrong way. 

So, you let the moment taper out on its own. The drive continues languidly, and, with time, the air between you–as well as your fingers–no longer feels frozen. It’s not until three minutes later, according to the car’s lagging clock, that Tsukishima pipes up again, letting out a low sigh as you approach your apartment. 

You glance over at him in acknowledgment, knowing that words are unnecessary. 

“You can talk about it, if you want,” Tsukishima merely states. If you didn’t know him, hearing the care that bleeds through his words would be nearly impossible. “About him,” he clarifies.

Instantly, your heart lifts, and the strange pit in your stomach is relieved. Leaning your head back against the headrest, you keep your focus trained on your friend, not minding that he pointedly keeps his attention on the road, avoiding your soft gaze. 

“I know,” you say, no longer bothering to try masking the tarrying remnants of hurt.

It doesn’t feel like quite enough, but as your feelings currently stand–confused, with a mix of jittery anticipation and a lingering amount of heartache–it is all you can offer. 

Tsukishima parts his lips–as if a sentence is hanging off the tip of his tongue–before deciding against it. 

A spark of surprise comes to life inside you at his apparent hesitance. Tsukishima has never been one to hold his tongue. 

Interesting. 

Before you can speak on his odd behavior, he’s suddenly adjusting the gear shift, turning to face you with a look you can’t reasonably interpret. “We’ve arrived at your destination, Miss. Your total for this trip will be three-thousand three-hundred and sixteen yen. If you don’t mind, please don’t forget to leave a good review on the mobile app–”

Tsukishima is smirking, and you can only offer a huff of amused laughter in response as you sneer. Lightly, you punch his shoulder, noting how soft the fabric of his sweater feels under your fist. 

Before you can pull away–laughter still present in the air–Tsukishima captures your wrist, holding your hand in place. His fingers are long enough and palm large enough that he’s able to wrap the entirety of your wrist in his one hand; he’s warm, fingertips calloused as they grip onto you–tightly enough to make a point, yet loose enough that you could easily pull away if you wanted. 

Strangely, you find that you don’t.

“Ow.” Your friend is smirking; it’s a devilishly handsome look, you realize. Lips tugged up in a lopsided fashion, eyes glinting with a kind of mischievousness reserved only for you and Yamaguchi. He’s not actually hurt–a fact you’re both keenly aware of, as your tiny punch could hardly have bothered a fly–yet he’s still holding onto your wrist, and you suddenly cannot comprehend why your throat feels so dry. 

“You’re so full of it,” you attempt to tease, but your voice shakes a bit as the syllables get caught in your mouth. 

Tsukishima is simply looking at you with an unreadable expression; on the outside, he is teasing as usual. Thought, you know Tsukishima, and there’s a slight beat–barely half a second–when something else flashes across his features. In that second, his eyes narrow gently, his fingers moving to drag against your pulse point. Your breath catches in your chest at the sensation–the rough pad of his thumb barely brushes over the thin skin of your inner wrist, applying pressure to the sensitive area with no more than a blink.

The space feels hot–not suffocating, but overwhelming. It’s difficult to distinguish the abnormal barrage of emotions that suddenly crash in your stomach, pushing against your ribcage, and swelling in your heart before you can do anything to stop them. It’s humming, filling any possible crevice and corner of the car until it’s packed full–full of the anticipatory feeling, full of indiscernible emotion.

But, perhaps it’s not indiscernible. You think, if you focus hard enough, you might be able to determine what exactly it means.

The abrupt and unforeseen shift in energy throws you for a loop. You don’t know where to look, what to do, what to say. But you don’t have to make that decision; Tsukishima is holding your rapt attention, not saying anything, not doing anything, but staring at you with those inscrutable eyes. If you squint–you might be able to see what’s hidden there. 

The moment lasts only seconds–an inconsequential blip in time–yet it feels like it lasts for years.

Again, Tsukishima parts his lips–as if he wants to say something–before ultimately deciding against it.

The thick buzzing between you quickly dissipates when Tsukishima drops your wrist, looking down to pull his keys from the ignition. He clears his throat with a humorless chuckle as you come back to the moment, still wholly perplexed by what transpired mere seconds ago. 

The moment may have just ended, but with the tension hanging still thick in the air, it might as well have been a lifetime ago. 

“Want me to come inside? Help you grab your things?” he asks, running a few fingers through his hair. 

You miss how his hand shakes.

Taking another second to attempt to process what just occurred–shoving it to the back of your mind, determined not to focus too much on any underlying meaning–you let out a humorless laugh. 

What the fuck?

“Please, I’m offended,” you tell him, folding a hand over your heart. “You make it sound like I overpacked.”

Tsukishima doesn’t need to say anything. Just as with most in your friendship, he only has to shoot you a look–one of disbelief, as if to say really?

“Don’t you always?” Tsukishima pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. 

All you can do is scoff, opening your door in a swift movement before smoothly exiting the car. The coldness hits you, and even though you shouldn’t be, you’re shocked by the near-freezing draft that greets you. With a small, petulant glare, you press your lips together to fight off the shiver that instantly wracks through your body. 

“No coffee for you, then,” you say through gritted teeth, digging your fingers into your palms as you cross your arms over your chest. While your tone bled seriousness, you and Tsukishima know the threat is feigned–hidden behind a thinly-veiled laugh. But, after all his teasing, you think it’s the least Tsukishima deserves. “Besides, I have to overpack to compensate for your underpacking.”

You don’t have to turn around to know your friend heard you. You hear a disgruntled chuckle as if he calls out your bluff–knowing that you wouldn’t dare deprive him of coffee–but it is cursorily followed by a soft thud, then a tiny curse of ow. 

You grin, thoroughly pleased, and curiously ponder how many times Tsukishima has become overexcited and thus knocked his head against the roof of the car. Feeling a small spark of triumph alight in your chest, you allow the smugness to tug at your mouth in an undoubtedly obnoxious and self-satisfied grin. Leaning down, you press your hands to your knees until you’re peering at Tsukishima through the open door. He doesn’t bother softening his scowl at the sight of your arrogant smirk, tentatively rubbing a hand over the back of his head. 

“Forget the money,” Tsukishima glares, leaning over the middle console to meet your gaze. “I just want the coffee. I think that’s an appropriate payment for driving your ass the two-and-a-half hours.”

You gasp in faux surprise, comically clutching at your heart over your top. “My ass? Kei, you were the one demanding that I go? If I recall correctly–”

“You probably don’t.”

“Kei!” You scold him for interrupting you. 

“If I recall correctly–which I do, smart ass–you were the one pouting saying that you didn’t wanna go this year unless I came, too!” With a fond look, you think back to the evening in question, remembering how Tsukishima had lazily stretched across your couch, scowling incessantly until you’d agreed to request off work for the two weeks encompassing the vacation. 

Not even bothering to argue against your words, Tsukishima lolls his head to the side, thumping dramatically against the warm leather headrest. “Fuck you very much,” he grunts, twisting the knob of the heater up a few more degrees, making up for how the cold air filters in through your open door. 

The soothing blast of fresh hot air is almost enough to thaw your now-frozen fingers. In an effort to warm them, you bring your hands up to your mouth, cupping your palm atop your other and blowing a tepid breath onto your fingertips. 

It does little to hide the doting smile you sport. 

“C’mon, Tsukki,” you tease, reverting to the childhood nickname, aiming to get a bit more under his skin. “How’re you ever gonna get a girlfriend with that foul mouth? No wonder you’re still single.”

It’s unfortunate how your words appear to have the opposite intended effect. Tsukishima’s body relaxes in a cocky, arrogant way, eyes gleaming with playfulness in such a way that it has a hyper buzz prickling at your heart. 

“Girls tend to like my foul mouth, actually,” he taunts, and the arrogance seeps through his body, pouring into every word as he stares you down competitively. Tsukishima shifts, spreading his thighs, and you hate how your eyes flicker down to catch the slight movement. 

You hate how it makes you feel even more. 

However, before you can even respond–make an attempt to knock him down a peg–Tsukishima’s brows furrow, and he slumps in his seat once again. “And don’t call me that,” he grumbles, rolling his neck until you hear a small popping sound. 

You grin, and everything returns to normal. 

Without another word, you slam the door a tad harder than necessary, giggling a bit when you faintly hear Tsukishima protest from inside the car. 

You make your feet quick; with a bouncing step, you walk into the front doors of the apartment building, enjoying how the heat instantly warms you to your core. Despite the warmth, the cold from outside tends to linger in the doorframe, and after enough time of living inside the building, you know to hug your coat closer to ward off any further chill. 

The elevator ride to your floor seems to take forever; the excitement of joining the rest of your friends in the mountainside cabin–promptly rented for a week and a half–thrums through your veins. As you think more about it, mindlessly nodding your head along with the elevator's tinny sound as it passes the multiple floors, you can’t help how the anticipation mounts. It builds until you feel the urge to shake your hands free of the feeling, swelling incessantly with equal amounts of eagerness and nerves. The notion that, soon, you’ll be existing in the same vicinity as Daichi is almost nauseating, and you have to suck in a large breath to ease your frazzled nerves.

It hardly works. The thrumming continues. 

Three more breaths pass before the elevator door opens. You’re relieved at the excuse to move; you walk quickly, hastening into a subtle jog to help rid your body of the anxious energy that has taken up house there in the past minute or so. It helps, though barely, and by the time you reach your front door, you decide to push your worries to the side. This trip is as much for you as it is for everyone else. You refuse to let any negative emotions ruin what is supposed to be a fun getaway from the stressors of university and burgeoning adulthood. And, after the tiny chunk the luxurious rental cabin took from your modest checking account, you’re more determined to enjoy yourself. There was no way you could fathom staying at such a place on your own, yet, even after splitting the price evenly amongst your friend group, the cost for such an extended stay was enough to make you wince. 

After telling yourself that you deserve the well-needed break after such an arduous school semester, paired with Tsukishima’s convincing argument that there was no way he could go if you didn’t, you ultimately came to terms with the cons of the trip. 

After slotting and turning the key in your apartment’s door, you quickly gather your things. 

Two bags and a brewed, fresh thermos of coffee later–Tsukishima’s thermos, one of the two extras that he insists on keeping in your overflowing cabinets–you find yourself in the same position. Locking the door, you ruminate briefly on the time you’ll spend away from home, allowing an inkling of nostalgia to, inexplicably, settle in your heart for a beat too long. 

You don’t ponder too long on the feeling, similar to the nervousness you promptly decided to ignore. 

The elevator ride down always seems to go by much faster than it does going up. In seemingly no time at all, you’re lugging your things through the large front doors of the apartment building, offering a kind greeting and a wave to a familiar neighbor as you go. 

“What was that about overpacking?” Tsukishima is leaning against the side of the car as you meet him outside, suspciously eyeing the bags you hold. You huff irritably, gesturing to him the steaming coffee you have in one hand before shoving a bag into his awaiting arms. The short sound of dismay he lets out is not nearly enough for your liking, especially after seeing how his eyes lit up at the sight of more coffee, and you find yourself fighting the childish urge to stick your tongue out at him. 

“Asshole,” you pop the trunk–the familiarity of the gesture almost seeming like second nature. 

“Love you, too.” Tsukishima places your second bag by your other–next to his own. 

His hands twitch as he places them on top of the trunk, only moving to shut it after making sure your hands are out of the way. Again, his eyes fretfully dart to the thermos held between your palms, and all you can offer is a huff of laughter between cold puffs of air. 

“Come on–we’re already going to be late.”

“Yeah? And who’s fault would that be?” Tsukishima attempts to retort, not knowing that you have an answer already poised on your tongue. 

“Yours, actually,” you click your seatbelt into place, a content grin gracing your lips as you relax in the car. You kick your shoes off in an exaggerated gesture, pressing two fingers on the seat’s adjustable track to lean it back. “My class ended at two. You didn’t get to close the museum until four.”

Tsukishima scrunches his nose in distaste–whether at your words or you kicking off your shoes, you don’t know. “You’re full of spite today. Did you know that?” 

The gentle hum of the ignition is soothing, and the warmth fills the car again soon after. “Mm, it’s part of my charm,” you close your eyes and take a deep breath, happily folding your hands on your lap. “Oh, are we picking up Yamaguchi? He did know we would be late, right? Because of a certain someone,” you look pointedly at Tsukishima. 

The blonde lets out a humorless chuckle, clicking down on the turn signal as you set up the GPS. “Yamaguchi said that he would rather room with Noya and Tanaka’s hyperactive asses than ride with me. Something about my driving being crap. Plus, I still have to drop the key off at my boss’s place,” Tsukishima fingers the museum’s key between two fingers, wiggling it in front of your vision. 

After fiddling with the navigation system and entering the appropriate address, you sit back. The estimated time of arrival blinks back at you–a little over two hours and forty minutes.

“He’s got a point,” you muse, closing your eyes. “About your driving, I mean.”

You feel the soft pinch on your shoulder before you see it, whipping your head around to see Tsukishima grinning, proud. “If my driving is crap, what does that make yours?”

You click your tongue as you turn back around, facing the front. You hadn’t noticed it previously, but snow flurries settle on the windshield in a soft, white powder. You take a second before responding to admire the fresh snowfall, following the flakes’ tiny dances until they land on the windshield, destined to promptly melt if they do not get swiped away by the windshield wiper first.

“Always so mean to me,” you murmur, but your tone is lighthearted and gaze distracted. The longer you watch the snow fall–turning into a white blur as the speed limit increases–the adrenaline and excitement of the day seep from your body, replacing it with a potent kind of exhaustion. All too soon, your limbs feel heavy, and your eyelids begin to droop despite your meager effort to keep them open. 

You find that, in the still silence that follows, paired nicely with the comforting heat gathering in the car and the soft lull of the drive, you begin drifting off into a mindless, dreamless sleep.

You miss the last thing Tsukishima says before you slip off into unconsciousness. 

“You’re the worst driving partner ever.”

“You know, that doesn’t even make sense. We didn’t take turns driving, Kei.”

The look he shoots you is nothing short of hostile, yet it makes you laugh all the same. 

After a nearly three-hour drive–due to the weather and the side-trip of dropping off the museum’s key–you arrived at the cabin. At first glance, you think ‘cabin’ is too diminutive of a word; in its place is a large lodge, made up entirely of nice, dark wood and surrounded by hundred-year-old pine trees blanketed in soft snow. In the distance, the snowy peaks of mountains surround you, and you cannot help but stand in place, floored, for a few moments.

You stare in awe at the unmistakable extravagance of the place you’ll lay to rest for the coming days, one bag held slack in your hand as you take the time to appreciate the structure. There’s a large balcony that you admire for a few seconds, and you wonder how quickly you’d be able to explore it further. 

“You’ll catch flies if you keep that up.” Tsukishima stands next to you, his own bag and your second held tightly in his grip. 

Warmheartedly, you knock your shoulder against his, looking at him with a distinct unbridled excitement. “Not even your stinky attitude can bother me right now, Kei.”

Your words are true; while Kei cannot ruin the moment, the swirling, nearly all-consuming nervousness you feel most certainly can. You feel as if your insides are being eaten up, an uncomfortably warm fizzling sensation settling right at home in your gut, your chest. It’s all you can do to take a deep breath of winter air, exhaling the faint taste of pine, mint, and a trace of cinnamon.

“‘Stinky attitude’?” Tsukishima states, appalled.

You promptly ignore him. “I wonder if that was part of the downpayment,” you mutter humorlessly, curiously wondering how the owners managed to imbue a signature smell to the place. 

“What was that?” Tsukishima asks, leaving thin footprints in his wake as he turns to offer you a strange look. 

“Oh, nothing,” you sigh, heaving your bag over your shoulder to follow him. “Just living the dream.” You do not tell him how you feel agitated and almost sickeningly overwhelmed at the prospect of seeing Daichi–with a girlfriend–again; though, with the way Tsukishima looks back at you, his features softening almost unnoticeably, you don’t think you need to. 

Tsukishima slows, nearly stopping his pace altogether as he patiently waits for you to catch up. 

As you walk, there is a pleasant crunching sound–the fresh snow offering a soft give underfoot. The path from the car to the front porch is short, though, surrounded by nature and the gentle scents of wood and balsam, with the remainder of nerves unendingly tugging and pulling at your system, it feels much longer.

You let yourself savor it as if the walk lasted twenty minutes. 

The cold helps clear your mind and settle your concerns, and you wonder how much it would take to convince Tsukishima to join you on a walk later. 

You hadn’t even reached the front steps of the large wooden porch when a loud yell rings throughout the air, and a thrill of surprise rushes through you. The front door of the lodge is thrown open with haste, and only a familiar head of bright orange hair is able to quell the sudden bout of apprehension that had caused your heart to start pounding and your vision to become tunnel-like.

“Oof–hi there, Hinata,” you manage to get out. His arms hug you tight and warm, engulfing you in a soft embrace. Gradually, you relax, allowing your bag to drop onto the nicely lacquered porch wood as your fingers curl into the softness of his hoodie. You feel him grin, happy at being acknowledged and even happier to have his hyperactive embrace returned.  

“Yo!” Hinata exclaims when he pulls away, a perpetually exuberant grin tugging lopsidedly at his lips. “You guys took forever–though, you’re not the last ones to get here.”

Hinata’s words, while confusing, leave you reeling with more questions than answers. If you were not the last to arrive, who was trailing behind you? Was the object of your recent distress waiting beyond the front door, lounging on a loveseat with a girl you are not quite familiar with yet, beyond knowing she is too sweet to dislike? Or have they not yet arrived? 

Both options leave you feeling restless, and after managing to get out a pathetically halfhearted laugh, you cannot decide which one you would prefer. 

Hinata seemingly misses your uneasiness; he does not comment on it, and his long-winded greeting and explanation of how his drive up the mountain went are only interrupted by Kageyama and Yamaguchi joining you on the porch. The latter is dressed in only a thin cotton shirt, and you let out a slight sound of worry at the sight of his cheeks immediately pinkening upon walking into the cold. 

“Hey, everyone.” Tsukishima picks up your forgotten bag, and Yamaguchi is the next to pull you in for an easy hug. It is looser than Hinata’s, yet more comforting, and as you allow yourself to relax in his familiar embrace, you find that your mind is able to settle slightly. 

However, Yamaguchi soon shivers, and you think he may have only hugged you to receive a small bit of the remnants of warmth that linger on your coat. 

With a giggle at the knowledge, you pull back, noting with a fondness that the pink has quickly spread to his ears. 

“How was the drive?” Yamaguchi asks, shooting a pointed look in Tsukishima’s direction. The lighthearted banter between the two is something you’ve sorely missed, and you find yourself looking forward to seeing more of the friendly banter later. 

“Ha-ha. As if driving with these two was any better,” Tsukishima points to Hinata and a stoic Kageyama. 

Yamaguchi snickers, ducking his head as he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Hardly.”

“Hey!” Hinata pouts, enthusiastically bouncing and rocking on the balls of his feet. Under him, little imprints of the soles of his shoes are left as a reminder in the snow. 

“Hey,” Kageyama simply states, ignoring the impending argument and holding open the door in a silent urging. 

You look at him gratefully. 

“Kageyama, ever the charmer,” you state with a teasing hum. Tsukishima elbows you gently, and, whipping your head around, you childishly snatch one of your bags from his arm. 

Kageyama’s face breaks out into a rare mischievous smirk. “Only for you,” he keeps the door open, holding his fist out to Tsukishima in a short, characteristic greeting.  

“Guys, it’s kinda cold out here…” Yamaguchi is wracked with another shiver, and you feel a pang of concern for the man.

“C’mon, everyone. Yamaguchi’s teeth are practically chattering,” you sympathize, ushering everyone inside with a slight wave of your hands. 

If you were impressed with the exterior of the lodge cabin, the interior is enough to take your breath away. It is filled with a comforting warmth despite the large, open-air layout, dark wooden beams decorating the tall ceiling with similar thick columns gracing the broad stairs. A prominent, rustic light fixture emanates a warm glow not dissimilar to that of the brick fireplace radiating a kind of dry heat; even from the front door, you can feel the homey fire warming your fingertips, spreading throughout your chest in a thick, syrupy heat that causes your cheeks and nose to prickle as the last bits of cold leave your body. 

You take a step down to enter the main living space, eyes wide and mouth parted as you take in the grand magnificence of the place. The furniture compliments the natural charm of the cabin–understated yet unimaginably comfortable-looking, with nude colors and differing shades of tans, reds, and browns. One glance at the two plush blankets and numerous large pillows decorating the L-shaped couch, and you feel the urge to collapse onto it. The leather would feel heavenly under your fingertips, soft with a certain give to it the harder you pressed onto the cushion. 

“There you guys are!” Another excited voice. 

Having been entirely distracted by your surroundings–home, for all intents and purposes, for the coming days–you hardly noticed the familiar faces emerging from inside the rental. 

“Kiyoko!” Similar to earlier, you promptly drop your bag, rushing forward to pull your friend in for a tight embrace. 

“You guys sure did take a while,” a thrilled voice from next to you perks up–Yachi. Stretching out your right arm, you open the embrace, and the girl joins the hug, wrapping her small arms around you and Kiyoko to rock you both back and forth. 

“Sorry, bad traffic,” Tsukishima deadpans, and before you know it, the bag by your feet is quietly plucked up and placed by the foot of the stairs. 

You feel more than hear Yachi let out a huff of laughter, and the three of you only pull away to properly welcome each other. “Traffic?” she asks, not entirely believing him. You feel a huff of pride fill you; you taught her well.  

“Hello to you too, Tsukishima,” Kiyoko greets, her arms still thrown over your and Yachi’s necks. The joy of seeing each other again is palpable–it grows as you leave your arms interlocked around each other, refusing to let go and only tightening comfortably with each passing interaction. 

“She never greets me like that,” Tsukishima elbows Yamaguchi, taking on a teasing look as he blatantly points to you. 

In response, you merely roll your eyes, too preoccupied with catching up with your two friends after not having seen them lately. Due to the time commitment of final exams and the last stretch of the school year, you’ve hardly been able to meet up with your old roommates as much as you’d like, and the feeling nags at you. 

As you roll your eyes at Tsukishima, you miss the knowing look shared between Kiyoko and Yachi from behind your shoulder. 

After the excitement of finally reuniting dissipates some, your previous worries are brought abc to the forefront of your mind. “So, who’s all here?” You broach the topic of your concerns timidly, sparing a glance around the room to try and deduce the current occupants residing here. At first look, there is nothing terribly discerning, minus a coat–likely Yamaguchi’s, based on the size and color–draped across the back of the couch. The rest of the room is sparse of personal belongings, only holding the furniture that came with the place.

“So far, it’s just us,” Kiyoko waves around the room–Hinata, Yamaguchi, Kageyama, Yachi, herself, you, and Tsukishima–“everyone else isn’t here yet.”

“Namely Nishinoya, Tanaka, Daichi, and Michimiya–his girlfriend,” Hinata clarifies, though the added bit about Michimiya being Daichi’s girlfriend was unnecessary: by now, you all know who she is. 

Your body sags with relief; it is a minute action–one that is only caught by Tsukishima, his eyes having flitted to you as soon as Hinata began speaking. 

Not that you noticed, of course.

“Oh, and Suga and Asahi are upstairs. I think they were playing a game or something to decide who got the bigger bed,” Yamaguchi shrugs, though, by the way his shoulders shake slightly, there must have been something amusing regarding the two boys ‘game’. 

As your group of friends continues talking–catching up, laughing, and simply relaxing in each other’s company–you cannot determine whether the feeling that fills your chest is relief or disappointment. Did you feel eased at the notion that you don’t have to face Daichi just yet? Or are you disheartened at the knowledge that he is not yet here? 

While you are confident that you no longer have any remaining romantic feelings for the man, heartbreak is a strange thing that often lingers, and you can’t deny that some morsels of pain still remain even after your feelings have gone. It is as if an echo of something hollow pangs through your heart, leaving you with hands that feel empty and a shallow feeling causing a hole in your stomach. 

“D’you need help bringing your things upstairs?” You are pulled from your thoughts by Tsukishima, who has once again sidled himself against your side. It is not uncommon to find him lingering next to you when surrounded by your mutual friends, with Yamaguchi often next to him. 

“Mhm, yeah. If you don’t mind,” your previous thoughts have made you surprisingly docile and a bit vulnerable. You lean further against Tsukishima’s side, intrinsically seeking his familiar and comforting presence. 

Seemingly taking notice of your abrupt change in mood, Tsukishima nudges his head to the side, silently motioning for you to begin making your way up the stairs. 

“Oh, your guys’ rooms are on the second floor, near the corner with the big window. God, I’m still so jealous of you,” Yamaguchi says, motioning with his hands how to reach your bedrooms. 

In response, Tsukishima only smirks, telling him, “It’s not our fault you got the shortest stick. We all did the same thing.”

The grin on Tsukishima’s face only widens, and you are briefly grateful that, a few weeks prior, you managed to pull the longest stick out of the cup–therefore allotting you one of the three single, private rooms in the cabin. The second had gone to Tanaka, who had triumphantly rubbed it in Nishinoya’s face, with the third being drawn by Tsukishima. 

“Don’t think too much about it,” you comfort Yamaguchi, moving to rub a hand against his shoulder. In response, the man offers you a sheepish smile, nodding along with your words. 

Then, with a conspiratorial grin, you continue, “Besides, you know how Tsukki snores. You should feel lucky that you don’t have the room right next to his,” you leaned forward as you spoke–as if indulging Yamaguchi in a deep secret to which no one else had been privy. 

He lets out a breathless chuckle, more a huff of air than anything else, as he nods his head in a bashful kind of agreement. 

“If you don’t hurry up, I’m gonna take the bigger room,” Tsukishima taunts, already poised and waiting at the foot of the stairs. Your eyes flicker down to your bags–still held in his hands. 

“Please, I’ll let you have that,” you snort, a decidedly unattractive sound, before joining him. “You need it with all that extra…” you trail off, peering up at Tsukishima and vaguely motioning to the air above your head, “…height.”

Quickly picking up on your insinuation, Yamaguchi promptly joins in on the teasing with a grin. “Hey, Tsukki?” he calls from where he’s plopped himself on the couch, legs stretched out, and arms resting behind his head. You hear the mischievousness dancing in his voice and can barely hide the giggle behind your hand before Tsukishima’s icy glare is aimed at you. 

“Don’t start, you two,” Tsukishima sighs, already exasperated, but the ball is already rolling.

“Yeah, I was actually wondering how’s the weather up there?” you finish for Yamaguchi, hurriedly quickening your pace so as to escape from the majority of Tsukishima’s wrath. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know!”

You’re left with a light feeling in your chest from the interaction, and you don’t bother waiting for the taller man. Having grabbed your bags from his hands, you make your way down the wide hallway; it follows the same open-air feel as adopted downstairs, leaving the hallway as more of a balcony, of sorts. You can lean over the side of the wooden railing, knee slotting between the similar pieces of wood that hold the railing up, and clearly see almost the entirety of the downstairs level.

You smile–it’s nice, and you can still feel the heat from the fireplace from where you’re standing. 

Tsukishima is long gone–you think you heard him shut the door to the room on the right, closest to the window residing at the end of the hall. You take the fleeting moment of silence gratefully; as much as you adore your friends, the likelihood of privacy is essentially doused down the drain the moment you’re all together. 

You’ll take any moment of alone time gratefully–and with a grain of salt. 

After admiring the view from the second floor, you push off the railing. A painful pop in your elbow has you wincing, and you extend it a few times before picking up your bags again. 

Your room is simple, understated, with a decent-sized bed in the middle, centered evenly against the wall opposite the door. A large window is perched above it, and your eyes go wide in excitement.

Little frost lines creep up the panes, surrounding the soft flakes of snow like intricate lattices. To your right is a dresser and mirror, and a plush chair sits in the corner, a thick blanket fashionably draped over the armrest. 

You think simplicity fits the place nicely–the framework of the house, paired with the natural beauty of the mountain, is already breathtaking. Elegant furniture and grand pieces of luxury are not necessary when faced with everything the cabin already offers. 

You can’t seem to stop the soft sigh that falls past your lips as you set your things down on the dresser. That feeling is still nagging at you, tugging and pulling at your heart until a crease forms between your brows. It diminishes the room's warmth, and in a semi-successful effort to distract yourself from the unwelcome feeling, you begin unpacking, carefully tucking neatly folded clothes into the dresser’s drawers, hanging the few pieces that need the special treatment in the closet. 

A knock on your door is the only thing that knocks you out of your peaceful state, and you startle only briefly before welcoming the visitors in.

“Hey,” Kiyoko rubs her hands together, folded neatly in front of her chest. 

You grin as a familiar head of blonde hair peeks from behind her–Yachi. 

“Hey, guys. I’ve missed you,” you greet them, rubbing your hands on your pants. Seeing two of your closest friends after having not for so long is therapeutic. 

For two years, in the middle of your time at university, the three of you had shared an apartment, and you hold the memories fondly, tucked away softly in your heart to reminisce on occasionally. But now, Kiyoko and some of the older members in your friend group–such as Tsukishima, Tanaka, Daichi, and Sugawara–have graduated. 

Sometimes, you find yourself sucked into an innate sense of sentimentality–you miss those days, of how simple and easy everything appeared to be. Of course, they were not, but looking back on the fun times with your friends, you don’t remember the complicated things. You only remember the good. 

Immediately, Yachi folds, darting out from behind Kiyoko and engulfing you in one of her long, signature hugs. You drop the shirt you were refolding–it doesn’t matter if it retains a few wrinkles, anyways–and return her embrace, feeling a bubbly feeling fill your heart as she begins rocking you back and forth. 

“We missed you more!” Yachi declares, still refusing to let you go. 

Not that you would let her, anyways. 

Kiyoko lets out a fond giggle from the doorframe, still lingering on the precipice. Eyes widening, you wave her over, and Yachi hurriedly begins ushering for her to do the same. Making space, you resume the group hug, sighing happily as Yachi continues laughing with glee. 

However, like all moments, it must eventually end. A sound from the hallway disrupts you–someone clearing their throat, though you are instantly able to recognize the voice: Kei.

“Can’t you see we’re having a moment?” you gently chide, though your words are paired with an unmistakably kind smile. 

Yachi’s lips purse into a bit of a pout, clearly upset over having ‘girl time’ ruined–a term she eloquently coined during your first semester in university. But, at his presence, the two girls allow you to disentangle from the friendly embrace, occupying themselves as they sit on the bed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tsukishima scratches the back of his neck, shifting almost hesitantly in the door before imperceptibly pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “I just, ah, wanted to tell you guys that everyone else just got here. We’re all downstairs–if you wanna join.”

Ah. You understand his previous hesitance. 

“By everyone else, you mean…?” you attempt to pull more information out of him, though the sudden rapid pounding of your heart hints that you already know to whom he’s referring. 

“Tanaka, Noya, Michimiya, and Daichi.”

You’d braced yourself for the punch in the gut you were sure his words would bring. Your fingers find the stray thread hanging on the sleeve of your sweater again, twisting it repetitively until little red lines are imprinted onto your skin. 

“Okay, yeah. We’ll be down there soon?” you pose it as a question, looking back at the two girls now perched on the side of your bed for confirmation. 

“Yep! Definitely not now, though. Get lost, Tsukki!” Yachi animatedly points out of your room, kicking her feet back and forth as she comically shoos Tsukishima away. 

With hands held in mock surrender, Tsukishima nods in agreement, though not before letting his lingering gaze settle on you. 

“Hey, come here,” he all but demands, but his voice is soft, and he is already walking towards you. Before you can protest, he holds your wrist, stretching it out towards him, and all your worries about Daichi are gone. It’s all you can do to watch, confusion etched on your features, inscribed on your pathetically rapid-beating heart, as he twists the cuff of your sweater, deft fingers pinching at the hanging thread to remove it.

“There,” is all he states, fixing your sleeve before letting your arm gently fall to your side. You hardly have enough time to say anything before he’s fixing you with an unrecognizable look, and then he’s pulling out of the small bubble to wave ‘bye’ to Yachi and Kiyoko. 

You’re still for a second after he’s left, still reeling with what had transpired. You can’t place the strange, tense feeling burrowing in your chest–you only know it is not the same kind of nervousness you feel at seeing Daichi again.    

As if sensing your thoughts, you hear Kiyoko–or maybe Yachi–stirring behind you. Snapping yourself out of it, you turn on your heel, gracing them with a wide, hardly believable smile. 

“Speaking of…” Kiyoko begins, shoving her hands underneath her thighs. Ever cautious and cognizant of others’ feelings, Kiyoko approaches the topic tepidly, clearly skirting around the thing at the forefront of your mind. 

You let out a defeated sigh, no longer bothering to keep up the poor appearance of normalcy. Yachi tilts her head to the side, concern clearly written across her face. “How’s the Daichi front?” she asks, and while it is not with the same amount of worry Kiyoko held, Yachi’s words are still imbued with a friendly care you have come to associate her with. 

Looking at them–waiting expectantly, but still ensuring to be careful of your feelings, wanting to understand how you’re doing–is enough to have you letting out a humorless laugh. “You guys know me too well,” you decide on, pressing your hands into the back pocket of your jeans. 

You join them on the bed, and they quickly shift to make room for you in the middle. You allow them to coddle you–wrapping their arms around you, wide eyes full of understanding as they listen to you talk. You tell them how, at first, it was rough; how the feelings ate away at you, and how you’re still not sure how you’ll feel seeing him again. 

They listen, offering small interjections where needed, a comforting hand held on either side of your back as you ramble. 

You don’t stop talking until the nagging feeling is replaced by relief–the sort of relief that only comes from telling someone something that has been bothering you for a while. It feels as if a weight is lifted from your chest by the time you finish, and you don’t resist the deep breath trapped in your throat; it seems like, along with it, the superficial hurt dissipates, and only the deeper feelings remain. 

You don’t think you’re ready to face the deeper feelings yet. 

“Feel better?” Kiyoko asks after you’ve finished, dipping forward to look at you. You’re leaning forward, hands pressed to the edge of the bed for something tangible to grip on. 

“Yeah, surprisingly,” you state, and you’re relieved to hear that even your voice sounds lighter. They nod, understanding with few words–you’re not surprised that talking to them is what helped; you’re more so surprised that speaking of something that profoundly bothered you helped you feel that much better–better than you’d anticipated. 

“Good!” Yachi chimes in, and you grin at the similar relief that is present in her tone. 

“Yeah. Kei tried getting me to talk about it more with him, but it’s just not the same as talking you guys, you know? Anyways, I felt kinda bad about it all.”

“Ah–” Kiyoko hums pensively, pressing a finger to her chin as if in thought, “–the other elephant in the room.”

It takes you a moment to piece together what she’s referring to. Different ideas run through your head, and you sift through them abruptly until you’re confident you’ve combed through even the cobwebs of your mind. 

Looking to Yachi, you shake your head. “Okay, I’m…clearly lost.”

A scheming giggle falls past her lips when she nudges you, knocking you gently into Kiyoko, who nudges you in a similar manner. 

“Tsukki!” is Yachi’s exuberant, overexcited response. She looks at you as she wiggles her brows–as if she expects you to clearly understand whatever hidden meaning is lingering under the surface. 

Looking back and forth between the two slowly, you make it evident that you believe they have possibly gone mad. “What about him?” you ask, giving in after they offer no hints as to their meaning. 

“Well, something, clearly,” Kiyoko gently pushes for more, and your lips quirk at the unfamiliar, yet not unwelcome, sight of devilishness tugging at her mouth. 

“Yeah, he’s a pain in my ass. Possibly my soulmate, and still perpetually insufferable–in case you were wondering,” you grin widely as you refer to Tsukishima, allowing the sarcasm to seep between your words. 

Before they can respond–you see the excitement build in their eyes, practically becoming palpable as they simultaneously begin tugging at your shirt–a loud, all-consuming voice from downstairs is booming up the stairs. 

“Yo! Anybody home?” Tanaka hollers, and you can hear the loud smack even from your spot in your room. 

“Don’t you two have any manners?” comes another familiar voice–Sugawara.

Leaning into Kiyoko and Yachi, you all get up in a fit of giggles, looking forward to the red welt that would likely be proudly standing on the back of Tanaka’s head. The previous topic of conversation is briskly forgotten, left on the now-creased blanket decorating your bed. 

The sudden burst of noise and activity is strange in comparison to the innate quiet that loiters upstairs. Still, you bask in the familiar, comforting chaos that often accompanies your old high school friends. The nervousness that had previously reared its ugly head, making your palms sweat and your heart pound in jittery beats, has thankfully diminished after speaking to your friends, and you find that the notion of seeing Daichi for the first time in weeks does not cause the same jolt of stress that it used to. 

Their words remain as a comforting blanket as you meet them. Your greetings are brief–a small wave, followed by an acquainted side hug and few words. You turn to offer Michimiya a similar welcome and are shocked when the bright, previously shy girl from the beginning of the month hugs you with enthusiasm. 

“Oh wow,” you laugh shakily before kindly returning her embrace, “it’s a day for hugs, apparently.”

“Sorry,” Michimiya is sheepish, a blush dusting her cheeks. “I’ve just been really excited to be here and see you all again.” 

You wave your hand placatingly, already grinning as you see Nishinoya, Suga, and Asahi waving you over in your peripheral vision. “Don’t worry about it–it was a joke,” you explain, hoping to ease her worries. 

Tsukishima promptly sidles next to you, throwing a long arm over your shoulder. You glare and shove lightly at him, but ultimately end up grinning as you settle against him. 

“Yeah, don’t mind her,” he states, and you sense the inklings of a teasing joke hidden under his words. “She has a penchant for not being funny.”

You readily wriggle out from under his arm, not bothering to soften your glare. “Oh, he makes jokes. Cute,” you lean up to ruffle his hair–messing up the previously neat look he was going for. 

Just as earlier, Tsukishima manages to grasp your wrist before you can do any real damage, though, triumphantly, you note how he grumbles and goes to fix his crooked glasses. 

While you’re distracted, Michimiya watches on with a fond look, covering a shy laugh behind her hand as she makes a few connections in her head.

“There you are!” Sugawara cries behind you, and before you know it, his arms make their way around your waist in a tight embrace. 

“Hey, Suga,” you laugh, patting his hand in a friendly, affectionate gesture before he releases you. You turn to face him. “How was the drive?”

The loudness of the room makes it difficult to hear, even more so when Suga moves to collapse onto the couch in an exhausted heap. “Oh, you know,” he lolls his head to the side, grinning in that same charismatic manner that had a slew of girls crushing on him in college, “long. How was yours?”

“She was knocked out most of the drive, don’t ask her,” Tsukishima butts in–a habit he seems to excel in, especially regarding you. “The drive was fine, though. More snow than I expected.”

“You know,” you point between you and Suga, feigning a look of annoyance that has the older man snickering, “this was a conversation between Suga and me? And I don’t recall inviting you into it?”

Your argument only causes Tsukishima to chuckle blithely, purposefully knocking into your shoulder as he moves to sit next to Suga. “Nah, you love me. Actually, you don’t know what you’d do without me.” He’s teasing again, stretching his legs out and reaching his arms above his head. 

You notice how his shirt rides up ever so slightly, exposing a bit of skin and a faint adonis belt.

Heat prickles at your cheeks, filling and swelling until the strange urge to swallow thickly builds in your throat. It’s the same feeling you felt in the car, and you still have yet to place it. 

Turning your gaze away, you pretend not to notice. 

“Whatever. Even if you’re right–” you point, raising a brow as if you’re about to regale Suga and Tsukishima with a heartstopping tale, “–we all know it’s me you can’t live without.”

“In your dreams,” Tsukishima sneers, sinking back against the couch and pulling a large blanket over his lap. 

All the while, Sugawara simply looks on, his gaze flitting back and forth between you both with gleaming interest at every passing interaction. 

“Hey, what’s the situation with food?” Nishinoya bounds into the room, a baseball hat mussing down his spikey hair. He sees you and waves, the characteristic bright grin taking over his features. “Hey Tsukki, hey everyone!”

Another chorus of disjointed ‘hey’s’ follows suit, and you’re all launched into figuring out dinner. 

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Hinata’s eyes crinkle at the edges, spelling nothing but trouble. Side-eyeing Tsukishma, you see a similar look of caution cross his face: better move out of the way and prepare for the crossfire. “We gotta scavenge our own food. You know–being in the woods and all.”

“Hinata, you’re not as clever as you’d like to think,” Tsukishima chuckles, rubbing at his nose. Yamaguchi joins in on the banter, and the room becomes loud once again with the raucous clamor of numerous voices, all attempting to speak over one another. 

“We actually took care of the food for a few days,” Asahi speaks up, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. A blush paints his cheeks when Tanaka and Nishinoya immediately bombard him, showering him with praise and hanging off of him, words of thanks spilling from their mouths. 

“There was a store a ways back. We managed to get a bit, but someone will have to make another trip down in a few days,” Sugawara adds, not bothering to get up from the couch as he knows Tanaka and Nishinoya are well preoccupied with Asahi. 

“Thanks, man,” Daichi claps Suga on the back, and while you’d gotten used to his and Michimiya’s quiet presence in the room, his sudden appearance so close to you has left you feeling disjointed. 

“Well, that’s enough of that,” you proclaim quietly, and Sugawara is the only one to acknowledge your words–with a kind smile and a nod. Returning the look, you smoothly make your way through the room, avoiding the others as best you can in search of the kitchen. While everyone else is distracted by catching up, you think it must be as good a time as any to try and start on a late dinner.

You’d underestimated the size of the cabin. You realize this as you walk, stepping down a small staircase–consisting of a modest five steps–to enter a large second sitting room adjacent to the living room. It has a large piano settled off to the side, and you briefly wonder if any of your friends would be able to play it. 

Trailing your hand against a wooden column bracing the small staircase, you take a moment to appreciate the space and the brief quiet, though, with the open living space, you can still hear the chatter of your friends a few steps up. It’s comforting, wrapping you in the warm embrace of friendship and familiarity–something genuine that only comes from years of knowing someone. 

There’s hardly any dust, and during your short journey in search of the kitchen, you come to the conclusion that the owners must have someone come and clean often. 

It only takes you a bit longer to find the kitchen. Like the rest of the home, it is surrounded by dark wood, complemented by a floor only a shade lighter, beams decorating the ceiling, and columns bracing the doorway. It’s large and beautiful, boasting appliances that you could only dream of cooking with at home. 

Glancing over to the counter, you spy bags of groceries–likely put there by Asahi and Suga, and you make haste to search through them, putting the groceries away in cabinets and the refrigerator as needed. 

“Oh–hey there.”

You make sure not to freeze, though you noticeably tense, and it feels as if your heart freezes in your chest. 

Biting back a wince at your obvious reaction, you take a calming breath, closing your eyes to steady yourself for a beat. While you were prepared to see Daichi again–along with his new girlfriend–you were decidedly not ready to be alone with him in any sort of capacity. You had steeled your nerves earlier, pushing down and relieving any lingering worries that came with seeing him again, but this is not what you had in mind; you did not imagine that you would be alone with him, or that you would subsequently have to deal with the emotions that came along with it. This feeling is not welcome, yet it makes itself at home in your heart.

Not wanting to appear strange, you plaster a grin on your face before setting down the bag of white rice, turning around to face the man of the hour. 

“Daichi,” you simply greet, internally hoping that your voice takes on some semblance of normalcy.  

He merely hums in acknowledgment, clapping his hands together in such a ‘Daichi’ way that, if this had occurred a few months prior, you would have made fun of him. “What’ve we got in here? Anything look good so far?”

His words should not catch you by surprise, yet you find yourself frozen for a few seconds, anyways. With your hands braced on the kitchen counter, you falter, words becoming lost on you as the time drags on. 

“Ah, well–” you take the excuse to turn around, fishing through more grocery bags. “I haven’t looked that hard yet, but I’m sure I can find something.”

“Yeah, you were always good at that,” his voice is so fundamentally friendly that it hurts. The hollow pang returns with full force, battering shallowly against your heart, bringing with it useless questions of 'what if?’ 

When you don’t respond, Daichi’s voice takes on an air of concern–a sound you’ve, frankly, gotten sick of hearing lately. “Hey–you okay? You were pretty deep in thought when I came in here.”

An unamused laugh falls from your mouth, though Daichi is none the wiser to pick up on it. 

“Oh, nothing really,” you turn to face him, a wry grin tugging at your lips, “just wondering if these beams and columns are actually here for foundational support.”

Your words earn you a chuckle. It is a deep, warm sound, and you try not to notice how his eyes crinkle at the edges. 

Another hollow pang. 

“Yeah, I doubt it.” His hands reach across the counter, attempting to aid you in putting away the groceries. 

It’s all too much, too fast. Quickly, you pull away, and when Daichi offers you another look of concern, you simply wave him off. “I’m fine–just a bit warm. I’ll see you later?”

You don’t wait for his response. 

Winding your way through the lodge, you attempt to remember how to get to the third floor’s balcony you spied while driving up. Through the snow and trees, it looked like a wonderful place to escape, and your feet seem to take you up there instinctively. 

Your friends don’t hardly notice you as you make your way up the stairs–other than waving and asking if you found anything suitable for dinner. You say something quickly to placate them before continuing, passing by the open door of your room in your efforts to find the balcony. Your thoughts are swirling almost as frantically as the snow outside, and no matter what you do, your heart refuses to slow down. 

When you reach the balcony, you are not disappointed. 

The white snow coats everything in an almost sparkling, shining blanket. If snow was not inherently freezing, you would be half tempted to lie down in the soft tufts that pile in the corners of the balcony–shoveled neatly in the corners by the railing–convinced that it would be warm. 

The instance with Daichi has left you feeling stilted; thrown off course, you do not know how to react. After speaking with Tsukishima briefly, and then later with Yachi and Kiyoko, you'd felt an intimation of relief. You wonder how fickle that relief must have been to have been shattered by a mere interaction–a brief moment alone, a few words exchanged. 

It causes a surge of embarrassment to flush through your system and, soon after, the stinging beginnings of tears. 

Your eyes burn as they pool on your lower lashes, collecting in thick drops but still refusing to fall. A swell of indignation fills your chest at your tears’ refusal to slip–it’s as if even they do not know how to react, a mirror of your own hurricane of emotions. 

With an angry sound–something akin to a broken, half-hidden sob–you wipe at your eyes. You’re incensed by your tears, filled with ire and frustration at the confusion regarding your own feelings. You’d thought that, after some time away from Daichi, after speaking with your friends, you’d finally be able to sort through and organize your whirlwind of emotions. 

Because time heals all wounds, right?

“It’s kinda cold out here, you know. Like, literally below freezing. Your snot might freeze to your face.”

Only one person can speak so bluntly, full of unbidden crass, yet still cause you to let out a pathetic snort of laughter. 

“Kei,” you acknowledge him simply, the remainder of your tears clotting in your voice.

He joins you by the railing, arms folded to relax against the wood. He leans his tall body over the balcony’s fence, and the slight flare of panic that rushes through you is quickly snuffed out when he speaks.

“Nice view, huh?” 

He didn’t have to ask the question; the view leaves you awestruck. In the distance, you can spot the snowy mountain peaks surrounding you, even through the tall pine and balsam trees that wrap around the lodge cabin. Though snow rests gently on the swinging leaves and bristles of pine, dusting white across brown pinecones, you can still see bits of green peeking out, the smell of mint and pine and cinnamon lingering in the cold air.

A puff of cool, misty air leaves your mouth as you exhale. “You think?” you chuckle humorlessly, catching Tsukishima’s frustration. 

A desperate look flashes in his eyes as he turns to you, his expression turning only slightly pleading. “Please–talk to me. I don’t know how to help you if you don’t let me.” 

His sincerity catches you off guard. Of course, you are no stranger to Tsukishima Kei’s kindness; it always manifests in small, incremental actions: waiting for you by his car, refusing to enter until after you have, slowing his pace to allow you to catch up–never willing to leave you behind.

Fixing the sleeve of your sweater when a stray thread is hanging off. Insisting that you speak to him when you really need it. 

Being able to always tell when you do.

But, similar to the awkwardness you recall feeling during the drive, it is rare that his sincerity becomes so plainly obvious. 

When it does, you know you have been remiss in keeping your closest friend in the loop. 

Guilt joins with the barrage of emotions already pounding in your chest. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, tucking your hands underneath the sleeves of your sweater. You feel almost timid at expressing your feelings to Tsukishima in a way that you were not with Yachi and Kiyoko, and you cannot discern why. 

He waits patiently, still leaning against the railing.

“It’s just…” you search for the right words but quickly give up: there are no concrete, simple words to possibly describe what you’re feeling, “…hard.”

A beat of silence passes as you allow Tsukishima to understand your meaning, for Tsukishima to offer you the quiet you need. The air stills, and with a short sigh, your friend relaxes. 

“Come here,” he simply states, not bothering to explain himself. You feel an innate sense of déjà vu as he turns to you, but unlike earlier, he tucks you into his arms. 

Tsukishima is warm–having a tendency to run hot–and you gratefully sink into the familiar, calming embrace. However, it is different from the rest of your friends’ hugs; perhaps it is different in the way you can feel how his heart beats against your body, how you’re distinctly aware of his fingers lingering on the small of your back–acutely in tune to where his body ends, and yours begins. 

“It’s okay, you know,” he begins cryptically. Sensing this, he continues, “to be confused, I mean. And to be upset. No one ever said that this was going to be easy.”

Your hands tighten into a fist against his back, smoothing over any wrinkles that are there before likely forming more. You ache to feel the familiarity of his touch closer. “I know, but I still hoped it would be.”

You feel him grin by your ear, and it manifests into a short huff of a chuckle. “I know. But you knew it was going to be hard–seeing him.”

For the millionth time that day, there is something about Tsukishima that you cannot interpret. This time, it is in his words, in his tone. By the way his voice seems to linger on the word 'him,’ the intonation deepening into a sound you do not often hear from Tsukishima, you know he means something that he does not say.

Strangely, your heart beats rapidly against your ribcage, and you curiously wonder if Tsukishima can feel it the way you feel his. His arms around you–while stained with years of familiarity–feel implicitly different, tightening slightly with an enduring touch that has you itching for something more. 

The strange, complex emotions well in your throat, stopping up the words that remain halted on your tongue. Pulling away slightly, you look up, peering at him with wide eyes, hoping a bit of comic relief will ease the blatant tension surrounding you. 

“Kei, be honest,” you begin, curling your hands into the fabric of his coat. 

“When have I ever lied to you,” he points out, and it is not a question. His eyes dart and flit all over your face, yet, before you can pinpoint what he is looking at, he has already moved on to a different feature. 

Tsukishima’s words, imbued with honesty and a hint of teasing, cause a grin to break across your face. Playfully, you swat at his chest, and he joins you with laughter of his own, still holding you in the hug. 

“Is there really snot on my face?” you finally finish, already feeling infinitely better than before he’d joined you. 

At that, he snorts, throwing his head back as he rolls his eyes. “Duh. Like, all over,” Tsukishima states, flicking your head in an affectionate gesture. 

“Ow,” you glare, bringing a hand up to rub at the tingling sensation on your forehead. 

The look that crosses his face is kind–filled with a sort of fondness you are used to, but also hiding something you are not. 

The comedic moment ends, and something else replaces it.

Once again, you are filled with that similar tension as earlier today, when he’d held your wrist in his hand–when he’d pulled the string from your sweater. Tsukishima’s small traces have lingered long after his touch has gone–you swear you can still feel them even now, remaining as imprints on your skin. Your skin remembers his touch, and, unlike usual, you wish you had more of it. 

The sudden frazzled rapping of your heart in your chest leaves you faltering; you can’t find the words yet–they’re still stuck in your throat, but for a different reason than before. The air feels charged, thrumming as if there is a current buzzing around you, filling and stretching until you feel similarly stretched thin, consumed by everything Kei. 

Frankly, you’re confused, and the unreadable expression on his face only further pushes that confusion. 

“Kei?” you prompt, hands still clutching at his back. 

Your eyes flit down to where he bites his lip–a teasing, yet slightly pained, look present in his gaze. A brief feeling of conflict fills you at the sight, and, just like all the other emotions thickening in your chest, you cannot discern what it means. 

“I, uh…” he starts off, voice tapering off. You can see him searching for the words, digging into his mind, and tasting the form of many different phrases on his tongue. 

It takes him a moment. Tsukishima internally battles with himself, tossing and turning whatever is troubling him, churning it around in his head until he’s appropriately nurtured the thought. 

Just as he goes to open his mouth, his grip on your body loosening minutely before his fingers tighten again around your waist, a loud crash interrupts you. 

Startled, you fall away from Tsukishima’s touch, darting your gaze to the balcony’s doors to spy a boggled, surprised Nishinoya and Tanaka. The duo has their mouths hanging open–uncharacteristically quiet in such a way that has concern bubbling in your throat–but then the moment passes, and a look of triumphant understanding crosses their faces. 

“I fucking knew it!”

“God, you two really left us all on edge!” 

Their excitement is palpable, and it would be contagious if you weren’t so confused. Looking between the duo with furrowed brows, you hold your arms out–as if waiting for someone to fill you in on whatever joke you’re clearly not part of. 

“What?” you ask, looking between the two. They merely grin conspiratorially, knowingly, and it has a sense of foreboding blaring red in your mind. “What are you two on about?”

Looking to Tsukishima, you notice how a flare of panic comes to life in his eyes, raising his hands in an effort to settle the two hyperactive, scheming men. “Hey, guys–”

“We fucking knew you two were together!”

“How long have you been dating! Geez, you could’ve let us in on it a while ago!”

Dating.

Together.

The words blur together in your mind, and it takes you a second to piece together the overwhelming connotation. It’s a strange puzzle–one you had never bothered to piece together. The edges are blurred–the idea of you and Tsukishima dating had only ever crossed your mind a few times: when you first became friends and any subsequent instance in which someone had mistaken you as such. The thought was something you merely brushed off, correcting people from time-to-time, until the accusations eventually stopped. 

After forming your crush on Daichi, you’d never given it much extra thought. But apparently, you were in the minority, because everyone else had. 

“Can you two please calm down–” 

“Calm down? After this bombshell? Get a grip!” Tanaka begins to scramble, running out from the doorframe and likely back to the remainder of your friends. A feeling of nausea fills you as he leaves your sight, and it’s something you can’t fight down.

“Hey! Wait up!” Nishinoya laughs, chasing after his best friend with equally frantic movements. 

You startle, protests rising and getting caught in your throat as they run off. Down the hall, you hear Nishinoya shout, “Suga! You owe me four thousand yen!” 

“Guys, stop!”

They don’t listen to Tsukishima.

There is a hustle and bustle from downstairs that you can hear even from the balcony, and with a shared, nervous look with Tsukishima, you race inside, leaning over the hallway’s railing to catch the tail end of Tanaka and Nishinoya’s explanation. 

That you and Tsukishima are dating. That your friends had been right. 

With wide eyes, you slowly, cautiously look at Tsukishima. He meets your gaze with similar shock, trepidation clear in his gaze, eyes wide as he takes in the shouts and hollers of your friends downstairs. 

Shit. 

There are many different instances in life–with different paths to take, each leading to different outcomes. 

With your friends whooping and exclaiming things like, “I freaking knew it!” and “They really were pretty obvious about it,” paired with the wide-eyed look Tsukishima shoots you, you do not yet know where this path will take you.