Scott Pilgrim 😁😁😁

cool kids

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

word count: 2k

cw: uhhh two swear words

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

You just think Kunimi is nice to look at.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What? Who? What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pause in front of him. “So?”

“So what?” He looks confused.

“The confession,” you say.

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kunimi has a crush,” Shido grins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course it was."

tagging: @crystal-lilac , @kohi-zeri

ITS ONLY BLACK WHEN I TYPE. WTF. I HATE.

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

With a single word from Netanyahu, the crossing was closed. With a single word, two million people were starved and buried! We are just numbers in the archives of this dark world. How long will this injustice continue? Our lives in Gaza are like those of prisoners. No food, no water, no electricity, no medical treatment. No basic necessities of life.

Impending, part 1

Matsukawa Issei x afab reader

Word count: ~1.1k

Tags & warnings: a bit of drinking, eventual smut (in the next part)

Note: Oops, this was supposed to be 500 words of porn without plot but now it’s going to be a multi-part porn with feelings. I’m the only one who didn’t see that coming. Here you go mica :* @princesskazuya

“Thought I’d find you down here. Mom and dad want you to make an appearance before grandma has to leave.”

Hiro grunts, eyes glued to the television where Princess Peach is gaining on Wario.

“Oh. Hey Issei.”

Unlike Hiro, he greets you in response, sidelong glance lingering for just a moment before returning to the tv.

You make your way down the rest of the basement stairs to flop onto the ratty old couch behind them, beer swishing at the movement. The boys lay side-by-side, splayed out on their stomachs on the carpeted floor. They’re both so tall now that they barely fit between the couch and the tv all stretched out like this. It makes it hard not to think about the last time you saw them together. They used to be the same height as you and so scrawny, bony limbs poking out of baggy t-shirts and gym shorts. You could’ve taken them both in a fight, easy — and more than once you did.

But if you thought Hiro’s grown … Somehow Issei got even taller than your brother. Bigger too.

In the lead now, Princess Peach rounds the bend for the last lap. Wario is slowly closing in after an unlucky shell shot sent him tumbling off a cliff.

You tuck one leg under the other and sip your beer. Their bottles sit forgotten on the table as they jostle for the lead. What’s happening on screen is not much different from what’s in front of you as they try to knock the controller out of the other’s hands, shit-talking and shoving each other aggressively.

By the time they’ve reached the last quarter of the track, they’re just full-on wrestling. You hurriedly pull your other leg up out of harm’s way and snatch up their beers so they don’t get knocked off the table. The other racers pass by as they grapple in earnest — Hiro’s laid out on top trying to put Issei in a headlock but Issei hunches over, arms bulging as he grabs Hiro’s thigh and flips him onto his back with a thud.

You just roll your eyes.

They’ve always been like this — rowdy and obnoxious. You’d think more boys would make things more chaotic, but their other friends somehow kept them in line when they all hung out together. When it was just the two of them, they were a way bigger pain in the ass.

“Takahiro, get up here!” A muffled yell comes from upstairs.

“Dad’s calling for you.”

When they don’t stop fighting, you kick Hiro hard in the ass. “Hey!”

“Ow! What the fuck?” Hiro kicks back, missing you by a mile.

“Dad’s calling for you,” you repeat.

“Ugh,” he grumbles and pushes himself up off the floor, still catching his breath. He grabs his half-finished beer out of your hand and flips you off before heading upstairs. “Don’t touch my game.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to win for you,” you call after him.

“I said don’t touch it!”

“No promises!”

When you turn back, Issei is already holding up Hiro’s controller, one thick eyebrow raised and a wicked grin on his face. You mirror his grin.

A whiff of something clean and citrusy tickles your nose when you lean forward. It freezes you in place for a split second before your brain kicks back into gear, trading his beer for the controller and settling back comfortably cross-legged.

“Ready to get wrecked?”

It used to be so easy to rile them up. Issei just chuckles at your taunt now. Sitting up, he pulls down the shirt that’s ridden up his stomach in the tussle, covering the churn of muscle underneath. His shoulder brushes against your knee as he leans back against the couch. His hair has gotten longer, resting in easy waves atop his head. From this angle, the light catches the sheen of sweat on the back of his neck where a few curls lay plastered against his nape. This close, you can smell the salty tang of sweat sneaking through the cologne.

“You remember how to play?” The bass of his voice rumbles through you. That’s new too.

You startle when he twists around to look up at you through hooded eyes.

It’s cool down in the basement, perfect for escaping the heat of the afternoon, but you’re out of the frying pan and into the fire it seems because he’s practically laying his sweaty torso in your lap, one elbow draped over your thigh, his heavy bicep propped on you…

“Yeah, I remember.” Your voice comes out like a purr instead of a sting and he smirks.

You straighten up, shoving his arm off you. “Just hurry up.”

His eyes dart down to your chest with a hum and he scrutinizes you one last time before turning around. Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything else before he starts the race.

Hiro clomps back downstairs just as you cross the finish line. You’d eked out a win, barely. Mostly because you got lucky with the items. Without a word, Hiro plucks the controller out of your hands and resumes his earlier position on his stomach. Issei makes no move to join him. Instead, he plants a palm on your knee to push himself up off the floor and sinks down next to you on the couch.

You keep your eyes trained on the tv, not on him, and not on his hands. Not on his long fingers or the size of his palms.

Your senses become distinctly attuned to his proximity and the itch of his leg hair against your skin with every slight shift. You swipe through your phone wondering if it’s a distraction for him too.

“Anything catch your interest?”

A breathy murmur against your neck makes you jolt. The last race has already ended and they’re waiting for the next to start. When you turn, he’s only a hair’s breadth away, expression hesitant but goading.

Hiro yawns and you’re suddenly reminded of where you are.

You push Issei off and spring to your feet.

“I’m going to grab another beer.”

Matsukawa lets out a low groan as you scurry toward the stairs.

“What?” Makki twists around to look at him, then follows Mattsun’s line of sight up the steps until his eyeline hits the back of your thighs. “Gross, dude. Stop that.”

“No.”

“Fuck you.”

iwaizumi shouldn’t have drank last night.

he knows that, you know that, and now, as you walk into your class full of freshmen, you’re pretty sure that they all know that too. if it weren’t obvious by the way he squinted and groaned at the fluorescent lights as you crossed into the classroom, you’re sure that the venti cold brew coffee (no milk, no sugar, just cold brew), the slightly oversized, gray uci volleyball sweatshirt, and the scowl on his face would certainly give it away.

about half the class is there, and they quickly devolve into little whispers as you follow after him, your own set of little giveaways to the fact that neither of you should’ve been drinking last night—knowing damn well that every friday you have an 11am to teach.

you both sit at the front of the classroom, and iwaizumi presses his head into his hands, letting a little groan slip out as you take another sip of your own coffee, trying to let your eyes adjust to the lights.

another gaggle of students walks into the room, laughter piercing the air as well as your ears. you watch as iwaizumi scrunches his eyes together, takes a sip of his coffee, and then goes back to his head in his hands.

there’s a little whisper of is he okay? from somewhere in the back of the classroom, and if you had been a little more sober last night, you’d probably respond with a teasing no. when you woke up this morning to the sound of your alarm, he’d tossed and turned until he found your phone, turning it off before stuffing his head back into your pillows, one arm lazily wrapped around your waist.

and then he did it again. and again. and then once more, until it was 10:15 and if you didn’t leave in the next ten minutes, there was no way you’d be able to make it to starbucks before class. and good lord, you were not going to allow that to happen.

so no, the short answer is that iwaizumi is not at all okay. so you stand up from where you sit at the desk and, despite how dizzy you are, get up to turn off the lights.

“we’re trying something new today, guys,” you start, feeling a little better now that those damn lights aren’t pressing into your skull. “i read somewhere that overhead lights aren’t conducive to learning or- something,” you wave your hand in front of you as you speak, slowly making your way back to your seat, “so, just say that if anyone asks.”

iwaizumi huffs out a little laughter from beside you, hardly more than a rush of air through his hands and the sudden movement of his chest. the rest of the class walks into the room, each one gesturing vaguely at the lights above before the other students shrug and rattle off some poor repetition of your own explanation.

you settle back into your chair, your cheek resting in one of your palms while the other hand swirls your coffee. iwaizumi gives you a look at the sound of the ice rattling, and you narrow your eyes at him, taking a sip rather indignantly to remind him that he’s the one who dragged the two of you to that damn party.

one of your freshman, the one who sits at the front and was always the least intimidated by the tattoo that crawled up iwaizumi’s arm and the scar that rested in his brow, laughs, and then raises a hand. you nod, and then he smirks, leaned back in that freshly-eighteen kind of confidence.

“you guys enjoy the sigep party last night?”

iwaizumi coughs, which sends you into a little fit of quiet laughter, and he nudges your leg with his own in an attempt to get you to shut up.

“no,” iwaizumi replies, all furrowed brows and drawn in breaths. everyone that knows him would know that he’s lying, and these freshman aren’t exactly an exception to that. “no, we don’t go to those.”

he takes another sip of his coffee, winces at the sudden movement, and then fixes his face while the class once again devolves into whispers—only this time mixed with quiet laughter. part of you is praying that none of them were at the sigep party. though most of last night is a bit of a haze, you know well enough that your lovely boyfriend gets terribly touchy after a few drinks, and you’re not exactly one to stop him past that point. so should any of your lovely, annoying, and terribly stupid freshman choose to witness that-

well, you’re not exactly sure you’ll ever gain back the respect you had at the beginning of the semester, that’s for sure.

“so,” you begin after another sip of your coffee, “get out your discussion questions.”

there’s a little collective groan from the class, and iwaizumi brings up a hand with narrowed eyes, bringing a finger to his lips to tell them all to be a little quieter.

if everything else hadn’t given it away, you think that was the nail in the coffin. but then he leans closer to you, tempting a whisper past his lips while they all rustle around in their backpacks for their notebooks and a pen.

“think they know?” he asks, and you know it’s all teasing—there’s a lilt in his voice that wasn’t there this morning (which, you’ll thank the half a cold brew he’s already drank for), and a smile pricks at his lips that makes you want to kiss him right there.

you don’t, because dear god these freshmen are ruthless, and if you give them one more thing to bully you for, you think you’ll both end up dead.

“no,” you reply, “they’re clueless.”

reblogs and interaction are super appreciated! ❤︎

GIVE ME FIXING EACH OTHER’S CLOTHES WITH KUROO RIGHT NOW 😨‼️ love u hehe <3 if u don’t want kuroo please do whoever u would like most :)

ofc ofc anything for u my love <33 - "fixing each other's clothes" w kuroo **suggestive!!

if you were to tell this story to anyone else, you'd say he's not normally like this. that kuroo is always professional and kind and that he would never dare to act like this—never. but that's not true, never would be true, because the way his breath fades into your own and the way he bites at your lips in the dark corners of this work event is entirely too familiar to you.

there's a distant call of his name, but he's too busy slipping the strap of your dress down your shoulder to ever notice, laughter pricking at ever kiss he presses to the skin there.

"kuroo," you whisper, and you can feel him smile against you, "kuroo."

he looks up at you now, the first button of his shirt is undone, his hair a bit messier than it was a moment before, and just a little bit of lipstick smeared across his mouth.

"we need to head back," you say, and he rolls his eyes, leaning back down to press another kiss to your collarbone, but you tug back on his collar, pulling him up until his eyes meet yours. "and fix you."

"that's a very long process, babe," he says, laughing when you swat at his chest and start buttoning his shirt back up. "you're no fun, you know that?"

"i'm plenty fun when your boss isn't looking for you."

he sighs, lolling his head back as your fingers trail over his collar and set it back into place.

"my boss can suck my di-"

"ah, nope, not here. you can't get fired today."

"yeah, yeah, whatever," he replies, and then leans down to you for the last time, pulling the strap back up your shoulder (but carefully trailing kisses in its wake anyway).

send me prompts from this list for a drabble !

have a shit eating grin on their face when you scoot closer to them while watching a horror movie and will probably tease you about it for the rest of your life

suna, atsumu, tsukishima, mattsun, semi, shirabu, kuroo, tendou, kenma, osamu ( at times )

“Miya-san!”

Osamu’s head swivels towards the sound, and he spots you right away even though you weren't the one who called for him.

You’re a few metres down the road, sitting on a bench in front of a bustling restaurant, slumped over onto the shoulder of your junior who seems to be doing everything he can to keep your head tipped up against his arm. Kimura, the name Osamu had once been introduced to him as at one of the events your company held, has blushy cheeks when the older man approaches—he seems flushed due both to being flustered and a little tipsy, and the knot of his tie is loosened at the base of his throat.

“Kimura-kun,” Osamu greets him with a dip of his head as he approaches, his eyes scanning your seemingly sleeping face. “She asleep?”

“No,” you slur in reply, but your eyes stay closed. Osamu’s not certain it’s the truth, and even less certain you realize he’s the one who said it.

“I-it’s all my fault,” Kimura squeaks, looking increasingly like he might burst into tears. “They were trying to make me drink more, but Senpai kept switching out our glasses when the other section leads weren’t looking.”

“Yeah, that sounds like somethin’ she’d do,” Osamu replies with a fond but exasperated sigh.

“I’m sorry for contacting you so late,” Kimura says, flinching as you slump away from him unexpectedly in your drunken stupor. Osamu is quicker to react than the younger man, stepping in and catching you in the crook of his elbow before you can go toppling off the bench onto the sidewalk. He keeps you steady.

“Don’t apologize, I appreciate ya callin’ me to come get her—and thanks fer lookin’ after her,” he says down to the younger man, who seems relieved now not to be responsible for keeping you upright. “Tell her to bring ya by the shop for a meal sometime as payback. She owes ya one.”

Kimura’s eyes widen and he shakes his head like he couldn’t possibly accept, but before he can decline the offer Osamu turns his attention back to you. With an arm wrapped around your waist, he gently pries you from your seat.

“Up ya go,” he mutters encouragingly as he eases you onto your feet.

Your eyes flutter slowly open, looking around blearily for a moment as you take in your surroundings.

“Samu?” you ask, his name slurred on your alcohol loosened tongue. You perk up noticeably in his arms once you realize just who’s holding you. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to take ya home, Cinderella,” he says with a light laugh as your fingers twist into the material of his sweatshirt against his chest. He looks to Kimura again, who’s also risen to his feet now. “We’ll be off, then.”

“Thank you, Miya-san!” Kimura bows deeply forward, a nearly perfect 45 degree angle at his waist.

He’s a sweet kid, Osamu can’t help but think, even if does follow you around like a puppy.

Osamu helps you down the sidewalk towards his waiting truck, then up into your seat on the passenger’s side. He makes quick work of buckling you into your seatbelt even as you squirm counterproductively, then he jogs swiftly around to his own side of the truck and climbs in behind the wheel.

Kimura waves from outside the restaurant as the truck pulls away.

“Seems like ya had fun tonight,” Osamu remarks as he drives in the direction of your home. You hadn't even wanted to attend this work gathering, but had been forced to by your director. Now look where it had gotten you.

You’re fiddling with the controls of the radio, stations crackling in and out as you switch rapidly through the channels. 

“Drank too much,” you complain, settling on a talk radio station (of all things) that seems to be midway through discussing prefectural bylaws.

“Don’t I know it,” Osamu quips in reply and you swat at him harmlessly over the centre console with a laugh.

You’re turned in your seat, your body facing in his direction, watching him as he keeps his eyes on the road. He can feel your gaze tracing over him, but doesn’t glance back.

“Hey,” you whisper, something conspiratorial in your tone. “Wanna know a secret?”

“Sure thing,” he plays along with your antics, fighting back a grin.

It’s silent for a moment—only the voices on the radio discussing trash collection to be heard. Osamu pulls up to a red light, and finally looks over to meet your gaze.

Your eyes are glassy and a bit unfocused, but they’re bright with affection.

“I have a crush on you,” you tell him with a giggle.

Osamu’s chest pangs.

The light turns green.

“Well,” he remarks, returning his gaze to the road ahead and proceeding through the intersection. “That’s good.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees your shoulders slump dejectedly. 

“I’m being rejected,” your next words are positively morose. You turn away from him and lean your body over to the side. He hears a loud thump as your forehead head hits window on your right.

“Hey!” Osamu chides you in concern, reaching out and grabbing the collar of your blouse to tug you up a little straighter. It’s not the most elegant motion by any means, but he’s fairly limited with his other hand on the wheel and his eyes still on the road.

“Owww,” you complain, rubbing your forehead weakly. You bat the hand he has clutching the collar of your shirt away. “You’re so mean.”

“How’m I mean?” Osamu guffaws beside you.

“I just confessed my love for you, and all you had to say is ‘that’s good’!” You turn your body in your seat to waggle an unsteady but judgemental finger at him. “A woman’s heart is a precious, fragile thing, y’know!”

“There’s nothin’ fragile about ya,” Osamu mutters under his breath, thinking about how much you had to drink that night as a prime example of this fact. “Yer tough as a brick wall.”

“Mean!” you jeer at him again, your mouth agape in the wake of his words.

Osamu flicks his turn indicator on before he pulls his truck over to the curb, putting it into park. You’ve stopped outside a convenience store, and when he turns to look at you, the fluorescents from inside the shop bathe you in a backlit halo where you sit in the passenger seat.

He grabs your hand. The one you still have lifted to point at him.

“D’ya see this?” he asks, holding your hand up in front of your face. The ring on your fourth finger catches in the glow of the convenience store lights.

Your eyes widen.

Osamu holds up his left hand where there’s a ring that matches your own.

“I said it’s good y’got a crush on me ‘cause we’re married, dummy.”

Your lips form a surprised little ‘o’ as your eyes flicker rapidly from the band on your finger to his own and back again. 

After a moment you grin, your eyes squeezing shut with how high your cheeks lift. “What a relief!”

Osamu is quick inside the store, just popping in to buy a vitamin drink for you and a pack of cigarettes for himself. He doesn’t smoke as much these days—you’d nag him incessantly if he did—but every so often he gets a craving, and tonight is one of those instances. 

The two of you sit side by side on the curb in front of the shop, the truck parked a little ways down the road. 

Osamu takes a drag of his cigarette, sighing in contentment with wispy plumes of smoke slipping from his lips. He peeks over at you from the corner of his eye. 

“Ya feelin’ better?” he asks.

You’ve got the little bottle of vitamin drink cradled in your hands, working your way through it slowly. You hate the taste of them, he knows that, but you’d regret it more tomorrow morning if you didn’t force it down tonight. You nod a bit, and seem to have sobered up in the time since Osamu arrived to take you home.

“This reminds me of when we first started datin’” Osamu laughs to himself. And he means it. Everything about it. Being out so late. The taste of the tobacco on his tongue. The way you keep creeping a little bit closer to him unconsciously, as though his space isn’t already yours to freely take. “I can’t believe ya forgot we’re married.”

You groan in embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

He bites back a grin, trying not to revel too much in your misery.

“And I’m sorry I made you come pick me up,” you mumble after a moment, taking another sip from the little bottle in your hand and wincing against the bitterness. “I planned to just take a cab.”

“It was that little junior of yours who contacted me,” Osamu laughs, lifting the cigarette to his lips and holding it there while he rifles in his pocket for his phone. He holds the device out so you can see the conversation where your subordinate had commandeered your phone, remorsefully messaging Osamu asking him to come and collect you from the bar. He’d even used a funny little sticker of a bunny with tears in his eyes bowing apologetically—it bears a striking resemblance to Kimura himself. 

“That kid,” you sigh, shaking your head lightly as you rub your temple. Your eyes suddenly widen and your face snaps towards your husband. “Wh—“

“Tsumu’s there watchin’ ‘em,” Osamu laughs, reaching up and plopping a hand down atop your head. “Not that there’s much to watch since they’re in bed. He was still at the house when Kimura-kun messaged me.”

You lean into Osamu's touch as you think of your twins at home, tucked up in the little bed they share, and it makes your heart ache a little bit. You wonder if you’ll be able to creep in and give them a kiss goodnight when you get home without waking them. 

You go terribly quiet for a moment, and Osamu finishes his cigarette. He stamps it out on the curb beside him and then slips the extinguished stub back into the pack to throw into an ashtray later.

“Samu?” you call to him, your voice quiet.

He glances over at you, and sees the way you’ve wrapped your arms around your knees. The anxious posture worries him.

“I didn’t forget you, I promise,” you whisper. “It’s just… sometimes I think this is all too good to be true.”

Your husband watches as you admire the ring on your finger that reflects the streetlight overhead.

Osamu smiles to himself, scooting closer to you on the curb.

“I know,” he reassures you, wrapping an arm around your waist and tucking you into his side. Your head naturally falls to his shoulder. Familiar and instinctive. “I was just teasin’ ya.”

You smell like alcohol. He’s sure he smells like cigarettes. You're in rumpled business casual, and he's dressed in the sweats he planned to wear to sleep. He reaches over and takes your left hand in his own—your wedding rings overlapping. And for a moment, in spite of all the ways the two of you have changed over the years and all the ways that life is different now, everything is exactly how it’s always been.

He tilts his face and presses a lingering kiss to your temple.

‘I’ve got a crush on ya too, by the way.”

Fill-a-Page February day 23!

I was in a Kuroo kind of mood today. His hair is such a disaster zone omg.

if you have nice hair, respectfully please don’t stand next to me.