Latest Posts by whorefornoodles - Page 9
suna's a horny high guy btw if you even care
girls go to college to get a degree in a program that they were once excited for but have since had all the enjoyment sucked out of it and is no longer a baseline requirement in an increasingly competitive and demanding workforce
the hunt - frat boy!atsumu/f!reader (haikyuu!) tags: not NSFW but not NOT NSFW if that makes sense, inspired by this art by @/hlxtn, mentions of alcohol, typical frat party debauchery, college!au, greek system!au, reader is in a sorority, atsumu has a lip piercing and is a whore, making out, heavy petting, graphic depictions of graphic depictions, gratuitous headboard knocking, this atsumu makes me want to scream, word count 3k
The brief is simple: a scavenger hunt of sorts.
It’s just a bit of friendly competition between you and your fellow sorority sisters, not unusual for the chapter president and the upper ranking sisters to orchestrate. At 8:00PM on the dot, everyone received a joint text message with a list of items to retrieve or tasks to complete to earn points—for tasks without a physical trophy, a simple photo as proof would do the trick—and once the clock strikes midnight, the participants who've managed to scavenge the most points would be the winners, and those with the lowest points would face a forfeit.
And finally, throughout the night there would be bonus points come up for grabs in the form of special challenges.
Like the one currently lighting up the screen of your phone.
(11:00PM) INZ hookup - 100 points for a pledge, 500 points for pres, 250 points for everyone else. (11:00PM) Current ranking: 12/25. 1 hour remaining.
“How far are we from the Iota house?” you ask, leaning forward against the restraint of your seatbelt and gripping the headrest of the drivers seat in front of you.
“A couple blocks,” your friend (and fellow sorority sister) behind the wheel says in confusion, “why?”
You and a few of your closest friends had wandered out that night to amass points together. You were all doing pretty well, but according to the rankings that are sent out every half hour, none of you have even broken the top 10.
And now there's only an hour left.
“Go there next,” you say decisively.
“Are you nuts?” another sister smushed into the backseat with you squeaks, “hooking up with an Iota is…”
Practically a death sentence. At least socially. You all know it.
To call the boys of the INZ frat run-through would be a disservice to the word. Their reputation among the other greeks is NOT one to be trifled with. The boys themselves, beyond being philandering, are more than a little rough around the edges. They’re known for starting fights (and finishing them) and save for their chapter president Kita, and a few standouts among the brothers, they’re not generally considered the shining gold standard of Greek Life. The Iotas are the direct cause of more than a few of the sanctions your university has imposed on the Greek system in recent years, even against Kita's best efforts to keep them in line.
But still, that many points may just be too gleaming of an opportunity for you to pass up.
There’s a party in full swing when you pull up to the INZ house, because it's a Friday night so of course there is.
“Do you see anyone else here?” you ask your friends as you step into the fray, raising your voice to be heard over the pulsating music rattling through the house. You’re all wearing shirts with your sorority’s greek letters on them, so any fellow sisters should be easy to spot, though you can’t make any out from where you stand near the door.
“No,” one of your friends says, pressing close to your back to avoid being run over by a few passing partygoers chasing after someone in a hoodie with a quart of rum tucked under his arm. “Hey, are you sure this is a good idea?”
Of course it’s not. But the last time you lost one of these little challenges you were stuck vacuuming the entire sorority house for two months, and you weren’t eager to experience it again.
“How much time is left?” you ask, pulling your cellphone from your pocket.
11:12 your screen reads.
“Around 45 minutes,” your friend confirms what you know to be true once you see the time on your screen. Your eyes scan the party, landing on a figure on the edge of the crowd in an INZ hoodie with a red solo cup in his hands.
And a terrible, horrible, perfect idea comes to mind.
You unlock your phone.
'Claiming this task!' you type as you cross the party, leaving your friends behind.
The President replies immediately to your claim.
(11:15PM) Which Iota?
You send your answer without a second thought.
The boy in the INZ hoodie doesn’t see you coming as you sidle up beside him, so when you put a hand on the sleeve of his sweatshirt and crane up on your tiptoes to get close to his ear he stiffens slightly in surprise.
“Hi,” you say into his ear to be heard over the music blaring through the crowded house, your fingers twisting into the material of his sleeve, “you don’t know me, but I really need a favour.”
And that’s how you end up in Atsumu Miya’s bedroom in the Iota Nu Zeta frat house, standing on he opposite side of the room as he sits perched on the edge of his bed.
“Yer tellin’ me ya want me to pretend to fuck ya?” he asks, a brow quirked under the band of his backwards cap. “All fer some… bet?”
“It’s not a bet,” you correct him (not for the first time), “it’s a scavenger hunt.”
“And I’m the thing yer huntin’?” he's teasing you now, and you know it.
“It doesn’t have to be you,” you huff, your lips pursing, “and if you’re gonna keep wasting my time I can go ask—“
“Now wait a minute,” he interrupts you before you can even dangle the threat before him, “now that I know yer trying to cheat the system, whose t’say I don’t send a text of my own to that pretty little president of yours and tell her what yer schemin’?”
“You wouldn’t,” you say, your nose crinkling up in irritation.
Atsumu grins, and the piercing on his bottom lip catches in the light of the lamp that sits on the table between the two twin XL beds in the tiny, untidy room. You assume he shares it with his twin brother, though you really don’t have much to base that assumption other than the fact you know he has one. The room is a bit neater on the side Atsumu is not sitting on, so you infer that Osamu is also the tidier twin between the two of them.
“Nah, I wouldn’t,” he laughs, “I kinda like seein’ ya play dirty.”
You huff, crossing your arms over your chest.
“You guys always seem so…” Atsumu goes on, waving his hand in the air vaguely.
“Rule-abiding?” you offer.
“Stuck up,” he corrects you.
He’s not necessarily wrong for thinking it, even if it does irk you. Your sisterhood is one of the more reserved greek chapters on campus—elite even, if you dared to say it. Sure, the scavenger hunt you find yourself partaking in that evening might not seem it, but the fact of the matter is that you guys aren’t inherently morally superior to any of the other greek houses - you’re just better at not getting caught.
Something that seems utterly beyond the Iota brothers.
Which is exactly why you need it to be him.
“Are you gonna help me or not?” you finally ask, sighing warily.
“What’s in it for me?” Atsumu counters your appeal.
“I’ll give you all my precal notes ahead of the midterm next week.”
Atsumu furrows his brow. “We’re in the same precal class?” he asks.
Your expression flattens.
“Unfortunately, yes,” you grit out, “which you might know if you didn’t spend every class napping.”
“Wait…”—he purses his lips, eyes scanning over your face—“we have a midterm next week?”
You feel something throb palpably behind your eyes.
“Yes,” you manage to get out even though your jaw is clenched firmly shut. "God you're hopeless."
"Yer awfully rude for someone who's tryin' to use me fer my body," Atsumu says, smirking when he sees the way your expression shifts into one of even further annoyance at his taunt. He leans back on his bed, resting his weight on his elbows. “So, what do I have to do here?”
“Just… take your shirt off and take a picture with me in bed with you,” you say, though it physically pains you to say the words. To have to stoop so low.
He quirks a brow mischievously. “Oh, ’s that all?”
“And keep your hands to yourself,” you tack on pointedly.
Atsumu snorts, lifting his hands in innocence.
“You got it, princess.”
Just as Atsumu shifts his weight forward, and his hand reaches behind his neck to grab at the collar of his hoodie, your cellphone jingles.
You reach for it, and see that it’s a message from the sorority president. You unlock the device to reveal the message.
It’s a picture of a door.
The very door you presently find yourself behind.
Another message pops up in the chat.
(11:29) Recruited a bit of backup! You’ve got a little crowd waiting for proof, just to be safe ;)
And then another.
(11:30) Current ranking: 15/25. 30 minutes remaining.
“Fuck,” you mutter, miserable at the turn of events - and your drop in the rankings.
“What’s wrong?” Atsumu asks.
“There are people out there…” your voice drops quieter, your eyes flickering over to the door on the other side of the room. “Waiting for… proof.”
The information seems to process slowly in Atsumu’s brain, and his eyes widen as the facts click into place.
“Ohhh…” he trails off. “They want a real show, huh?”
“Sorry for dragging you into this,” you sigh, “it was stupid, just forget I-“
Atsumu catches your wrist in his hand, tugging you forward before you can step away towards the door in defeat. You peer down at him as you stand between his parted thighs, confused.
“I never said I couldn’t give ‘em one.”
Your face flushes.
“Don’t be stu-“
“I’ll keep my hands to myself,” he says, letting his grip on your wrist fall, “we just gotta get a bit more… creative about it ’s all.”
You chew on the corner of your lip.
You really hate vacuuming.
“Alright,” you muster your resolve, offering him your hand for a handshake.
“And ya owe me all your notes right up until the final,” Atsumu tacks on, just before he clasps your hand in his.
You huff, closing the distance between your palms and taking his hand in a shake. You can’t help but notice how much larger his hand is than yours.
“Fine, whatever.”
Atsumu is… frighteningly good at putting on a show.
He turns out the lamp on his bedside table so there’s no light peeking out from the crack under the door, he turns on music like he’s trying (and failing) to drown out any possible noise that might make it out, and he rocks his sturdy bed frame into the wall in a steady, unmistakable rhythm.
“Hey,” he grunts out on a particularly hard knock of the wooden frame against the wall, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Ya gotta make some noise, y’know. Yer gonna ruin my rep.”
“What do you mean?” you whisper back, still standing frozen just beside the bed, more than a little awkwardly.
“Y’know, moan or whatever,” he hisses back.
“I can’t do that!” you snap.
“Yeah fuckin’ right,” he mutters, and you have half a mind to smack him. But before you have the chance to, a strong arm circles your waist and pulls you down.
You squeak in fright. “Atsumu!”
He has you pinned underneath his body before you know it, practically nose to nose with him, his hands returning to their place on the headboard to give it another knock against the wall.
Your eyes have adjusted to the dimness in the room since he turned out the lamp, and you can make out his features even though it’s dark. He’s smirking, that little silver hoop at the edge of his lip caught between his teeth.
“There ya go,” he snickers, “just like that.”
“You told me you’d keep your hands to yourself,” you mutter lowly.
“Sacrifices must be made,” he shrugs, and gives the headboard another loud, incriminating knock.
It’s preposterous the situation you find yourself in, pinned underneath Atsumu god damn Miya of all people. Pretending to fuck him.
How the hell did you end up here?
“Ow,” you complain quietly when a particularly rough knock makes the back of your head hit the headboard.
“Shit, sorry,” Atsumu mutters. He slides an arm underneath your back. “Here.”
He grunts, flipping the two of you over so you’re straddling his waist and he’s the one against the headboard in his tiny little bed. His baseball cap falls off in the scuffle, leaving the strands of his blonde hair loose.
“’S that better?” he asks.
It’s not actually, because this feels a hell of a lot more compromising than it had a second before.
“Ya just gotta push against the headboard like this,”—he takes your hands in his, guiding them up over his shoulders to grip the wooden bed frame, pressing them back until it knocks into the wall—“see?”
“Okay,” you murmur, still a little dazed from the sudden role reversal, repeating the motion.
You go slower than he had as you get the hang of it, distracted by how close his face is to yours. How you can feel his breath against your mouth.
It smells like spearmint gum and cheap beer.
You lick your lips.
“This more the pace you like?” Atsumu asks, smiling crookedly as he remarks on the tempo you’ve set, his hands settling on your waist.
“Watch your hands,” you snap quietly, and his touch retreats as you stretch back as far as you can from him without losing your grip on the headboard.
“You’re still bein’ pretty quiet,” Atsumu comments. “You really gonna make me do everything?”
“What do you-“
“Ohhhh, fuck.”
Atsumu’s moan is so loud that it startles you, and you let go of the headboard to slap your hand over his mouth in surprise. He grunts a little as you pitch forward, your palm muffling the sound.
“You tryin’ to win this thing or not?” he asks you pointedly once you pull your hand away.
“Sorry,” you mutter, acutely aware of the fact you can feel the slickness of spit on your palm, “you just… surprised me.”
He hums.
“I’d say we’ve probably sold it at this point anyway,” he says with a little sigh. “As long as we go back out there lookin’ a bit scruffy, no one’ll know.”
You chew on the inside of your mouth as you mull over his words.
“What?” he asks, noticing your hesitation.
You swallow, reaching up and touching the side of your neck.
“You should give me a hickey.”
Atsumu’s eyes go as wide as saucers.
“Yer jokin’.”
You shake your head. “It’s like… incontrovertible proof right? It’s not like I could give myself one.”
His eyes search your face for any sign of deception.
“Ya don’t seem like the type who’d let someone mark ya.”
“I’m not,” you say, suppressing a shiver as his pointer finger loops under the neckline of your t-shirt, tugging it gently to the side. “You seem like the type to leave marks, though.”
Atsumu leans forward and chuckles, his breath is warm against your throat.
“Yeah, guess I am.”
Atsumu’s mouth is hot as it descends upon your pulse point, lips closing around the skin.
“Oh,” you gasp, your hands tangling in the blonde’s hair without thinking as he sucks at the sensitive part of your neck. His own hands have settled on your waist, and this time you don’t tell him to remove them.
“Atsumu,” you whimper as his teeth scrape over the skin he’s been suckling against, making you dizzy.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs into your throat, his hands slipping up under the hem of your t-shirt where his fingertips meet skin.
You don’t say anything.
Atsumu flips you over, and this time there’s nothing deceptive about the way the headboard knocks into the wall.
His hands are still up your shirt, his lips still on your neck, and your legs wrap themselves around his waist as you writhe against his bedsheets.
“D’ya know why,”—Atsumu interrupts himself to drag his teeth along the edge of your jaw—“I was so shocked we’re in the same class?”
You shake your head minutely, your fingers twisted into the material of his hoodie over his chest. You watch his lips part in a smile, eyes fixed to that little piercing again.
“Because I’ve had a crush on ya since first year,” he murmurs, “and if I’d known ya were there, then I wouldn’t of been nappin’.”
Atsumu kisses you—finally—and you can’t help the sound that slips out of you at the feeling of his lips slotting against yours.
His mouth tastes like spearmint and beer.
His piercing presses gently into your lips as his part against yours, his tongue slipping forward to taste you too.
His hands grab at anything and everything they can reach.
Somewhere distantly, you feel you’ve played right into his hand. You recognize that you weren’t the only one who had been scheming tonight.
On Atsumu’s floor, your discarded cellphone lights up with yet another missed message.
(11:45PM) Proof received +250 points
(11:46PM) No idea you had it in you LOL
(12:00AM) Final ranking: 2nd place
You don’t see the texts until much, much later.
“trans people are defying gods will” “trans people are rejecting biology” “trans people are upending the natural order” “transgenders are ruining the economy” keep going you’re making us sound so so so so so so so so sexy
do me a solid and just reblog this saying what time it is where you are and what you’re thinking about in the tags.
First thing you see after you zoom in is how you die
How you dying 👀
YOUR DATE FOR THE NIGHT IS KUROO TETSUROU!
you and tetsurou spend most of the night outside where there are a few less people and a lot more fresh air — popping in and out briefly to grab new drinks or use the bathroom. he’s trying to keep the conversation on you, and your interests, but that guy — he’s standing across the backyard staring daggers into the both of you. what’s his deal?
“we must look pretty damn good together, hm?” he chuckles, lacing his fingers with yours and pulling you over to an empty spot on the steps. he plops down — gesturing to the space between his legs with a goofy smirk. now, you sit just one step below him, encompassed by his thighs. “that guy won’t quit.”
you know what he means — you feel the daggers too, coming from the sullen individual a few feet away. he almost reminds you of the man sitting behind you in a way — but you know him as fushiguro megumi.
if you hadn’t walked in with tetsurou trailing close behind, he would’ve spent the evening with you — at least, that’s what he tells himself as he watches your date twirl a piece of your hair around his finger. tetsurou isn’t concerned in the slightest — just a little annoyed.
“let’s head in, yeah? think i felt a few drops,” he hums, and you’re fairly certain there’s no rainclouds hanging in the night sky, but you go with him anyways. not one hour later — you leave with tetsurou.
WHO ELSE HAD THEIR EYE ON YOU TONIGHT?
you and suna rintarou held eye contact for a little too long as he padded up the steps — he tries to find you on social media later that night. you asked todoroki touya if he knew where the bathroom was — he stared at you for a full ten seconds before answering no.
note : i’m getting a vibe from you .. feel like it’s showing in the charas i chose ghhhh anw i hope you enjoy ! ! thanks for being so nice in your ask my love :D mwah @whorefornoodles
Reblog if you're bisexual and sleepy
if you told tobio your tummy hurts he would literally panic because he has the constitution of a horse and has not gotten sick in at least 8 years so he has no idea what to do about it. then he googles it and panics even more because all of the search results tell him you're dying so he starts frantically packing a bag to take to the hospital only for you to wake up from a nap and he's got three full-size suitcases packed and you're like "i feel fine now! :)"
four drink rule - suna rintarou/f!reader (1.6k) sfwish, a bit silly, alcohol mention, enemies to something, samu dying a hero's death
atsumu slumps down into the banquette seating lining the wall of the club, exhausted.
there's a mysterious stain on the upholstery next to his thigh; the music is so loud it's rattling his teeth; and it's so hot in the crowded, rowdy space that the thin material of his dress shirt is sticking to him, even with the three top buttons undone.
this was supposed to be a night out with old friends.
this was supposed to be fun.
but now he just wants to go home.
"how many's she on?" his twin appears before atsumu, a drink in each hand. osamu mercifully hands the full one over to him.
atsumu accepts the drink gratefully, not a damn clue what it is, and takes a healthy swig. it burns a little on the way down, and does little to parch his actual thirst, but it's better than nothing. he swallows, panting lightly as he drags the back of his hand over his slick mouth.
"three—"
osamu nods, turning his head to scan the crowd of bodies.
"—what about suna?"
osamu takes a sip of his own drink, a less gluttonous one than his brother had. he turns back to his brother and gives him a pointed look as his adam's apple bobs.
he sighs, and the sound seems to come from deep within him. "three."
"who's watchin' him now?" atsumu asks.
"aran-kun."
atsumu's brow arches at his brother's response. "aran's supposed to be watchin' her."
they share a look. the beat in the song playing over the sound system drops. they're moving towards the thick of the crowd before they know it.
they find aran relatively quickly, near the bar where osamu had left him with suna, but he is horrifyingly alone.
"where is he?"
"where is she?”
the twins speak at the same time, tones equally accusatorial.
aran rolls his eyes lightly, shaking his head. "relax, they got into one of their spats and she stormed off a while ago, and he said he was gonna go see if he could steal a cig off someone outside while i got another drink."
both of the twins nod, slightly relieved.
osamu’s eyes sweep the surrounding area for a moment.
"aran-kun... where's your drink?"
aran looks over at the bar where he must have left his glass, but finds nothing there but a ring of condensation where his drink once sat.
he looks back to the twins to meet two identically wide pairs of eyes.
"god damn it.”
atsumu runs his hands through his peroxide blonde hair, gripping the strands roughly in frustration. “aran! the Four Drink Rule is in place fer a reason! it’s sacred!”
"yeah, yeah I know," aran sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he squeezes his eyes closed.
atsumu stomps his foot—actually stomps it, like an overgrown child—and laments ”this never woulda happened if kita-san were here!"
“kita-san’d never be caught dead in a club, but at least they behave themselves when he’s around," his twin reminds him, more composed than his genetic counterpart. the more level-headed of the two evaluates his options momentarily. “tsumu, you go check outside and see if you can find that dickhead. i’ll look for her. aran why dontcha take a lap and see if you can find ‘em in any… dark corners.”
aran’s nose crinkles in disgust.
“why do i get the worst job?” he gripes.
“yer the one that lost track of ‘em,” osamu says sternly, and aran can’t refute his logic even if he hates it.
they part ways, and osamu approaches the bar—waiting for the bartender to turn her attention towards him as his fingertips tap the sticky surface of the bartop impatiently.
finally the woman approaches.
“sorry to ask ya this,” osamu sighs, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, “did a girl come through here recently? real feisty, probably ordered a lemon sour with no ice, about—“
he intimates your approximate height to the bartender.
“—yea high?”
the bartender actually laughs a little bit at how defeated osamu seems, nodding her head.
"yeah, I served her a lemon sour with no ice a couple minutes ago. maybe 10? only remember her because she told me i wasn't allowed to tell some big guy with bleached hair. she made me pinky promise and everything.”
osamu knocks his fist between his eyes. yeah, that was definitely you.
“everything okay?” the bartender asks warily, watching osamu cycle through all five stages of grief in the expressions on his face.
“oh yeah, we’re fine. thanks fer yer help though, miss, and ‘m sorry about the trouble.”
atsumu, aran, and osamu all meet up again where they’d left each other—a few minutes older and substantially more grim.
“couldn’t find ‘em.”
“he wasn’t outside.”
“she got a fourth drink.”
they all relay their findings one after the other, the bad news compounding.
osamu looks at atsumu. atsumu looks at aran. aran looks at osamu. then the order repeats itself in reverse.
“i’m not doin’ it,” atsumu is the first to speak up, staunch and adamant. “i’m tired of baby sittin’ those two brats every time we go out. if they wanna down four drinks and end up suckin' each other’s faces off and bumpin' uglies in a nasty ol’ bathroom that’s their problem!”
“but we’re the ones that have to deal with the fallout, ‘tsumu!” his brother argues. “suna’s gonna complain about her not replying to the stupid memes he sends like a lovesick idiot for the next two weeks, minimum. and she’s gonna blame us for not stopping her!”
“i agree with atsumu, we’ve been doing this for years. if they can’t admit they like each other that’s between them and god.” aran shrugs, equally exasperated with the foolishness. he’s been dealing with this for too damn long.
osamu tilts his head back and looks up at the ceiling, watching the way the club lights flicker across the black tiles overhead.
“if you guys help me figure out where they are, i’ll be the one to break ‘em apart.”
“deal.”
“fine.”
it doesn’t take them long really, once ginjima informs the three of them that he spotted you and suna slipping into an out of order washroom near coat check not fifteen minutes prior. suna’s hand had been, according to akagi’s chipper contribution, so far up your shirt it looked like ‘that scene in alien when the alien pops clear outta their chests!’
osamu stares at the out of order sign on the bathroom door for longer than he cares to admit; mustering his resolve, saying a prayer, lamenting the day of his own birth, etc.
he casts a look down to the other end of the dimly lit hall (predominantly used by staff) to where atsumu, aran, and a few other of their friends are watching him like spectators standing on the dock to send ill fated soldiers off to war. atsumu waves him on encouragingly.
osamu sighs.
he pushes the door open.
“haa, please, rintar-MMPH!”
osamu fights back a gag as the door swings closed and the bathroom falls deathly silent.
he hears the drip of water from a leaking tap, the distant thrum of bass from the music outside.
“you two are gross, y’know that?”
osamu can see suna’s shoes under the door of the bathroom stall nearest to him. your shoes slowly appear on the ground just in front of suna’s, dropping down into view from above.
“i’m not leavin’ without the two of ya, so put yer junk away and get the hell out here,” osamu demands, crossing his arms over his chest.
“my junk’s not even out yet,” suna mutters sullenly from behind the door, and he hears a smack a moment later.
there’s a bit of shuffling that osamu doesn’t want to picture and the stall lock clicks open.
well, at least you two had the decency to lock one door.
the stall door opens a crack, only to slam closed again a moment later.
“hey!” osamu hears you complain.
“you know we don’t actually have to go out there, right? he’s not our boss.”
“get your grubby hands off of me,” you hiss, and there’s another audible scuffle. finally the door to the stall is wrenched open, and you step out.
your hair is a mess. your skirt is creased. your makeup is running. osamu doesn’t dwell too long on the way you’re walking like you’re weak-kneed in the interest of preserving his own sanity.
“god i can’t stand you,” you hiss over your shoulder towards the stall where suna is also emerging, looking equally dishevelled—though notably more smug than you do.
“i’ve got a seat i can offer if you’re looking for one,” suna says, a smirk tugging the corner of his swollen, rosy lips up. there's lipstick streaking across his mouth, jaw, and neck.
“i’m never doing this again,” you say adamantly, grabbing your purse off of the bathroom counter beside osamu, where you’d evidently hastily cast it aside, avoiding his judgemental gaze as you do so.
osamu wants to echo your statement.
you tug the strap of your bag up over your arm and stomp towards the door of the bathroom with your lipstick still smeared down your chin. osamu turns to look at his friend, his expression flat and unimpressed, but suna’s preoccupied watching you go, eyes glued to the doorway until the door swings shut behind you—the ignored OUT OF ORDER sign fluttering sadly.
it’s quiet again once you’re gone, and suna turns to look at osamu with a dopey, self-satisfied smile. he sighs happily.
“she says that every time.”
@HAIKYUU : MAKE SURE TO GET IT ON FILM, BABY!
a lewd anthology series of haikyuu men filming you and him fucking; after a party, while he’s at work, as you’re making pasta.
one thing is for sure: you’re always, always the star of his film.
nsfw content, minors do not interact ˖ ݁ . ࿓ each part has its own warnings. please be sure to read them all thoroughly < 3 kiss
starring ˖ ݁ . ࿓ miya atsumu, sakusa kiyoomi, oikawa tooru, akaashi keiji, matsukawa issei, kuroo tetsuro, miya osamu — more characters may be added.
reblogs are incredibly appreciated >3<
001. LA SANTA
✩ ˛˚ . miya atsumu is your best friend — you do everything with him. and so, obviously, you’re gonna ask him how you’re supposed to suck dick after attending a halloween party. and maybe he’ll show you other things, too.
002. TELL ME THAT YOU LOVE ME
✩ ˛˚ . your husband — sakusa kiyoomi — wants to treasure every moment of your honeymoon with photographs and videos. giving you every ounce of his raw heart and stuffing you with his cum as he records is part of that whole ordeal.
003. ME PORTO BONITO
✩ ˛˚ . your boyfriend is shit — doesn’t know the first thing about pleasing you. so, why not let star athlete oikawa tooru wrap his gold medal around your neck as he fucks you dumb? as he records the dirty deed and sends it to your (soon to be ex) boyfriend?
004. EFECTO
✩ ˛˚ . akaashi keiji is convinced you’re a nymph with the way you make him feel. especially as he’s fucking you in his bathroom, in front of the mirror — one hand on your pussy, other holding his phone to record the unfolding events before the two of you.
005. I FALL TO PIECES WHEN I’M WITH YOU
✩ ˛˚ . you’re matsukawa issei’s favorite shot girl. you’re so sweet, so pretty — he wants to absolutely ruin you and record the whole process.
006. A LOVE FILLED LUNCH
✩ ˛˚ . kuroo tetsuro — your beloved and doting husband — loves it when you take time out of your day to make him a love filled bento and adores it when you take it to his office, since you always make sure to stay for dessert.
007. BREAKFAST AT ONIGIRI MIYA’S
✩ ˛˚ . your boss — miya osamu — asks you to come in early on sunday mornings, the busiest day of the week. today, though, he might have to close shop to rearrange your guts in his kitchen.
© kentoangel — do not copy, repost, modify or translate my works.
refseek.com
www.worldcat.org/
link.springer.com
http://bioline.org.br/
repec.org
science.gov
pdfdrive.com
fictional kiss things that end me
being unable to open their eyes for a few moments afterward
one small kiss, pulling away for an instant, then devouring each other
pressing their foreheads together while kissing
speaking normally, then after the kiss their voice is hoarse
guys furrowing their brow when kissing passionately
staring at the other’s lips, trying not to kiss them, before giving in
running their thumb over the other’s lips
when they lean forward a fraction as if to kiss the other person, then realize they shouldn’t and pull back to stop themselves
ripping the other away - “no we shouldn’t” - but when they kiss them again they moan and hold them close
one sliding their hand into the other’s hair slowly
their entire body freezing for a second when their love kisses them
accidentally being forced inches apart from each other, staring at each other’s lips, and just before they kiss someone pulls them back apart
when one stops the kiss to whisper “I’m sorry, are you sure you-” and they answer by kissing them more
a hoarse whisper “kiss me”
then licks their lips and says “please”
“baby, i have some bad news.”
if it weren’t for the goofy smile on kuroo’s face, you’d be a little more concerned by his words.
he’s waiting at the bottom of the stairs—all dolled up in his white dress shirt and black trousers. his interview with the jva is in about an hour’s time, so of course you dragged yourself out of bed to see him off—for good luck and whatnot.
“ugh you’re right, that tie does not match,” you grin, wrapping your blanket around yourself as you stroll down the remaining steps. his tie is solid black, but you thought a joke would do him some good—that, and you just wanted to see the priceless look on his face.
“first of all, ouch.” he clutches his heart with his right hand, feigning hurt as he passes you the coffee mug from his left. “and second of all, it’s pouring out.”
“so? you’re not made of sugar,” you hum, slowly shuffling into the kitchen as you sip at the hot beverage. he trails not far behind, stopping beside you as you watch the droplets stream down the window.
“i mean, i am pretty sweet,” he grins, slinging an arm around your shoulder and pulling you close.
“i think it’s pronounced lame,” you laugh. he peers down at you, and you can see the indent in his cheek from him biting down on the flesh—because heaven forbid you make him laugh.
he drops his arm from your shoulders, and swipes the coffee right out from under your nose. leaning against the counter, he tilts the cup back and downs the entire thing, finishing with an extra obnoxious ahh.
“as i was saying,” he pauses, sliding the empty mug onto the counter with a satisfied smirk. “you’ve seen my hair when it’s wet—totally not professional.”
“right, because your hair is so professional to begin with,” you respond, choking back a laugh of your own.
“hey, business in the front.” he smoothes a hand over his fringe before spinning on his heels and ruffling the locks at the rear of his head. “party in the back.”
“did you put that on your resume?” you ask, smiling as you watch him reach for a new coffee pod. he presses a few buttons, and within seconds you have a brand new cup brewing.
“yeah, i did.” he plants his hands on your hips, caging you between himself and the counter. “right under the paragraph about how sweet i am.”
he kisses you, and it’s innocent—no ulterior motives in sight. that is, until you pull him back in by his tie. you knew what you were doing, lighting that fire under his ass. now he’s overwhelming. the way he’s wedging his knee between your legs, taunting you with his little gasps that spill into your mouth—it’s making your head spin.
“how long do we have?” you breathe out, the urge to give him a little more than luck becoming all consuming.
he glances down, squinting to make out the tiny hands on his wrist. twelve minutes until he has to leave—more than enough time. he grips the back of your thighs, guiding you up onto the marble surface. the blanket that once hugged your figure is now discarded onto the floor, and now the warmth comes from his hands as they begin to wonder.
it’s the two of you versus the clock, and he’s not thinking with his head anymore—not that he usually does. he presses himself against you with force, and you have to plant your hands on the countertop for balance. but, it feels rather wet, and hot—and now the scorching cup of coffee that was waiting for you is settling into the fabric of kuroo’s dress pants. don’t get him wrong, he was all for making a mess, just not this kind.
“tetsu i,” you gasp, eyes widening as he pulls back with a hiss. the stain forming on his pants is practically invisible due to the dark material, but unfortunately for him—the splash zone wasn’t limited to just his lower half. “i have some bad news.”
In case you didn’t know, I’m in love with Osamu Miya.
But I’m especially in love with the idea that Osamu Miya can, and does, look good doing absolutely anything. Be it from folding your laundry (seriously, he knows how to fold a bed sheet? God tier.) to tying a tie around his neck for a business meeting, even drying his hair from a shower is an absolute joy to witness him do, and your eyes merely glaze and follow his frame as he performs these tasks with you to only watch.
And boy, do you indeed love to watch him.
“What’re you lookin’ at?” He snickers, his eyes fixating on yours through the mirror, massive paw carding back his now brushed, albeit still damp hair. You offer him a shrug and a smile, “just you… I’m always looking at you.”
When he bows his head to hide the blush and the smile that wants to spread over his face, he’s interrupted by your dramatic sigh, “can’t help but think how I could do so. Much. Better.”
His eyes, now glimmering with mischief, meet yours back in the mirror, and he gives you a sharp, overdone inhale through his nose before stalking towards you. “Is that right?” He hums, planting himself at the edge of the bed and biting his cheek. “Seven years together and you’ve had to live with that knowledge every day?” Before you can answer, a massive hand darts down to wrap around your ankle and drag you down the bed and have him stood between your legs, ignoring your screams and laughter of protest. “How have you ever lived such a life?”
“Osamu!” You scream, your legs tossing around his waist instinctively while his now free hands lace his fingers between yours before pinning them on either side of your head. You try to tug your arms down, but he’s got them exactly where he wants them, and he’s not letting them go.
“You poor, poor thing, didn’t your friends warn you about that before we got together?” He peppers your neck and ears with bites and kisses to make you squeak and laugh at the ticklish feeling, your heels drumming against his lower back. “S-Stoppit!” You scold as sternly as you can despite your laughter.
“Oh, what, don’t want some absolute ogre so close to you?” He playfully starts to slam his hips upwards to bounce into yours, mimicking an all too familiar action and causing your body to bounce and shift upwards. Each slam of his hips against yours only makes a louder scream tumble past your lips, and your legs tighten around him. The bed creaks under you both, his mock thrusts showing a playful side of ‘Samu you’d always crave.
“O-Sam-u!” You laugh with each jounce of your frame. You finally tug your hands free and shove him back with all your might when he uses one of his newly free hands to skitter over your ribs. “I-I-I’m sorry!” You whine, arching as much as you can against his tickling and thrusting hips.
“For calling me ugly, or for insinuating you could do better?” He says, but his voice holds no annoyance or sadness, instead, it’s mingled with a smile that plants sweet kisses to your jawline once he stops his merciless punishment.
“You’re not ugly,” you sigh happily at the feeling of his lips over your skin, your arms tossing around his neck when you deem him pliant. “I just hate how handsome you are- gotta knock you down a peg once in a while.”
“And that seemed to work awesome for ya.” He snickers against your skin before wrapping his own arms around you, worming them between your body and the mattress to hold you impossibly closer.
“But hey… must be pretty handsome if I was able to score you, babe.”
You smile and scratch lovingly at his undercut, “must be.”
kuroo never understood the big deal about kissing. sure, he enjoyed the few kisses he’s shared throughout his life but it wasn’t something he ever craved. the way his friends would go on and on about how kissing their significant other was intoxicating and they could never get enough just didn’t sit right with him. was there something wrong with him? why didn’t he feel the same way as his peers did?
that all changed the day he first kissed you. suddenly, he understood what his friends were talking about. anytime kuroo saw you, he wanted his lips pressed against yours, stealing your breath away from you in hopes of becoming your new source of energy. he needed to hear the cute sounds that escaped your pretty mouth, the sweet taste of whatever chapstick you had put on that morning. he wanted to be consumed by you, kiss you until he didn’t have a breath left in his body and then kiss you a little more. he was a man obsessed and your lips were the only source for his sanity. he couldn’t help himself, it felt like coming home.
good things will happen 🧿
things that are meant to be will fall into place 🧿
i live for awkward/dorky!! kuroo so this is my name suggestion!!! no pressure at all tho choose who u want to write for!!!!
(in response to this prompt)
you manage a shuddery inhale, arm thrown over your eyes as your lover kisses his way down your chest. kuroo’s fingers brush gently against your ticklish sides, making you squirm while a giggle bubbles behind your parted lips.
he sighs against your stomach, warm breath raising goosebumps on your skin, and you shiver at the closeness, the intimacy of it all. on this quiet saturday afternoon where all was still and quiet, save for the soft hum of the AC and the smack of your lover’s lips against your skin, there was nothing more you could want.
“tetsuro,” you sigh, scraping your nails up his back to tug on his hair impatiently. “hurry up.”
“patience, babe.” he kisses your stomach once, twice, then follows his kisses with a flurry of soft smooches down to where you want him the most…
…making a quick pit stop along the way to lick at your belly button.
like a strike of lighting, your reflexes quite literally kick in—and before you could even breathe or think, you’re squirming and kneeing kuroo in the gut with all your strength.
“fuck, sweetheart, ow— could’ve just told me you didn’t like that,” he wheezes breathlessly, curled up in a ball at the end of the bed clutching his middle.
your jaw dropped the moment you realised what happened.
“sorry, tetsu!” you cry, crawling forward on all fours to stroke his back. “i wasn’t expecting that, didn’t know i was ticklish there. you okay, baby?”
“no, not at all!” kuroo whined dramatically. “you gotta kiss it better.” he rolls onto his back, the saddest puppy pout you’ve ever seen plastered across his face, and points at his rib where a soft, muted red was starting to bloom across his skin.
you abide by his request, scooting down to press a kiss to his sore spot. kuroo whines again when you lift your head to look at him, long fingers threading through your hair to push your head back down to his navel. “again,” he orders with a loud, exaggerated sniffle.
“how demanding,” you laugh into his tummy, but appease him anyway with a flurry of soft smooches. “there we go. all good now.” you declare, pulling back to look at kuroo.
“i dunno, babe. still hurts a little,” he mumbles in a small, hurt voice; his pout now eased into a smug little grin that doesn’t match his words in the slightest. and with his arms crossed above his head, biceps flexing and pecs on full display, you’re finding it incredibly hard to resist him and his peculiar plea for affection.
“tetsuro, you’re just— you’re extorting kisses from me now,” you giggle. you lean down and press a series of quick pecks to his navel once more, pausing to blow a wet raspberry next to his belly button which makes him yelp.
kuroo tugs you up his chest to face you properly, shooting you a dirty look though his cheeks were notably red from laughter. then he kisses the side of your head, all tender and sweet, and you knew you were forgiven.
“sorry i kicked you,” you whisper. “it was an accident.”
“sorry i licked your belly button.” kuroo replies with a laugh. “was just trying to be sexy.”
a/n: and then they fucked, watched animal planet while eating ice cream, and napped the afternoon away. the end thank you for reading
(masterlist)
“red or blue?” kuroo holds out two ties in front of you, his dress shirt sleeves rolled out to his elbows and you avert your gaze to ignore the lazy smile he has on.
“blue dulls out your eyes,” you say, voice flat as you turn your back away from him.
you grin, “if you wear the red you might seduce Hinata enough to recruit him.”
“oya,” he hums, taking a step closer towards you, ignoring the fact that you’re still trying to shuffle away. “you’re not mad at me anymore?”
you roll your eyes. it’s been a few weeks since he left your anniversary dinner early to pick bokuto up from the airport, and honestly, your anger’s flamed out a bit dull now, but of course, that doesn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy him striving for your affection for just a little bit more.
you turn to face him, ignoring how his grin widens and you push his hand away.
you take the red tie in your hands, glaring as you stare at his face and he relaxes in your touch as you bring the fabric around his neck.
you’ve never seen him actually fix his tie perfectly before— no, it’s always been you behind the beauty of those knots, and by the way you see partial relief in his eyes, you know he knows this too.
“i’m mad at my husband,” you tell him, focusing more on looping the red fabric in your hands than the way he's trudging to bring his face closer to yours.
you sigh, “but if the head of JVA asks me which tie makes his eyes pop then i’m obviously going to help him in that.”
“the head of JVA is lame,” kuroo pouts, his hand pushing yours away for a second and brings your face to look up to his.
he tells you, softness in his voice, “your husband misses you.”
you push him off, “whatever.”
ignoring his groans, you leave the room. the soft placing of your steps indulging in the annoyed muttering of your name.
you call out with a concealed grin, “i’m going to shower.”
it doesn’t take long for kuroo to come to where you stood, his grin lazy and inviting — like the ones he’d give you every time he insisted on paying for dinner.
there’s a towel thrown over his shoulder. disregarding the fact that he’s already dressed and ready for work, he stands over you.
his eyes sly as he says, “what a coincidence, i’m going to shower too.”
“nope.” you snort, pushing past him. “nice try though.”
he groans, throwing his head back and he looks to you, pleading, “it’s been three weeks.”
you smile. the first one all day. “too bad, but i am still mad at my husband.”
“screw him,” kuroo’s quick with his words, his words entangled with a string of laughter, and he inches closer to you, “sleep with the head of JVA instead, he’s wearing a stunning red tie— i heard it makes his eyes pop.”
you laugh. the one that you only had reserved for his annoying jokes, and you don’t notice it but there’s only fondness in his eyes as he stares at you.
he missed you so much.
omg ur iwa love language *chef kiss* so good! could u do bf head cannons for him like suga? i would loveeee to know ur thots!
tysm !!! of course <3
NSFW CONTENT MINORS DNI
college bf vibes!! the cute boy you see in the library a couple times and play a game of ‘who can catch each other staring first’ with. you don’t really think it’ll go anywhere— his face is stony as he works, not just concentrated, but his brows are furrowed together in a frown and you’re honestly terrified to talk to him. but one day he trails after you as you leave and asks you if you’re free to get lunch and obviously you say yes because he’s super tall and handsome and pretty and he’s flashing you a cocky smile that you don’t expect
he’s intimidating at first, has this confidence about him that kinda makes you shrink. but one time you accidentally tease him and immediately regret it because it’s borderline an insult… until he responds with something equally as ‘mean’ and you realise he can take some teasing
i’m trying to say he flirts by making fun of you. and it’s even better because you can reciprocate it just as well
your relationship is mostly casual. you don’t say it out loud but he’s just a college boyfriend. one you stay up til 4am texting and steal clothes from and have picnic dates with on campus. you go to some parties together, he takes care of you when you get way too wasted. dating him is fun, but it’s not really an ‘i can’t see myself without you in my life or in my future’ relationship
…until iwaizumi falls. he’s over at your apartment for a date one evening. you’d cooked a pizza from scratch together, giggling as you threw on way too many toppings for it to turn out in any way consumable, then fell asleep on his chest before you could eat it. peering down at you as you slept was the greatest mistake he had ever made. oh shit, he thinks and his body is warm and his heart and stomach are all tingly and it hits him— he’s a goner.
it’s not long before you’re meeting one another’s family, taking vacations together, looking at apartments, having long conversations about getting a cat. in the blink of an eye iwaizumi goes from just another boyfriend of yours to the love of your life
he’s very much a ‘start the day at 7am to go on a run’ guy, but sometimes you can convince him to stay in bed with you. also the best thing about waking up two hours after him is that you always wake up to breakfast
i don’t think he has an extremely high sex drive but when he fucks you he puts his soul into it. eats you out like he’s been starving for years, grasps your tits like they’re a lifeline, thrusts his cock in and out of you like it’s the last chance he’ll ever have to get his dick wet
brat tamer no doubt. he has no trouble keeping you in check, always full of quips that make you back down when you get too mouthy. he’s not afraid to tell you off in front of other people, either. “stop being such a brat,” he scolds when you get a little too close to oikawa. “but it was an accident!” you insist, but he knows damn well it wasn’t
loves shoving his cock down your throat n facefucking you with no mercy <3 he calls you his pretty girl when your mascara leaves black tracks down your cheeks
spits in your mouth after he eats you out because he asks if you want a taste and you say yes
wraps his hand around your throat when he kisses you from behind
talked abt this more here but he’s always giving you massages and helping you do stretches because he wants you to be healthy <3 he’s so sweet and caring <3 it’s definitely not because he can split you in half on his cock when he helps you get more flexible <3
blows your back out and then gives you a massage to make up for it
…he gets jealous easily and will make sure people know you’re his girl. hand on your ass or your thigh at all times, the love bites on your neck on full display, whispers in your ear when he knows people are looking. he just can’t help it, he doesn’t wanna share you :(
you don’t wanna share him either. how could you possibly share your six foot, beefy, broody (sometimes), smart, athletic sweetheart of a boyfriend with anyone?
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! ❤︎
WAIT I KNOW WE ALL LOVE GIRL DAD SUNA…… but imagine suna with a little boy 😞😞😞 little suna that shares everything with his dad….. from the same eyes to personality 😞😞 you come home from work one day and the two are just sprawled on the couch watching recordings of volleyball games with the same deadpan expression while suki runs around in her little tutu and tiara offering them tea LOL 😞😞 THEY HAVE THE SAME POUTY EXPRESSION WHEN THEY FIGHT FOR CUDDLES FROM YOU !!!
please suna with a little boy who looks and acts exactly like him. who was probably the quietest baby ever and is probably the opposite of his sister. who people often see napping on your shoulder during late night, post-game interviews. who, like his father, you'll come home to find watching paw patrol while wearing a spare tutu and sipping apple juice out of a teacup bcs he can't say no to his big sister's shenanigans.
and if suki is a daddy's girl, then this one is a mama's boy for sure. the one who crawls into your bed and squishes himself between the both of you in the middle of the night, stepping on rin's face in the process. who rin has definitely given the side eye for taking up all the cuddle time while suki is at school (and gets the side eye right back)
back support
miya osamu x gn!reader. slight suggestive? samu being hot mostly. that’s all.
After hours at Onigiri Miya are always rather quiet.
It’s when all the employees clock out one by one, collect their things and finish up their duties before saying bye to the boss and heading out. And it’s when you always stop by to meet your boyfriend whenever you happen to be in the area during closing time.
(Which, granted, you find an excuse to be pretty frequently. But that’s not the point here).
The bell of the front door jingles as you let yourself in, meeting the last straggler of your boyfriend’s establishment just on their way out. He’s young, working to pay his way through college, Osamu told you. He has kind eyes and a sweet smile, a good kid.
“Hi,” he nods, moves to hold the door open as you finish walking through, points a thumb behind him. “Boss is in the back restocking, he wouldn’t let me stay to help.”
“Figures,” you laugh, shaking your head to yourself. “He’s a bit stubborn.”
And the kid chuckles like he doesn’t want to agree because it’s his boss, but the knowing smile speaks volumes anyways. He gives a quick bow of his head, mutters a polite goodnight, then the bell’s jingling again and you’re left alone in the front of your boyfriend’s restaurant.
You toss your keys onto the counter and push past the little waist high door with your hip to venture to the back of the restaurant. It’s pretty clean, save for where Osamu seems to have flung his hat off by the sink and there’s a familiar black apron pooled in the floor that looks to have fallen off its hook. You collect them both and smile to yourself as you clean up after him.
That’s when you hear it, as you swing by his office to put up the overlay part of his uniform—the slight muffled grunts coming from the storage room. Right, he’s restocking. Lucky you.
And if you were anyone else, you might be annoyed. Because the nights where Osamu stays behind by himself to restock can get long—like right now, with the time pushing midnight when he’s normally snuggled up in your bed by eleven—but, you must argue, it does have its perks. Like him bringing home extra leftovers from the day to make it up to you for being late. Or him giving you sweet sleepy kisses as he plops himself on top of you as soon as he walks in.
Or, and this is arguably your favorite one, you getting to witness the sight of him like this.
Your teeth dig into the corner of your lip as you lean against the doorframe of the storage room, the grunts that lead you to him punching through the air again as you watch the muscles of Osamu’s back flex and release as he tosses a bag of rice under one of the shelves. His work shirt hugs him so nicely, tight across the broad expanse of his shoulders and snug around the definition of his arms. It gets a little baggy past the expanse of his chest, a little looser towards his waist, but it bunches up due to the back brace he has strapped on.
You remember when he got it, albeit begrudgingly as he came home one day shy to show you what he picked up on his run to the store. The faint flush to his cheeks as he mumbled about how he can’t move as easily as he used to, that all those years of volleyball aren’t doing him any good now. You’d just kissed his cheek, told him it wasn’t even a big deal, anything that would keep him from hurting himself.
And as you eye the way the brace squeezes around his waist, does well to accentuate the slight cinch there that’s gotten just a bit wider over the years but is still very nice, you can’t even attempt to fight off the slight swirl in your gut.
Oh yes, lucky you indeed.
“Woo,” you whistle as he straightens up to swipe his forehead with the back of his hand, chewing your cheek as he looks over his shoulder at you.
“Oh, baby.” And he’s breathless, and it shouldn’t sound so fucking attractive, as he turns to walk towards you. He places his hands on your waist, drops his head for a kiss and hums against your lips. “Shouldn’t you be in bed? It’s late. Ya get cranky past eleven.”
“I get even crankier when my boyfriend isn’t in bed with me,” you retort, but there’s no malice in the confinement of the storage room, no tilt to your words. You kiss him again. “But getting to walk in on you like this isn’t so bad.”
Osamu laughs into your mouth, pulling back slightly when you try to loop your arms around his neck. He catches your wrist, kisses your palm.
“Ah, don’t get too close. I’m all sweaty,” he offers up with an apologetic grin, then tips his head with a scrunch of his nose when you roll your eyes. “I just have a few more bags to move, then we can get ya home and in bed.”
“Yeah,” you hum, but you don’t pull away. Instead you trail your hand down his chest, try to bite back your smirk at the way your boyfriend shivers a bit, until your fingertips reach the edge of the tight brace wrapped around his waist. “Guess I’ll just sit back and enjoy the view, hm?”
You give the brace a tug, do your best to swallow the giggle that threatens to slip at Osamu’s over exaggerated groan. His fingers give your waist a squeeze, a signature Miya pout being thrown in your direction.
“Yer evil,” he sulks, stares at you like he’s fighting some terrible inner battle, then grumbles under his breath as he surges forward to kiss you again. “Ya said you won’t pay attention to it.”
“No I said I wouldn’t make fun,” you correct, blow out a light laugh as Osamu pulls you flush against him while peppering kisses down your throat. “Not paying attention to it would be a crime when it makes you look so good.”
His lips pause on your throat. You swear you can feel the flush burning from his cheeks straight into your neck. You thread your fingers into the damp buzz of his undercut, run your nails over his scalp.
“It’s for back support,” he mumbles, low and soft. And maybe you are evil, truly, because the retort is quick from your lips.
“I could use some back support.”
Osamu stops breathing, you press into him a bit more, then suddenly you’re being moved over and pushed back onto the checklist desk by the wall. You can’t help the fit of giggles you fall into as your boyfriend nips at your neck, his fingers squeezing your sides in a mixture to tickle and also to drag you closer all while he berates you.
“Oh you’re gonna need back support by the time I get done with ya,” he chuckles, moves up to kiss you even as his lips curl in a grin and soil the action. He grabs one of your thighs, hooks your leg around his waist playfully. “So mean, comin’ in and distracting me when I’m trying to get work done. I’m busy, yanno. And you just wanna tease and—“
“Sir? Sorry, I think I left my apartment keys by the—“
Both yours and Osamu’s eyes widen, heads snapping to the doorway of the storage room. There stands the sweet, sweet boy from earlier, face going from pale to red to about seven different emotions all at once as he takes in the scene. Then he slaps a hand over his eyes almost comically, turns on his heel to retreat, shouting out sorry’s every step of the way as you and your boyfriend stare after him appalled.
Osamu scrambles after him, you scurry off the desk, and both of you internally curse that damn back brace and the power it holds over your heads.
this is incoherent n idc the point is osamu back brace supremacy goodnight.
「balsamic vinegar」
warnings: suna rintarou x f!reader. fluff. like two suggestive lines.
never would you have thought that there comes a day when you’d have the miya atsumu begging for your help.
“baby, please, make him stop. i can’t do this anymore.”
post practice, the national team’s setter had ambushed you outside the changing rooms in a desperate bid for social survival.
you ignore his pleading expression, adamantly focusing on the press release draft on your screen. “he’s your problem.”
“no, see, that’s the thing,” aran says with a shake his head. “he wants to make himself your problem.”
“i don’t even follow him!”
“why not? lord, queen, your majesty, the goddess of mercy herself,” the setter just about cries, “take pity on us mortals and just follow sunarin back!”
for once in his life, aran approves of his teammate’s overreaction. “it’d save everyone everywhere a whole lotta trouble. my soul’s like crushed from the secondhand embarrassment.”
you frown. “go ask his publicist.”
“you’re his publicist!”
“was,” you sniff, lowering your phone. “working for the adlers is doing wonders for my will to live.”
“what about my will to live?” the twenty-seven year old slides down the wall like a pile of gravy. “‘m your favourite setter!”
you stare at the blond. “moving on…” you clear your throat. atsumu glares up at you. “if nothing else works, email iwaizumi.”
his scowl turns into disbelief. “i can’t email iwa-chan ‘bout this! i hope to a nicer god than you that he doesn’t even see whatever the fuck sunarin’s doin’.”
you scoff. with oikawa tooru as a best friend and kuroo tetsurou as a colleague, there’s no way their athletic trainer hasn’t seen suna’s frequent updates.
“coach hibarida? management?” you list off. “ask tetsu to ask kenma to lock suna out of his ig account.”
“that’s not how rich works,” aran sighs. “and it’s not like you don’t know suna. he won’t stop ‘til he proves you wrong.”
“there’s nothing to prove!”
Keep reading
your TAGS i cannot afford to fall in love with another miya brother PLEASE i will die
Osamu crowds you against the worn door at the top of Onigiri Miya’s narrow back stairwell, drawing a heated palm up the curve of your side through the thick felted wool of your coat.
“Cut it out,” you giggle as he jostles your hand- key clasped tightly in your fingers- away from the rusty lock.
“Don’t wanna,” he protests, dipping his nose into the hollow of your temple. You can feel his smile against the top of your cheekbone. He still smells smoky and savoury from the teppanyaki place, with the warm flush of two- no- three glasses of red wine rising to his cheeks. He isn’t drunk, but even if he was, it wouldn’t show.
“That was the best goddamned steak I’ve ever had,” he mumbles into your hair, curling one thick forearm around your middle.
Not drunk on wine, anyway.
“Yeah, I’m…” You trail off, concentrating long enough to get the key in the lock, turning and pushing inward. You have to brace your shoulder against the door a little to shove it open, since the frame’s a little warped, and together you stumble into the entryway of the tiny apartment above Osamu’s shop.
“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t get any better than that,” you finish, but he’s not interested in finishing this conversation anymore.
Osamu flips you around between his hands, bracing both palms on your hips and dipping his forehead to yours. The soft strands of his dark hair come loose and fluffy away from whatever style he’d mussed it into earlier that evening, sharing the bathroom mirror with you as you slipped on your rings and adjusted your top.
“Hmm,” he sighs, and his shoulders drop with all the bliss in the world. “I love ya.”
“You’ll say anything on a full stomach,” you purr, planting your hands on the soft plane of it. He lets out a low grunt and slips a hand into the folds of your coat, pinching the tenderest part of your waist to make you yelp.
“I love you too-mph.” You’re cut off by the courteous press of his mouth to yours, and after a heartbeat of polite fumbling, you settle into the rhythm of his kiss and let him slowly divest you of your coat.
You tilt your head to one side, gasping quietly for breath and letting him trail wine-flavoured kisses down the bared column of your throat. He’s setting your skin on fire, lifting shimmering sensations to the surface that the wine in your own system only amplifies.
“Mm-bedroom,” you sigh.
“Don’t hafta tell me twice,” he mumbles into your skin.
Once you get there, however, he tugs you into his arms, collapses backwards onto the bed, and doesn’t move. You give him five whole seconds to do something, and when he fails to, you stir in his magnetic hold.
“Baby?” Your voice comes soft and prompting.
“Mmm?” He opens one eye, peering down at you over the curve of his cheek.
“Weren’t we about to…?”
“Oh, god, no, I can’t,” he groans. “I’m so full I could die. Y’don’t want me messin’ around in there tonight, promise.”
“But…” You can hardly protest. The longer you lie there, the heavier dinner’s weight begins to settle in your gut. He’s right. Expecting sex after all-you-can-eat teppanyaki was beginning to feel like expecting snow in Mexico.
“Let’s do it in the morning,” he brushes, and that pulls a giggle from your chest. When you lift your head, the little smirk that tugs at the corners of his lips proves that he’s still having fun.
“I’ll make it up to ya real good. I swear.”
And the next morning, in sun-drenched sheets of white linen, he does.
The sun isn’t out yet, but there’s blue city lights cascading from the blinds along your bedsheets, and they mix with the linen in a way that lets you know that it isn’t quite morning. You blindly reach for your bedside table, letting your palm smack against the wood until you meet your phone. You squint at the light as it meets your eyes, and then furrow your brows as the time blurs and unblurs in your vision.
It’s three in the morning, 3:27, to be exact, and by the time your senses start to really come back to you, you realize there’s a gentle whirring coming from somewhere in your home. You go to turn, shifting in the sheets to see if your husband, Kuroo, is awake, only to see empty sheets, pillows stacked against your back in his place. And once again, you find your brows furrowing, a little click of your tongue as you scan your bedroom for any sign of your husband. Though your door is set slightly ajar, you can’t find traces of him anywhere—no papers scattered across his nightstand, no pens or journals laying atop your dresser, not even the sound of his distant footsteps settling into the floor of the hallway..
Instead, the little whirring that you’re certain first woke you, stops, and now you’re certain that if you don't find out what that was, you’re going to go insane. That and, obviously, finding your husband. A thought of your own priorities flits across your head, but you only sigh, blowing air out through almost-closed lips, and get up, letting the cold air hit the exposed skin of your arms and legs as you get out of bed.
You grab one of the folded blankets from the ottoman that rests at the foot of your bed, wrapping it around your shoulders and letting it drag along the floor as you walk—your footsteps light enough that they hardly make a creak in the wood, the balls of your feet taking a majority of the pressure anyway. Your cat, whom you had not seen on that same ottoman, perks up and runs after you, presumably awaiting an early breakfast (which, much to his dismay, he will not be getting, but he’ll give you hell for it anyway, you're sure).
So you walk, little Peanut trailing along behind you, and make your way down the stairs until you arrive at the entryway of Kuroo’s office. Peanut starts to meow at your feet, but just inside you can hear the shuffling of papers and the click of plastic against plastic. Slowly, you open the door, knocking against the wood as you move inside. Peanut rushes in before you can even fully see Kuroo, settling down by the heater. Kuroo turns when you've just barely made it into the room. He’s still wearing the clothes he slept in and, supposedly, will continue to sleep in those clothes, but he’s standing over your files and his desk like he’s just finished something that he’s terribly proud of—his eyes crinkled at their corners in a barely-there smile. And yet, he looks almost apologetic, despite being nearly a foot taller than you, he looks small, his shoulders slumped a bit as he plays with his hands in front of him.
Kuroo’s always been an attractive man to you, but now he almost seems a little prettier. You can’t decide if it’s the way the blue light hits against his skin, still tanned from your honeymoon, or if it’s the way the black strands of his hair still stand out wildly against each other from just getting out of bed. No matter the occurrence, you smile at him, choosing to ignore the weight of the blanket around you and the red that’s sure to be present in your eyes at this hour.
“What, are you doing paperwork for your secret business or something?”
Kuroo laughs, his shoulders visibly relaxing at the sound of you teasing him. He shakes his head, waving you off as he goes to pick at another stack of papers.
“Yeah, yeah, you caught me. Genius,” He pokes back, and you roll your eyes, taking a few strides across the room to reach him and wrap your arms around him, your head leaning against his back. “I was just shredding a couple things. Felt cluttered.” He laughs a bit at himself at the end of that, and then turns, craning his neck to see where you stand behind him. “Sorry if I woke you.”
You hum against him, a wordless gesture of you’re fine, and then stand there for a moment—you're sure that you’re on the verge of falling asleep standing up when Kuroo goes to move again.
“Uh, I need to, you know, shred a few more things.” You press your forehead against his back, groaning into him as he laughs at you again, breaking himself free from your arms as he moves a few more things from files to what you presume must be a “shred” pile. And then the whirring sound comes back as he starts to shred things again, much louder this time and much more annoying, but you’re a little glad to have both found the source of the sound and your husband in one fell swoop. So you lean back against the one clear part of his desk, watching as he moves between pile and shredder, pile and shredder.
“One question,” you begin, speaking just over the noise. Kuroo hums in acknowledgement, quickly meeting your eyes before returning to the papers. “What prompted you to start shredding things at three in the morning, exactly?”
Kuroo sticks out his bottom lip, downturning his mouth as he shrugs and sorts through a few more papers.
“Call it divine intervention,” He replies, and you only roll your eyes, leaning across the shredder to swat at his arm while he laughs, feigning a bit of pain at the motion. “Okay, okay, I woke up and was bored. This seemed like the best option.”
“You know, generally if people wake up at three in the morning, they go back to sleep. Maybe tell their wife they love them-”
“Well, you weren’t awake, now were you.”
You stick your tongue out at him, and he copies the movement before he shreds his last papers. You tilt your head, looking at the window into the compartment of the shredder. You step forward, a hand out in front of you and reach for the paper in Kuroo’s. But the warnings for him to stop reach his ears a little too late, because he’s already pushing the papers through the shredder, trying to force it through the blades as the shredder makes a terribly sad clicking noise. Peanut perks up at the sound, scurrying out of the room and, from the sound of his paws against the ground, up the stairs as well.
“Babe, I think-”
“No, don’t worry I got this, it does this sometimes.”
“Yeah like, when it’s jammed?”
Kuroo looks up, brows drawn together. “When it’s what?”
Laughter splutters from your lips, though Kuroo widens his eyes, his gaze darting between you and the shredder.
“I swear I didn’t know shredders could get jammed,” He says, standing up and trying to pull the sheets out of the blades. Yet, undoubtedly, they stay where they are. you mumble something about him making you laugh, and Kuroo just backs away, watching as you bend down to unplug the shredder.
“You are so smart,” you begin, taking the top of the shredder, stuck paper and all, off of the bin. And what you say is true. If you didn’t know it by the way you’ve known him for years now, by the way he sat by you and talked you through math problems you didn’t quite get in college, you would certainly know it by the array of degrees hung above his desk. But in this moment, with that look on his face and his hair hanging in his eyes, a too-full bin for your shredder sitting in front of you, you’re sure of one thing. “But god, you are so stupid sometimes.”
He narrows his eyes at you, playful in the way he purses his lips, and you just shrug, settling your blanket around your shoulders as you kneel on the floor in front of the shredder. You know Kuroo’s watching you as you pick at the pieces of paper, cutting them away with the nearby pair of scissors until you can start to loosen the pieces from the blades—ever so carefully.
“You know, normally shredders turn off when the bin is getting full,” Kuroo begins, peering into the shredder’s contents to see what’s been sitting inside. If you know him, you’re sure that it’s been a few months at least since he’s emptied this, and who knows how long he’s been up shredding things. You turn over the top to see bits of shredded paper stuck in the blades, and sigh. You know you should go upstairs and grab your old tweezers, that you should use those to grab the paper and move on, but the blanket is warm and your legs are tired and frankly, you just want to get this done so you can both go back to bed.
So you start picking at the paper with your fingers, careful not to touch the blades, much to Kuroo’s displeasure—he’s making those sounds he makes when he doesn’t quite know what to say, stumbling over breath and syllables instead of real words.
You just shrug, still focused on picking out the pieces of paper with your hands, while Kuroo gives up with a groan and a backwards tilt of his head. You chuckle a bit at him, more through your nose than through your lips, and then watch as he picks up the bin and goes to empty out its contents.
It’s not long after that you sigh and lean back, the rest of the paper finally out of the blades and, thankfully, not a cut on your hands in sight. When you look up, Kuroo has half of the bin emptied into his office trash can, the other half too much paper to even try to fit in there.
And though normally you would love to poke fun at him for this, though you’d love to make some comment that makes him roll his eyes and knock his shoulders into yours, you’re feeling particularly tired right now—you’re fairly certain it’s closer to 4:00 than it is to 3:30 now—and you’d feel much better if you could just get back in bed like most normal wives do with their normal husbands.
you almost make yourself laugh. Wouldn’t normalcy sound nice?
“You stay there,” you start, finally letting the blanket fall from your shoulders and into a sad little pile on the ground, “I’ll take that out and get another bag, you finish whatever it is you need to do.”
Kuroo goes to say something, and from the look on his face you knows it’s going to be something along the lines of well, there wasn’t really an end-goal, per se, and the thought of that makes you want to drag him upstairs and force him to sleep, so you just stare at him, a little blankly, and at your expression he puts his hands up and does a look of playful surrender.
So you grab the bag out of the trash, and then notice a few pieces of paper scattered on the floor around the can, so you lean down, going to pick one of them up to throw into the bag with the rest of them. And then you stop.
The paper seems a little thicker, cardstock, maybe, and there’s a familiar frilly design that seems to roll around it, disappearing in certain places to fade into a soft tan. You pick it up, turning it over in your fingers and scanning the bag that hangs off of your arm for more pieces of the document. you find more of the blue design that carts around the edges, and then your eyes fall onto another piece of cardstock. This time, with hard, block lettering, an a and part of a g sitting next to each other. You look a little further down, and then, staring back at you, is the mess of part of your own signature, you’re sure of it.
You turn, slowly. You’re a little scared to see Kuroo’s face, honestly, whether or not he even knows what he’s actually done. You aren't surprised to find that he’s oblivious to your realization, instead he’s leaned over his desk, sorting through papers and mumbling something to himself, but you would be lying if you said you didn’t feel a little betrayed by the fact.
Because, held in your own hands, shredded up into a reused bag from your grocery store, is the stupidest decision you think Kuroo has ever made. It tops the time in college he only ate mac and cheese for two weeks, it’s above every time he blacked out and made you take care of him and his awful hangovers the next day, it’s even above all the times he proposed to you with no real plan, just popping the question to think, hey, maybe you’ll say yes this time.
“Kuroo,” you start, and he hums, eyes meeting yours for a quick moment before returning to his papers. “Did you shred our marriage certificate?”
Kuroo stills. He turns, sending a rush of air out of his lips and clicking his tongue while he leans back against his desk.
“No.” The ‘o’ is drawn out, accompanied by the shake of his head. “No, that would be a stupid idea, right?”
“Right.” Your voice is steady, your tongue running against the back of your teeth. “That would be very stupid.”
“Yeah, exactly, so I definitely did not do-” He pauses, smacking his lips together- “that.”
And you could kill him. In cold blood, right here, you could become a murderer in your own home. You won’t (you’ll think about it until the day he dies), you would never. What you do, however, is drop the bag with the shreds of paper in it, sending cheap confetti (or in this case, cheap confetti mixed with confetti that accompanied the cost of a several thousand dollar wedding), flying through the air and scattering along the office floor.
You put your head into your hands, smoothing out creases that are beginning to form in your skin, and against everything in your chest, you yell.
“Why?”
You look up from your hands to see Kuroo biting at his lip and slowly gesturing. you swear you can see the gears turning in his head.
“So, you know how you love me? Like, a lot?”
No, you think.
“Yeah, sure,” you reply, voice a little hardened, tone a little flat.
“So, I was thinking,” He starts to move towards you, still gesturing wildly as he keeps trying to explain, “that you only really need marriage certificates for divorce, right? And we’re never getting divorced, so there’s definitely no need for that to be around.”
And Kuroo, your husband, the one who asks you to tie his ties in the morning and stumbles around the kitchen because he never learned to cook properly, the one who read over your every paper in college and reads over your every story now, is also the only one of this Earth who could ever make you feel this kind of anger. It’s the kind of anger that you can feel in your throat, like it's clawing at you and you have to attempt to dispel it with every shaken breath. You do, of course, one in, a second out, until you can finally bear to fully bring your face out of your hands.
“We needed that.” If you say any more, you’re sure you’ll want to yell again, but Kuroo stares at you blankly, his lip still caught between his teeth. “You know, for taxes, health insurance, a mortgage.”
And as if in one final realization, Kuroo nods, eyes a little wider, a breath escaping through his nose.
“Those aren’t like, that important,” He says, and there’s a joking lilt to his voice, but it gets cut off by the tilt of your head, your eyes feeling a little more tired than usual. You stand there staring at each other for a moment, and then in one movement, you stand up, grab the blanket, shake the shreds of paper off of it, and walk towards the door, avoiding the papers like they could be shards of glass.
“That’s it,” you say, “That’s it, I’m going to bed.”
Kuroo goes to follow you, chasing you with the sound of his voice as he says, “Okay, I’ll come with you. You know, I feel like maybe this is something we should talk-”
“Tomorrow.”
“What?”
“We will talk about this tomorrow. I hear the guest bedroom has a very comfortable mattress.”
Kuroo stands in the doorway. For a moment, it looks like he wants to fight you on this, to chase after you up the stairs as though he could make everything perfect with a true love’s kiss, something to break you from whatever curse tonight could be and instead flood you back into what used to be normal married life.
But you're sure he couldn’t possibly know what that would mean at this point. As you ascend the stairs, you see him furrow his brows before turning back into the office. you know, deeply so, that he loves you. That he does these things more out of impulsivity than true stupidity and malice, because he’s always been like this. He’s always been one to stay up late, to do things last minute because there was always something that seemed more interesting going on elsewhere. Or even just that, if a thought ever were to pop into his head, it had to be acted upon. Nearly twenty proposals later—most done in the midst of disaster, when you had flour in your hair or dirt in your knees—you should know better than to think anything is out of malice.
But you know that doesn’t stop him from making stupid decisions. It really never has. So though you feel a pang of guilt as you cross the threshold from the hallway into your bedroom, you can’t say that it stops you from crawling into bed. It doesn’t stop you from drowning yourself in the drenched moonlight of linen sheets. It doesn’t stop you from placing your back against the pillows that Kuroo placed there. It doesn’t stop you from closing your eyes and, in an instant, falling back to sleep.
But you wake up awfully early. It’s to the sound of Kuroo more than it is to the birds, to the feeling of his palm on your shoulder more than it is to the sunlight washing your skin. But still, you wake, squinting your eyes at him as he stands over you, bags dragging down and into the rise of his cheeks, his hair a calmer mess than it was before, but still struck with that feeling of unkempt bedhead.
This early in the morning, with this little sleep in your bones, you almost forget why you’re upset with him. But then you catch the piece of shredded paper that’s caught on the old, oversized t-shirt he won at some bar playing some drinking game, and you feel a pit settle in your stomach. You close your eyes again, take a breath, and then look back up at Kuroo.
“I have a surprise.” His voice is almost a whisper, but there’s an air of excitement that seems to coat each of the syllables. You don't speak, only let him guide you off of your bed and down the stairs. Peanut once again trails behind you, letting both of you know that now is certainly time for his breakfast. After what you’ve been through, he probably deserves it soon.
But you both walk, and Kuroo brings you through the door and into his office once more. You yawn, rubbing your eyes at the way the morning light shines through the window above the desk, but when you open them once more, you find that there’s been a mosaic created along your floors.
Well, maybe mosaic is a bit of a stretch. There’s shredded pieces of paper scattered all along the office, some that have been placed together in groups that seem to make up other documents, but the one that sits in the middle is made entirely of cardstock—with that frilly blue pattern circling the edges, the words ‘MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE’ written out along the top. At the bottom, both of your signatures are put together, and though the lines aren’t perfectly together and you can tell it’s been shredded and forced to rejoin, it’s still the certificate, nevertheless.
“That cannot be valid anymore,” you say, and Kuroo laughs. You glance over and find him leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.
“Oh, definitely not.” He pushes himself off the wall then, stepping over some shredded and half-put-together papers to kneel down, picking up the certificate so now you can see that it’s all been taped together. “But it might make for a fun memento.”
“You know, as much as I really love a good memento-” Kuroo rolls his eyes at you, he knows well enough that you hate souvenirs, always have, and don’t dare let him try to buy you something no matter the occasion. He usually does anyway. “-I don’t think a memento can put me under your health insurance.”
“Health insurance, smealth insurance,” He says with a wave to his hand. He’s met with another glare when he looks back up at you. “I’m kidding! Just like, promise me you won’t get injured for the month it takes us to get the replacement.”
You take in a breath, holding it in your chest while you stare at your husband across the room. He shrugs again while you look at him.
“You are insufferable.”
“You know, I hear some people say that’s my charm.”
Kuroo places the certificate on his desk, trying to prop it up against the wall as it slides back down the desk. He grumbles for a moment before trapping it between the wall and journal, mumbling something about a frame before he turns back to you.
And then you laugh at him. Nothing bright or loud, in fact it’s rather soft, barely taking up more space than a breath would. Instead, it’s the way your face scrunches and the shake of your head that makes everything seem like it’s almost okay.
You are aware of quite a few things in your life, one of which being that paper shredders do, in fact, jam, but one of the other things, and one of the things that you prefer to know, is that a craving for normalcy is hardly ever satisfied. So as you stare at your husband, laughter bubbling up your throat, you figure that you should’ve expected this.
“Okay but if we get the certificate, I have one condition.” you laugh again at the prospect of if, but let Kuroo continue anyway. “You still can’t divorce me.”
“Deal,” you agree, “But only if we call them by nine.”
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