Curate, connect, and discover
hey i wanted to request a fic, but before i request i wanted to say that i really enjoy your fics. there's something about them that makes me read them even when theyre about characters i dont often care much about. also, when i write i often stick to my couple of faves, but your fics have me thinking that maybe it'd do me good to practice writing a variety of different characters.
im not as prolific as you though hahaha
ok and now for my incredibly self-indulgent request because my #1 favorite is Mr. Perfect Kita, can i request a fic about Kita wooing/asking out a Reader who is intimidated by him?? pretty please, and thank you? hehe
i also am curious if there's any character you prefer writing about compared to the rest
have a lovely day! :)
Anon, you are far too kind — thank you so much for your kind words!! it genuinely means the world to me 🥹
Also: you should totally experiment with writing new characters!! it’s legit eye opening (after writing fav positions for Hinata, I can't stop looking at him differently 😭)
Also also, but favourite three characters to write for are Tsukishima (my first love) Iwaizumi and Atsumu for sure. They've stolen my heart ughhh.
ANYWAYS ENJOY <333
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There was something about Kita Shinsuke that made your stomach twist—and not in the butterflies, schoolgirl-crush way you wished it did.
No, it was worse than that. It was the intimidation.
Because Kita was perfect. He was composed, kind, respectful, disciplined. He woke up early, always got top marks, captained the volleyball team with quiet command, and still managed to hold the door open for every single person who walked through it. He was the kind of person who turned in his assignments a week early, whose uniform never had a wrinkle, whose silences were never awkward but intentional.
And you? You were just... there. Always a few steps away. Always too nervous to make eye contact, let alone conversation.
You shared a class with him—sat three rows behind, diagonally to the left—and you could probably count on one hand how many times you'd actually spoken to him. Mostly because every time his steel-gray eyes swept past you, your breath would catch in your throat.
That expression of his—steady, unreadable, unwavering—it made your nerves twist up in knots. It wasn't that he looked mean. It was that he looked like he saw everything.
So when he approached you after school one day, just before he headed off to volleyball practice, your brain completely short-circuited.
He stopped in front of your desk as you were packing up, casting a soft shadow over your notes. When you looked up, he was standing there with perfect posture, his uniform blazer unbuttoned but still crisp, and a small box held gently in both hands.
"Hey," he said, voice quiet but clear. "Can I speak to you a moment?"
You blinked up at him like he’d spoken another language, then scrambled to nod. "Y-Yeah. Of course."
He gestured subtly toward the hallway. You followed him, still clutching your books, your heart thudding in your ears. The corridor was mostly empty now, sunlight from the high windows painting long lines across the floor.
He turned to face you just outside the classroom, gaze even but calm.
Then, gently, he extended the box toward you.
"I put together a few things you might like. I hope that’s alright."
You stared at the box, then at his face, then back again. "Wait... what?"
The box was neat, wrapped in soft brown paper and tied with twine. Inside, you found your favorite snacks, a new set of pens in the exact shade you always used, a mini notebook with the design you'd admired in the campus store weeks ago, and a little envelope with your name on it in his clean handwriting.
You opened it with trembling fingers.
I thought of you, the note read. Simple. Honest.
"I noticed you're always out of ink because you let other people borrow your pens," he said softly, watching your reaction. "And I know you get headaches during long lectures—you press your temples with your thumbs when you're trying not to draw attention to it. So there's some caffeine-free tea in there too."
Your chest tightened. Your mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. He’d noticed all of that?
“I... uh...”
Then he asked it. Calmly, without fanfare, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Would you like to go out with me this Saturday?"
Your brain lagged, your breath stalling in your throat. Your fingers clenched tighter around the box.
"Why?" you blurted. Then quickly, eyes wide, you stammered, "I mean—I didn't even know you were interested in me."
For a beat, he was silent. Then his eyes softened, his posture relaxing just slightly. His thumbs pressed gently along the edge of his sleeves.
"I am," he said. "I have been for a while. You're always thoughtful. You don't speak just to fill space. You listen. You think before you act. I admire that."
The air caught in your chest. You looked down at the box, then back up at him.
He added, voice quieter now, "You don’t have to decide now. I just wanted you to know it wasn’t an accident that I asked. I see you. Even if you don’t always see yourself."
You bit your lip. Your hands were trembling slightly as you clutched the box tighter against your chest. "You're... really good at this," you murmured, your voice barely more than a breath.
"I’m nervous," he admitted, eyes flicking away for just a second. He adjusted the strap of his gym bag over his shoulder. "But I meant what I said. I like you."
Your throat was dry, but your heart was full. Full in a way it hadn't been before.
You nodded slowly, smile shy. "Okay. Yes. I’d like that. Saturday, right?"
A tiny smile curved at the corner of his mouth—small but warm, the kind that made your chest flutter.
"Saturday," he confirmed.
He glanced down the hallway toward the gym, then back at you.
"I have practice now," he said gently, taking a small step back. "But I’ll see you tomorrow?"
You nodded, this time more confidently.
He gave one final lingering look—eyes lingering not on your face but the way you held the box close to you like it meant something—and then turned and walked away, each step measured and light.
You stayed rooted in place.
Blushing, stunned, your arms wrapped tightly around the little box as if it might disappear. You stood there for what felt like ages, listening to the echoes of his footsteps until they faded down the stairwell.
And when you finally looked back at the note in your hand, reading I thought of you one more time, your heart bloomed in your chest.
Maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t so scary after all.