Idk Why I Made It So In-depth…idk I Might Do It For Some Of Them But The Rest Of My Bllk Ships Are

∿ when grit meets grace ⤸ ╱ ❛ lilies ❜

♬⋆.˚ starry cat, up above / why do you glow? do you know? / when you left, you made a / hole the size of a moon inside my heart.

ꫂ ၴႅၴ content warnings; flirting. smoking. maybe some self depreciation? short, sweet. -> word count: 727.

@alcyneus @ayatakanosstuff @mayyhaps @s6rine @dearru @sahrberrii @anxiousyutsuki

“wrong. run it again.”

they’ve been at this for over an hour. hinata approached keishin before practice, phone in hand, with hopes of trying a new quick. it had taken keishin less than 30 seconds to know that it would be hard. hard, but not impossible. everyone looks tired–tsukishima’s attitude is growing worse by the second, nishinoya is getting more frustrated, hell, even asahi is getting a little upset. it’s no one’s fault in particular, but he knows they’re blaming hinata and kageyama.

“jesus, dude,” tanaka pants, hands on his knees. he’s staring right at keishin, brows furrowed. “we’ve been doing this for, like, an hour. can we get a break or something?”

the man thinks for a moment. if they stop now, they’ll lose the momentum. “no,” he says, maybe a little too bluntly. “do it again.” he crosses his arms over his chest and waits. they reset to their respective positions and keishin brings the whistle to his mouth and blows. their movements are sluggish, tired, defeated. the ball gets to kageyama and he sets it, but hinata is so tired that he can’t jump as high as he normally can. he misses the ball by mere inches and groans reverberate through the gym.

“sorry, guys,” hinata mumbles, draggin a hand down his face.

keishin looks to his left, where takeda is standing with a pinched face, and he sighs. he turns back to the team and waves his hand dismissively. “okay, take a break. ten minutes, that’s it.” he doesn’t stay to hear the complaints. instead, he walks out of the gym, sticks a cigarette in his mouth, and lights it. nicotine floods his veins and his stress dissipates. he’s only there for a couple seconds when something catches his eye.

you.

you’re carrying baskets full of flowers, struggling to balance them all. ten minutes his ass. he stomps his cigarette out and walks over to your car, hands in his pockets. “need some help with that?”

you flinch and nearly drop one of the baskets. “oh! ukai! hey, it’s funny seeing you here. um, yes, i could use some help if you’re offering.” you laugh and, once again, ukai feels weak in the knees. he chalks it up to his injury. you hand him one of the baskets and sigh heavily, grateful that you’re no longer straining. “ah, thank you so much. what, uh, what are you doing here? you’re not stalking me, are you?”

he nearly chokes on his own spit. “what?” it takes him longer than it should to realize you’re joking. “oh, hah, no i, um, coach the boys volleyball team here.”

your eyes seemingly light up. “no way! that’s so awesome! i used to play volleyball when i was in high school. i wasn’t very good, though.” you hum, reminiscing. “did you play?” when he nods, you smile. “were you any good?”

he exhales, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “nope,” he says quickly. he doesn’t need to tell you his sob story just yet. “what are you doing here? and with all these flowers?”

“oh, i’m donating to the greenhouse club! i saw a facebook post saying they were looking for flowers and seeds–stuff like that.” you shift the box to your other hip. “i figured it would be good business, y’know? donate and then people know i have a flower shop?” you begin to walk, but stop and turn to him. “um, do you know where the greenhouse is?”

he scoffs out a laugh and nods, walking the opposite direction you were going. “and what happens when this doesn’t get you the business you want?” he doesn’t mean to say it, but he’s a pessimist, he can’t help it.

you hum, looking down at the ground where your feet walk in sync. “i don’t know,” you whisper. suddenly, keishin regrets even making a comment about it. “i suppose i’ll . . . apply at your convenience store and hope you give me a chance?”

he looks down at you and almost flinches at the wide smile on your face. you two stop just before the greenhouse, turned towards each other. “i’ll think about,” he says, smirking slightly.

you smile and laugh, pushing the door open with your hip. “thanks for helping me, ukai. i really appreciate it.”

he swallows hard and nods. “yeah, sure. it was no problem, really.”

i have no idea what them todo for melo it’s stressing me

my moots younger than 17 block this tag underneath for this acc

and for my writing acc pomeloblush block melo’s club ty

MEND (soz, ma)

what do you do if toji snaps during an argument and breaks your favorite flower vase

wc: 978, angst to fluff, gn reader, tw is in the summary it’s nothing much, i lowk hate the way i wrote reader soz not soz, not proof read

toji does his best not to angry at you. he really, really does. but this argument has been squeezing his brain like a knotted muscle, something he couldn’t relax or sooth. and now, his usual patience has worn thin, and with a sudden, swift move, he shatters the flower vase closest to him, big arms taking up the whole proximity.

you flinch back, freezing with terror in your eyes as you watch water pool on the ground, hearing heavy breathing from your boyfriend. his eyes are covered up partly with his eyes and his big hands clutch on the nearest furniture, hunching his back over. not even a minute passes before he straightens his back and walks towards the small genkan, slipping his shoes on before leaving without another word, leaving you to deal with the scraps of glass and flower petals scattering on the ground.

toji doesn’t return until three and a half hours later, some time after midnight. the jingle of his pair of keys echo in the dark entryway, head hanging low as he watches himself slowly take off his shoes next to your smaller ones. he scoots them a little closer with the side of his feet, gazing down at the difference in style and size for a moment before stepping in. he brings a hand towards the wall to flick on the soft glow of the hallway lights, casting a shadowy path towards the kitchen. his other hand holds a small grocery bag gently rustling in his hands. it spills out with a bouquet (he did his best to find whatever store was open, staying for a good twenty minutes searching for pretty flowers that had even the smallest hint of your favorite color) and two new flower vases similar to the ones he had shattered.

fushiguro is already placing the bag down by the small, circular dining table, stripping the flowers out of its plastic with whatever quietness he could make and cuts the stems at the inch and angle you always scold him to cut it at. without any haste in his movement, he carefully arranges the two vases with whatever creative talent he had. he pulls back a chair and sits heavily, not minding the creak of it. no, he’s too focused on the two vases anyways. and how he should apologize. fuck, he should apologize right now. wake you up and literally go on his knees.

he leans back on the backrest, running a hand through his hair as his vision blurs and sees the world upside down. and just as he’s almost convinced that his eye sight has gotten worse, he sees your figure standing a few feet away from him. he stumbles in his seat before quickly getting on his feet, a hand gripping on the backrest as if he was about to pass out, needing it for support.

“… you okay ?” you whisper shyly, fingers twisting the hem of your sleepwear. toji notices the croak of your voice and the way your under eyes have puffed up and reddened, and he swallows a thick lump down his throat. despite it all, you’re still so kind to him. a pure angel.

“… yeah.”

“mm.”

you’re eyes flickered over towards the two vases, vibrant hues of flower petals shining beneath the light. your swallow back a shaky voice, but your remaking bottom lip doesn’t defend you.

“you bought new ones ..?”

“‘m so sorry, ma.”

your choke out a sob, bringing the back of your hand up to your eyes to wipe them gently, salty tears spilling out as you try to stop them, not wanting your eyes to be even puffer than they already were. toji catches the sight of your bandaged fingers and he takes a stride forward. than another. and another. and another until his big arms wrap around your smaller frame as he presses a gentle kiss to your temple.

“‘m sorry, ma. promise ‘ya i am.” he can feel you shake your head on his chest, trying to speak out a sentence without stumbling on your words. you know he isn’t good with his words, he’s never been. toji’s too cocky for his own good, and sometimes, in times of need like this, it becomes his biggest enemy.

“‘m sorry, ‘ji, i was talking and talking and—”

“nah, don’worry. ‘like it when you yell at me, anyways.” he pulls back slightly to see your face, all red and snot dripping down your nose as you fanned your face with a hand. toji grins slightly, bringing a big, calloused hand on your face to wipe off the fat tears away from your cheeks. “deserved it, didn’t i ?”

“no ..”

“well, i think i did. i broke your favorite vase ‘n everything.” he bends his back slightly to press a gentle kiss on your cheekbone, tucking in your hair with unfamiliar gentleness. that gets a weak chuckle out of you, but it was good enough for toji.

“… maybe you did deserve it.”

“yeah, maybe.” another gentle kiss is placed on your cheek, quickly trying to reduce the amount of tears in your glossy eyes. “flowers aren’t gonna fix it, isn’t it.”

you wipe the drool of snot away from your nose and toji grabs the edge of his t-shirt and lifts it slightly to wipe away your wet cheeks, crunching down a frown as he sees you stain his shirt with your mucus.

“it fixed a bit of it.” you sniffle out, giving him a weak smile before glancing back at the bundle. the table is messy and the air smells like a greenery, but that’s okay. well, maybe not okay. you’ll give toji a good smack on the head that’ll leave a bump for a few days and ban him to the couch for a while, but this is a step.

okay i just finished reading this and might i say im already addicted this is so beautiful like nana i love u this is how i pictured him so well and me and him and omgomgogm

navigation : midnight records! the moonlight album! the jjk album!

BEFORE SUNRISE ft. Zen'in Toji

synopsis : tokyo, may 1995. she doesn’t want to go home. he doesn’t have one. what starts as a strange encounter becomes a night of wandering until sunrise. and sometimes, one night is enough to remember someone forever.

contains : before sunrise au. soft angst. fluff. right person wrong time. strangers to almost lovers.

warnings : mentions of alcohol/smoking. language. themes of transience and loneliness. mentions of family trauma. suggestivity.

✷ masterlist — chapter two

✷ CHAPTER ONE. / 8:00 PM - Last Train

You left work late. Again.

One of the speakers had blown and you stayed back after close, rewinding the same ten seconds of a scratched L’Arc-en-Ciel CD until the bassline stopped rattling. It didn’t. You gave up.

The street was already leaning toward night when you stepped out, city lights blinking like they were pretending to care. You didn’t check the time. You knew if you looked, you’d start running. And running meant you still gave a shit.

So of course, you ran.

Boots not meant for sprinting. Shoulder bag slipping down your arm every five seconds. You cut through two alleys, jaywalked across an empty intersection, and whispered “sorry” to a taxi that almost hit you, though you weren’t. The wind hit your face like a reminder that you didn’t put on powder before you left. You’d gone a little heavy on the mascara this morning and now it was probably smudged. Fine, whatever.

The station came into view like a mirage of bad timing. You took the stairs two at a time. Your breath caught somewhere just behind your ribs, and right as your foot hit the platform — the train doors slid shut. You didn’t even get the satisfaction of a dramatic noise. They just clicked. Indifferent. Clinical. The train pulled away from the platform as you watched it go, hands on your hips, chest rising too fast, trying to look like you hadn’t just sprinted six blocks and lost.

Cool.

You tried to make your breath quieter. You tried not to look like someone who still cared about missing things. But your legs were buzzing and the strap of your bag had carved a mark across your shoulder and honestly, the worst part was that you ran at all. You could’ve left five minutes earlier. You could’ve not cared. But you ran. Because sometimes, even when you’ve got nothing urgent to get home to — you just want to get there first.

And now you weren’t there. You were here. Sweating slightly under your collar, trying to look normal under the flat glow of station lights. You pulled your coat tighter. Not because you were cold. Just because you needed to do something with your hands.

You decide to lean back against the wall to avoid looking awkward longer. Your shoulder bag tugs at your arm, heavy with too many little things — a mazzy star cassette tape you didn’t put back in its case, half a sandwich you forgot to eat, a receipt you didn’t throw out because it felt like proof of something. You pretend to check the next train time. It's thirty-two minutes. Which is just long enough to feel like a punishment.

The vending machine glows from across the platform — garish in a way nothing ever is during the day. You walk toward it. Not because you’re thirsty. Just because it's something to do that isn’t standing still and thinking about how out of breath you still are. You press the first button you see. A can thunks into the tray like it’s mildly annoyed with you. You open it without looking and take a sip. Lukewarm. Bitter. Tastes like shit and regret. It makes sense. You're not sure what else you expected.

You bring the can up again and catch movement out of the corner of your eye. Not movement, really — just presence. Someone standing across the platform, maybe six paces off. Leaning against a concrete column like he’s been there the whole time. Like he was built into the structure. You didn’t see him when you got here. Or maybe you did, and your body was too busy trying not to collapse in front of a closing train door to register it.

He’s tall. Really tall. Black jacket a little too heavy for the weather, dark jeans that are not too large but not too tight. Cigarette between his fingers, not smoked so much as held. You can’t see his eyes from here, but you feel them. Not in a creepy way. Like he’s not looking at you. But he’s not not looking, either.

He doesn’t shift. Doesn’t even seem bored. Just stands there like someone who doesn’t feel the need to fill silence. Or maybe someone who’s too used to it to bother anymore.

You glance away. Sip again. Grimace. The coffee still tastes like shit.

You wonder what he’s waiting for. If he’s waiting. If he even missed a train or if this is just where he ended up tonight. You think about saying something. Then think better of it. You haven’t had enough sleep this week to make decent small talk. You haven’t had a full conversation in three days that wasn’t about a refund, a release date, or which side of the sleeve is supposed to face out on a display rack.

Besides, he looks like the kind of man who doesn’t answer questions. Not because he’s mysterious, but because he doesn’t see the point.

You exhale through your nose and shift your weight again, not because you’re uncomfortable — just because standing still makes you feel too obvious. You glance over one more time. He hasn’t moved. You don’t know what makes you finally speak. Maybe boredom. Maybe impulse. Whatever it is, the words come out before you think them through. “You always look this constipated?” It comes out low, flat, not even trying to be funny. Just something to toss into the space so it doesn’t keep swallowing you whole.

He doesn’t flinch. Just shifts his gaze slightly, enough to let you know he heard. His face doesn’t change much — except for the smallest twitch near the corner of his mouth, like something pulled tight out of habit is deciding whether or not to let go. “You always talk this much to strangers?” he asks, tone dry, almost bored. Just matter-of-fact.

You shrug, turning your attention back to the can in your hand like it might give you an excuse not to answer. “Only the ones who stare. And see me lose.” You walk back toward the bench without looking at him. You sit, cross your legs and sip the coffee again just to make your mouth stop moving. Still disgusting. Still better than being alone with your thoughts.

He doesn’t come closer but he doesn’t leave either.

“You always smoke that slow?” you ask, watching the red tip of the cigarette hover near his fingers. “Only when I’m not in a hurry.”

“Well shit, guess I ruined your vibe.”

Still nothing. Or maybe silence is just how he answers when he doesn’t feel like lying. You don’t push. But you don’t stop too. “I thought I had more time,” you say, like that’s something normal to admit to a stranger. You keep your eyes on the machines across the track. “I didn’t, apparently.”

He flicks ash without looking at you. “Can’t tell if you’re making conversation or confessing something.” You smile, faintly. “Why not both?” That’s the first time he really looks at you. Not long or searching. Like something about the way you say it doesn’t match what he expected. You sit with that. The station hums in the background. One of the lights overhead buzzes like it’s threatening to die.

“You live around here?” he asks after a beat. It’s not casual, but it isn’t probing either. You don’t look at him when you answer. Just tilt your head, eyes still on the vending machine like it might give you an exit. “Far enough to miss the train. Close enough to pretend I didn’t mean to catch it.”

Another pause. Then you add, softer, because it’s true, and you’re too tired to lie about small things: “Not that I was rushing to get home.” He doesn’t react. But that doesn’t surprise you. He’s got the kind of face that probably doesn’t shift for much. You wonder if that’s something he learned, or if it just grew that way.

You lean back against the bench, feeling the cold press of metal through your coat. The coffee can’s almost empty, and you can’t decide if you’re disappointed or relieved. “It's not that I hate it,” you say, mostly to yourself. “The place is fine. Small. My first appartment.” You swirl the can once before setting it on the ground by your feet. “But sometimes it feels like the walls get closer when I close the door behind me.”

He doesn’t say anything. You weren’t expecting him to. That might be part of the reason you said it. It’s easier to speak when the other person doesn’t try to fill in the blanks. He drops what’s left of his cigarette and crushes it under his boot with a slow, clean scrape. Doesn’t rush the motion. Doesn’t say anything for a while after.

Then: “Let’s walk.”

Just like that. Not a question. Not a command. Just a line drawn across the platform, and you’re the one who has to decide whether to cross it. You look at him. For the first time, fully. And he meets it — not challenging, not inviting. Waiting, like he’s already on the other side of the choice.

You cross your arms, weight shifting to one leg. “You could be a serial killer.” He nods, like that’s reasonable. “I could.” There’s something about the way he says it that doesn’t feel dangerous. He's ridiculously honest. Which is maybe worse.

You look toward the exit, then back at him. “You’re not gonna smile and say ‘I’m not that kind of guy’?”

“No.”

You let out a breath. Not quite a laugh. “Points for consistency.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t gesture for you to follow. He just starts walking. Like the night was already his and you’re just deciding whether or not to step into it.

And for a few seconds, you stay still. You think about your apartment. About the cold floor, the quiet, the leftover curry you didn’t finish last night. You think about how the silence there doesn’t even echo — it just lands. You should stay. You should wait for the next train. You should go home. But you don’t want to go home. So you move.

The doors hiss shut behind you. You step into air that’s cooler than it felt five minutes ago. City air, late air — the kind that smells like warm metal and leftover ramen and just enough night to make you feel like maybe something’s still possible.

You stand there for a second. On the curb. He’s a few feet ahead of you, not looking back, hands in his pockets. He doesn’t ask if you’re coming. He already knows.

You shift your weight. The vending machine buzz follows you out. A cat darts across the street and disappears between buildings like it’s got somewhere more urgent to be. You glance toward him, then forward again. “If I end up in a missing person’s case,” you say, mostly to the sidewalk, “I really hope they use a decent photo.”

He doesn’t turn, but you catch it — the ghost of something near his mouth. Not a smile. Just a suggestion of one. “Guess that depends on what gets you reported missing.” You shake your head, drag your hands deeper into your coat pockets. “You’re really not big on comfort, are you?”

“I don’t sell anything I can’t afford.”

That gets a small exhale out of you. Not a laugh. But enough to loosen the knot in your chest. You both stay still for a minute. Not walking yet. Not really standing, either. Then, without looking at him, you ask: “So, we just gonna walk until sunrise?”

His voice doesn’t shift when he answers. “Unless you’ve got somewhere better to be.” You don’t but you don’t say that. You just stay where you are. The street humming somewhere behind your left shoulder. The sky half-closed. A taxi slows but doesn’t stop. And the night — strange, quiet, almost patient — lets you be undecided.

2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.

TAGLIST (OPEN). / @ayatakanosstuff @buckcherried @andysteve1311 @arwawawa2 @itsmeaudrieee @angelkiyo @stargazsblog @seren-dipitt @loverofthingsnsuch

next theme for pomeloblush is gonna be tomatoes btw, if anyone sees any cute tomatoes things send em my way

the way you guys are in my asks abt moodboards keep that same energy when i ask for selfship questions smh 😒

( ᰔ )

atsumu “my wife” miya, who refers to you as almost nothing but his wife. “my wife made me lunch today”, “my wife loves this weather”. flaunting your ring finger any chance he gets just to show that you two really did seal the deal in wed.

the funny thing is, he’s been referring to you as “his wife” since before you two had even gotten engaged.

me with rin and oliver

self shipping angst is sooo funny. yeah this is my favorite character and romantic partner i love them with my entire heart. im going to make sure i almost die in front of them

ITOSHI RIN's sleep schedule always gets so messed up because he always tries to match your timezone. this man could be eight hours behind or ahead and still stay awake until ungodly hours because:

one – that's when you're free. he knows your sleep schedule like the back of his hand. when you sleep, when you wake up, when you go to work or school, when you eat, when you shower. it's your fault for oversharing and assuming he wouldn't remember.

two – he misses you. your hugs were his main way of expressing his love; how he would tighten his arms around you in return, how he would nuzzle his nose into your skin and focus on your touch. and now he can't do that at all? because you're miles away? torture.

three – you miss him! his face always burns like crazy when he sees all of the texts you send him, telling him you miss him and want to see him play soon, he can't stand it. it may not look like it, but his hands are itching to call you, or even just text back, but he can't. believe it or not, it truly pains him seeing the plethora of dramatic crying emojis, because he can't help but think "maybe that's how you're actually feeling right now?". you're crying? he's about this close to having a meltdown.

finally, once he's back at home, rin just stands there at the door, leaning his weight on you and simply taking you in. his eye bags are heavy, barely any thoughts crossing through his mind, just you. right there and then, he fell asleep while hugging you, which was not planned, but he couldn't help it. on the bright side, he would get to cuddle with you and have you right by his side; something he's been missing for ages.