Fireflies Boyfie!kuroo Tetsur X Gn Reader

ㅤfireflies ᵕ̈        boyfie!kuroo tetsurō x gn reader ˎˊ˗

⋮⋮ ˒ ₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎ 𖥻 ⿻ : stars twinkle around you , ⋮⋮  but both of you are still on earth  

📋 content     ♡ # 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧 🐮     ♡ # 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦 🥛     ♡ # ~500 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴

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💬 kuroppiii ─ “ not proofread !!! the voices were telling me to just pump this out bc he consumes all my thoughts and neurons in my brain !!! ”

melting into the plush blanket under you, your head rests in the area between kuroo’s shoulder and his chest. it’s dark outside, probably close to midnight—even the street lamps lining the bridge in your peripherals have gone to sleep.

the blades of grass are soft as they graze the exposed skin of your ankle. you bask in the mixed lullaby of the river—only a few paces away from your two pairs of feet, bubbling and trickling by—and the rise and fall of your boyfriend’s chest as his breath sounds steady under your ear.

tiny, fleeting blinks of warm light appear then disappear from your vision. they pop up randomly in your surroundings—unpredictable, teasing, and playful. the fireflies dance along the skirt of the creek, as you and kuroo lay comfortably in each other’s arms.

“i used to love catching fireflies when i was little” kuroo’s voice speaks up, deep and uneven from being unused in the still night, “do you know what chemicals are involved when a firefly lights up?”

“no... what are they?” your voice contains a tiny lace of tiredness, like it’s on the verge of a yawn. you already know what you’re getting into. but a small part of you still gets excited to hear whatever spiel that’s about to come out of kuroo’s mouth.

“well, first they have oxygen in them, and this thing called luciferin. that’s a common chemical that makes things glow on nature...” as you still stare at the water and the fireflies lingering above your heads, you can feel him playing with your fingers gently.

“and then there’s an enzyme, luciferase. sounds luciferin, right? that’s because it’s the reaction’s catalyst,” you readjust your head on the fabric of his thick hoodie, and above you he tucks your head under his chin, “it’s luciferase’s other half, in a way.”

“then they all come together to make oxyluciferin and energy—that’s what emits the light from the firefly’s body,” you watch as his sneakers start to innocently move around, side-to-side down at the edge of your blanket.

“and yeah, that's about it,” kuroo attempts to reach his arm out and catch one of the fireflies in his grasp. he fails, so his hand returns to tangle with yours on his torso.

“why don't they blow up?” you mumble, breathing in his scent.

his chest rumbles in a chuckle under you, “excuse me?”

“don't chemical reactions cause things to blow up sometimes?”

“not all the time,” the arm wrapped around your side pulls you in closer briefly.

“aww,” you feign in monotone disappointment.

“you want innocent fireflies to blow up?”

“no...” not when he words it like that. you pause, considering if expressing the next thought that comes to your head was necessary. you end up whispering, “if they did they wouldn’t look so pretty tonight.”

without missing a beat, your boyfriend whispers back, “not as pretty as you.”

“i wish you would blow up.”

he bends down to plant something between a grin and a kiss on your cheek.

guys i think i’m going off the deep end bc why is this some love island levels of drama i just wrote out

tune in to forty, love part 3 if you want some real drama 😭🙏 bc my god is it getting messy

i need to kiss tadashi yamaguchi on his stupid freckled face 😞

SOMEBODY TIEBREAK THIS PLEASEEE 🙏🧎‍♀️

chat! <3 when i finish one of my ongoing series i already have an idea for a new one

with no spoilers, it has to do with boba!

i can’t decide who should be the main man though, so could you lend me some help? :)

chat this got me reallll fucked up

very very very slight nsfw, proceed with caution ! !

Most nights, Wakatoshi likes to lie down and stare at his ceiling fan, tracing the cracks in the plaster that surround the hanger bracket. He prefers to sleep with the hem of his worn-out Shiratorizawa jersey shrugged halfway up his torso, not too much, not too little, and his blanket covering him from waist down. He plays this game whenever his eyes unwillingly remain open at 10:58pm, or 1:29am, or 4:34am, where he tries to will the ceiling fan into spinning a little faster, so the wind becomes strong enough to make the hairs on his face stand up, and noticeably glide across his bare torso like a brush on a canvas. It never works, but he tires himself out with this game until his eyelashes finally flutter close, and a mess of soft hair settles onto his chest, gentle fingers tracing the lines of his stomach, to the dip of his ribcage beneath his skin, to the crevices of his collarbones.

Some nights, Wakatoshi likes to do all of that, but with one extra step. As his eyelashes flutter shut, he waits for a slitering body to press against his own, the movement yanking his jersey just a little further up to his chest, maybe even over his neck and onto the bed completely. He wears his tired eyes on his face anyways, and sets free his impatient hands. Scarred palms find their way onto the spine, and the chest, cradling entire surfaces with ease. Calloused fingers begin to press firmly against soft skin, and roam restlessly in all directions and dimensions he can fathom. Another pair of hands follows suit, tracing the curve of his waist, sliding across his torso, pressing into the flesh of his bicep. He lets go of his stoic control and relishes in the way two bodies move as one under his gradually speeding ceiling fan, twitching in the other's fervent warmth periodically until the fan pops and spits and shudders and the motor burns out completely. This is Wakatoshi's least favourite part, when his half-lidded eyes give out as the ceiling fan fades into pitch black, and all he can feel is an arm sprawled lazily across his chest.

On his match days, Wakatoshi likes to take a look in the crowd as he spins the ball in his palms before his first serve. There, he will find the face from the night before, the one that hovered above him, or sunk into his bedsheets beneath his own. They will now have a Schweiden Adlers jersey draped from their shoulders, with a glaring #11 plastered onto the front, and his last name across the back in bold Ushijima. His eyes will turn back to the ball as he lets the air in the court wash through his lungs, and tosses it high. His serve will slam into the ground, and the crowd will erupt into roaring applause and deafening cheers, chanting his name like a mantra. Ushijima! Ushijima! Ushijima! His face will remain unmoving, stoic as usual as he turns back to the stands. The face will be gone.

One night, Wakatoshi swears, he will call Satori, who is all the way in Paris, busy with tempering chocolate and swirling them into ribbons of cocoa. And when he does, you will be the first face he sees. Satori will be somewhere, devising a new recipe, or packaging orders for his next client, and you will lead the phone to him, showing off the Parisian home that the two of you have rented. You will show him all of Satori's photos from his youth, and those of the three of you during Wakatoshi's time at Shiratorizawa, where his arm is thrown across your shoulders, and a rare grin emerges on his face in every one of them. The sounds of his creaking ceiling fan will drown out your voice, until Satori's shrieky greeting blasts through his speakers, his fingers covered in layers of milk and dark chocolate as he grabs the phone and the two of you travel towards the TV. You will point at him on the screen, glancing at the stands as the volleyball spins in his palms, and Wakatoshi will realise that you are wearing his jersey for him. He will pretend not to see Satori wearing one too.

And as the call ends, Satori will make a casual remark about letting Wakatoshi stay over in your shared apartment if he ever drops by Paris, and Wakatoshi will nod mindlessly in agreement, before the phone shuts off. Then, he will continue to stare at his ceiling fan, counting and tracing the cracks in the plaster around the hanging bracket. He will shrug his worn-out Shiratorizawa jersey halfway up, not too much, not too little. He will find the perfect position for his arm to lay in, just across his chest, but angled slightly down so his fingertips brush the curve of his waist ever so lightly. He will try to forget the nights that your slithering body visits him before his slumber, and how your soft skin feels beneath his calloused fingers and scarred palms. Wakatoshi will play the game again, focusing on the fan and praying for it to speed up just enough to make the hairs on his face stand up, and for the gentle brushes across his torso, and his stomach, and the dip of his ribcage beneath his skin, and the crevices of his collarbones, to all become real, so he doesn't have to play again. Of course, it will fail as always, and Wakatoshi's eyes will simply flutter close, and there will be no mess of hair that settles on his chest.

And then he will wake up, stare at the ceiling, and do it all over again.

author's notes:

omg it's not a tsukishima fic this time!! it's my first time writing ushijima ngl but i could not imagine any other character in this one. don't know if you can tell, but this is spontaneous, and i definitely should have spent the time i put into this making more flashcards instead, but i don't care, and i've already made an entire essay's worth of them so i really only have two essay's worth left

but i hope you enjoy, and if this should be tagged as full nsfw please someone let me know because i don't know the conventions for that SORRY

anyways here are the tags as promised:

@starlysama @chuuya-brainrot

love you guys, ok bye bye

SAKUATSU IS TIED??!! 😭

chat! <3 when i finish one of my ongoing series i already have an idea for a new one

with no spoilers, it has to do with boba!

i can’t decide who should be the main man though, so could you lend me some help? :)