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starsailorjannystan · 4 months

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in which you’re Kise Ryōta’s best friend, forced to watch him disintegrate before your eyes, his teeth growing sharper, his laughter going higher and his smiles getting faker. your friendship is one of the things you value most in your life. unbeknownst to you, he wants to ruin it.

long one-shot, alternate pov cheerleader!reader light angst, fluff, pining mellow, anime!kise because i’m delulu of his manga version (at least in this fic)

“What? What is it? Intimate? Private? Personal? But what are friends for, if you can’t talk to them about what really matters? All these nights we spent talking together… How could you? How?”

The Name, Matthieu Delaporte and Alexandre de la Patellière

************************************************************************

You’ve known Kise Ryōta for as long as you could breathe.

Technically, you can’t remember your first meeting, since you were both in glass cribs in a Tokyoite hospital, blissfully unaware of the summer heat, but just as you were neighbours as babies in the maternity ward, you were neighbours as little toddlers in the sandbox, and neighbours as children, waving to each other from your window.

Then you had your first significant meeting in a gym. His elder sisters were taking ballet classes on the upper floor, and you were stuck together during stretching exercises in your rhythmic gymnastics class. You had offered your name, he had offered his, and it had been the childish equivalent of blood-brothering yourselves to each other.

Since then, you had been glued at the hip, like conjoined twins (without the unfortunate medical complications, of course), and people were more surprised to find you on your own than with each other.

You had followed Kise in every sport endeavour he had undertaken, from swimming to baseball, from gymnastics to volleyball, cricket to soccer, short-track and figure skating and cycling, and you watched as each time he mastered a sport and gradually grew bored with it, while you got into cheerleading in third grade and never regretted that decision. You waited for each other at the end of the school day, him on whatever sport activity had struck his fancy at the time, you running drills with the cheer squad, and you always stopped for drinks on the way back home, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Your parents never minded the fact that your best friend was a boy, because they had known Kise since he was little too, and you weren’t short of girlfriends thanks to the cheer squad. Though one day you had come back home crying, and your mother had gone into full mama bear mode, until you told her Kise had choked on a bone fish at lunch. You had never been so scared in your life and you had really thought he was going to die. Your father offered to sign you up for first aid classes, and you had dragged Kise with you.

************************************************************************

Middle school had been the first time you were separated. You went to Teikō Junior High, while Kise joined Teikoku Junior High, a school known for its invincible soccer team.

You made the mistake of briefing him on Teikō’s basketball team. To this day, you still don’t know if you forgive yourself or not. But in the end, you’ve decided that time in your lives had been necessary, and your relationship hadn’t been broken to the point where you couldn’t mend it.

Kise had taken on modelling, and as always you had been as supportive as possible, secretly hoping he would stick to it, that he had finally found a hobby that would keep his interest. He had wanted to get his ears pierced, because it would make him look cool, and you had decided against telling him that earrings could cause accidents. Two girls on your squad had been practising back tucks, and one had accidently caught the other's loop earring while spotting her, and you still remembered her shrill scream and all the blood that had dripped on the mat. However, you had had your own ears pierced a while ago as a birthday gift from one of your aunts, and you had noticed the way Kise looked at your ladybugs pendants. You had always done everything together, maybe he was feeling like he was missing out on an experience. So all in all, you hadn't thought it would be a bad idea, all things considered.

Hoo boy, were you wrong.

You had ended up in a café, sharing a tiny strawberry shortcake because you were both on a diet thanks to your demanding activities, and Kise was still sniffling over the pain of the piercing. You had left Claire's with him clutching his left ear, and your endless stream of comforting words had sort of calmed him, but he had refused to pierce his other ear. You had stopped on your way to buy disinfectant, and, without his knowing, a pair of small ring-like silver earrings. And, over the half-eaten shortcake, you had offered him an earring.

"You know, I think you'll look even cooler with only one. It's a style and I'm sure you'll rock it!"

He had looked up from his spoon, eyes still a bit watery, but glinting with hopefulness.

"You think so?"

"Of course! Here, take it."

You had made sure his wound was clean, and you had slid in the earring's pin. Then, you had slipped the other earring on your right thumb.

"Look, I'll keep it until you want to pierce your other ear. How about that?"

He had nodded, and both to change the topic and cheer him up, you had said:

"You know, my school has this incredible basketball program, and you haven't tried basketball yet, right?"

That's when everything started going south.

************************************************************************

You didn't mind being small.

Sure, sometimes you wished you would be a bit taller, mostly because you couldn't afford to gain weight, as on your frame it would show immediately and your coach would double your drills, but you knew that your small height was what allowed you to be top girl. You could back tuck into next year any girl on your squad, and any boy on the gymnastics club. Your kneecaps had been stunted by tumbling, but you didn't mind.

Except when Kise joined the basketball team and suddenly every person you hung out with was way, way, wayyyyyy taller than you.

Even Momoi, who didn't even play basketball, was taller than you.

At least none of them were jerks about it. Most of the time.

"Come on, stop sulking!"

"I'm not sulking!"

Aomine was easily the worst offender. At least purple-haired guy (Murasakibara? was that his name?) wasn't really mean about it. Plus he towered over everyone so you never took it personally. Aomine however always seemed to have fun asking you how the snails were faring today, since you were so close to them. You had no idea how Momoi managed to put up with him 24/7. Though it was true that with his negative 20 IQ thing going on half the time, Aomine was mostly manageable. You’d offered to tutor him, and had been blown away by how many subjects he was failing.

“I thought Kise was bad at school,” you’d said, ignoring your best friend’s theatrical pout, “but you take the cake.”

“What cake?”

“Go back to sleep, Murasakibara.”

(You haven’t seen Kise smile like that in a while. You’re not sure Teikoku was a great place.)

So you hung out with the first-string after practice, head still pounding with the pyramid counts, thighs bruised by the bottom bases’ grips, your shoulder still smarting, pain lancing through your arm. You tried not to throw up the ice-cream you bought, and you turned your head when Momoi touched your arm.

“What do you think about this app? It could be useful.”

You shook your head, looking up to the pink-haired girl.

“Once, I’ve entered Kise’s data in it—”

“You what—”

“And it told me he was three months pregnant. So, those apps are weird. You’re better off tracking it manually on a calendar.”

(The truth was, you didn’t know. You hadn’t had your period yet. None of the girls on your squad had—except Sachiko, and you’d never seen her again after the day you’d heard her crying in the bathrooms).

Momoi smiled, before catching sight of Kuroko and launching herself onwards like a rocket, earning little more than a deadpan look, though you could see the fondness under it.

But truly, you didn't mind, because for the first time in virtually forever, Kise looked genuinely excited about his new hobby. You thought that this time he really found companionship and stimulation. You smiled back at him whenever he turned to you in the bleachers after a successful shot, marvelling at the way he seemed to light up the whole court as soon as he stepped on it. His happiness was your happiness. So you'd never shown defiance towards the basketball team. You really hadn't thought that one through.

************************************************************************

You went shopping together because Kise had wanted a new phone and you were on your fourth store raid already. You didn't see anything wrong with his current phone, which still had on its back the Hello Kitty sticker you had given him when you entered middle school. Sure, it was peeling a little, but it was fine. Kise only asked for the phone's capacity and photographic quality each time, and off you were on your quest again. Munching on your fizzy drink's straw, you raised your head as he rushed towards you. Before you could ask him if he had finally found it, he slung one arm over your shoulders and told you to smile.

Heads bonking over the screen, you grinned at each other. You were both weak for selfies and your own phone didn't have any storage space left for them.

Kise made that one his lock screen picture, and turned fully to you.

"See, it takes pictures better than my eyes."

You had smiled, too, and you'd never questioned his enthusiasm over it.

************************************************************************

Kise's modelling activities had several perks.

For one, you got to meet so many hot people it should have been illegal. You could also get reductions on self-care products, and you were too cute to be broke, so you accepted it without problems. You even got to meet (well, stare at from afar) the photographer of your favourite girl group. Half the pictures on his Instagram account were taken by you, and thank cheer practice for flexibility, because you had to contort like a circus artist to get the best angle each time.

However, his fangirls weren't one of them.

Even though your relationship was strictly platonic, you still got some really hurtful letters and even texts (how did they even get your number?), and after a while you simply blocked them out. You had lost count of all the people trying to get to Kise through you, using you as a means to an end, and you just tried to screen the people that had vile intentions.

Though you could still see how it weighed on your best friend. He was nice and bubbly with everyone, and even if you worried about the mental gymnastics he had to do, you knew he wouldn't turn into a people-pleaser. A few days ago, you had snapped at one of your squadmates who had called him a "two-faced asshole" after being (quite politely, might you add) rejected.

And across from you, he had looked glumly at his (fishless) bento, and you had asked him what was wrong.

"There's this girl that keeps following me," he had sighed. "I tried to let her down but she's incredibly annoying. And clingy," he had grimaced.

Vaguely, you'd remembered a brown-haired girl who was always lingering at the basketball gym's door when you came after cheer practice to go home with Kise.

"So she's bothering you. Want me to go talk to her?"

"No! No, it's fine."

You knew he couldn't be blunt because it would come across as rude and the rumours would kill him. Still, it made your stomach churn with anger.

When the girl had latched onto Haizaki, as you comforted Kise after his crushing loss, you thought that at least it was one less thorn in his side.

************************************************************************

You had realised you were drifting apart at the end of your second year.

Cheer practice had been cancelled because your coach's kid was sick, and you were wandering aimlessly through the streets of the commercial district, half your mind on which high school you would have to go to.

And then you had crossed paths with Kise, who had looked like he was going in one of the glass-paned windows buildings, and you had stopped dead in your tracks. Not because he was where he wasn't supposed to be, but because he had seen you and smiled at you. You recognised that smile. It had the undercurrent of tension that was usually reserved for his fangirls, and it was directed at you.

"Shouldn't you be at practice?" you'd asked.

"Should I?"

That was how you'd known something was deeply wrong.

The basketball team wasn't exactly your friend group, since you hung out with the squad most of the time and without Kise, you didn't really have anything to say to them, except maybe for Momoi and Kuroko. And still you noticed how Aomine was nowhere to be seen, and even Midorima didn't bother with acknowledging you in the halls.

And worst of all, you'd watched Kise's eyes go back to being glazed over with boredom. Every time you asked him if he wanted to talk about it, and every time he reassured you, saying nothing was wrong.

Kise had never lied to you. He had always known all your problems and secrets, and you his.

Somehow, you felt guilty about what happened.

************************************************************************

Teiko was not known for its leniency when it came to sports practice.

Still, it was you who’d foolishly risen to the bait of your squad captain, and here you were on a Friday evening, shrugging icy water off of you hoping for feeling to come back to your toes, when you could have been at home already soaking in a bubble bath.

One good thing: nothing hurt anymore, since your limbs had fallen asleep. You could still catch the last train, so you made it out quickly, grabbing your bag. You walked stiffly to the exit, unwittingly going next to the basketball gym, ruining all your efforts.

(You hadn’t taken the challenge to prove anything to that empty-brained tumbler. You knew it’d hold you back enough so you could miss Ryōta on the way home and pretend it was club stuff. You’d been avoiding him and pretending not to notice his hurt looks. You were unravelling.)

So, that day, walking past the gym, steeling yourself not to look inside, you heard those words.

“Next time we see each other, we’ll be opponents.”

You sped up, almost running to the bus stop, your ankle smarting again after your short run had warmed up your body, heart beating to the confusing tune of hurt and longing.

You weren’t sure you could handle three more years like this.

************************************************************************

Sixteen and born to win, you hopped on the train right as the doors closed, slipping in without so much as a hair caught between the metal edges. Your nails flashed hot pink against the grey of your new uniform skirt, and your hair was tied neatly. You were ready to hit the mat before breakfast.

Of course, you dropped on a seat and immediately let your head fall against the window, catching up on your lost sleep.

Under your eyelids, you couldn’t stop your mind from flashing your phone’s black screen, Kise silent after you’d texted him you couldn’t walk to school with him because of club imperatives, your heart sinking a little in your chest. You couldn’t help but remember the knowing look Momoi had given you at graduation when you’d told her which high school you were going to. As if she were one to talk—you hadn’t made any comment when she’d said she would be going to Tōō! And anyway, it was either this or Shutoku, and you wouldn’t be caught dead on the same squad as your former cheer captain. That girl was going down this year or else.

High school was going to be a good time, you’d make sure of it. New place, new people new rules, new you.

************************************************************************

When Kise Ryōta was five years old, he learnt that little girls could bend in half.

He saw one of them do it, in the gym where his oldest sister had left him while she took her dance classes on the upper floor.

She had bent so far that, for a second, he had been worried she would snap in two.

He would never forget that moment—the moment he discovered what extraordinary meant.

He would never forget any of the moments that came after, when you had told him your name and became his friend at a time when he was so lonely it hurt.

As you both grew up, he’d started to worry you would move on. Find someone better, someone more interesting. Someone truly gifted in something the way he wasn’t—copying is the lowest form of the wit, after all, or however the saying went.

Or maybe he would get bored of you. Get bored of seeing the same face day after day.

Unfortunately, as the years passed, he didn’t grow bored.

Kise discovered a new sentiment: frustration.

And you were painfully oblivious to it, wrapped up in your own worry.

************************************************************************

First-aid classes with you were horrible for his blood pressure.

Sometimes, the instructor felt merciful and let you practise on mannequins. Other times, the elderly man fancied himself a hotshot cardiac surgeon or something and forced you to practise on live bodies. “A mannequin can’t prepare you for the feeling of ribs breaking under your hands,” he had said, dead serious, with a dozen teens looking uncomfortable as hell.

You insisted on signing up every year in order not to forget the manoeuvres. He knew where that came from, and sure, if he was to choke on a bone fish again or go into cardiac arrest from a bad collision, there’d better be someone who knew the Heimlich manoeuvre and CPR. But if you were the one doing it? He was going to choke anyway.

You hovering over him, eyes on his mouth, gaze focused and jaw set? Yeah, every session was torture and you didn’t even notice. Were you even his friend? Did you even care a little bit about his feelings? How could you not feel the way his skin burnt under your fingers when you pulled him into a practiced recovery position?

As he drifted away from his own teammates, from the new passion basketball had kindled in him, he decided against telling you the only thing keeping him coming to practice was the thought of walking home with you.

************************************************************************

He didn’t have a clue most of the time.

Everything was fine, and then something switched. The day he started undressing you in his head—absent-mindedly, like it was nothing at all, like you weren’t his most precious friend, like he wasn’t unravelling the last thread of his reality—was the day he knew he was fucked six ways from Sunday. You were stuck in a push-and-pull with each other, and he didn’t know what to do.

It seemed Kise could not keep his friendships going smoothly.

You holding his hand or hugging him was never a problem before. He refused to spoil your relationship like with the other Miracles. On the other hand, throwing it all away was so tempting, the easy way out, burn all the bridges and pretend it never happened. If you had been someone else, he’d already have done it. But you were you. You were not some girl he could just toy with, speeding it up to get faster to the break-up.

On a good day, he would psych himself into trying to talk to you—and always failed miserably to follow through with his plan.

When you were younger, you’d hold sleepovers at his or your house, in the dark, by candlelight, giggling uncontrollably until his sisters or your parents came to scold you gently.

He appreciated candlelight even more now, some seven years later and several hours a day spent under the unforgiving blinding flash of a photographer’s camera. He liked the warm flickering glow of it, how the candle slowly died, and you’d agree on going to bed, but would end up talking again until either of you fell asleep. He liked catching glimpses of you in the dark, piecing you back together in his head, fragments of you in this soft glow haunting his dreams, and he'd wake up with strands of your hair in his dry mouth and his hands uncomfortably close to you and he'd go straight to the bathroom. Being overly enthusiastic at breakfast didn’t quite make up for it, unfortunately, and he’d pretend not to notice the question in your gaze.

At the height of summer, he gave up on faking indifference at the way your shorts rode up on your thighs, showing blue and purple bruises where you’d been gripped countless times, propped up by bottom bases for a pyramid. Lying on the grass, he tried to focus on your words despite the blood rushing in his ears, thinking about how much he wanted to make those bruises his doing, how he wanted to—

He came later and later when you were having sleepovers, photoshoots and practice eating away at his time, smiling sheepishly to your father working in the living-room, you were already half-asleep on your covers spread on the floor, near your open window, aquarium glowing softly purple, pump-pump-pumping water. Your eyes two bright spots on your lit-up face when you pulled gently on his sleeve to make him lie down next to you. He complied every time, exhaustion making his limbs weak. He tried to sleep and not think about how hard it was to not touch.

School was no respite for him. When he managed to hide from his fangirls, you spent the break stowed away, pressed against each other like when you were little, and life was a river under a rainbow. You leaned on his shoulder in the hallway, staying still until the motion-activated lights turned off.

You would both pretend everything was fine, and that this wasn’t the worst time of your lives.

************************************************************************

You looked at him but you failed to notice how he looked at you—how his gaze followed the hair catching at your mouth whenever you landed a tumbling pass, ponytail flipping, how he trailed close when you walked on railings by the road on the way home, how his breath hitched when you dismounted with an aerial walkover as if a car didn’t zoom past you at one hundred miles per hour, looking back at him and shooting him a cocky grin, how you were always confident and invested in a single thing, laser-focused on your passion.

The hardest thing in cheer was not the tumbling passes, or the pyramids, or the hours or the gruelling practices, the injuries or the rivalries. It was the smile hiding the lactic acid building in the muscles, it was the spring in the step on hardwood floor, the unfailing cheerfulness.

“Why do you like it?”

He’d asked one day, at the end of cheer practice, which for once had overrun basketball—they needed to prepare for regionals, especially with Shutoku’s squad firing on all cylinders on the circuit this year.

“I’m part of something,” you’d said. “I’m part of something and I don’t have to look at myself.”

After a moment, you’d asked:

“Why do you like basketball?”

He’d paused to really think about it for a minute, and realized he’d finally settled on an answer long ago. He just had to acknowledge it.

“I’m part of a team.”

************************************************************************

Highschool saw you fall into a tentative, sincere routine that was an attempt at going back to the way things were.

(When will you both admit things changed? You were waiting to see who would break first.)

You walked to and from school together. Ease came back as you stopped awkwardly greeting each other, picking up the conversation where you’d last left off without missing a beat, like before. It felt safe, comfortable.

You came to Kise’s games with a spring in your step, happy to see him interact with his teammates, happy to see that Kaijō was free of the currents of tension that had plagued Teikō’s last days.

You went back to your favourite hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, sharing food the way you used to. Everything clicked gradually back into place like synchronizing heartbeats, and even though you knew things would never be the same again, you did your best to make up for what happened, and he did too.

Maybe this was your way of apologizing. Maybe it was his, too.

“I think I need a new lock screen photo,” Kise said one day, gauging your reaction.

“Yeah, I think you do,” you answered.

You grinned at each other.

Things always looked up eventually.

************************************************************************

One second you were soaring in the air under the blinding lights of the stadium, so high, high, high up you could have sworn you touched the rafters, your whole body tight and arms crossed on your chest as you completed your flip, heart rattling against your ribcage partly because of the booming music and partly because of the sheer excitement you’d been feeling.

The next second, your head was meeting the unforgiving, hardwood, polished floor of the court, your squadmates desperately scrambling for you, painted nails scratching at your arms, thighs and waist, clutching and leaving crescent-shaped indents in your skin, and as you were propped upright, you felt sticky hot blood coating your forehead and hairline, and you blurted out: "Oh, that's not good."

The good side of things was that you didn't really feel the pain, since you were living an out-of-body experience. It had started when your squad got on the court, as always, your body slipping out of your mind's control to execute the choreography, the tumbling passes and pyramid beats, and even your injury couldn't jolt you back to reality. Adrenaline was still coursing through your veins, and the hallway was swirling a little. One of your squadmates was standing guard near the bench you sat on, trying not to lie down, and your coach had called an ambulance. You had started debating internally whether falling asleep and risking not waking up was worth it or not when you caught a blue and yellow blur at the periphery of your vision.

A split second later, two strong, callused hands softly cupped your cheeks and you tried to focus on the two worried brown eyes staring at you. It took three long seconds for you to piece it back together—pretty in blue, perfectly winged eyeliner and the hand that held your own when he dragged you from mall to mall—your best friend was here.

You smiled brightly, though you weren't sure if your numbing body had followed the motion since Kise's brows furrowed further.

"Ryōta!" you chimed, your own voice sounding far away. "Is the match over?"

"It's still half-time. They're cleaning your blood off the court."

"Oh," you muttered, nodding in understanding, the movement sending pain flaring through your nerves, kind of bumped out Kise hadn't won yet, because then you would have headed out for celebratory drinks, and you knew you had to talk to him about something, but what? You were sure you had planned to talk…

You heard Kise calling out your name, and the edge of panic to his voice made you realise you’d been zoning out.

"Are you okay?"

As you tried to focus on his gaze and the feeling of his fingers on your cheeks, you caught sight of your squadmate beckoning your coach over.

"I'm perfectly fine," you beamed as you started falling over, the siren of the ambulance blaring painfully in your brain even from behind the stadium glass gates, blue and red lights flashing on your face, and your vision went black.

************************************************************************

Kise could barely focus on the rest of the match.

Of course, it didn't mean he threw it. He blazed across the court in his usual, miracle-curb-stomping-mortals fashion, but he was off, half out of it. Even though the team they were facing was nowhere near a threat to Kaijō, he knew Kasamatsu wouldn't have hesitated to drop kick him into next year were it not for the too-shiny spot near the half court line where you bled out. Okay, maybe there was no need to be dramatic about it but you'd been whisked away by an ambulance and even the cheer coach, who didn't blink at splintered shins and broken arms, had looked worried. Head injuries could be lethal in this sport. You weren't paralyzed or anything, but he remembered the dried blood near your hairline and your unfocused eyes, glazed over with pain and what was probably the beginning of a concussion.

After the game, he put his clothes back on in autopilot mode, wordlessly letting know Coach Takeuchi he was going straight to the hospital and not getting on the team bus.

The receptionist looked at him with downright unwarranted distrust when he told her he was waiting for you, and that you’d suffered a head injury.

“Let me guess: she fell down the stairs?”

Kise didn’t even know what to say to that, mind coming up blank with worry, and so simply went to sit between a sniffling child and a man who seemed fine despite the axe planted in his head. He belatedly remembered to text his manager he was not coming to the shoot after all.

His chest deflated with relief when he saw your coach step back out in the waiting room, with you right behind her, bandages hiding under your bangs. He sprung up, ignoring the eyes of the receptionist burning holes in his back, and waited until your coach had left you near your house before talking to you. The blood trickling from your forehead where you’d split skin had been spectacular but harmless, as you’d only suffered from a little head trauma. The hematoma would disappear in three weeks all on its own. His throat felt choked up with relief and all the unnamed emotions he’d let simmer during all those years.

You arrived in front of your apartment complex, street lights falling on the street walk, splashes of light on the dark pavement. Silence blanketed you while you were trying to muster the courage to talk.

At the same time, you both said:

“I’m sorry.”

Kise blinked. Sorry? About what? What even—why couldn’t he even apologize properly—

“I wasn’t there for you,” you said, feeling your eyelashes brush against your bandages. “I should have tried to help you instead of watching it happen.”

“What—no, no! I—”

Come on, get your shit together, Ryōta.

“I was avoiding you,” he finally admitted. “Because… I can’t be friends with you anymore.”

You were stunned into silence, coming to a halt before the steps leading to the entrance of the apartment complex. For a second, you convinced yourself you’d misheard. That you’d actually suffered a concussion and were hallucinating this whole part. That this wasn’t happening.

“It’s not because I don’t like you!” He scrambled to save the throw, trying to get all his thoughts out faster upon seeing the way you’d reacted. “It’s because I like you…too much.”

Kise bit on his tongue. He was messing this up. He was messing this up so badly. He felt so stupid, where was his casual flirtiness when he needed it, you would never talk to him again—

You silently hugged him tight, something you hadn’t done since middle school, and the air flew out of his lungs like you’d just punched him.

Humiliating tears pricked his eyes and he closed his arms around you, burying his nose in your hair, your game-day shampoo’s scent wrapping around him, and he found the strength to say, so quietly you could have not heard it: “I missed you.”

“I missed you too. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Stupid, stupid you to worry about him when you literally split your head open. But it was true, wasn’t it? He didn’t need to be dragged to practice, you’d timidly gone back to hanging out together more often, and he found that he actually liked those Kaijō lunatics (though he still did not appreciate Kasamatsu’s cage fight skills).

“See you tomorrow?”

Kise reluctantly let you out of his arms, and nodded, heart swelling with relief. Relief, relief, relief. You still wanted to talk to him.

“See you tomorrow.”

You turned, but halted, one foot still lifted over the first step. Did your heart hurt? Did he need to call your parents? His hand went fishing for his phone in his pocket, set on dialling your mom’s number, but he went still when you turned again and took one step closer to him, your hand gripping his jacket, and he mindlessly bent down, eyes widening as you got closer and closer until your lips pressed against his.

Every coherent thought disappeared as his brain turned to mush, and he let out an undignified noise as your tongue anxiously, timidly slipped into his mouth. He’d become the embodiment of non-resistance, hands cupping your face as a wave of heat washed over him.

Then, as quickly as you’d started, you stopped and took a step back.

Kise distantly thought he was probably as red as Kagami’s hair, brain rewiring to produce full sentences again.

“See you tomorrow,” you said, with finality this time, smiling softly.

He nodded, watching you go inside.

He’d see you tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and the day after that, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

#knb #knb x reader #kuroko no basket #kuroko's basketball #kuroko no basuke #kise x reader #kise ryota x reader #kise ryota #gom #knb imagines #knb scenarios #knb one-shot #reader scenario #knb fanfic #plot bunny status: out of my head and that's all that matters

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