#various x reader
A/N: I told myself I would post this once I reached 10 chapters. Apparently, I have no self control. No Haikyuu Characters yet, but this is just a prologue…
TW: Mentions of the word sex/Angry sex, but nothing explicit. Also the MC is sad/lonely.
(Please do let me know if you want to be tagged in this series!)
Prev—Next
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Prelude: Lights Out
It’s always the darkest nights that plague the thoughts of the unwilling. Fleeting impurities, flickering against unsuspecting souls and incinerating those who come too close. There are those who flee, out of fear; out of danger, but there are those who linger and remain, out of fear, out of curiosity and out of hope.
You are one of the few who remain. Not in the literal sense, but emotionally; it’s still the same. The decision’s admittedly painful, but as for regrets? You would have none.
You’re moving from Osaka to Miyagi—alone—at the age of 15.
Your parents don’t approve of your decision. Neither does your older sister, the family’s resident bijin, or your clingy younger brother.
Butbecause volleyball is your life, you don’t spiritually leave. Your soul is tied—tangled—in red around the patterned ball and the sport’s all that you know.
And for you, that second tangle of ball and string resides in Osaka.
(Don’t worry about the first—You moved from Hyogo to Osaka at the age of eight. Your initial tangle resides there.)
Granted, the only person you regret leaving behind is your younger brother. Little Yuki-e doesn’t deserve his parent’s mistreatment. You feel very little for your elder sister, whose bijin-ness often led to her picking on you to make her appear more likeable.
(Pathetic, really.)
It took months of pleading. Months of pleading and pledges and near-perfect behaviour to convince your parents to allow you to move to Miyagi with your Aunt Rin, who regrettably lived alone following the death of her husband two years prior. Of all members of your admittedly small family, she was the kindest.
(You vaguely remember the times of your childhood when you got along with your sister. A time before your four-year-old brother was born. A time when your parents smiled and frequently visited Miyagi for weekend getaways, and you smile wistfully at the last framed photograph on the small, decorated table by the door.)
You leave all your countless awards and trophies in your room, now padlocked four times over to prevent your money-hungry sister from laying her grubby hands on them in exchange for more cosmetics and make your way down the hallway of your childhood home, memorising the creamy colour of white on the walls, the countless paintings and wall decorations that screamed wealth; and the dusty, elaborate Bohemian crystal chandeliers that hung over you. Your fingertips trace over the small coloured markings on the kitchen door frame, blinking quietly at the lowest, dated ‘5 years old’ in your messy handwriting.
(110 CM.)
Your gaze slowly rises and lands on the highest mark on the doorframe—’10 years old’, it states, ’136.1 centimetres’. Your lips curl up quietly again.
(You remember arguing with your father that the one millimetre was still a part of your height, and not to make you shorter than you already were. You remember your father laughing at you with his eyes crinkling, and his warm hand ruffling your head; your then-15-year-old sister huffing in defiance.)
And you reach into your coat pocket, feeling for the four-coloured pen you had stuffed in there and measure yourself once more. Turning, you write two final lines just beneath the one you draw.
15. Moving to Miyagi.
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Your parents don’t bid you goodbye as you leave.
Your sister is once again out of the house, likely at the nail saloon or on a date with one of the numerous boys she’s picked up from who knows where. Your father’s in his study, and the scent of his expensive cigarettes wafts from the small gap of the open door as you pass by. You don’t recognise the brand, but you know it’s expensive all the same. And all you do is peer through the gap and stare, memorising his facial features with ease. Your father sits upon the kingly study chair, wine glass in one hand, and a nib-point in the other. His pile of paperwork sits on the mahogany desk before him, and you turn away.
(The reason why your family’s falling apart.)
Your mother is in the bathroom—you can hear the shower water running—and you sigh quietly. This was the third night in a row she was heading out. And she probably wouldn’t be back until at least 3AM. Like she did the previous three days. Like she did whenever she went out. You never bothered finding out where exactly she was headed on most nights, but you knew your sister knew.
Machiru. The pride of the family. Your mother’s confidant.
Not that it mattered to you anyway.
The room you do enter is Yuki-e’s. Your younger brother. The product of your parent’s angry sex. The child they never wanted. It wasn’t as if you were appreciated either, but Yuki-e was far too young to need that experience. That sense of uselessness. That sense of being unwanted.
Knocking quietly, you mutter out to Yuki’s nanny.
“May I come in?”
The responding voice is sweet and gentle. Not quite like your own.
“Young master Yuki-e is sleeping, Lady (Y/N). If it doesn’t bother you that he is, you can come in.”
You open the door as quietly as you can. The nanny, Lana or Rana, is a half-Japanese, half-American woman of roughly eight years Machiru’s senior. And she smiles at you.
“You’re leaving tonight aren’t you, Lady (Y/N)?”
It’s a terrifyingly quiet statement and all you can do is nod mutely. Your eyes don’t leave Yuki’s bed however, and she places a gentle hand against your back to usher you closer. Your head turns and you meet her eyes in a silent thanks, reaching into your backpack for the Bulbasaur plush you know he’s always loved. It’s a gift for him. And the letter too, which you pass over to Lana with a murmur of, “No need to address me with the term ‘Lady’. I am, after all, as far as possible from being one.”
Lana says nothing as you lean over Yuki-e and press a soft kiss to his smooth cheek. And as predicted, the boy doesn’t awaken. Sitting up, you smooth the hair from his forehead.
“He’ll be sad when he discovers you’re gone, (Y/N)-san.”
You don’t say anything about the suffix added to your name. You know. You know better than anyone in the household that Yuki-e would be upset. You just hope that the sadness doesn’t become anger. But you can’t say that aloud. Instead, you say—
—“Look after him. I’m sorry I can’t take him with me.”
You don’t look back as you leave the room, volleyball spinning in your hands.
(What you don’t hear are her last whispered words, “I hope your time there is better than your time here.”)
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The chauffeur at the gate greets you and you nod back, loading the few bags and the suitcase in the rear of the black Bentley.
Seiji is a man in his 60’s, a chauffeur, a grandfather and a soon-to-be retiree. This is the final time he’ll be serving the (L/N) household. Like you, he’s headed back to Miyagi to live out his retirement with his son, who’s name you’re not acquainted with. The Bentley is to be a gift for your aunt. Seiji’s gift is something far grander—His own property on the edge of the countryside town, close to one of his high school friends.
It still amazes you that he’s managed to keep in contact for that long.
Your father’s a good person at heart and he cares for his employees. And Seiji’s a good man; kind and gentle and loving. Like Lana. So it’s only natural that he’s rewarded. But it leaves you slightly bitter, wishing that your father was just as kind to you and your younger brother as much as he cared for his employees and your elder sister.
(Silently, you wonder where your mother sits in this broken hierarchy. Regrettably, she seems much like a trophy wife now.)
You take the passenger seat at the front.
It’s a long drive to Miyagi from Osaka. More specifically, just beyond 10 hours of continuous driving. The trip with Seiji is silent, aside from the quiet, no-nonsense music in the background and the frequent beep-boopingof the game you’re playing. But it has always been like this between you and Seiji, and the ‘silence’ never bothered you. And for that you were thankful, because the noise from your family was enough.
(Arguments between your elder sister and your father. Between your mother and your father. Your father really was the centre of all things, wasn’t he?)
Seiji was—is—your personal driver. One you would no longer need once you arrived in Miyagi. But he understood that you were not simply tossing him aside. You needed a change of pace. A change of location where ‘no one’ would recognise you. But Seiji would forever be your grandfather figure. Because of all the thousands of people in the world, Seiji was the one person you trusted. Countless times he had driven you to places with no destination in silence while you cried. You trusted him with all your quiet places; you trusted him with your darkest secrets, and you trusted him with your silence.
You fall asleep as the car drives past the dusking sky, forehead leaning against the window.
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The Bentley pulls into Tokyo six hours later and Seiji wakes you, informing you that you would be spending the night in a hotel while he slept in the car.
(It was something he insisted on. And there was no arguing against Seiji when he was like that.)
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The black, fabric face mask you wear is your new signature style.
You refuse to allow your identity to be revealed, and you check into the hotel this way. The receptionist hardly spares you a glance as she directs you to your hotel room and passes you your key. Not that it mattered much to you—you would be out of there by 9AM anyway.
(It’s a mid-range hotel. There was never a need for anything higher quality when you were only to stay for the night. Was high quality even a factor for anything? You were grateful enough if there was running clean water, a clean bed, and a roof over your head. You didn’t need the grand splendour of the riches and wealth your family had.)
And at 9AM did you check out with nothing more than the shoulder bag you brought with you the previous night.
It takes another five hours to arrive in Miyagi (or rather, to reach the sign that calls you home—“Welcome to Miyagi!”), and another 10 minutes to reach your aunt’s home, close to the epicentre and shopping district of the country precinct. But the minute your aunt’s house comes into view is when you’re finally feeling the nervous fear that comes with moving alone to another place—even if that place is just a measly 10-and-a-half hours away from where you had come from.
(You try to ignore the fact that you had practically moved halfway across the country; to a place you hadn’t been to for over five years, but details.)
Your aunt greets you at the driveway, excited at the prospect of someone living with her.
“Welcome home, (Y/N)-chan!”, is her over-the-top greeting, warm smiles and a bouquet of flowers in her hand. You smile wobbly. Nervously.
‘Welcome home’, she says, as if you’d been living with her your entire life. She hands you the bouquet of flowers, and your wobbly smile becomes less wobbly.
Aunt Rin ushers both you and Seiji inside, suggesting that the older man take a break while she directs you to your room. Your aunt owns a modest two-storey home, with a balcony hanging off the side of the two upper bedrooms—one of which now belongs to you. It’s cleaned up nicely, obviously a job of a few days’ worth and you feel the appreciation slowly creeping in.
Between you and Aunt Rin, your five bags are brought upstairs with ease and she leaves you to unpack and rearrange, calling—asking—Seiji if he wished for a cup of tea.
(He agrees, of course. Anyone can get Seiji with a cup of tea. The man himself once called himself a ‘tea connoisseur’, much to your amusement.)
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Aunt Rin knows of the reason for your move to Miyagi. She understands the pain of being in the spotlight. Like you, she shows no appreciation for the media and the hype up of an individual. And she knows better than anyone of the pain of being in the spotlight.
After all, she’s a retired model for several famous companies.
You’ve seen her work—Aunt Rin has always had this kind of ethereal beauty, one that doesn’t particularly stand out but somehow manages to steal the spotlight anyhow. And she had once described your fashion of beauty in the same way.
Once, when you saw her two years ago following your uncle’s death.
(To quote her indirectly, she had mentioned to one of her model friends that your beauty was very similar to her own, quiet and calm, whilst Machiru had the beauty of your mother—loud and exuberant. You’re not offended—you’d rather be like Aunt Rin than your mother anyway.)
And so when she returns to your new room moments later and hands you a new sim card for your phone, you accept immediately. And she gathers you into a hug and you melt into her arms.
“Thank you,” you mutter quietly, tearing up at the warmth.
“You’re welcome,” she responds before pulling away several moments later, and holds you by your shoulders, “I’m gonna look after you from here on out, so look after me too, okay?”
Sniffing, you nod and wipe the tears from your eyes. And she smiles gently.
You’re far too young to have all this pressure placed on you.
Despite barely knowing you, Aunt Rin knows you better than your closest family members do. Perhaps it’s because she sees herself in you. Perhaps it’s because she knows that the older members of your closest family don’t treat you the way you deserve. And yet she knows you’re wildly different from her. You’re emotionally stronger than her, after all. And she admires that part of you—even if you don’t notice it.
“I’m going to take Seiji to his new home now, okay? Feel free to set up your room and wander around the town when you’re done. Don’t worry about getting lost—I know my way around this area, so don’t hesitate to call me if you get lost, alright?”
You nod, and she leaves once again, passing you a key to the house when she does so.
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Aunt Rin’s house is eerily silent without her prescence.
You honestly don’t have many items aside from the handful of clothes you had brought to Miyagi. After all, a new start was a new start, right? Because aside from your volleyball and the colour of your bedsheets—a patterned cat quilt cover, red in colour—your room was rather bare.
Nevertheless, you exit your room to wander the house several times over, memorising the layout in a couple of rounds.
And then you stare at the house door. Nervously.
Leaving the house meant communicating with others, and you quietly sigh, slipping your sneakers on and your mask to your face. Returning to your room, you spy the house key upon your table and sigh.
You’d have to buy a keychain if you wanted to ensure that it’d always be with you.
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And the light you had once shone so brightly in Osaka flickers and fades to darkness.
