Kita Fluff - Blog Posts

noorpersona

3 weeks ago

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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Anon Ask: Kita

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.

Confessions: Kita

The thing about Kita Shinsuke is that he never does anything without purpose.

He speaks with intention, moves with care, and rarely—if ever—lets emotion get the better of him. He is dependable to a fault, calm even in the most chaotic situations, and as predictable as a rising sun. Which is why, when he turns to you one spring afternoon and says, "I’m in love with you," you nearly choke on your drink.

The two of you are sitting beneath the shade of a wide camphor tree near the back of the school, where the grass grows a little taller and the breeze feels like a secret only you two share. The breeze is soft, the air warm and sweet with the scent of new blossoms. You’d come out here to eat lunch together—something that had become a quiet ritual between you and Kita. No crowds, no noise. Just the two of you, sharing space, swapping stories, occasionally falling into long stretches of silence that never felt awkward. He always brings homemade bento boxes, neatly packed, and you bring snacks or something small to share.

You blink at him, unsure if you heard right. "Sorry—what?"

Kita is still looking at you, expression as steady and unreadable as ever. He’s holding a rice ball in one hand, his bento sitting neatly in his lap. "I said I’m in love with you."

There’s no hesitation. No blush. Just the plain delivery of truth—as if he’s pointing out the weather, or commenting on the quality of the rice today.

You nearly drop the bottle of tea in your hand. "Kita," you breathe, searching his face for a trace of humor or a tell that he’s messing with you. But he’s not. Of course he’s not.

Your heart stutters. "You can’t just say things like that out of nowhere, you know."

He tilts his head slightly. "Why not?"

"Because—" You flail for a second, grasping for something clever to say, something to make sense of the heat rising to your cheeks. "Because it’s—surprising."

Kita hums, thoughtfully chewing. "I didn’t think it would be. We spend time together. You bring me pickled plums even when I don’t ask. You save the last piece of tamagoyaki for me, even though it’s your favorite. You walk me to the gate every day, even when you’re running late. I thought maybe you felt the same."

You sputter, caught between the instinct to deny and the overwhelming realization that he’s right. You do all those things, and more. You always look for him in a crowded room. You always listen when he speaks, no matter how quiet his voice. You think about him in between classes, after practice, before bed. He’s right.

He continues, voice soft but sure. "You don’t have to say anything right now. I just thought it was time I told you."

And with that, he turns his gaze back to the tree branches swaying above you, like he didn’t just tilt your entire world on its axis. He takes another bite of his rice ball, completely composed, like he hadn’t just carved a confession into the air and left it hanging between you.

You sit in stunned silence for a moment longer, the breeze tugging gently at your sleeves. Everything feels quieter now. The breeze, the rustling branches, the distant sound of other students laughing in the courtyard—it all fades into a soft, blurred background. Your fingers tighten slightly around the tea bottle in your lap.

You steal a glance at him. He’s not looking at you. He’s perfectly calm, patient, and somehow that makes your chest ache more than if he’d confessed with nervous laughter or flushed cheeks. There’s no doubt, no need for reassurance. He meant it.

You reach over, plucking a stray leaf from his shoulder. You don’t know why—it just gives your hands something to do.

"You’re unbelievable," you mutter, shaking your head.

He glances at you, eyes curious but unbothered. "Is that a good thing?"

You let out a soft laugh, one that feels lighter than it should considering your heart is still racing in your chest. "I don’t even know. You really just said that like you were telling me we had PE next period."

He shrugs. "I meant it. I don’t think it needs to be complicated."

And you know he’s right again. Kita doesn’t dress things up. He doesn’t make things harder than they need to be. He doesn’t hide behind games or fear or doubt. He just is.

You look down at your lunch, your appetite forgotten. You can’t stop thinking about the things he said. The way he noticed your little habits. The way he didn’t need you to answer right away. The way he didn’t waver.

When you finally meet his eyes again, there’s a warmth blooming in your chest—slow and full, like sunlight rising through clouds.

"I’m in love with you too, you idiot," you say, and your voice is so quiet, so soft, that you almost expect him to miss it.

But he doesn’t.

Kita Shinsuke turns to you fully then, and for the first time all afternoon, he smiles.

Really, truly smiles.

And just like everything else he does, it’s quiet, intentional, and completely disarming.

He reaches for your hand—not suddenly, not dramatically, but gently, deliberately—and your fingers lace together like they were always meant to. You sit that way for a long time, the afternoon stretching endlessly before you, the breeze curling around your ankles, the scent of spring growing thicker with each passing minute.

Neither of you says much after that. You don’t need to.

Some things are better left to the quiet.

And Kita, as always, knows exactly what silence means.