Everything is feeling a little heavy, but that's alright because Valko is heavier.
ABOUT | 2500 words. fluff. pre-relationship. first kiss. UST. self indulgent. emotional hurt/comfort.
"Whatcha watching?"
Your body jerks in surprise, sending your phone tumbling to the floor as your hands come up to muffle the high-pitched yelp startled out of you.
The sound of the cat compilation video echoing through the living room undermines the fierceness of your glare when you turn to face your intruder. That teasing rumble all too close – and all too familiar – to belong to anyone else but-
"Valko," you chide, wishing you could blame the jumpscare when your stomach dips at the sight of his windblown hair and innocent expression so close to yours.
Though letting himself into your apartment like this was nothing new, had become a part of your routine for months at this point, if you're honest, there was something that had been feeling different about Valko's visits to you lately. Less vexing and more… comforting.
An increased awareness of him, maybe? The sound of his voice. His size. The way his laugh and personality managed to fill the room more than his bulky body. Of the way he always tripped over your living room rug or tried to sneak a rub of his scent into every pillow. Of the way he stood so close when he spoke to you, capturing you in the sweet honey of his eyes.
It was something warm that pulsed in your chest, something intimate that had started to hook your gaze to his mouth and magnetize your palms to his skin even today, when you're at your lowest.
His right ear twitches at the sound of his name as he grabs your phone from the floor, a crease of distaste scrunching his nose when he clicks on the screen to stop the noise and tsks, "Looks like my 'dogs are better than cats' speech needs some work."
"Maybe I'll be more in the mood to hear you out–" you take your phone back and set it on the table with a huff, "–when my 'please use the damn front door' speech finally penetrates that thick skull of yours."
A crooked grin scrawls over his face. The pointed tips of his incisors reflecting the dim light of the small lamp you'd flicked on purely to save you from feeling like a complete gremlin while you moped this evening.
"Gonna tell you the same thing I tell Ma every time she says that." He unfurls from the crouching position he'd been in and drops his weight beside you, making your normally sizeable loveseat suddenly feel cramped. "Processing info is for the ears, not the skull."
Resting your cheek in your palm, you narrow your eyes at him with a considering hum.
"What?" Your uninvited houseguest turns to face you, eliciting a concerning creak from the loveseat as his knee comes up to rest on the cushion and his arm drapes over the back. An oversized paw just shy of brushing your shoulder. "What d'you mean, 'hm?'"
"Trespasser, jumpscaring people, terrible manners, and a smart ass to your mother?" You note each transgression by holding up a finger. "No wonder you're always prowling around Linkon alone."
"Hey, hey! Woah, woah, hold on." His hand darts forward, covering yours like it'll hide the evidence. "No– I mean– sure I may be some of those things, but trust me," he puts one of your fingers down and leans forward, another sad groan coming from below the cushion as he rests his elbow on his knee. "I wouldn't be sitting here, or hanging out with you – or breathing – if I were a smart ass to my mother."
Despite yourself, you feel the corner of your lip twitch, the closest you’ve come to a smile all day.
It surprises you how naturally it comes, how much lighter you feel, as you take in his easy grin, his warm palms, his artless gaze. Makes you worry that you're becoming used to this feeling, to something you might be misreading.
"Why?"
"Well, she has this really brutal way of grabbing you by the ear and–"
"No–" the word dissolves on a giggle that has both his ears twitching and an expression you can't quite interpret crossing his face. "I mean, why are you sitting here? Hanging out with me?"
"Oh. I kind of–" He stops, a hint of pink creeping onto his cheeks as he looks down at your still-linked hands. "I mean, I sorta felt like something was… off. With you." You're suddenly glad for the loss of his gaze as he starts to fiddle with your fingers, pressing the pads of his fingers to the tops of your nails as if to test their sharpness. "It's like a.. tug?"
Your mind races with panic as you realize just how much your attraction to him has been tugging at you over his last few visits. "Are you saying that with this– this bond or whatever, you can feel my emotions?"
"Nah, it's not like that." You hope he can't see the stark relief in your gaze when his eyes meet yours again, letting go of your hand to press a palm to the center of his chest. "It's not emotions that call me, it's, well… you. Calling me, that is. Needing me. Or, pulling at me, more like."
Your brows arc upward. "Like a leash?"
His head shoots back dramatically, paired with a groan that sounds almost as distressed as the loveseat still suffering under his weight. "Mercy, little hellion. Let a man keep at least a little dignity." He shakes his head with a bark of self-deprecating laughter. "But yeah. You've got me leashed up good. Happy?"
His question is gentle but pointed, hopeful. His frame still leaning over you, an umbrella shielding you from the sadness and negativity that have been pelting you all day.
Your chest warms at the sight, making it all the harder to respond with a sad smile and the shake of your head as the all the reasons you're not happy come flooding back.
"Alright," he says easily, unphased and unrelenting. A considering look enters his eyes. "Just means I've gotta take more drastic measures here."
In a blur of movements you barely have time to process, he turns his back to you, kicks off his boots – an oddly polite gesture that has you reconsidering just how serious he was about that leash comment – and flops backward. The broad span of his shoulders forces your bent knees down to accommodate the weight of his head as it nestles into your thighs.
"V-Valko! What are you doing?" you stutter, heartbeat galloping as the scent of amber and pine and him wash over you. His ear twitches as he takes your awkwardly hovering hands, placing one behind the wolf ear on his right and the other behind the human ear on his left.
"There," he says with a wiggle of his shoulders, like your thighs are a pillow he's nestling into.
When he notices your hands haven't budged, he gives you an expectant look, nudging the sides of his head into your palms until your lips twitch and your fingers start to move.
"This is your drastic measure?"
He hums in response, eyelashes fluttering as your nails scrape gently over a rose-coloured mix of silky hair and plush fur.
"And this is supposed to…" The question trails off but your hands continue.
He shrugs, the heat of his shoulders anchoring your thighs as one of his arms sneaks around your waist.
"I dunno, distract you? Annoy you, comfort you, take your pick." His eyes lock onto yours, sincere, earnest. "Whatever you need."
The combination of his touch and his words act like a stick of dynamite, blasting through the boulder of tension and worry that's been sitting on your chest all day.
You take a deep breath as he sighs in what you instinctually know is relief. And for the first time since he's mentioned this "bond" of yours, you think, maybe this thing goes both ways.
The thought that you might be starting to figure him out as well as he always seems to understand you brings a small smile to your face.
His lips mirror yours. "That's what I like to see," he says, voice low.
You roll your eyes and flick his ear to disguise the way your stomach flips when the praise rumbles through your thighs, flexing them to jostle him and joke, "What? Me being suffocated?"
His finger comes up to tap the end of your nose with a self-assured grin. "Stop pretending you dont like it, I saw that weighted blanket on your bed." You're not sure if it's you or the loveseat that squeaks when he tugs you into his face and nuzzles into your stomach. "Wanna tell me what's got you down?"
There's something about Valko's bluntness, about his willingness to tackle everything head-on, that catches you more off-guard than his casual and abundant displays of affection ever do. It's straightforward, without artifice. And though there's no hesitation in his request, there's somehow no pressure in it either. As if no response you give him could ever result in offense or resentment or awkwardness, making it feel like the most natural thing in the world to tell the unvarnished truth.
So you do.
"It's just… everything? I don't know, it's all piling up. Like, there's work, lack of sleep, friends I'm not keeping up with, not to mention the general state of the world."
You pause, finding his attentive gaze already on you when you look down to see if you're making any sense. He nods encouragingly, the ears on his head twitching in unison like an attentive audience.
"So I guess I've just been thinking about it all and it feels a little overwhelming. Right here." You press a hand to your chest. "And… heavy, I guess. Like–" You raise a pointed brow. "Like getting crushed by a giant mutt on my own sofa."
His jaw drops in dramatic affront. “You– did you just-” He snaps into a sitting position, your loveseat groaning in despair before he points a finger at himself, as if there could be anyone else you were talking about. “Mutt?! Oh you just crossed a line, you hellion.”
Any response you might’ve had morphs into a high-pitched squeal as you’re scooped up by a muscular arm and thrown over his shoulder.
“Valko! What are you doing? Put me down,” you manage through giggles and laughter as he hauls you to the bedroom with what sounds like a muttered 'I’ll show you a giant mutt.'
You land on the mattress with a breathless oomph, the stray laughs bubbling from your throat feeling foreign but welcome as Valko descends over your figure in an army crawl, finally stopping when you're nose to nose.
Your chests meet on each breath as he reaches up to brush hair from your face. His eyes seem more yellow than amber in the dim light, like marigolds, and you can't think of anything more fitting for the resilient, protective man above you.
"Hi," you breathe, grinning wide.
"Hello, gorgeous," he murmurs, darting a glance at your lips that has your heartbeat pounding against your ribs.
The shadow of his tail swishes behind him as he lowers his weight onto you, fitting his body over yours in a way that anchors and comforts you rather than stifles you.
"Better?" He mumbles into your neck, the heat of his breath awakening gooseflesh over your collarbones. "You know, now that you've made my pedigree your punching bag?"
"Yeah, actually," you realize with a giggle, fingers brushing over the soft bristles of his undercut. "I do."
You haven't laughed this much in a while. In fact, despite being pinned under the heaviest man you know, you haven't felt this light for a few weeks now, you think, which was… the last time he visited you. You close your eyes briefly, mourning the loss of your sanity at the realization that he was right earlier. You had needed him.
"Then listen to me real quick." Your hand slips to his jaw when he raises his head, his smile smaller, his eyes intent. "Next time you feel overwhelmed, or if it's all feeling like too much, you don't have to isolate yourself, or doomscroll, or muscle through it alone. I know I look like I'm all brains but I can help carry things. So just call me, yeah?"
You smile, agreeing with a small nod, pausing before you joke, "With the leash?"
"Okay, who's the smart ass now?" he mutters with a shake of his head, crooked grin back in place. "I meant with a phone. But the leash works too, I guess."
"What's it like?" you ask, curious for the first time since you've learned of it.
"The bond?" His eyes flicker between your eyes and your lips, a knuckle tracing your cheek. "It's like one of those less traveled paths in the woods. Barely visible to the naked eye, but once you find it and start walking on it, everything starts to feel… right."
"Your chest gets really warm and you have this zappy feeling in your gut." His lips tip up in a faraway smile as his eyes follow the path his knuckle makes over your ear, your neck, your collarbones. "Everything feels possible when it's there. Lighter. And when it's gone? Anything you do feels wrong. Empty."
"But…" You swallow past the heartbeat in your throat. "I thought you couldn't feel my emotions," you protest weakly.
A spark ignites in his eyes, electric enough to charge the air between you as his expression morphs into what you can only identify as a primal satisfaction. He inhales deeply, as if he's trying to memorize the scent of this moment, holding your gaze as his eyelids lower.
"I can't," he breathes, so close his nose brushes against yours when he shakes his head. "Those were all mine."
Your lips part, tongue hovering in wait between your teeth as his palm comes up under your chin, fingers settling on both sides of your jaw to draw you in. Your eyes shut as his lips descend over yours, and despite the warmth of his palm, the first brush of his tongue feel like being doused in flame. You wrap your arms around his neck on a moan, humming when he tilts your head to lick into your mouth again and again.
"Valko." The soft, fuzzy sensation of his buzzed hair grazes your knuckles and he sighs into your mouth, as if you're breathing life back into him with the sound of his name.
You take the chance to nip at his lip, holding it hostage between yours until he answers in kind. The sharpness of his teeth like bee stings on your mouth, soothed only by the sweet honey of a tongue that's licking, tasting, consuming the flushed skin between your lips and your throat.
His body sinks into yours, each of his muscles and contours taking shape around yours like heated metal, a weapon being forged for its master, its weight the heaviest thing you'll ever have to carry again.
➻➻ MORE VALKO
NOTE: They can take my undomesticated wolf man from me in the game but he will live on as a terrible house guest in my delusions forever xoxo
warning: contains elements like grief, loss, trauma, miscarriage, and more. recommended for 18+. if you feel uncomfortable, please read away — not for the lighthearted
synopsis: in which sae itoshi is haunted not by loss, but by erasure—forced to remember a girl the universe has already decided he doesn’t deserve to keep.
instead of dying in a single moment, you begin to disappear from sae’s life slowly, piece by piece,
at first, your texts go unanswered. then your voice fades from the voicemails. photos lose your face. his memories blur—what color your eyes were, how your laughter sounded, the way you said his name—until all that’s left is an aching void where you once lived.
it’s not death.
it’s erasure.
and sae is the only one who remembers you.
he tries to chase the truth—desperate, furious, breaking—but no one believes you ever existed. not rin. not your friends. not even your name brings results when searched.
but somewhere in his apartment, under a loose floorboard, he finds a page—your handwriting.
“if one day you forget me, i hope it hurts. i hope you feel it in your bones.”
because it wasn’t the world that forgot you.
it was him.
and the universe is giving him what he deserves:
a lifetime remembering the girl he let fall apart while he was too proud to love you right.
it started with a silence,
not the kind sae liked—the comfortable, empty sort that filled his apartment after a long game, where nothing was expected and nothing was given. no, this was thick. unsettling. like the air had forgotten how to carry your voice.
he noticed it in the smallest way: a missing message.
you used to text him every time he flew out. just three words.
‘come back safe.’
simple. stupid. sweet. he never replied. didn’t need to. you always said you didn’t mind.
but this time, there was nothing.
he sat in the back of a black car rolling through tokyo rain, phone in hand, screen blank. no notification. no missed call. he scrolled through their thread—it was still there. he’d never deleted it, even after those fights, even after he told you to stop being “so fucking needy.”
he didn’t know what he expected.
maybe some part of him thought you’d be waiting when he walked into the flat. arms crossed, eyes wet, pretending you didn’t care even though you always did.
but when the lock clicked and the door creaked open, he stepped into darkness.
no light. no music.
your shoes weren’t by the door.
your coat was gone.
his throat tightened.
he checked every room like a man searching for a ghost—bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, terrace. empty. but clean. too clean. like you had been erased with intention.
he collapsed on the edge of the bed.
there was a note.
just a yellow sticky, clinging to the mirror like a dying leaf.
don’t come looking for me. i know you won’t anyway .
i just needed you to know i waited.
i waited as long as i could.
—y/n
he stared at the writing until the letters blurred, the words twisting into shapes he no longer recognized. then, with a trembling hand, he tore the paper down and threw it into the trash. he told himself you’d be back. you always came back. you were just dramatic, just hurt, just trying to punish him for something you chose to feel.
but for the first time, a small, awful part of him whispered—
what if you don’t?
the next day, he called you.
voicemail.
he called again.
still nothing.
he texted.
no response.
he tried a third time, a fourth, until the line didn’t even ring anymore.
disconnected.
three days later, he called rin.
“hey, do you know where y/n is?”
there was a pause.
“who?”
“y/n.”
“i don’t know a y/n,” rin replied blankly.
“you met y/n three times, at least. you came to dinner with us. that café near shibuya—”
“i think you’re confusing me with someone else,” rin said. “you don’t… date.”
sae stared at the screen. the call ended. he checked his contacts. no y/n. searched for your number. blank.
your messages? gone.
photos? erased.
his camera roll was full of game highlights, food, old travel shots—but no trace of you.
his hands began to shake.
no. no, he knew you.
he remembered the way you used to hum while brushing your teeth. how you always chose the pink chopsticks even though you said they were “too childish.” how you cried when the two of you watched grave of the fireflies together and he pretended not to be watching you more than the movie.
he remembered the way you kissed him.
soft. careful. like he might break.
he remembered fighting with you in the kitchen—screaming things he didn’t mean, stonewalling you with that deadpan look.
he remembered everything.
so why couldn’t he find proof?
he grabbed his coat. tore through the apartment. overturned drawers. ripped open closets. scanned every dusty corner.
no clothes. no photos. no perfume.
only a single sock caught in the dryer.
pink.
with pink hydrangeas.
the only thing you left.
two weeks later, itoshi sae stopped sleeping.
he didn’t toss in bed or drift in and out of half-dreams; he simply didn’t lie down anymore. the mattress remained untouched; its sheets still folded from the last time you made the bed—the day before you disappeared. the couch became his orbit, the walls his confession booth, and the darkness his only witness. he stopped answering his phone, ignoring calls from his brother, his agent, and coaches screaming about his “unstable behavior.” they didn’t understand. no one did.
the first night, he just whispered your name into the silence.
y/n…
the second night, he shouted it.
“y/n. please. come back. i’ll do better. i swear to god, i’ll do better.”
the fifth night, he began hearing your voice — not memories, not echoes — but fresh. clear. like you were standing behind him, just out of reach.
“you never listened.”
he spun around. nothing.
he clawed at his scalp. punched the wall until his knuckles cracked open and bled down his wrists like penance.
he dug out the sweater you left behind — the one you used to wear when you curled up beside him, when your world still revolved around him. he held it to his face and screamed into it.
“i’m sorry.” the words were salt in his mouth.
“i know i was cruel. i know i shut you out. i thought that if i let you in, you’d see how hollow i really was. and you’d leave.”
he started laughing. it was high-pitched. borderline hysterical.
“but you left anyway, didn’t you? not because you stopped loving me, but because i never said it back. not when it mattered.”
he stood, stumbling into the kitchen. he pulled open the drawer, his hands trembling as they hovered over the knives. not yet.
instead, he staggered to the bathroom, stared at himself in the mirror until the world warped.
‘this is what you left’, he whispered.
a ghost in the shape of a man.
the tenth night, he wrapped your sweater around his face and pressed a pillow over it. laid on the floor. hands gripping tight.
he tried to suffocate himself with the last thing that smelled like you.
“let me go where you are”
he said it like a wish. like a secret. like a coward’s final prayer.
but his body betrayed him. his lungs gave in. he gasped, sobbing, choking on your name.
“i can’t live in a world where you don’t exist.”
he curled into himself. rocked back and forth like a child abandoned.
“i made you leave. i pushed until your heart had nowhere left to live.”
silence.
always silence.
he crawled to the box of memories you left behind. letters. photographs. the sock you used to wear on rainy days because he teased you for how mismatched it was.
he clutched it like a lifeline.
like a noose.
“i deserve this”, he whispered. “all of it. the silence. the emptiness. the never knowing.”
he tried to sleep for the first time that night on the cold tile. then, the dream came—but it was different this time. it didn’t begin with your presence; instead, it began with a smell.
sterile. metallic. cold.
he stood in their old apartment, but everything was… wrong. dim. silent. the air smelled like hospital sheets and dried blood.
the clock on the wall blinked 3:07 a.m., frozen.
then he heard it — the sound of something falling.
a glass? a bottle?
then a muffled gasp.
he followed it down the hall. each step grew heavier, like the floor was swallowing his feet.
when he reached the bathroom, the door was open just enough for him to see you — crumpled on the floor. blood soaked the back of your thighs.
your hands were trembling, red-stained. clutching her stomach like she could hold something in.
you were crying, but not loudly.
no. that would have been mercy.
you were sobbing into a towel, trying to muffle yourself. because he was asleep in the next room. because you didn’t want to bother him.
“it’s okay,” you whispered to yourself.
“it’s okay. it’s okay. i’ll clean it up. i’ll… i’ll fix it. he doesn’t need to know. he’s got practice.”
and then you vomited from the pain. he tried to move. to run to you. to scream. but he was locked in place. just a ghost in his own guilt.
then—flash. the scene shifted.
you were at the doctor’s office. alone. your hands were fidgeting with your sleeves. the nurse tried to hand you a clipboard, and your fingers were shaking too hard to hold the pen.
“is the father not coming?” the nurse asked gently.
you smiled, that brittle kind of smile that breaks you if you look too long.
“he’s busy,” you replied. “he… he has a match today.”
cut again.
now you were home. staring at the ultrasound photo on the kitchen counter. crumpled. useless now. you stared at it for a long time before finally whispering,
“i wanted to tell you so many times. you kept saying you weren’t ready. that love made you weak. that it was ‘bad timing.’”
you wiped your eyes and laughed—laughed, but it sounded like it hurt.
“so i waited for the right moment. i thought if i held onto it long enough, maybe you’d hold it with me.”
then you looked up—straight at him. even though it was a dream. even though it couldn’t be real.
“but you never even saw me, sae.”
the walls around them bled into another memory.
he was standing by the front door, duffel bag in hand. you held the miscarriage report like it weighed as much as a planet.
“i lost it,” you had said again. your voice didn’t even break this time.
he watched himself nod. not look at you. say nothing.
“i’m bleeding, sae.”
still nothing.
“i haven’t slept. i feel like i’m dying.”
silence.
“can’t you just—can’t you just hold me? for a second?”
then, dream-sae—the one who didn’t know what he was destroying—muttered,
“i can’t deal with this right now.”
you sat down on the floor like your knees gave out.
“okay,” you whispered. “okay.”
he watched himself leave. the door shut. and you curled into yourself like you wanted to disappear.
he curled into himself on the floor of the bathroom.
“i remember,” he whispered. “i remember it all.”
the tiles were cold against his cheek. his knuckles bled from punching the wall. he didn’t care.
he had no tears left. just the echo of a name. a name he’d never speak aloud again without it tasting like rust. for three nights, he didn’t sleep. he didn’t eat. he didn’t breathe properly.
because now, every time he closed his eyes…
he saw you in pain. on the floor. in a clinic. alone.
he saw the pieces of your life that he had stepped over like shattered glass. he had called it love—love—while you bled in silence and begged for warmth he never offered.
and now?
now all he had were the words he never said:
i’m sorry.
i should’ve held you.
i should’ve come home sooner.
i should’ve asked.
i should’ve listened.
i should’ve stayed.
each sentence pressed into his skull like a branding iron. each breath a punishment.
then came the eleventh night.
he stood in front of the mirror and whispered, “she’s not gone.”
it wasn’t denial. it wasn’t hope.
it was certainty.
because someone like you couldn’t just vanish. not without the universe cracking in half.
“she didn’t disappear,” he said to the empty apartment. “i just wasn’t looking.”
so he started looking.
he tore his place apart first. found your old socks under the couch. one earring beneath the sink. a sticky note on the back of a photo frame that read:
‘buy toothpaste. and tell sae he’s being mean again.’
he stared at it until the ink blurred. then he went into the city. train stations. bakeries. bookstores. that little café near shibuya that you used to love — the one with the over-sweet pastries and piano music in the mornings. he asked every barista. showed them a photo. well, not a photo.
a drawing.
he drew your face from memory; dozens of versions. dozens of scraps. eventually one stuck, and he printed it—posted it on community boards.
missing person
y/n. age 22. last seen in minato.
please call if you’ve seen her.
(favorite color is dusk.)
he didn’t list a phone number. just an email.
he couldn’t stomach the sound of a stranger’s voice asking, "was she yours?"
strangers gave him pitying looks.
a teenager asked if it was for a school project. a man in a suit told him it was unhealthy to hold onto “ghosts.”
but one old woman, pausing outside a shrine, read the paper and touched his arm.
“she must’ve really meant a lot to you.”
he nodded slowly—voice rough and hollow.
“she did.”
but the truth, the ugly, unforgivable truth, was that he hadn’t realized how much until the moment he lost you. and now?
he would scour every alley, every whisper, every corner of the city. because some part of him believed you were still there.
just around a corner. just beyond his reach.
and maybe, if he looked hard enough, broke himself open wide enough — he could finally say the words when it mattered.
a month later on, he visited a therapist.
they told him it might be stress. grief manifesting as delusion. a product of burnout.
“you travel a lot. your schedule is brutal. it’s not uncommon to invent comfort.”
“i didn’t invent her,” he snapped.
he stormed out.
but not before he saw it: a note tucked under his wallet when he got home. the handwriting was different. slanted, softer, familiar in a way that made his stomach drop.
your handwriting.
if one day you forget me, i hope it hurts.
i hope you feel it in your bones.
he dropped the note like it burned him. and for the first time, he started to wonder—
maybe this wasn’t grief—maybe this was punishment after all.
sae stopped playing for a while.
he told his coach it was a groin injury—something about overextension and tight muscles. they nodded without question. after all, he was itoshi sae. no one dared to ask more. but the truth was far darker: every time he stepped onto the pitch, your voice haunted him.
“you always look loneliest right after you score.”
he’d never understood why you said that before. now, it carved through him like a knife. the field felt hollow, stripped of its noise and cheers, because you weren’t in the stands.
his life, too, was silent—except this silence was no longer peaceful, no longer a quiet refuge he craved. it was a low, constant hum of absence, a gnawing rot beneath every surface, spreading and eroding everything he once held dear.
that emptiness consumed him, spiraled into obsession. he scoured surveillance footage from convenience stores near their old apartment, scanning for any glimpse of you. he lurked through internet forums, desperate for a scrap of information. he tracked down the café manager you adored, asked for receipts, loyalty card points, your usual order.
the answers were always the same: apologetic, confused looks, and the words that tore at his sanity—
“no record of anyone named y/n.”“no one ever sat at that table for two.”
it was as if you had never existed. his mind frayed at the edges.
he wasn’t sure if he was losing himself—or if he had already vanished inside the shadows of his grief. he even tried to return to the national team as a distraction. he flew to the next friendly, stood stiffly in the tunnel while rin passed by with a cold, cutting nod.
“still chasing your imaginary girlfriend?”
rin spat, the bitterness in his voice like acid.
sae’s fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms.
“don’t say that,” he hissed, but rin didn’t relent.
“she never existed, nii-chan.”
sae’s voice cracked, a desperate tremor breaking through.
“she did. i laughed with her. i ate her cooking. i told her she was the only reason you weren’t completely insufferable.” rin’s eyes flickered with something close to pity.
rin’s eyes flickered with something close to pity.
“i think you need help.”
sae didn’t step onto the pitch that day.
one night, his phone rang.
unknown number.
he picked up, heart stuttering.
“hello?” static.
then—your voice.
“i kept trying, sae. i really did.”
his blood turned to ice.
“y/n?”
“but you were never really there.”
click. silence. he redialed again, heart pounding, but no answer came through the void. desperation drove him to check his call log—only to find no trace of the call, as if it had never happened. he replayed the moment over and over in his mind, until the memory stretched thin, fragile as a whisper on cracked glass, slipping further and further from reality.
then—three months in—he found it.
a floorboard in the bedroom was loose.
beneath it: a box.
not large. just enough to hide the things the world had forgotten.
inside had:
– a necklace you used to wear.
– a crumpled movie stub.
– a polaroid of the two of you laughing on the balcony.
– a note.
written in ink smudged with tears.
if you’re reading this, it means i finally did it. i finally left.
i wanted to wait until you changed. but people don’t change unless they lose something they thought they could always take for granted.
you always thought i’d be there. you said love made you soft, and you didn’t want to be soft. you wore your cruelty like armor. but i was never trying to break you. i was just trying to hold your hand.
and you wouldn’t let me.
so i made a deal.
i asked the world to forget me… except for you.
because i wanted you to feel it. the full weight of what you threw away.
a thousand lifetimes of it.
i hope you remember me even when no one else does.
i hope i haunt you like your own name.
and i hope, one day, when you reach for me in a dream—you wake up alone.
goodbye, sae.
he didn’t cry. he just sat on the floor, shaking, for hours.
from then on, everything became about you—shadows lurking in every reflection, half-formed whispers chasing him through crowded streets, the faint, haunting scent of your conditioner clinging to the elevator air. sleep abandoned him completely. the nights stretched endlessly, hollow and cruel. doctors handed him sedatives with hopeful eyes, but he flushed each pill down the sink without a second thought. forgetting you would be mercy—and mercy was a grace he believed he had long since forfeited.
then he started writing letters. he wrote thousands of them;
in the dark,
in the silence,
because silence was all he ever gave to you. he didn’t write for you as if you were still there, able to read his words and respond. instead, he wrote for your ghost—the lingering presence that haunted every corner of his mind and heart.
dear y/n,
you told me you were scared, and i told you to be quiet—like your fear was something i could simply ignore.
you came to me crying, desperate for comfort, and i told you to wait until after training. i was cruel beyond words. that night, when you bled and whispered, “i think i lost it,” i asked if it was even mine. i’ll never forgive myself for that question.
you begged me not to leave for spain, but i left you there—crying in the hallway, clutching the ultrasound photo—and i never once looked at it.
you asked if i still loved you, and i called it childish. but the truth is, i did love you. i just couldn’t bring myself to say it. i heard you sobbing in the shower and turned the tv up louder to drown out your pain.
you made dinner and waited for me, and i ate in silence without a single word of thanks. you reached for my hand in bed, and i flinched—not because i didn’t want you, but because i couldn’t bear the fact that you still wanted me.
when you left, you didn’t slam doors or scream. you simply vanished—knowing i wouldn’t chase after you. i thought i had more time. i thought you’d wait. i thought love could survive neglect. but it can’t.
you were real. i treated you like a shadow, like something that could be ignored and forgotten. if i had held your face that night you said you were tired—maybe you would’ve stayed.
if i had said, “i’m scared too,” instead of, “you’re being dramatic”—maybe our baby would’ve had a name.
i want to believe you’re out there somewhere. but deep down, i know you’re gone.
the girl i loved would never have let go unless she had to. and i was the one who made her have to.
i speak to your empty chair every night and say, “i miss you,” even though it means nothing now.
i love you. i love you. i love you.
i only wish i had said it while your hands were still warm.
he stopped writing only when the ink ran out. then he tried writing in blood.
one day, weighed down by everything he couldn’t undo, he found himself by the river—the very place you once whispered about:
“if i ever disappear, this is where i’d go. like fog over water.”
he stood there, watching the currents swallow the light, until night fell like a shroud around him.
clutching a white hydrangea.
then two.
then seven.
he dropped them into the river one by one.
he dropped the flowers into the river not because it eased the pain, but because the hurt was the only thing that still felt real, raw and undeniable in a world that had otherwise gone numb.
the third year was the cruelest.
sae moved through life like a ghost himself; playing games, giving interviews, signing jerseys, but none of it belonged to him anymore. his smiles were thin masks; his eyes held no warmth. every victory felt even emptier, every cheer a lie.
he carried a small box under his pillow, fragile proof of her existence. each night, he’d pull out the worn letter, trace the faded ink, memorize the trembling curve of her handwriting.
he used to cry. now, he only stared. hollow.
and then, on a rainy evening, as he walked through a quiet town far from tokyo, the rain was relentless, drowning the city in cold gray. sae barely noticed. his world had been drowning for years.
and then—
you were there.
not a dream. not a memory.
it was you.
you stood under a flickering streetlight, drenched and fragile, the groceries slipping from your hands.
his heart shattered in the silence before he called out your name.
“y/n.”
your eyes met his—empty, distant—but still you.
“you shouldn’t be here.” the words fell like knives.
“why not?” his voice cracked, desperate and raw. “why did you leave me? why did you disappear without a word?”
you shook your head, voice trembling.
“i didn’t leave. i was lost. i chose to vanish.”
“vanished? you think that makes this easier? you think i stopped searching? you think i stopped needing you?”
swallowing hard, you looked away.
“i wanted you to forget me. to move on. to heal.”
and suddenly, sae laughed—it was bitter, humorless.
“move on? heal? i’ve been bleeding, y/n. every day without you is a wound that won’t close.”
“i asked them. i begged them to erase me from your world.”
“who? who did this to you? tell me!”
shooking your head again, tears spilling down.
“some things are meant to stay buried.”
“don’t do this. don’t shut me out. i’m here. i’m broken—but i’m here.”
you took a step closer, voice cracking with sorrow.
“you were already gone when i left. you never saw me. not really.”
“i was scared,” he whispered. “scared that if i let you in, i’d lose myself. so i built walls. so high, you couldn’t climb.”
you looked at him—pain and love tangled in her gaze.
“and i waited. i waited for you to break them down. but you never did.”
his hands trembled as he reached for yours.
“i was a coward. i thought needing you made me weak. but i see now that without you, i was nothing.”
you squeezed his hand gently.
“love isn’t always enough, sae. sometimes, it’s the cruelest kind of poison.”
he swallowed the lump in his throat.
“i’d take that poison a thousand times if it meant holding you once more.”
your eyes searched his, filled with memories of a love that never got to bloom.
“do you know why i asked to be forgotten?”
he shook his head.
“because every time i looked at you, i saw the man you could be without me dragging you down.”
“i wanted to be better—for you. but i was too broken to try.”
“you broke me too,” she said softly.
he closed his eyes, the weight of those words crushing him.
“if i could rewrite everything, i would. i’d tell you i love you. i’d fight for you. i’d never let go.”
“but you didn’t—and now it’s too late.” you stepped back, voice barely a whisper.
“—goodbye, sae.”
he lunged forward, desperate.
“no! don’t leave me again. please.”
your figure blurred, fading like smoke in the storm.
he screamed your name until his throat bled, but only the rain answered. sae collapsed on the cold pavement, clutching the spot where you had stood—as if holding it could somehow bring you back. he screamed again, the sound raw and empty, echoing off the indifferent walls of the city.
but there was no reply. no figure rounding the corner. no warm hands never gonna pulling him up. just silence engulfing him—thick, suffocating, and endless.
when he returned home, drenched and shaking, he burned the box you had meant to left behind. all the memories he couldn’t bear—photos, letters, the hoodie that still smelled like your shampoo. he watched it all turn to ash, hoping the fire would consume the ache, the guilt, the impossible longing. but even as the last flame flickered out, the emptiness remained.
but he kept one thing. a single, soaked sock. pink hydrangeas — the last piece of what used to be a life shared.
no one knew the hollow man on the field.
no one understood the man who whispered to empty rooms.
every year, on a rainy november night, sae stood on that rooftop, staring at the city lights, whispering:
“come back to me.”
months later, sae vanished.
no goodbyes. no trace.
some say he’s still out there—chasing ghosts. others say he’s trapped on that rooftop, waiting for a love that was already gone.
and in the dark between heartbeats, the only truth left is the cruel weight of a love
that came too late.
“some ghosts don’t haunt from hate. they linger in silence. in love. a love too heavy to carry. a love lost before it could be found.”
after your fifth engagement party of the school year, suna grows tired of hearing you complain about your terminally single status. so he decides to ask you out — just to shut you up.
tags: nursing school au, ring by spring culture (obviously), suna has a nicotine pouch habit, suggestive language!
It was just a stupid trend. One you didn't even agree with.
You first caught wind of it last semester, when a group of girls in your healthcare ethics course started screaming two minutes before the hourly bell. Half the lecture hall turned their heads; your seventy-one year-old professor nearly had a stroke. You, having shown up to class on three hours of sleep, shot up from your seat like you were already on-call.
"What! What happened?" you blurted, a small pool of drool wetting your notebook. "Is someone hurt?"
"Relax," Suna drawled from the seat next to yours. "Kiara just got engaged. She posted it on her Instagram this morning."
"Really? That's it?" you grumbled, frowning toward the front row as the classmate in-question brandished her engagement ring like it was a heavyweight championship belt. "She sounded like she was in pain."
"Nope," Suna said, hazel eyes never leaving his phone screen. "Just in love."
That had been seven months ago. Since then, four more of your classmates had gotten engaged, prancing into the lecture hall with smiles sweet enough to cause cavities and rocks expensive enough to pay off your student loans. It was baffling. Maddening, even.
It made you wonder what the hell was wrong with you.
"Ugh. They're so cute," you said now, watching from your friend’s couch as she and her fiancé posed beneath the cheap banner you and Suna had volunteered to hang two hours earlier. "When is it my turn to meet a hot, eligible stranger at a bar?"
"Well, for one, you'd have to go to bars," Suna said, returning from the crowded kitchen with two solo cups of champagne. "Which I don't see happening anytime soon, considering I had to drag you here."
"No, you're right. I didn't go to nursing school to find a husband," you murmured, taking your drink before downing a generous sip. The carbonation fizzled down your throat. "Wouldn't mind a boyfriend, though."
"What about that one guy from Tinder? I thought you guys hit it off."
"You mean the one who takes bed selfies with his dog?" you snorted. "I had an asthma attack after sleeping with him. My eyes were red; I found fur between my ass cheeks. It was bad."
"For fuck's sake," Suna laughed into his cup, a rare dimple appearing as he did so. "You didn't take your Allegra?"
"I had a few drinks that night,” you admitted. “I care about my liver a little bit."
“Clearly,” Suna chuckled, shaking his head.
He reached into the back pocket of his jeans for the pack of Zyns he’d bought from the gas station on the way here. You rolled your eyes as he popped one into his mouth and pushed it into his gums with his tongue.
"I thought I told you to quit using those," you told him.
Suna merely lifted his shoulders. "I'll stop using them when you delete your dating apps."
"I — that's not fair.”
"Isn't it, though?" he asked, eyes flicking over to yours in that lazy, teasing way. You crinkled your nose at him in protest.
"You can't pursue a volleyball career with a habit like that.”
"And what makes you think I wanna do that?”
"Come on, Rin. I see the way you look at Atsumu when we go to MSBY games."
A second passed before Suna said, "I'm not jealous of him."
“I know. You’re not bitter about it,” you replied, voice softening. "A little wistful, maybe. But not bitter."
The precision of your words made him bristle in discomfort. It wasn't often you accused him of not going after his dream job. You were Miss Practicality, after all. The girl who chose study sessions over parties. Who prioritized her career over her love life, no matter how much she complained about it. He probably would've given up on nursing if he hadn't met you in pharmacology freshman year — what with your iron-clad work ethic, color-coded flashcards, and stupid, unwavering belief in him.
Still, none of that stopped you from noticing the quiet want that flickered across Suna's face each time he watched a volleyball game. Or the folder on his desktop titled Tryout Forms.
"Just because nursing is my thing doesn't mean it has to be yours," you told him in the library one night, after you'd caught him scrolling through the website of your city's adult volleyball league.
Suna had only huffed in reply, though the strain in his voice was painfully obvious.
"What kind of a study buddy would that make me, then?" he said, closing the tab, uncapping his highlighter, and returning to his notes without another word.
Now, as the two of you finished your drinks and hugged your classmates goodbye, you silently wished him the courage to go after what he really wanted. Volleyball or otherwise.
“You know that was our fifth engagement party of the year?” you asked him on the walk back to your apartment.
“Really?” He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. “I haven’t been counting.”
You snorted. “Figures.”
He blinked at you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I dunno. You don’t care about that kind of stuff. Ring by spring, dating apps — you think it’s all dumb.”
“I do think it’s dumb,” he said without missing a beat. “Doesn’t mean I plan on being single forever, though.”
“Okay,” you laughed. “When’s the last time you liked someone, then?”
Suna fell quiet, then, the sound of crickets and passing cars rushing to fill the silence.
"See?" you hummed, the amusement on your face clear as day despite the late hour. "You don't even remember."
He kicked a loose pebble down the sidewalk, flashed you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
"Guess not."
Your keys jangled as you shoved open the door to your apartment, evidence of your and Suna's latest study session splayed out across the coffee table: NCLEX prep books bathed in highlighter ink, stacks of color-coded flashcards. Half-eaten bags of microwave popcorn and empty cans of sugar free Red Bull.
You'd both sworn to pick up exactly where you left off after the engagement party. But as you kicked off your shoes and yawned, all you could ask was, "Want to watch a movie?"
It wouldn't be the first time a study session with Suna turned into an impromptu sleepover. It was why he kept a change of clothes in the bottom of his gym bag. Why you bought a two-pack of toothbrushes instead of one. Hell, you were pretty sure you saw him more than you did your actual roommate.
But as he eased into the opposite end of your couch and put on Set it Up for the millionth time, you couldn't help but notice how...comfortable you both had gotten. How domestic. Were you doing him a disservice, forcing him to study with you? When was the last time he came up for air? Went on a date?
He was an objectively attractive person, and you'd be blind not to notice the way his voice dipped after a ten-minute power nap, or the way his back and shoulders filled out a pair of scrubs...
Doesn’t mean I plan on being single forever, he'd told you.
Would he have found someone already, had you not held him hostage the past four years?
"You paying attention?"
You snapped out of your thoughts, Suna's observant stare meeting yours from across the couch. On the television, Zoey Deutch and Glen Powell bickered in the lobby of a New York City office building, fueled by caffeine and a collective fear of their bosses.
"Do you think I'm Zoey Deutch in this movie?" you asked abruptly. "A little pathetic? Desperate for love?"
"What?" Suna said behind his laugh.
"Or maybe I'm more like her boss, Lucy Liu. So all-consumed by work that I forget what it's like to be touched by a man."
"Would you stop? You're twenty-two. You have the rest of your life to find your six-foot-five husband."
"Maybe I'll poach him from your future volleyball team," you said dreamily. “You know, when you eventually go pro.”
At that, Suna shook his head.
"What?" you laughed. "You don't think I would?"
"No, I know you would," he retorted. "It's me I’m unsure about.”
His words, the slight vulnerability they carried, softened your expression.
"Well, you could always be more honest with yourself about what you want," you said. "You're only helping yourself out in the long run."
"Yeah, I know," he sighed, picking at a loose thread on one of your throw pillows. "I gotta get better at that."
"You will." You flashed him that same, reassuring smile you used during exam days, or particularly grueling clinical rotations. "Just like I will get better at picking romantic partners."
"Right. Remind me to pack you an epipen for your next date."
"God — " Your laugh was enough to make his chest twinge in affection. " — why can't I be allergic to something low-stakes? Like cedar? Or mangoes?"
"You love mangoes."
"Yeah, but half the men on Tinder don't make them their entire personality!" you cried. "I swear, it's impossible to find a guy who either doesn't have dogs or doesn't want them in the future. It's like finding a needle in a haystack."
Now, Suna probably should've kept his mouth shut. Or continued to tease you like he normally did. But as you continued to watch the movie with those soft, expressive eyes of yours, he figured now was as good a time as ever to heed your advice.
So he took a deep breath, braced himself, and spoke before he could second-guess himself.
"Well, I have no plans to own a dog."
The words, loud and resounding, clamored between you like one of those stainless steel water bottles that always fell in the middle of lecture. His breath hitched. Your face went blank. Glen Powell looked like he was about to have a conniption.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying..." Fuck. This was a lot scarier than he thought it would be. "Go out with me. After the NCLEX. I'll take you to dinner."
"I — " You blinked, the earnest expression on his face making the color rise into your cheeks. "Are you being serious?"
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
"Are you just saying this so I'll stop complaining?"
"Maybe."
You grabbed the nearest throw pillow and shucked it at his face. He threw his arms over his head and laughed, the sound unfurling from his chest like a deep sigh of relief.
"In all seriousness," he began, hitting pause on the television remote. "I hate hearing about your crappy dates because...you deserve to go on good ones. And I've been wanting to ask you for a while now."
You pursed your lips to one side, the idea of you and Suna together taking shape in your mind. It wasn't as if you hadn't thought about it before. If anything, Suna was the only good thing to come from the most difficult four years of your life. He'd listened to you cry when you'd failed your first exam, squeezed you tight when you'd witnessed your first patient death. He was good at hearing you complain and even better at calming you down.
You couldn't find that kind of devotion just anywhere. Didn't want to, you realized.
"...okay," you said after a long while, nodding at him through the dark. "Sure. I'd like that."
"Great. I'll make a reservation," Suna said simply, standing up from the couch to grab the clothes from his gym bag.
You watched him move throughout your apartment, now painfully aware of how attractive he was and how easily you had accepted your fate.
"Oh, and Y/N?" he asked before disappearing into the bathroom to change.
"Yeah?" You met his hazel eyes across the apartment. Gulped back at the way they gleamed at you in amusement.
"I lied when I said I don't remember the last time I liked someone," he confessed. "And I meant it when I said I'll be more honest with myself."
With that, he ducked into the bathroom and clicked the door shut.
You later found his pack of Zyns at the bottom of your trash bin.
all you wanted was to spend the holidays convincing yourself you didn't need anyone. so when your friends-with-benefits drags you to his parents' house for christmas, you fail. spectacularly.
tags: mentions of unhealthy family dynamics, suggestive language, no explicit smut, suna's family loves y/n, sending any and all holiday blues straight to hell this year! 🤍
"So what are you doing for Christmas?"
You flinched at how easily he had asked the question. How casually.
"Why?" you asked from the foggy bathroom, shaking your wet hair out with the towel Suna had tossed you from the dryer. "Thinking of having me over again?"
"...no?" Suna replied, eyes never leaving his phone screen. His long limbs were splayed across his wrinkled bed sheets, and he wore nothing besides a pair of boxer briefs and a frown.
"Then why do you ask?"
"Because I want to know?" The YouTube video he'd put on rushed to fill the silence. "Because it's a thing people ask each other?"
"Yeah, at company holiday parties," you snorted. You secured the towel around your bare chest, flicked the faucet on, and plucked your toothbrush from the mug by the sink. "Seriously. You don't have to pretend like you care."
"We can talk about something else," he offered, unfazed by your accusatory tone. "Like your favorite color. What your major was in university..."
"Okay, okay." You rolled your eyes, knowing full well he knew the answer to both of those questions. "You really want to know?"
The flat stare he shot you from bed told you yes, he really did, and no, he would not have asked you if he didn't. You braced yourself against the bathroom counter and sighed.
"I'm watching Die Hard, doing laundry, and catching up on work. There, happy?"
You were too busy massaging the near-empty tube of toothpaste to notice Suna's broad, six-foot-one body now standing in the door to the bathroom.
"Really," he said. Not a question. Not entirely a judgement, either. "You're not spending it with your mom?"
"She's going on a cruise with her newly minted Peruvian boyfriend," you laughed. "And before you ask about my dad, I don't particularly feel like hanging out with the children he hid from us for seven years."
"Wasn't going to," Suna scoffed, plucking the toothpaste from your hands and squeezing it onto your brush himself. "The guy's an asshole."
"Least he felt bad enough to invite me," you huffed, attacking your molars with enough force to break enamel. "That way, he can't say he didn't try."
The faucet roared as Suna brushed his teeth beside you. Hair tousled. Eyes tired. Mouth filled with foam as he mumbled out his next question.
“What if you spent Christmas with my family this year?”
You choked on your toothpaste.
“What?” you coughed out. “No, I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because!” you spat, flecks of fluoride flying out onto the mirror. You wiped them off with a flattened palm, taking all the condensation with you. “Because friends-with-benefits don’t do that. Because I don’t want your parents getting the wrong idea.”
“They won’t get the wrong idea.”
“Kumi might.”
“Kumi’s sixteen. What does she know?”
"Enough to know that inviting your fuck buddy to Christmas is weird!"
Suna rolled his eyes as you stuck your mouth under the sink and rinsed. This was a ridiculous argument; it didn't help that you could barely hear each other through mouthfuls of Crest cavity protection.
"My family doesn't know about us, okay? For all they know, you're my good friend," he argued. "Besides, they don't read into things like that. If I bring someone over for Christmas, they'll just assume you didn't have any other plans."
You folded your arms across your chest and pouted.
"I have plans."
"I know." He shrugged, spitting into the sink. "Mine are better."
"Why?"
"Because who wants to do laundry and watch Die Hard on Christmas? It isn’t even a Christmas movie!”
A muscle ticked in your jaw at that horribly inaccurate statement. "I don't need your pity invite."
Suna exhaled through his nose and ducked inside his closet for a t-shirt and sweats. "It would only be a pity invite if I didn't actually want you there. But I do."
The words burned inside your stomach as you stormed into Suna's bedroom, swiped a clean thong from the top of your overnight bag, and yanked it over your legs.
"...I don't have gifts, though."
The silence that followed made you antsy.
"What?"
"For your family. I don't have gifts," you ground out. "I can't just show up empty-handed. It's rude."
Suna emerged from the closet with an extra t-shirt — an EJP Raijin freebie you'd worn the past couple of times you'd been over.
"Don't worry about that," he told you, tossing the t-shirt in your direction. "Just be ready the morning of the twenty-fifth with your overnight bag and a pair of pajamas. My parents will be taking an embarrassing photo of us."
You tucked yourself into the side of the bed closest to the wall, terrified by the ache in your chest, the slight rise in your spirits.
It was just a dumb family tradition. One that would definitely blur the lines of your and Suna's arrangement, should you choose to partake in it.
But as he settled into the mattress and threw an arm around your waist, you allowed yourself to picture it. The corny smiles, the plaid pajama bottoms. The camera mounted on a tripod in front of a decorated Christmas tree.
As corny and compromising as that photo would be, there was also something...nice about the idea of it. Mundane.
"I'd need to Amazon Prime pajamas before Thursday," you said. Voice quiet. Stripped of its usual edge.
You felt Suna smile against the back of your head.
"Is that a yes?”
The following week, you met Suna outside your apartment building with an overnight bag, three Snapware containers of baked goods, and the Amazon Prime package you hoped were your pajamas.
"Merry Christmas," he drawled in amusement, leaning against his beat-up Toyota Corolla. He pocketed his phone, jutted his chin towards the baked goods, and asked, "Those for me?"
"Just the cinnamon rolls," you snapped, grabbing the top container and shoving it towards him. "I also made cream cheese brownies for your parents and gluten-free chocolate chip cookies for Kumi."
Suna slid the duffel bag from your shoulder and threw it into the backseat. "You didn't have to go through all that trouble."
"Please. It's the least I could do for crashing your family holiday," you grumbled, nerves already buzzing in equal parts embarrassment and anticipation. "Merry Christmas, by the way. Can I have aux?"
The heater warmed your skin as Suna pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road, a single hand guiding the bottom of the steering wheel.
"What's wrong with my music?"
"Nothing's wrong with it. We just listen to it all the time," you said. You thumbed through your Spotify playlists in search of something you hadn't grown tired of. "Makes my ears want to bleed."
"I think our tastes are more similar than you think."
You huffed. "In what way?"
"Arctic Monkeys, Phoebe Bridgers, Gorillaz — "
"I swear, if you make me listen to another minute of Gorillaz, I'm never sleeping with you again."
"They're a good band!"
"Yeah, when we were in middle school!"
The dimples on either side of his lips always deepened when he teased you. "You're just embarrassed because you had a poster of 2-D in your bedroom."
At your incredulous expression, he admitted, "I saw an old photo of it on your Instagram."
"What — did you stalk me?"
"Course I did!" he scoffed. Like you were the crazy one here. "I don't sleep with just anyone."
You pulled your knees to your chest in the passenger seat, the city quietly flitting past your window. "Fair point."
"Let's not pretend you didn't stalk me, too,” he drawled.
"Well, duh. I saw all your grungy bathroom selfies from high school. You’re lucky I kept talking to you.”
The car settled into a comfortable silence save for the sound of the engine running, the tires scraping against patchy asphalt.
"You know, I never thanked you for keeping me company," Suna said, voice surprisingly sincere. "That night, at Atsumu's party."
"Please," you scoffed, though it didn't quite land the way you wanted it to. “As if I wasn’t looking for an excuse to get out of his beer pong tournament.”
You remembered that night vividly. The loud music. The collective body heat. The brain fog you'd been trying — and failing — to break through all day. You didn't expect to like anyone at Atsumu's end-of-season rager. But when you spotted Suna by himself on the balcony — eyes tired, hands nursing a bottle of Dos Equis, you wondered if you'd found your crowd.
"This seat taken?" you asked, gesturing to the empty patio chair beside him.
His green eyes flicked to yours in what you would later realize was his way of looking amused.
“Depends,” he said. “Did Atsumu send you here?”
“God, no,” you laughed. The cold seared through your dress as you sat. “I’m trying to hide from him, too.”
You disclosed far too much of yourself on Atsumu's balcony that night. Your stress-baking habit. The kind of music you downloaded in middle school. The way your chest tightened when you answered your mom's phone calls, unsure whether you would be her daughter, her therapist, or the subject of her backhanded compliments.
I'm not looking for a relationship right now, you'd messaged him after the party. But if you'd ever like to hang out, I'd be down.
You'd obviously done more than that. But that was besides the point.
"I wasn't in the best headspace that day," you confessed to him now. "Talking to you really helped me. Distracted me. So really I should be thanking you."
Your words lingered in the air as Suna gave you the softest flicker of a smile.
"Glad I could help."
You sucked in a sharp breath. Ignored the way your chest ached at his earnest expression.
"I'm going to put on my Liked Songs now," you told him unceremoniously. You retrieved the phone from your lap, punched in your passcode, and hit shuffle on the right playlist.
Then, because your Spotify algorithm hated you —
"No," you groaned.
"Oh?" Suna drawled, cocking an eyebrow at the first song in your queue. "Not a big fan, I see?"
"Traitor," you told the Apple CarPlay as Clint Eastwood by Gorillaz blared through the speakers. "I'm skipping this — "
"Too late. I'm already singing it," Suna said, looking wholeheartedly pleased by this turn of events. Your face burned as he turned up the volume. "I ain't happy, I'm feeling glad, I got sunshine in a bag —"
"I hate you."
The smirk he gave you made your chest ache a second time.
"Guess you're never sleeping with me again."
Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth ticked into a smile as Suna rapped the entire six-minute song just to spite you.
Two hours and several miles of suburbia later, you pulled into the driveway of Suna’s childhood home.
You’d heard a lot about this house. The birthday parties. The pre-tournament carb nights. The big family Christmas gatherings — although most of Suna’s extended family had since moved.
You opened the car door, climbed out of the passenger seat, and wondered what it would have been like to live in a place like this. To have friends over. To help your parents line the roof with Christmas lights.
The daydream was short-lived, however, as Suna’s mom jogged down the driveway to greet you.
“You made it!” she cheered, bringing you into her arms like you’d known each other for years. “Merry Christmas, love. Did Rinnie drive safely?”
Your brain short-circuited as the scent of her perfume — light and citrusy — filled your nose.
“My neck’s a little sore from the whiplash, but I’ll survive,” you said with a nervous chuckle.
Suna Yumi merely squeezed your shoulders with an affectionate laugh.
“No wonder you two get along so well. You’re just as sarcastic as he is,” she hummed in delight.
Your cheeks flushed pink as she crossed the driveway to greet her eldest child.
"Merry Christmas, ma," Suna murmured with a smile, tucking her into his chest. "You sleep well last night?"
"Oh, you know me. Can't sit still when we're expecting a guest." She waved off his stern look and went to grab your bags. "Come in, come in! Your dad's just putting the finishing touches on the hot pot."
Your breath unfurled into the crisp winter air as you shouldered the rest of your belongings and teetered towards the front door.
"Thank you for having me, by the way," you said sheepishly, the hearty scent of tonkotsu broth greeting you as you entered the house. "I know it was kinda last-minute."
"Oh, don't worry about that, love. It wouldn't be the first time Rinnie had a friend over for Christmas," she reassured you with a laugh. "Remember when Tsumu got into that huge fight with his brother? He practically stormed over here and refused to leave."
Suna slid you a wry look once his mom turned her back.
"See?" he murmured under his breath. "Nothing to worry about."
You merely rolled your eyes, kicked your shoes off, and followed the smell of tonkotsu into the kitchen.
You half-expected to feel like a martian in Suna's house, surrounded by people you'd never met and Christmas decorations you'd only ever seen in Pottery Barn catalogues. But as you shook his dad's hand and greeted his little sister, you were surprised by how nice it was to talk to them. How easy.
"So Rin tells me you like to bake?" Suna's dad asked. He prepared the bok choy for hot pot with a rhythmic chop of his kitchen knife.
"I do, yeah. Gives me something to do with my hands," you told him with a soft smile. "Something within my control."
Suna Iwata's green eyes crinkled when he smiled back.
“Well, it was very kind of you to share your talents with us,” he said, wiping his hands on his apron. “I’m not much of a baker myself. Just can't get the proportions right.”
"Yeah, and Rin's smelly volleyball friends never bring us anything," Kumi said around a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie.
She shot her brother an annoyed look from across the kitchen and tilted her chin in your direction.
"Can you bring her around more often?"
Not gonna lie, you felt good about yourself after that.
The nerves escaped you the longer you were there. Helping Iwata plate the leafy vegetables for hot pot. Trading stories with Yumi over the dining room table. Laughing as their children bickered over the last of the ribeye.
"I'm on a bulk right now," Suna drawled, shoving his little sister's chopsticks out of the way. "Captain's orders."
"And I'm iron deficient, asshole," she said, shoving him back ten times harder. "That's ten times more important than your fake diet."
It was the kind of argument you wished you'd had more with your family. The trivial, teasing kind. In fact, as you finished lunch, threw on your pajamas, and posed for a photo on the staircase of Suna's house, you found their bickering...sweet. Endearing, almost.
"Dad," Kumi groaned as the camera flashed in your faces five seconds too early. "You're supposed to put the timer on for ten seconds. Are you sure you know how to do it?"
"Kumi, you talk to me like I'm a senior citizen," Iwata huffed, easing from his spot on the staircase. "I know how to work a simple camera."
He doesn't, Yumi mouthed to you and Suna over a discreet shoulder before standing to help her husband.
"...having fun?" Suna asked you, then. Voice amused. Eyes tracing the unchecked curve of your smile.
Stubborn as ever, you elbowed him in the ribs and said, "Just smile for the camera, Rinnie."
It would be six more tries before you eventually got the photo.
"Can I ask you a question?" Kumi asked you now, eyeing her hand you'd just painted a gorgeous shade of Pine and Dine green.
You dragged the applicator brush across the index finger of her other hand and said, "Go ahead."
"Why are you spending Christmas with us and not your own family?"
Her tone was quiet. Curious, even. You met her stare across the dining room table and continued painting.
"Because I don't really have one," you told her, the words coming out before you could stop them. At her perplexed expression, you said, "I mean, I do — we just don't celebrate Christmas together."
"Must be nice," Kumi mumbled, frowning at her family's Christmas decorations like they had personally offended her. "My parents get so embarrassing around the holidays."
"I dunno. I think it's kinda sweet that they still do all this for you guys." You gestured to the manicure kit they'd gifted her as a case in point. "Besides, my mom is on a Caribbean cruise right now with a man half her age. Talk about embarrassing."
Despite herself, Kumi laughed at that.
"…okay," you murmured once you were done. You studied Kumi's nails from multiple angles before eventually releasing her. "That'll be forty-thousand bucks, please."
You stopped yourself from fist-punching the air as a small grin worked its way onto her face.
"This is so much better than I could've done," she gushed, admiring your handiwork beneath the dining room lights. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." You twisted the cap back on the glossy top coat you'd used and plunked it back in the carrying case. "Should we paint your brother's nails next?"
You bound up the stairs and stood outside Suna's bedroom not a moment later, a goofy sort of smile on your lips.
"Hello, Rinnie," you stage-whispered, knocking twice before pushing your face through the crack in the door.
Suna shot you an amused stare from where he lay in bed, scrolling through Twitter.
"Have you been drinking with my sister?"
"No." You pouted. "The nail polish fumes killed a few of our brain cells, though. Can I come in?"
He gestured you in with a lift of his hand as you pushed open the door, his bedside lamp casting lazy orange hues across four deep blue walls.
"Sorry it's a little cluttered," he said, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and shoving his feet into slippers. "My mom is sort of a memory hoarder."
"No! No, I like it," you reassured him as you looked around. "Feels like I stepped inside the Smithsonian."
"Okay," he snorted. "I'm not that much older than you."
You fell quiet as you swept your gaze across the room, the details of Suna's childhood tucked into every nook and cranny. Volleyball certificates tacked onto the wall. Family vacation photos arranged atop the dresser. Homemade CDs stacked in neat rows on the shelves.
"My mom would do this thing where she'd burn a CD of all the songs we liked that year," Suna explained when you plucked one off the shelf. "That one's from 2014."
You read the track list Yumi had written on the disc in permanent marker with a soft laugh.
"Clint Eastwood by Gorillaz. Classic."
"What can I say?" Suna lifted his shoulder. "Middle school Rinnie was goated."
It was such a small thing, to have a mom who knew your music taste. To have a dad who took more pictures than necessary and a sister who rolled her eyes at you every chance she got. But as you returned the CD to its rightful place and swallowed back the lump in your throat, it didn't feel small to you at all.
"You okay?" Suna asked you gently, catching the way your expression slipped, your eyes grew distant.
"Yeah!" You stepped away from the shelf and massaged the growing ache in your chest with your palm. "Yeah, I just..."
God. What were you supposed to say? That your brain fog had turned into something painful? That being here made you miss the things you never had? Suna was already kind enough to have invited you here — you didn't need to ruin it with the grief now threatening to swallow you whole.
But as a small, jagged cry escaped your throat, splintering whatever composure you had left, Suna just tucked you to his chest and held you.
You came undone in the minutes that followed — chest heaving, steady cries reverberating off the bedroom walls. Suna's white shirt grew soaked by a combination of your snot and tears, and you didn't even have the energy to be embarrassed as you wailed in his arms like a baby.
"Fuck, sorry," you apologized with a loud, ugly sniffle. "This day has just been really weird."
"I know." He lifted the hem of his t-shirt and wiped your face. "Thanks for putting up with my family all day."
"Are you kidding me?" you scoffed. "Your family has been the best part about all of this. It's me that's making it weird."
"Yeah?" he asked. Not agreeing. Just curious. "And why's that?"
"Because," you lamented. As if it were obvious. "Because I'm not used to any of this. Because I couldn't spend a single Christmas without my dad stress-smoking — or my mom nitpicking my weight to distract herself from her shit marriage."
Your face crumpled at the memory. The way it paled in comparison to this strong, colorful spectacle Suna's family had offered you.
"Being here, seeing you with your family, it just...it makes me homesick for a place that doesn't exist," you told him. "For people I always wished for but never really had."
Before you, Suna's eyes filled with an emotion you couldn't quite place.
"Well, the people in this house care about you," he said. Voice gentle. Laced with honesty. "And you can always come here when you want."
His words made something inside of you break.
"Why are you being so nice to me?" you breathed.
Suna gave you a mildly exasperated look and asked, "Is it so surprising that I've grown to like you?"
You folded your arms across your chest and frowned.
"No. Maybe. I'm a highly likable person, just..." The sarcasm died on your lips. "Kinda broken if you squint."
"Come on," he drawled. As if you knew better. "You're not broken. You're...tough. Resilient."
"You make me sound like a weather-proof car mat."
"I'm serious!" he said, though he was laughing now. "You can't choose your family. It sucks and it's unfair, but...you're not broken. I've never once thought that about you."
You squirmed at the sincerity in his voice. Forced yourself to sit with it for a second longer than you normally would.
"Thanks, Rin," you said after a long while. "I needed to hear that."
"You're welcome," he huffed with a soft smile. "Wanna stay up here for a little longer? My family always watches a Christmas movie during dinner, but you don't have to if you're not up for it."
"No, I'm up for it," you sniffled, wiping your nose with the sleeve of your pajamas. "What movie are we watching?"
He peeled off his snotty t-shirt and smirked in your direction.
"You'll see."
His dad was already struggling to rent Die Hard on the TV by the time you'd returned to the living room.
The next morning, Suna walked you to your apartment and set your overnight bag on the doormat.
"I actually got you a gift," he confessed, sliding a flimsy package from the inside of his coat. "I know you said you didn't want anything, but my family insisted."
"Oh?" You set down the bag of leftovers Yumi had prepared for you and took the gift into your hands. The dimples on either side of Suna's lips deepened as you ripped into it like a child.
"Figured you could use it for your next stress-bake."
The apron — made of high-quality canvas and adorned with pockets and adjustable straps — was easily the nicest thing you'd ever owned. And on the front? The words 'Having a Mental Bake Down,' stitched in your favorite color thread.
It was ridiculous. Incredibly thoughtful. It made you laugh so hard you started crying.
"It's perfect," you breathed, wiping the tears from the corners of your eyes and clutching the gift to your chest. "Thank you."
Before you could even process what you were doing, you pushed yourself onto your tiptoes and pressed your lips to his cheek. Somehow, it felt more intimate than anything else you'd done with him.
"...Rin?" you asked. Voice tiny. A little nervous.
"...yeah?" he replied, a blush creeping up his neck.
"Will you go on a date with me?"
The expression he gave you was stunned.
"An actual one, this time," you clarified. "With cute outfits and a reservation and candlelight so dark we have to use our flashlights to read the menu."
It didn't escape you that this was the first time you'd seen Suna flustered. It also didn't escape you that the only thing keeping you from dating was, well, you.
Suna knew this, too, given the question he asked you next.
"What made you change your mind?"
Your lips ticked into a small smile.
“Come on, Rin. Is it so surprising that I've grown to like you?"
His laugh made your chest swell in affection.
"I'm not very good at the whole dating thing," you warned him. "I'm stubborn and evasive and I say things I don't mean — "
"Really?" Suna drawled. "I couldn’t tell."
You elbowed him in the ribs.
"I want to try, though. With you," you continued. "I can’t let my shitty family be the reason I don’t. They've taken enough from me already."
Suna nodded, something like trust in his green eyes.
"...okay," he said. "Let’s try, then.”
"Great." You grinned, fumbled for your keys, and unlocked the apartment door. "I'll pick you up this Saturday at six?"
The smile he gave you was better than any gift he could've given you.
And when he texted you the cheesy family photos later that evening?
You realized you'd finally gotten what you wished for. Who you wished for, rather.
The thought alone was enough to make you cry a third time.
໒꒱ ⋆ﾟworking at the movies is a real good time when your favourite coworker’s on set
cw: crude humour, language, swearing, kys jokes
want more coworker suna? i hear he also works at the tattoo parlour…
masterlist
a/n: THAT ONE COWORKER THAT JUST BE FUCKING TALKING😭 also those were 100% abt atsumu. my phone updated mid texts can u tell. yes i had to sing for that vm. goodnight.
occasionally, you will discover an artist who drew roughly 300 beautiful pictures of your favorite characters over the course of a month and then never touched them again. you must accept this as a gift.
you left missouri with two duffel bags and a busted car. you didn’t ask for a summer in nantucket. and you definitely didn’t ask for a lazy-eyed boy with tan skin, a sharp mouth, and a trust fund in his back pocket. but now you’re stuck with both.
pairing: rintaro suna x f!reader
synopsis: you were supposed to spend the summer working double shifts and saving for college—not moving in with your rich cousins on the east coast. but after one too many late bills and one too many fights, you ended up here: nantucket. old money lawns, salted air, strangers with boats. and him.
content: super slow-burn, smut, drug use + addiction, casual sex, poverty/class divide, low-income protagonist, family dysfunction, brief matsu x reader.
status: incomplete (3/??)
chapter one: ashtrays.
chapter two: pizookies.
chapter three: coastal cousins.
hi guys, new series alert! this is gonna be a looooong one and it starts off a ‘lil slow but i’m really happy w/ it so far! please comment below if you’d like to be added to a taglist :)
the illusion of sipping hawaiian cocktails as you bask under the sun was soon shattered when miya atsumu tells (surprises) you that his best pal, suna rintarou, will be helping you make the finishing touches to his and your cousin’s wedding. the problem? you firmly believe that suna is a cold, inattentive, detached a-grade a-hole, making him the worst wedding planner to ever exist.
alternatively, in which your ex-boyfriend tries to win you over again as the both of you try to plan a wedding together in hawaii.
ex!suna rintarou x fem!reader
genre exes au, timeskip!haikyuu (but not manga accurate), romcom, angst, humour, maybe slowburn
extras like if 50 first dates and mamma mia had a baby, light hearted profanity and death jokes bc they’re effective coping mechanisms for planning a wedding with your ex, forced proximity, swear words, a lil suggestive (wink), yearning, sakuatsu!, google also helps with the wedding planning, i use aespa karina’s pics for yn
playlist baby, i love your way by big mountain | gimme! gimme! gimme! (a man after midnight) by abba | voulez-vous by abba | bahama by aespa | amber by 311 | please please please by sabrina carpenter | another day by paul mccartney | sad girl by lana del rey | slow dancing in a burning room by john mayer | us. by gracie abrams (ft. taylor swift) | 21 by gracie abrams | we can’t be friends (wait for your love) by ariana grande | love song by 311 | video games by lana del rey | i wanna be yours by arctic monkeys | so high school by taylor swift
notes HERE IT ISSSS the first smau series on this blog and it’s only right that i do it w my man suna rintarou ◡̈ hope you guys are gonna enjoy this just as much as i do aaaaa
the illusion of sipping hawaiian cocktails as you bask under the sun was soon shattered when miya atsumu tells (surprises) you that his best pal, suna rintarou, will be helping you make the finishing touches to his and your cousin’s wedding. the problem? you firmly believe that suna is a cold, inattentive, detached a-grade a-hole, making him the worst wedding planner to ever exist.
alternatively, in which your ex-boyfriend tries to win you over again as the both of you try to plan a wedding together in hawaii.
ex!suna rintarou x fem!reader
genre exes au, timeskip!haikyuu (but not manga accurate), romcom, angst, humour, maybe slowburn
extras like if 50 first dates and mamma mia had a baby, light hearted profanity and death jokes bc they’re effective coping mechanisms for planning a wedding with your ex, forced proximity, swear words, a lil suggestive (wink), yearning, sakuatsu!, google also helps with the wedding planning, i use aespa karina’s pics for yn
playlist baby, i love your way by big mountain | gimme! gimme! gimme! (a man after midnight) by abba | voulez-vous by abba | bahama by aespa | amber by 311 | please please please by sabrina carpenter | another day by paul mccartney | sad girl by lana del rey | slow dancing in a burning room by john mayer | us. by gracie abrams (ft. taylor swift) | 21 by gracie abrams | we can’t be friends (wait for your love) by ariana grande | love song by 311 | video games by lana del rey | i wanna be yours by arctic monkeys | so high school by taylor swift
notes HERE IT ISSSS the first smau series on this blog and it’s only right that i do it w my man suna rintarou ◡̈ hope you guys are gonna enjoy this just as much as i do aaaaa
gummygunk
kianamaiart
blakekathryn
gracieabrams
2087
turnnoffyourmind
