梦幻

addie. 19. genshin + hq + aesthetics side blog.

[celestialdisaster]

A place to discuss the upcoming donghua Flase Memory

I didn't see anyone create a subreddit yet, so I decided to Be the Change I wanted to see in the world and take it upon myself to make one. Rules, flairing and the discussion thread for the upcoming episodes have been posted/implemented. Feel free to join us!

[chimielie]

how many nights do you dance alone

summary: you and suna both have secrets; you’ve been dancing around them for months. tonight, they dance together.

word count: 1.5k

cw: reader didn’t homewreck suna’s last relationship but she also didn’t not do that, alcohol, suna dds and he has a sexy car (don’t drink and drive kids), reader might be lowkey yandere, a cigarette, a cigarette-burn related metaphor, everybody has really bad communication skills and trust issues but they are also too in love to stop, openish/hopeful ending

a/n: look nothing in this fic is based on true events except that i got called pistachio and spit this out as a result. i found out the plot at the same time you did (as it hit the page). yikes xx

you call suna at three in the morning.

having just dropped a raving drunk pair of twins off at their apartment, he doesn’t let it ring more than once before clicking answer and connecting it to his car’s speaker.

“-lo? hello? hi,” you say, voice wobbly over the airwaves.

“hi,” he says, his own steadier but more uncertain.

“hi,” you say. a simple, happy word. a greeting, not a nicety. sometimes you have this way, he thinks, of glossing everything you do and say with a warmth so intoxicating it makes everyone you meet think you put it on because of them, for them. he fell for it once. twice. over and over.

he’s not sure you know you’re doing it. it’s just that sometimes you talk to him like he’s the only person you’ve ever trusted, a priest and a best friend and a lover in one. sometimes you talk to him like you’re sure he hates you. it fucks him up.

he stays silent until you explain why you’re calling.

“can you pick me up, please? i wouldn’t ask but you’re the only one i know in the area, i promise i wouldn’t bother you this late otherwise, i’m sorry. if you’re busy i totally understand, i’ll figure something out.”

“no, i’ll come,” he says. “send me your location?”

you could have just sent him the address, but if he’s lucky, you’ll forget to turn it off in the morning. if he knows where you are, it’s almost as good as trusting you.

he’s a hypocrite, he knows, spinning the wheel with one hand and scrubbing the other over his jaw roughly. you make it okay, though.

you’re standing next to some guy with his shirt unbuttoned, smoking a cigarette, when suna pulls up.

“that’s him,” he can hear you say, shouting even though you don’t need to. the music isn’t too loud with the club closed for the night. “that’s my boyfriend. isn’t his car cool?”

a sour look on his face, the guy holding the cigarette nods. suna rolls down the window and says, “thanks for watching my girl, man.” his smirk is greasier than it needs to be.

“anytime,” says the guy. suna gets the impression that he’d slash his tires if he could.

you, uncaring of the havoc you’re leaving behind, climb into suna’s car with a big smile and plant a sloppy kiss on his cheek before settling into your seat. when the window’s up and he’s peeled away from the curb, it slips a little.

“sorry,” you say, not exactly looking sorry. “i didn’t want him to hit on me.”

“i get it,” he says. “it’s okay.”

it’s not. he wants to be your real boyfriend. you want it too. for reasons both incomprehensible and perfectly understandable to both of you, it can’t happen.

“i’m sorry,” you say again. “did i wake you up?”

“nah,” he shakes his head. “i was already up. the twins,” he doesn’t have to finish his sentence.

“oh,” you say, “how are they?”

you and the twins don’t get along. the last time you’d met, atsumu had said you’re probably going to marry that witch, and i’m boycotting your bridal party.

“fine,” he says. “they were wasted. osamu tried to make me sing karaoke.”

“i think you have a nice voice,” you protest a contention he’d never made. he doesn’t respond, just watches the night lights of the city blur past him, the white lines guide his wheels straight and true. “i like it when you sing to me.”

“i’ve never sung for you.”

“you did! you sing in my shower, every time you stay over. you don’t do it when you’re home.”

“that’s not singing to you.”

you give him a look like, sure. he turns up the aux. you hum, a little out of tune with the bass.

“there are things i want to tell you,” you say, and when he glances at you out of the corner of his eye you’re staring straight ahead, carefully avoiding looking at him. “especially like this. for plausible deniability. but then i don’t want it to come out messy.”

“you can be messy,” he says, and watches you not believe him.

“but i want to be clean. for you. i want,” you grind out. this happens, sometimes, too. you sound like you’re going to tell him that you love him and your tones says that you hate him for it. “i want you to not have to take care of me. i want you to be happy. so happy.”

“i’m happy.”

“but—” the words choke and die in your throat. “like. um. you know what i mean.”

“i really don’t.”

you flinch into looking at him. he has an eye on the road, he swears, but your hair is plastered to your forehead in places and your mouth is bitten red and you look pale with terror, the prettiest thing he’s ever seen every time he sees you.

“i’m your pistachio,” you burst out, like that makes any sense at all. “did you—have you seen that?”

“huh?” is all he can really articulate. he’s scared, too, he hopes you know, it’s why he can’t put his hand on your knee and reassure you, why he can’t say he knows what you’re saying because you turn his world upside down, you make it so he doesn’t know anything he should.

“it’s like—” you press your palms to your eyes, your mouth moving but not making words for a second. “flavors. you want something classic and familiar like chocolate, but you kind of want to try something new like pistachio, and it turns out you like pistachio too, but you still wish you’d stuck with chocolate.”

“uh.”

“fuck, never mind,” you say. “fuck.”

“okay,” he says.

it’s just a few turns left before he’ll be at your place. he knows it like a homing beacon is lit up at the top, can find it from anywhere in the city. you lived a lot further away when you first met; you had to text, hey, i’m in your city, if you wanted to do this. he’s not totally sure you didn’t move to be closer to him.

“i mean,” you make a low noise in your throat. he hopes it’s not sore tomorrow. he hopes you didn’t smoke with that guy, because then it definitely will be. “i know you weren’t single when you met me.”

his foot comes off the gas for a second.

“it was already over,” he says. “it wasn’t, like, because of you. fuck. who told you?”

“she told me by the second time we saw each other. or, well. it doesn’t matter. she hadn’t moved out, though,” you point out. “it wasn’t—that was why—rintarō.”

there’s only one turn left. suna thinks wildly of turning the other way, of taking you back to his, of driving into the sunrise so you’ll never get out of his car.

“i’m sorry,” he says honestly. for what, he doesn’t know. he couldn’t atone if he spent the rest of his life doing it, so he doesn’t even want to list his sins.

you make a frustrated noise. “that’s the thing. i don’t care. i was mad—when i found out, because you didn’t tell me, because of course you didn’t tell me. but i don’t care. i wouldn’t have even if—i can’t even say it, but it’s true. isn’t that fucked up? aren’t i fucked?”

he shakes his head, pulling up to the curb a little harder than he needs to. the car jolts. his back hurts a little, a sparking pain like a bushel of lit cigarettes pressed into it.

“that’s why,” you say. you’re talking faster now. both of you know you have to go, but you don’t. “it’s bad, but i don’t care. i—please. do you get it?”

“i do,” he says, and every confession made tonight hangs between you like stars about to implode. “i—yeah.”

“yeah,” you exhale. “sorry. fuck. bye. i promise.”

you wobble as you step out of the car and he remembers that you’re drunk, that the cards are all here, spilled all over his lap and into the footwell. he puts the car in park and rushes to steady you before you can fall.

“it was worth it,” he says steadily. “if you remember this—i want you to remember that. i really—you made my life better, every time you touched it.”

“i’ll remember,” you say quietly, putting your hand on his face. “don’t worry.”

he gives you a look like, sure.

“come up,” you say. “if it doesn’t matter to you. it doesn’t matter to me.”

you turn his world upside down; this means that it matters more than anything else ever could.

“you can kick me out in the morning,” he says, voice a dry rasp.

“i won’t,” you promise, leading him by the hand up the steps already. for the first time, he believes you.

[hunnismokah]

adult zuko!!!

[cupidstrace]

@yenayaps @kamiflix

[dogpuppy]

[risk-repeater]

this job market is a fucking nightmare

[golongbyjoannanewsom]

obsessed w this person in the replies

[ceruleanheaven]

[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over

[miyasmagnolias]

𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋆˙⟡

suna rintarou x f!reader

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.

@miyasmagnolias, 2025

[sproutoru]

suna rintarou x gn!reader 1.4k words / best friends to lovers

idek man. but @saezzi (thank yew for reading it over) said it was ok so @.@ anyways first hq piece yay

you like suna rintarou a little too much at 1:19am in bed, with his hand on your back, drawing odd patterns over your (his) t-shirt. his other hand is holding his phone, youtube on, playing a video of deep sea diving and swimming with sharks.

you're sleepy and the atmosphere is perfect, and he looks like a dream when he's painted by the soft glow of your bedside mood lamp. pink and purple hues blur the line between friendship and something more.

you roll over into his arms, slotting your face into the crook of his neck.

"going to sleep?" he asks. you hum an affirmative sound, eyes already closed. he echoes it back.

he doesn't get off his phone, and the soft blue light emanating from the device keeps you in the limbo between consciousness and sleep for just a while longer.

long enough to feel him shuffle—minimal movement but it's easy to tell when you're all pressed up like this—angling his face toward you, then the softness of his lips when they kiss your forehead.

but suna is soft and he is warm, his hand is back to stroking your skin, and you're too far gone to know if it was real or a figment of the fondness you nurture for him.

you like suna rintarou a little too much at 3:29pm on the crowded train home, but you've found two empty seats to yourselves at the very end. you're by the window, dizzy with your eyes closed and your head on his shoulder because the lady across the aisle has enough perfume to suffocate the entire carriage.

the train ride is mostly quiet but the sun is loud and has no regard for your peace. it blares down on you even through the thin curtain that separates you and the glass window, like miya atsumu when he's been deprived of attention for a while.

your eyelids twitch, then a shadow befalls your face. when you peek an eye open, suna's got his big hand over your head like it's all just so casual. you tilt your head to look at him, but he only coaxes you back on his shoulder. you're not sure if he notices the heat of color on your cheeks, but he doesn't comment either way.

"go to sleep," he says, completely unfazed by the solar assault on his own eyes. "i’ll wake you when we get there."

you like suna rintarou a little too much at 8:18pm in the third set of a match that has dragged on for way longer than anyone expected. he moves like a blur on the court, and you're the always the first person to jump from your seat whenever he blocks a spike or lands a clean hit.

"sunarin!" you would yell, holding up a sign with his name in bold glittery letters, loud enough to drown out some of the miya fangirls.

suna would find you no matter where you are in the stands. he looks to you first every time, because catching that bright grin of yours is always better than raucous cheers from his teammates.

it's easy to categorize the neutral expression on his face as indifference, but you know him better than most. know that the slight quirk of his lips communicates something only you two can understand.

it's warm, so fuzzy that you don't notice the way the rest of the team follows suna's line of sight, nor the teasing and knowing smiles when their gazes land on you.

"i'm your first supporter, rin," you had said once upon a time, back when you were just children, your hands bandaging his scraped up knees after volleyball with the other neighborhood kids. "i'm your biggest supporter!"

years later and you're still watching him from the bleachers, still wearing that smile so bright it could rival the sun.

the match resumes, he goes back into position but his eyes remain on you for a second longer.

you like suna rintarou a little too much at 12:22am on a midnight snack run with the miyas, even though half your attention is divided on atsumu who keeps throwing pointed chuckles at suna because the convenience store cashier is not subtle at all.

maybe she doesn't need to care about subtlety when she's that pretty. every brush of her fingers against suna's as he hands her your shared items seems deliberate. you're standing right here—probably looking like chopped liver to a woman on a mission—and you don't know if suna notices her flirty smiles or if he just doesn't care, but that spark of irritation flares up inside you anyhow.

when he pulls out his wallet, you're still huffing internally, already picturing how this next minute could play out. she'd bat her eyelashes, put on a devastatingly beautiful smile and suna would cave because he's still just a man after all.

someone gasps—atsumu, likely—and you snap out of it just fast enough to catch the cashier slump slightly. she glances at you, and you're looking over suna's shoulders to find him fishing out some bills, but he's holding the wallet open for longer than you think is necessary. in the transparent photo slot is something you thought you lost a while back, a polaroid of you making a silly face at the camera. he's there too, barely visible peeking out from behind, but he was looking at you.

suna thanks the cashier politely and grabs the plastic bag from the counter. when he leads you out the door by your hand, you don't even need to look back to know it's atsumu who's squealing into his palm.

you even like suna rintarou at 7:12am on a cloudy sunday morning, maybe a little less than usual when he's pounding on your door like he's about to kick it down any second now.

"what the fuck?" you snarl when you catch him on the other side of the threshold. "i was sleeping!"

he's out of breath, his hair's all wind blown, that lanky figure of his leaning against your doorframe as if he’s about to pass out. even half-asleep, you know that he's not supposed to be here. no, he's supposed to be on a stuffy bus with the rest of his teammates on the way to a tournament in another city.

three hours away for three weeks. you already said your goodbyes last night, already sent him off with a handmade bracelet for good luck.

"i just…" he starts, but it comes out ragged because there's still not enough air in his lungs. he steps forward regardless, uncaring of your disheveled appearance—messy bedhead and your sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder—and pulls you all up into his personal space.

there's a sheen of perspiration on his forehead that you spot from this close. you hear the incessant buzzing of his phone in his pocket, but suna doesn't seem bothered so you don't ask. one of his hands finds the nape of your neck, not unfamiliar, but still quite foreign in this context that you haven't yet deciphered.

"i need to do something," he says, his voice much more even now. and you would ask question what on earth could he possibly need to do at the ass crack of a sunday morning, but his other hand finds the small of your back and you feel the butterflies again, rampant and insane.

"rin…"

then he's leaning in until there's no space between you at all. his lips on yours, tasting faintly of mint and the mango gummies you gave him in case he got carsick. the sky is still cloudy, but you're kissing him back and suddenly you don't mind at all that he almost broke down your door and disrupted your much needed day off.

you're dumbstruck when he pulls back with cheeks rosy and lips shiny, and his gaze is fixed on your mouth. sharp eyes now softened, pupils all dilated. you don't reckon you look any better.

what the fuck.

maybe the thought actually comes out in a dazed mumble because your best friend is laughing lightly, his hands still holding you close. "you're not coming with us this time," he says. "i'm gonna miss you."

and it's on a gloomy sunday morning in the threshold of your home that you realize, belatedly, despite all the signs and blurry lines and knowing grins from the miyas, that suna rintarou likes you too.

maybe a little too much.

[goth-queen]

[importantpics]

[itssjanedoe]

[s-h-a-s-e]

[goodfriendo]

i wonder what they're gossiping about

[jmawork]

had to draw them

[rosierin]

traffic light | suna rintarou

synopsis; you flirt with a biker at a red light

-> featuring best friend iwa!

a/n: biker!suna yayayayaya

You and Iwaizumi are on your way back from a meal out with friends, cruising through the quiet streets as he drives you home. It’s that in between hour where it’s not quite day, not quite night, where the sky is the colour of cotton candy and the sun is barely peeking out between the clouds.

You’re halfway into a rant about one of your friend’s questionable love life when something—or someone, rather—stops you dead in your tracks.

Literally, because Iwa brakes at the red light.

“So then I told her, why don’t you just dump his ass if he’s so—holy crap he’s cool.”

You barely register Iwa’s inquisitive hum when the low growl of a motorbike creeps up beside the car.

Damn. That’s hot.

He’s like the personification of an eclipse.

Black helmet. Black jacket. Black jeans. Slick black bike. You can’t even see this man’s face, but his demeanour alone is enough to do something to your pulse.

You bite your lip to contain the cheesy grin that’s about to break out onto your face and turn to Iwa. “He is so fine."

Iwa gives the stranger a quick side glance and huffs something close to a laugh. “You into bikers now?”

“Didn’t used to be. I’ve been getting a bunch of videos on my Instagram, though, and I’ve kinda been converted.”

Iwa shakes his head in either amusement, or bemusement—hard to tell. What’s clear is that he’s not fully grasping the appeal of this majestic individual, so you smack his arm like it might knock some sense into him.

“No, Haji, look. I’m serious.” You ball your hand into a fist and gnaw on your knuckles to contain a squeal. Your brain replays the time Maki and Mattsun called you a crazed lunatic and said Hajime was your carer—only to stomp the thought back down.

“What do I do?” you breathe.

“You can’t even see his face."

“Doesn’t matter,” you chide, ignoring Iwa's painfully typical male response. “It’s all about the body language. The aura, you know?"

"Can't say I do."

"Never mind."

You’re leaning forward now, peeking through the side mirror, heart kicking up as you admire the handsome stranger. Iwa’s right—you can hardly see the guy’s face through the helmet visor, but your imagination does all the work for you. Sharp jaw. High cheekbones. He’s got a lazy slouch that fits the brooding image you’ve painted of him perfectly. One hand rests on the throttle, the other tapping a rhythm on his thigh like he’s got nowhere better to be.

“Should I say something?” you whisper, rocking in your seat like a kid who just spotted a celebrity and is building up the courage to ask for an autograph.

“Want me to open the window?”

“No—“

Whirrrr.

You stare frantically at Iwa as the window slides down with a mechanical whir, and the purr of the biker's engine fills the silence.

"How could you do this to me—"

Iwa just clears his throat, gaze fixed on the road ahead as if to say, from now on, I am no longer present. Good luck.

Your stomach flips.

It's fine. You're overthinking. Maybe he didn't even hear. Maybe you can play this off. For all he knows, you just rolled down the window for some fresh air.

The biker turns his head.

Annnd you just made eye contact.

Well, you think you did. It's impossible to tell with his visor tinted so dark, but it definitely felt like eye contact. You realise you're still staring when the biker subtly jerks his chin at you in silent question.

Something wrong?

You’ve barely got time to think. The light will turn green any minute and it dawns on you that you might miss your chance.

And so—because you’re well-versed in the art of biker Instagram reels and see these kinds of interactions all the time—you lean out the window just a little and put on your best smile.

“I like your bike,” you call, only to immediately regret it because surely you could’ve said something better than that.

The man tilts his helmet slightly, like he wasn’t expecting the compliment. His voice is muffled, low, and amused when he replies:

“Thanks. You drive?”

Oh. Does he think you’re a fellow biker?

You snort at the thought. “God, no. I don't think that'd be safe for anyone." You wave a dismissive hand before adding, "I'm just the co-pilot."

He rolls his shoulder back, spine straightening just enough to give you a better look.

Hm. He’s broader than you imagined. Taller, too.

Guess being hunched over was hiding all that potential.

“Mm. The hard job,” he says—and if your ears aren't deceiving you, you'd say he was teasing.

Perfect. You can't help but grin. Now's your chance.

"The hard job," you echo. "Are you hiring?"

Iwa lets out a sound caught between a laugh and a groan.

The guy laughs—just a little. Deep and dry and unfairly attractive. Success, you think. At least you made him laugh.

Then, without looking away, he flips his visor up.

You try not to stare.

Dark, tired eyes. Green like freshly picked apples. Strands of messy brown hair falling over his forehead. It feels like a tease—one that has you impatiently wondering what the rest of him looks like under all that gear.

“What’s your name, passenger princess?”

You can hardly believe your ears. As if he's actually going along with this.

“(Y/n).”

“Suna,” he says. “You free Friday?”

Ohmygod. Ohmygod.

“You don’t even know what I like,” you goad, emboldened now that you've confirmed his interest.

He revs the engine once in response—slow and suggestive. “I know one thing.”

Your face warms.

Then he shifts forward slightly, one hand reaching into his jacket pocket. When it re-emerges, he’s holding a phone—already unlocked, already open on the “new contact” screen.

He doesn’t say anything, just gives a little tilt of his head as he extends it toward you through the window.

You take it and blink down at the screen.

Suddenly, you no longer remember your own name.

Your mind scrambles, fingers hovering uselessly over the keyboard as your brain reboots. When it finally does, your thumbs fly across the keyboard. You add your name, number, and a cute little emoji for good measure (a bike and princess emoji), then you hand it back, biting back a grin like a kid in a candy store.

He glances at the screen. His shoulders bounce, just once, like he laughed under his breath. Then he slides the phone back into his jacket.

The light turns green just in time.

“See you Friday, (y/n),” he says. And somehow, you have a feeling he’s smirking.

He lifts two fingers off the handle in a lazy little salute, then peels off into the night.

You spin in your seat so fast the seatbelt locks in place. “Haji, did you see that?! I got a date in like under two minutes!”

He’s already turning the corner, half smiling at your success. “Sure did. Guess that means I’m dropping you off on Friday?”

You giggle into your palms.

Best. Red light interaction Ever.

thank you to everyone who likes, comments &/or reblogs! ☺️

[kuroken-divorce-arc]

Suna Rintaro — Highest Bidder

(college au, pre-relationship, yearning, humor) │ some people donate. others declare war.

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

fundraisers are easy for you.

you’ve always liked them. the energy, the crowd, the shared sense of purpose. people gathering for something good, opening their wallets for a cause they believe in. you’re good at talking, at smiling, at making people feel like their contribution matters.

so when your organization suggests a charity auction, you volunteer without hesitation.

one of the prizes is simple. harmless. a friendly date with you. coffee, dinner, something light. nothing serious. the kind of thing people bid on because it’s fun, because it supports the cause, because you’re outgoing and familiar and easy to like.

you don’t think much of it.

suna rintarou thinks about it constantly.

he’s been aware of you for months.

long enough that he knows your schedule. the way you laugh louder with your friends. the way you tilt your head when you’re listening to someone, genuinely interested. the way you move through campus like you belong there.

he has never spoken to you.

that doesn’t stop him from knowing you.

the night of the auction, the room is full. folding chairs packed close together, chatter bouncing off the walls, the hum of anticipation buzzing under everything. you stand on the small stage, smiling as the host explains the rules.

“next up,” they say, grinning, “a fan favorite. a friendly date with y/n.”

there’s immediate interest.

hands shoot up. numbers climb fast.

you laugh softly, waving a hand. “thank you, thank you. remember, it’s for charity.”

suna sits near the back, legs stretched out, arms crossed loosely over his chest. he looks bored. relaxed. like this doesn’t matter.

it matters more than anything.

“fifty!”

“seventy-five!”

“one hundred!”

you glance out at the crowd, amused, a little flattered. this is fun. ridiculous. exactly what a fundraiser should be.

then a voice cuts in.

“two hundred.”

calm. flat. unmistakable.

you look toward it.

dark hair. unreadable eyes. suna rintarou.

you’ve seen him around. volleyball player. quiet. always watching, never lingering. you give him a polite smile, assuming it’s a joke, a momentary bid.

someone else immediately raises it.

“two-fifty!”

“three hundred!”

before the next person can even finish, suna speaks again.

“four.”

there’s a ripple through the room.

you blink.

the host laughs nervously. “four hundred, we’re at four hundred!”

another bid goes up.

“four-fifty!”

“six,” suna says instantly.

he doesn’t look at anyone. doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t blink.

people start laughing now. murmurs spreading, heads turning toward him.

“does he know this is a college fundraiser?”

“is he serious?”

you glance at him again, curiosity blooming. his expression hasn’t changed. relaxed. focused. intent in a way that makes your stomach flutter, even if you don’t know why.

someone tries to jump in.

“six-fifty—”

“eight.”

this time, the room goes quiet.

the host clears their throat. “uh. eight hundred. do i hear—”

“nine hundred!”

suna exhales slowly through his nose.

“one thousand.”

the silence is immediate.

you feel it like pressure against your ears.

people laugh in disbelief. someone whistles. another groans. it’s stopped being competitive and started being personal.

the crowd versus suna rintarou.

you rest your hands lightly at your sides, smiling despite yourself. this has gone far beyond what you expected, but it’s kind of incredible. the cause is benefiting. the energy is electric.

and the way suna is looking at you now—

like this was never a question.

someone makes one last attempt. “twelve hundred.”

suna finally straightens.

“five thousand.”

it lands like a dropped plate.

no laughter this time. no chatter. just stunned silence.

five thousand dollars is not something most college students even joke about.

suna doesn’t elaborate. doesn’t justify it. he just leans back again, eyes locked on you, lips curling into the smallest, smug smile.

the host blinks. “five… thousand. going once?”

no one moves.

“going twice?”

you swallow, heart beating faster.

“sold.”

applause erupts, half shocked, half hysterical.

suna stands, completely unbothered, pulling his wallet out like this was always the plan. he hands over his card without looking at it.

when he finally meets your eyes, there’s something unguarded there. satisfaction. relief. something dangerously close to awe.

you step off the stage, approaching him with a soft laugh. “wow. i hope you like coffee.”

his smile deepens.

“i don’t drink coffee,” he says quietly. “but i’ll learn.”

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

[chimielie]

rintarō's in the locker room, fresh from the shower, towel wrapped around his neck, when one of his teammates knocks his shoulder as he walks past.

"your girl's cute, man," he says, "lucky guy."

"...i know," rintarō says. he flashes back briefly to atsumu asking, in his friendliest, brotherliest tone if he would be open to a threesome.

the moment is over without further implication, though, so he puts it out of his mind. his girl is cute. why get upset over fact?

on the train home, he holds onto the rail with one hand and tries not to make eye contact with anyone. he's not accosted often enough to avoid public transportation altogether, but he's made a habit of trying to avoid notice.

instead of looking at the people passing in and out through the doors, he zeroes in on his phone. he opens instagram, clicking mindlessly through recently posted stories.

onigiri miya is having an all-you-can-eat raw marinated crab day. rintarō hits like. aran has posted photos of his wife across a dinner table, a rose between the two of them. rintarō hits like. atsumu has posted seven shirtless photos flexing in a row. rintarō does not hit like.

the next photo is on your story. at first, he only thinks, wow, cute. the photo is framed to show your shoulders, a sliver of skin between the band of fabric and the bottom of the screen indicating that you're only wearing a bra, your hair tossed in a careless styled-unstyled kind of way, your face screwed up in a funny little smile. you make that expression when you're laughing at yourself, your eyes still dancing in this still photo.

tucked into your bra is a glossy photo of rintarō, jaw standing out and eyes burning fiercely as he strains midair toward the net, his form perfect as he takes advantage of a rare spiking opportunity.

my only bias is a middle blocker, says the caption. he can't stop himself from grinning, sure that he looks like an idiot as he smiles at his phone.

the crowds of people on the train thin out as he gets closer to the neighborhood where you live together, enabling him to pull out his phone and wallet, hooking a finger into the side of his mask and pulling it under his chin. he flips open his wallet to the polaroid he carries with him always, part of a set you'd gifted him for your second anniversary.

next to his face, you stare out from the laminated pocket, spread out over your bed, reaching out towards the photographer—toward him. you're wearing a black bra, not much more skin showing than the photo you'd posted, but there's a particular shine to the color of your mouth, red marks decorating your throat, your eyes hazy but your mouth caught in a permanent laugh. in the corner of the frame, you can see his hand, so big compared to the delicate wrist it's holding down.

only fan who gets to touch, he types, and hits post.

[chimielie]

inspired by a post i saw that said “gen z’s aversion to being problematic is going to stop them from ever finding true love” and a comment that said “my dad told my mom to break up with her boyfriend and date him instead and it worked”

“i’m sorry,” you say, resting your cheek between your boyfriend’s shoulder blades, your arms loosely circling him from behind, “i didn’t mean to make you upset. let’s just enjoy today, okay?”

“huh?” says the guy, decidedly not in your boyfriend’s voice.

you jump back, nearly slipping on your heel in your haste. the man who you’d just felt up in the middle of the museum turns; from the front, he looks nothing like masahiro, with startlingly intense eyes and bone structure that looked like it had been cut by the gods. how many men with spiky black hair and puffer jackets were just hanging around, trying to trick you?

now that you see it, though, you see the differences—this guy has broad shoulders where masahiro’s clothes hang off him like they would a model and his jeans are distressed all the way down the front. your boyfriend has a distinct distaste for styles like that. he thinks they look trashy.

“oh,” you stutter around your dumbfounded tongue, heartbeat still rabbit-fast from alarm. “i’m so sorry. you looked like—i thought you were someone else from behind. i’m so, so sorry.”

“don’t worry about it,” the guy grins. the smile softens the features of his face, making him look miles less scary. “pretty girl like you, i don’t mind at all. i thought you were one of my friends at first, you’re lucky i didn’t suplex you.”

you bluescreen. suplex me! the stupid, disloyal braincells running around inside your skull shriek.

“i have a boyfriend,” you say instead, sensibly.

“sucks,” the guy shrugs, putting his hands in his pockets and kind of turning back to the art piece in front of him, his body still just angled toward you so you can see those olive-orchard eyes flickering between the oil paintings and your face. “you didn’t sound very happy with him. you should break up and date me instead.”

no! you should shout and go find masahiro, probably lurking around somewhere trying to think of new and creative ways to get mad at you.

“you’re forward,” you breathe instead, which probably totally gives this stranger the wrong impression.

“i know what i want,” he says. it’s annoying how casual he is about it. “my name’s hajime, by the way. you live around here?”

“the east part of the city, near the cultural center.” you clearly don’t have any caution at all.

“oh, cool! so do i,” he says. “they opened an ethiopian restaurant a couple blocks from the train station recently. we could walk around by the river afterwards if you decide you like me.”

“i have a boyfriend,” you say again, weaker this time.

“sure, for now,” hajime says. “if that changes, here.” he tears off a piece of his program and procures one of the tiny pencils museums provide to scribble some digits on it. “my number. i live with roommates, so if it sounds like a girl picking up, it’s my friend oikawa trying to scare you away.”

“i’m not easily scared off,” you say as you tuck the paper into your pocket. you’ll definitely throw it out right away.

“good,” he turns the full force of that smile back on you again, boyish despite his manly frame and strong personality. “we’ll get along great.”

you snort.

“no, you’re definitely forward. you don’t need to remember it,” you lean a little closer to him, noting the way his face flushes a bit under his deep tan. “because i have a boyfriend, but my name is y/n.”

—

after walking in circles for a bit, you locate masahiro at the museum cafe, flirting with a girl in an apron.

“there you are,” you say cautiously.

“and another thing—” he starts right away without any preamble. you groan out loud by accident. “do you have a problem?”

—

predictably, you leave the museum shortly afterwards. you wander around the city a little by yourself, hands shoved deep in your pockets, hyperaware of a tiny piece of paper against your fingertips.

it’s so crinkled up you have to squint to read the numbers when you get home. the phone rings a few times before anyone picks up—

“—hello?” crackles a high voice over the line. “i’m not pregnant yet, but what are you wearing?”

“hi, oikawa-san,” you say, hoping you’re remembering the name correctly. “can i talk to hajime, please?”

“oh, you’re real?” the voice is suddenly octaves lower, the melodic voice of a young man. “wow, i didn’t know he had it in him. please don’t break his heart, i’ll have you know i have a very strong serving arm—”

there’s a brief interlude of thunking and screaming. a now-familiar voice picks up the phone.

“hey, pretty,” hajime says. “let me guess: you have a boyfriend.”

“not at all,” you say steadily. “are you going to be like this forever?”

“that’s what my mother says,” he answers. “are you up for ethiopian tonight? my weekend is pretty open, too.”

“i’m already dressed,” you tease, “it’d be a waste of a good outfit not to go out tonight.”

“i can’t wait to see it,” he says, and a little frisson of warmth runs through you, like you can see those eyes burning through you again.

“i was thinking, though,” you start, nervously winding the cord of the phone around your finger. “it’s a little cold to walk by the river this time of year. if we like each other, i think we should just go back to my apartment.”

“that sounds,” his voice cracks. “i mean, that sounds great. but i think you should know, um, i’m not really a casual kind of guy.”

“i could tell you that from the way you said dump your boyfriend and go out with me,” you roll your eyes. “look, hajime. i just broke up with my boyfriend for you. we better fucking get married.”

there’s a pause where you worry that you’ve said too much, come on too strong to this strange, direct man.

“like i said,” you can hear the broad smile in his voice. “we’re gonna get along great.”

and you do.

[chimielie]

He's not letting it happen.

Rintarō stands in the hallway till his feet tingle, pins and needles, until he has to sit down. That's how you find him, spread out among his notebooks, half-finished calculations and doodles in the margins on display.

"Hey," he says, clambering to his feet before you can collect yourself and walk away. "Wait up."

"Were you here my entire class?" You say, sounding angrier than you should for someone whose boyfriend was waiting for them.

"Yeah," he shrugs. "I got here at the usual time 'cause I wasn't sure if it ran later on exam days."

"It does," you say slowly. That's obvious. He checks his watch. It's three and you're usually home with him by one-fifty. "You didn't have to. You shouldn't have."

"I know," he says, crouching to shove his stuff into his backpack without care for what he's crumpling. "I got your letter."

"I'm sorry," you say, hiding your face from him, turning away. He puts a hand on the back of your neck, guides it back to him. He can see it, the crushed expression in your eyes, the sad turn of your mouth. "You can't—I'm sorry, okay?"

"It was bullshit," he says. You stumble over your feet, the hard mask you'd put over your features breaking momentarily. Even when it reforms, he feels victorious, knowing that you still want him—need him, even when you try to run from it. "So I'm ignoring it."

"What?" Your eyes are round, your jaw slack. Helpfully, he nudges it closed with a knuckle.

"You don't get to do that," he says. "Break up with me. Not unless it was for a good reason. Believe me, babe, I read that thing up and down and there wasn't one good reason on there, so we're not breaking up."

"Please don't do this," you say as the two of you walk out of the hall into the light, your face crumpling into something so sad despite the sunny day it almost makes him want to cry. "It's for the best. I know that's hard to believe now, but you have to look at the bigger picture—"

"Nope," he interrupts you. "I know you're a little know-it-all—how'd your exam go, by the way—and you think you know what's best for everyone all the time, but that letter was honestly really badly reasoned. Wouldn't hold up in any mock trial. So you're getting a zero and a second chance for a re-grade."

"It was fine," you say automatically. "Wait, take this seriously, please. I care about you and I don't want anyone to get hurt."

"This is the most serious thing I've ever done," he says, motioning between the two of you. "But I refuse to entertain some fucking note where you just lie—"

"I didn't lie!" You cry out. "I wrote my feelings, you asshole, which are the basis of a relationship—"

"Your feelings are wrong—"

"This is exactly what I meant!" You shout at him, garnering a few looks from the scant people walking around the secluded section of campus you're in. You lower your voice self-consciously, but your words still land like punches to his chest. "I'm broken, Rintarō, everything we do is going to end up poisoned. I don't want—" You gesture to yourself, to the tears slipping down your face. "This to happen to you. Can't you just let me go and remember only the good parts?"

"Stop it, stop it," he stops walking to pull you into his chest, sighing with relief when you press your face into his black hoodie. "That's not gonna happen. Don't say that shit about yourself, fuck, I don't care what you are as long as you're my person. Breathe, baby."

"Stop saying the right things," you say miserably. "I was so determined to not let you see this."

He pokes your cheek gently. "Sucks."

"So..." You pull away from him and he lets go reluctantly, pulling down the sleeve of his hoodie to dab at your cheeks. "We're not broken up?"

He gives you an unimpressed look and you start laughing despite yourself, something strange happening inside your chest, weird and unburdened and maybe stitching itself shut.