I've been in my aot mourning mode as of late and wanted to share a moment from 137 manga chapter that I found visually disturbing
It's because of these two I've been crying for the past half hour.
Despite being a year older than Porco, in these panels Marcel appears as a twelve year old boy since yk he died at the age of twelve.
This whole juxtaposition of twelve-year-old older brother standing next to his almost twice as old younger brother really brings out for me the tragedy of the Warrior Unit. As in, they were still children when they were forced to face the cruelty of war and had their childhood as well as their lives stolen from them.
summary: Suna x Reader. dating on a bet but it's ethical
word count: 4.4k
cw: a lot of kissing, cheating (not done to reader or by suna), humor to ??? to angst to ???, no joke this is all over the place, friends to dating the school player on a bet to fake dating to friends to
a/n: this is @akimind's fault
“This is the stupidest situation I’ve ever been in,” you say, surveying the mostly-empty early morning grounds of Inarizaki High. The only noises are the breeze rustling through the trees, birds chirping musically, and the grunts of every student athlete running through their morning workout.
“No it’s not,” says your best friend, the demonic entity who put you in this mess.
“No, it’s not,” you agree sadly. “Alright. Let’s get this over with.”
Getting this over with actually entails waiting until the end of the school day, because you don’t want to face the consequences of your actions and would rather hide at home than suffer publicly in school.
One in thirteen people die via vending machine every year, you remind yourself as you approach the contraption warily. You should be so lucky.
Tragically, the vending machine doesn’t kill you; worse, everything goes according to plan. At 3:23 p.m., Suna Rintarō approaches for his pre-practice snack.
I’m gonna throw up, you text your friend. She leaves you on delivered. You hate her.
“Hey,” Suna says your name, effectively cutting off all trains of thought.
“Hi,” you say. You nearly chicken out, but your pride is on the line. You have to do this. You can do this. You are a badass.
“Thanks,” says Suna. Oops. Your mouth clamps shut involuntarily, so you stare mutely at him while he chuckles to himself, focused primarily on scanning the plethora of processed food the machine offers.
About three things you are absolutely positive. First, Suna is a heartbreaker of the highest degree. Second, you are trapped in a dare to prove otherwise. And third, the way his blazer drapes over his frame and he smiles at you like he’s letting you know a secret makes you feel like a dandelion being blown into the blue sky on a sunny summer day.
Like having butterflies, but instead of merely letting them flutter around your innards, you ascend into the weightlessness of fluttering flight.
Fucking insects.
“Funny story,” you say abruptly, making eye contact with Suna. “I was dared to date you. For over three months. I don’t think I was supposed to tell you but it didn’t seem ethical not to on the off chance that you would, y’know, say yes, against all known laws of physics and aviation—”
Suna laughs. His nose scrunches up when he does it, and his eyes nearly close, and the flush on his face is the same shade of pink all the French lovers wrote about, probably. You bounce on your toes in agitation.
“I know it sounds like a joke but I just really need you to give an answer so I can report back because if I don’t ask you they threatened to dye my cat purple.”
“Isn’t your cat black?”
“I have two cats,” you say. “I knew I shouldn’t have defended you. Asshole.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he waves it off. “Let’s do it. Could be fun.”
“Are you joking?” It’s your turn to laugh.
“No,” he says simply, stepping just into your personal space so he can reach out and brush a piece of your hair back. “Not even a little.”
“Excuse me a moment,” you say, and turn your back to him to message FUCK in the groupchat with unsteady fingers. You are all too aware of his sharp eyes watching over your shoulder while you type the four-letter word three times until it’s spelled correctly. You tuck your phone back into your pocket and face him again with squared shoulders. “Cool. Sweet. Should we shake on it?”
He stretches out his hand. You take it, gripping it firmly to indicate that you will be a reliable and firm business partner.
“Is there money on this?”
“5000 yen from six people each if we last through the three month mark,” you say seriously. “I can give you fifteen percent of the winnings.”
“Fifty percent.”
“Twenty.”
“Thirty,” he says, and you shrug. “But I’m still gonna call it off if I get bored, just so you know.”
“Oh, I know,” you say. You’re still holding his hand.
He changes his grip so your fingertips are barely touching, drawing your hand up to brush a kiss over the knuckles. You want to punch him in the mouth a little bit. It’s not right for someone to be so romantic in an entirely unromantic situation. It’s confusing and upsetting.
“Signed and sealed,” he says. “Walk home with me on Friday, okay?”
Friday goes well. At first, you feel clumsy and stupid, your mind entirely consumed by the fact that you’re fake-dating him. Your friends hadn’t bought that he’d said yes (they didn’t know you’d told him about the bet) until he’d interrupted your morning briefing with them the next day, hair endearingly limp from volleyball-induced sweat and grin sharp and wide. He’d slung an arm around you while you shrieked and tried to get out from beneath him, aggravated by his moistness, and he’d finally put an end to your wriggling by spinning you face to face with him, brushing his nose against yours and telling you to be good.
That had shut you up for, like, ten minutes.
It’s easy to fake it around your friends, playing off an inside joke with him that reads as chemistry to outsiders. One on one, though, you panic.
“So...” Suna says, hands in his pockets and posture slouched while you stew in anticipatory embarrassment. “What do you think of Englebert Humperdink?”
“What?”
“What?”
“You’re weird, Suna,” you bump into him purposely, bouncing off with the efficacy of a tennis ball hitting a brick wall.
“I told you to call me Rintarō,” he bumps you back. “And you’re the one being weird.”
“It’s just weird,” you say indignantly. “Don’t you think it’s weird?”
“Well, I’m weird too,” he shrugs. “No big.”
Weirder, it’s like a ton lifts off your shoulders when he says that.
“At least you’re weird cool,” you offer. “People like your weird.”
“I don’t really care, though,” he says. “People like you, they don’t like you, it doesn’t matter. You’re still weird.”
“Are you talking about you or me? Or the ambiguous you?”
He only offers a mysterious smile in response.
Your first date with Suna — Rintarō — is five days of walking home with him plus the weekend later. He picks you up fifteen minutes late, has a toxic green energy drink in hand, and refuses to tell you where he’s taking you no matter how you beg, threaten, or bribe.
It’s a classic: the movie theater. By the time you’ve finished reading all the possible movie titles on show tonight, he’s brandishing two tickets to the latest in a series of corny action flicks, smirking lazily at you.
“I wanted to see the one with the assassin romance,” you say while he pays for movie snacks, mocking you relentlessly for your choice of filler food.
“The one who pays picks the movie,” he sing-songs.
“That’s not a rule. And I could’ve paid.”
“It is for me, and I wouldn’t let you do that, because I’m a gentleman and a great time.”
“You chose a movie with four prequels I haven’t seen. I don’t think you qualify for either of those.” He shrugs.
“The tickets are bought. No choice now.”
You get back at him by making snide comments throughout the movie, pointing out every plot hole and snickering at the saddest scenes.
“You are a demon and I never should have agreed to this,” he points at you once you’ve walked out of the theater.
“Aw, no, baby,” you say, pouting exaggeratedly at him. “Are you breaking up with me?”
“Not a chance,” he laughs. “No fucking way.”
It turns out that being in a couple can be really good for your social life. You get specials at restaurants, so you go out to eat more. You like pissing off your friends with your success, so you invite them to hang out and bring your boyfriend along. You get to know the infamous volleyball team, who are a lot less intimidating when they run around hitting each other with towels than they are on the court.
Sure, the Miyas seem like they’re constantly laughing behind your back, but you can tell they’re bouncing between making fun of Rintarō and of you equally.
“He’s gonna break up with you, ya know?” Says the gray-haired one to you one day, completely unprompted. You blink up at him, caught mid-soup sip.
“Don’t make fun, Samu,” says the blond. “He’s too in loveeeeee to do that.” He tilts his head coquettishly and flutters his fingers around his face. “He told us you’re not like his exes. He actually said that.”
“I think he says that to all his dates,” Osamu muses. “Male manipulator.”
“Male manipulator my ass,” snorts Atsumu. “Yesterday he saw one of his ex-girlfriends and hid behind me until she went away. The man is a simp.”
“Maybe he still has feelings for her,” muses Osamu, staring at you with laser focus. “Does that worry you?”
“No?” You say, then take a loud slurp of soup.
“You’re borin’,” says Atsumu. “Maybe s’why he likes you so much. Bye.”
“Bye,” says Osamu.
“Bye.”
You’re on your fifth date, getting a special two for the price of one taiyaki deal when you actually bump into his ex, standing behind you in line.
“Hi,” she grins at you. “You know he’s a piece of shit, right?”
“Yes,” you say confidently, at the same time Rintarō says her name pleadingly. You sense suddenly that there is history here you don’t want to make light of.
“As long as you’re clear,” she says, taking your hand and squeezing it. Her fingertips bite into your skin. You look at Rintarō, surprised he’s not making any smart quips, but the gray shade of his skin tells you everything you need to know about the situation.
“The vibes,” you say, suddenly. “They’re arsenic.”
“What?”
“Rintarō,” you grab his hand and tug on it. “We have to go.”
You pull him out of the line, stumbling as he goes and giving her a small, pathetic wave as you storm away.
He doesn’t regain his color until you’re in your room, sitting on your bed while he drapes himself over your desk chair.
“So is there a reason why your ex makes you catatonic or should I make one up?”
“She’s fine,” Rintarō says hoarsely.
“Yep,” you say. “She killed your childhood horse.”
“What? No, you’re insane. She cheated on me.”
“She cheated on you?” You launch yourself to your feet, suddenly filled with the power of a thousand burning suns to strike her down.
“No, no, no,” he says. “Sit down. Sit down. It was my fault, anyway.”
Rintarō’s not a particularly loud guy, but he sounds so quiet now that you nearly ask him to speak up.
“How can her cheating possibly be your fault?” You arch a brow.
“I wasn’t a good boyfriend,” he says. “I was really, uh, neglectful.” He holds a hand up when you open your mouth. “It was worse than you think. She tried to reason with me a bunch of times and I wouldn’t listen. We had a pretty big fight and didn’t talk for a couple days, and when we were talking again, she had... Well. And then it was over.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. So, I dunno, I don’t blame her or anything. Plus, I went on a streak of fucking, uh, flings afterwards so I’m not faultless, either.”
“Bullshit, but okay,” you snort. “None of that is grounds for sleeping with someone else as revenge for upsetting her.”
“It wasn’t revenge—”
“It kinda was,” you point out. “And I don’t think you hooking up with a bunch of people after she hit you in the heart with a golf club is really the same thing. If anything, it sounds like you were just... trying to get over her, which isn’t a crime in anyone’s book, really.”
“It wasn’t hooking up,” he protests weakly.
“You’re running out of arguments, Rintarō,” you say. “Anyway. Um. Sorry for being all in your business. Can I get you anything?”
“I don’t know,” he says vaguely, staring into space.
“Okay,” you say, shoulders dropping. “Sounds good to me.”
You spend the next hour with him in near silence. Halfway through, you ask if he wants to sit on the bed with you, which he gladly accepts. The only noise in the room is the sound of the both of you tapping at your phones and occasionally clicking on a video and playing it out loud. You wonder if your parents would be angry that you had a boy in your room if they walked in and saw the two of you doing absolutely nothing.
“Sorry,” you say, just before he leaves. “Again.”
“No, you’re good,” he responds. “It was nice. Really, really nice.”
Impulsively, you hug him. It takes a second for him to unfreeze, but you eventually feel hands patting your back.
“Night,” you say once you’ve pulled back. “Sleep tight.”
“Hope the vampires bite,” he says, smiling toothily at you.
That’s when you become best friends with your boyfriend.
You can recall the nearly physical feeling of the click of things into place, of the way the universe shifted just slightly so you could see so much more clearly. Dates blur into one long Suna session. Suddenly, you find your afternoons consumed with sitting on the bleachers, even if you're not actually watching practice. You no longer need to invite Rintarō to gatherings; he's there when the plans are made. You text incessantly during class and he sits in your desk chair, playing games on his phone, while you ponder your homework, waiting for you to finish so the two of you can binge dramas together.
"This means we probably would've had more fun if we'd watched the assassin romance instead of General Godzilla 5: Part 2," you say snidely.
"Fuck you," he responds eloquently.
He does the dishes for you when your parents ask you to, and you wash his laundry when you visit his house. This must be what it means to be in a partnership. The two of you encounter new problems and adapt, improvise, overcome.
"Have you and Suna... you know? Yet?" Asks one of your friends.
"No," laughs your best friend (the one you're not dating). "Have you two even kissed yet?"
"Yes, of course we have," you answer extremely truthfully. "Excuse me."
Rintarō opens his front door half an hour later. You promptly scream for fifteen straight seconds. He understands.
"We just need to orchestrate a kiss and get more comfortable with PDA," you reason later, sitting cross-legged across from him on your bed. He nods seriously, fingers steepled and expression wise.
"We can do that. Have you ever kissed someone before?" You throw a pillow at him.
"Of course I have. Just because it doesn't turn into schoolwide gossip doesn't mean it's not happening."
"Low blow, but okay."
"Wait," you pause. "Maybe you're right. Not factually, but spiritually. Do you think we should practice?"
"Maybe," you watch him swallow. "Yeah."
You both scoot slowly toward each other, laughing nervously every time the bed creaks.
"So are you..." You start, throat dry. "Um. Am I or are you gonna—"
Ungracefully, his lips land on yours. Your eyes slam shut and you reciprocate enthusiastically, cupping the back of his neck with one hand to brace yourself. Despite the jerky start, you can tell that he's a good kisser, a really good kisser. He sucks hard on your lower lip, drawing a noise you're embarrassed to hear out of your mouth, which prompts him to shift around and put a large hand on your back, kneeling so he has a few inches on you and can pull you closer. You kiss him harder, desperate to drown out the intensity of your own reaction.
Too hard. You think you black out.
When you come to, your hands have migrated into his black hair and he's pulling away from your neck, which you suspect is freshly marked. He stares down at you with wide eyes, and you suspect the expression is mirrored on your face.
"Do you think that was enough practice?" You ask carefully, unsure of what the correct answer is.
"Probably," he says, leaning back. "It'll be fine. Unless you get performance anxiety and drool on my face or something."
"You're so gross."
"You love me."
"Do I?"
You're half-asleep, walking out of your final period of the day when someone pulls you headlong into a dark classroom.
"Don't scream," Rintarō says. You scream. "Exactly. Thank you."
Then he's kissing you, barely brushing his lips against yours, smirking when you pinch his ribs. You chase him, kissing him fully and turning the both of you so that he's up against the wall, his hands loosely gripping your waist while your hands wander to his hair. He tastes sweet-and-sour, like home and like trouble, a contradiction wrapped in black hoodies and burning yellow eyes.
Someone's calling your name. Someone's calling your name, and the lights are on. You blink blearily at your best friend, who's laughing her ass off, and separate slowly from Rintarō. Your lips are wet and you can't seem to catch your breath.
"It's not what it looks like."
"God, imagine if I'd been a teacher," your friend howls and backs out of the classroom, beckoning you to follow. "Oh, the looks you guys gave me..."
"Remy," Rintarō whispers in your ear as he jogs to catch up with you, slinging his bag on. "You're like the rat in Ratatouille. Pulling me around by my hair."
"You are so, so bad at romance," you hiss. "See if I ever do it again."
"I mean, we weren't going to," he says. "But I'd like to."
You punch him lightly in the arm, but your heart's not in it.
Comparatively, PDA isn't hard after that. Your friends make fun of your hickey, which you shift up your collar to hide self-consciously (and which Rintarō pulls down constantly and secretly, for reasons unknown to you), and you hold hands without even thinking about it. You kiss him hello on the cheek and he hugs you goodbye, and you're starting to become hyperaware of the upcoming deadline.
Will everything change the way it did when you asked him to do this crazy, stupid thing with you? Will it all slip away, like a dream you can't quite remember by the time you wake up?
All these worries add up to something worse, you realize, lying in bed staring at the ceiling. You're not quite sure you can make it to the three month mark without wanting everything that's been smoke and mirrors and espionage to be real.
Only two weeks, you tell yourself, checking over your calendar again and again like it'll make the days pass faster. Fourteen days, three hundred thirty six hours, twenty thousand and one hundred sixty minutes. Everything is fine.
He takes you to the movies again.
He buys tickets for a movie from the fifties, buys you your favorite snacks without having to be asked, wraps his arm around you when you shiver from the air-conditioned interior. He likes the seats in the middle, but you nod toward the back.
"Really?" He asks, voice strangely high-pitched. "Oh. Sick."
You don't remember much of the movie.
Your last date with Suna Rintarō ends on the train. The world is a smear of blue and gray in front of you; behind you, arms embracing you almost too loosely is him. You turn your head to speak into his ear.
"It's been good," you tell him. "Happy three months."
"Happy three months," he repeats, the words nearly foreign in his mouth. "And one day. We're gonna be rich."
"And one day," you smile, and reach for his hand, his bony fingers cold to the touch. "Should we stage a big breakup?"
"I've had enough of big breakups for a lifetime," he laughs. "But if you want to, let's do it. Could be fun."
"No, it's okay," you shrug. "They're gonna know we gamed them, anyway. No need to lay it on anymore."
"Yeah," he replies. "Does that mean this is it?"
The conductor announces your stop, one neighborhood before his.
"I guess so," you feel strangely light, a little out of body. "See you tomorrow, Rintarō."
You should kiss him, maybe. Something dramatic should be happening right now; at least an emotional embrace. That's not how the two of you operate, though, and it wasn't anything real, anyway, you try to remind yourself. He won't be losing any sleep over this, so neither should you.
You lick your lips and smile at him, giving a little wave. He lifts a hand, head down while he looks at his phone. You can close the book on your relationship, and it feels just right. The train starts to move, and you turn around and walk home.
This is the stupidest situation he's ever been in, Rintarō thinks to himself.
It's been two weeks since what should have been the easiest breakup of his life, and things don't feel easy.
At first they were: your friends were annoyed but good natured, handing out the money reluctantly but with knowing expressions on their faces. He'd become too much a part of your life to simply pull out, and vice versa, so things had stayed similar.
But he felt so different, and he couldn't figure out why.
"Good one," Atsumu crows when he hears the truth of your relationship. "Really had me fooled. 'Samu, too."
"Was not!"
"Yes, you were. You thought he was playin' a fling again, not us."
"They were playin' their friends!"
"Are we not their friends, too?" Atsumu asks, wounded. "Hey, since Y/N is single now— or always was, whatever, could I—"
"Are you joking? No," Rintarō says. "What kind of question is that?"
"A perfectly valid one," sulks Atsumu. "Hey, mine!" He dives after a stray volleyball, and Rintarō stares after him distractedly.
It's almost metaphorical, the way Atsumu's easily pulled away from the topic of you by the game. Would that happen to Rintarō again? If he put in effort, and he could tell you how he felt— that he was miserable like this, that he'd gotten addicted to the way you tripped over your words because they came out too fast and the way your room smelled entirely like you and to your all-encompassing presence and touch, and he needed it, needed you back the way he'd had you and hadn't even known it— and by some miracle, you accepted, would he take it for granted? Would he ever be good enough for you?
Would he lose even the half of you he held in his palms now?
He's losing his mind, he realizes. Metaphor? In his volleyball? Unlikely.
He casts a longing look at the bleachers, then shakes his head. He needs to get his head in the game.
It's a Saturday night, and he misses you.
hey, he texts you, after forty-five minutes of agonizing deliberation. do u want to watch something? i think there's a ghibli showing at the theater but we can just stream if u want
sorry :( You respond three minutes later. can't.
rip, he sends. You don't answer. He slams his phone facedown on his comforter and lies on his back, his hands shaking. It's not until he rolls over and feels wet fabric against his cheek that he realizes he's been crying.
You feel so distant and only now he knows what he's doing wrong.
Rintarō's fallen in love with you.
"I don't know," you're saying. "I think I prefer the little jelly strawberries."
He can't focus. Every time he's around you, he nearly works up the courage to confess, to spill out every bloody, messy feeling he's had since you broke up and pray that you'll bear with him for it, but he always talks himself out of it. He can love you like this, he tells himself. His emotions aren't any less real for not being validated.
"What do you think? Rintarō?" You're snapping your fingers in front of his face. He hunches his shoulders and leans away.
"I think about your mom," he musters. You peer at him, your face far too close to his. He imagines bonking himself in the head with a thick textbook several times to remain stoic.
"You're being weird."
"Am not."
"Are too."
"Walk home with me today."
"Are t— what?" He shrugs. "Okay."
He sits a little straighter. He can make it another few hours. You got this, man, be normal.
He's pretty sure he fails miserably in that regard, but he recalls you looking at him with sparkling eyes and telling him people liked his weird. He hopes you were talking about yourself.
The sky is clear and he's nearly too hot beneath his school blazer. Beside him, your steps are light, taken to the beat of a song he can't hear. Cars honk in the street and dogs bark in their backyards. He bites his lip.
"Is everything okay?" Is somehow the way he chooses to open the topic.
"Yes," you say. "But I don't think it is with you. Tell me." He crosses his arms, then uncrosses them. What is he doing? He's not sure.
"It's really stupid," he says. "Well, not really, I just think it's kind of weird, maybe, and you might not like it. Or me. I guess that's the gist of it. I like you. I think I love you. And it hurts like we broke up for real when we weren't even dating for real. You're a really good friend, and I don't want to lose that, but," he flounders. "If you wanted to try dating, again, for real, I would love to try dating, again, for real, because I think I could... I don't think I did badly, but I want to show you that I can do better." He laughs, quietly, self-deprecatingly, and slows to a stop, turning to face you.
You stare at him, lips parted and brows raised.
In the eternity stretching between the two of you, he feels something inside him crack. It's not a clean break, either. He can feel shards of himself falling to the sidewalk while you look on, his usually icy demeanor revealing the lovesick boy beneath.
You take a deep breath, and he swears he can feel it inflating his own lungs.
Kita is not one for bad habits like nail biting or picking scabs, but his tongue has taken a beating these past couple of weeks.
His grandma asks if he’s fine when he struts home after a grueling day at work. He chews a trembling lip before turning around to give his maternal figure a sincere smile. And when Aran calls to say he heard the news, from his weekly phone call with Grandma no doubt, he stills the muscle in his mouth and only hums through the phone, uncaring if it is awkward and leaves his friend floundering.
It takes a tempered strength, like a sword thrown in flame and pelted over and over again until its edge is sharp and honed, to disregard his instinct, forgo the keys, and instead lock himself in his room when you call and hiccup over the line. He simply purses his lips and curls his tongue against the roof of his mouth, pushing until it goes stiff and seizes. And he waits, as he’s always done, for you to carry the conversation.
“I’m, ugh, drink. Drunk!” You quickly correct yourself before falling into a fit of giggles. “Drink, drank, drunk.”
“Where are you?” Despite his discipline, he finds bad habits are hard to break.
“At a watch party. In a bar.”
“Ya by yourself?” Kita makes a fist against his thigh. He shouldn’t be asking. He knows the answer, but for some reason has a need to hear it. He wonders when he developed masochistic tendencies.
“No, we went together.” There it is, the pain in his chest he was searching for. We. You don’t even have the courage to directly say it, but you don’t even know how much more it hurts. That we could mean anything else than you and Kita. Kita and you. When he would tell his grandma, “We’re going to the market. Ya need anything?” His grandma would know that you were coming along. But now, we means something different.
“And some other friends,” You try and tack on uselessly. “But I wanna go home.”
Your voice is muffled now, like you’re resting your head against something. He pictures you slumped over a table with your head laying along your arm. You’d do that if the night got too long and it was when Kita knew it was time to take you home.
Just as he has been, Kita chews on the words that instinctively want to fly out of his mouth. Words like, “stay right there. I’m coming for ya.” Instead, he swallows them down, and quietly because it’s the only way he can get it out, says, “You should tell him that.”
There’s silence. Maybe you’re masticating his words just as much as he. All he hears are hoots in the background. Kita is almost convinced you’ve fallen asleep until you finally cut through the line.
“He doesn’t understand me like you do.”
His throat seizes, and for the first time in a long time, his tongue goes limp. Kita clamps his full palm against his lips to keep himself from saying anything he regrets. You, with the alcohol flowing in your veins, freefall into the dive. As you’ve always done and always will.
“He doesn’t get me, you know?” You say, “You would’ve rubbed my back and grabbed my wrist by now and walked me out. You would have strapped me in a seatbelt and turned the heat on high in your car. And, and I miss that.” Then softer, like a secret, you tell him, “I miss you.”
It’s the self-restraint, Kita tells himself. That’s the reason. It’s the reason why despite every purpose for living, he refuses to admit that he reciprocates your very feelings. It’s the multitude of days you begged him to stay in bed a little longer only for him to tell you no, that there is work to be done. It’s your impulsive nature who wishes to go on adventures on a whim, and Kita’s routine lifestyle that has him anchored to his farm. It’s you drowning in your feelings and him swimming back to shore for a chance to breathe. It’s the reason why you and he cannot be.
So despite it all, despite him wanting to say I miss you and I love you and every other three worded admission that begins with I and ends in you, all he does is take a breath for clarity.
He drags his palm across his mouth and inhales. He truly is a masochist. “He’s good for you. He’ll take care of you if you let him.”
The beat drops. So does his heart.
Because you sound disappointed when you say, “Right.”
He is better for you, as wild and as free. He will love you with every breath and there will never be a moment that he would ever let you doubt it.
“Atsumu’s amazing. He’s always made me proud.”
“Right. Sorry I bothered you. I’m drunk and I’m sorry and I have to go.”
hello lovely nikki jie!! surprise!! i come humbly bearing your secret santa gift — thank you for always being such a lovely presence, and i hope you enjoy this lil piece of silliness ♡ - jin
mine!
2k | f!reader | language
some light, fluffy chaos
you smooth out the silky fabric of your dress as you walk out of the restroom, and back towards the set, to say goodbye to your coworkers.
it’s not every day that you change from your plain, comfortable work clothes into a stunning, date-night outfit at your workplace, but it’s certainly not every day that your boyfriend would willingly offer to pick you up here either.
and honestly, you don’t blame him. he’s made it clear more than enough times that he thinks reality television is a waste of time, money, and brain cells, but he supports you only because you enjoy the environment so much. (he can’t believe you find it... “fun.”) he also hates that the entrance to the studio is constantly clogged with fanatics — all eager to take as many pictures as they can — of... the bachelorette.
it makes even less sense to him that anyone would participate in the new season, after the directors and producers announced that they would keep the identity of the bachelorette a secret this time around just to spice things up; why would anyone try and win over the heart of a woman they don’t even know anything about? let alone what she looks like?
as you wave goodbye to your friends and coworkers, all busy with tasks of readying the set with props and film cameras (but still stopping to gawk at how gorgeous you look), you feel lucky that your boss was perfectly fine with you clocking out early. they have plenty of people for the opening night, so he just told you to “have fun on your date.”
bless his heart.
and yet, perhaps it’s the workaholic ingrained in some deep, deep part of your soul, but you can’t help noticing that there are too many pillows on one of the staged couches.
don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it—
“hey guys, there’s too many pillows here,” you call out, mentally slapping yourself for voluntarily going back into work-mode. you’re going to be late.
one of the lighting dudes turns to shine the large, blinding ring light to you so that others can direct their attention towards you.
“you have to spread the them out so the contestants are inclined to take the bachelorette to different parts of the set, or else they’re not gonna know where to go,” you sigh. “we don’t want them just standing around, do we? or else we won’t get any good, varying shots.”
one of the co-directors nods at your words, beckoning for the props team to immediately follow your instructions. she gives you a look of gratitude.
after all, even as you stand in the middle of the large, fake-mansion, dolled up in heels, jewelry, and a satin dress ready to go on a romantic date, you’re still looking out for the team. what would they do without you?
“excuse me, sir — sir!”
one of the intern’s strained voices catches your ear. you turn around to see what the issue is.
“sir, you’re not supposed to—”
“hey!” a tall, muscular man stands before you, beaming with a set of perfectly straight and whitened teeth.
you wave off the stressed intern to let her know that you’ll take care of this, and look up at the man who’s now running his large hand through his gelled, blond hair.
“sir, you’re not supposed to be out here before filming starts—”
“you must be the bachelorette,” he says excitedly, straightening his posture. “i’m miya atsumu, nice to meet ya.”
yes, you know who he is. you know exactly who he is... because you helped hand-pick all the male contestants for this season.
did he have the audacity to cut you off?
and wait, did he just call you the bachelorette?
you glance down at your dress, and realize the misunderstanding taking place. your irritation simmers down a bit once the humor of the situation sinks in.
“oh no,” a light laugh escapes your lips. “i’m not, i’m just—”
“THEY SAID YOU CAN’T GO OUT THERE, MIYA!”
a deep, authoritative voice travels out from the second set entrance, and you jump a little in surprise.
“i’m just marking my territory, sawamura,” atsumu shrugs, and you turn to see the new arriver storm towards you two.
“well it’s not fair to the other contestants,” daichi huffs, crossing his arms once he reaches you. “and most of all, it’s against the rules.”
his eyes land on you, and the stern man’s face reddens immediately.
“h-hello, i’m sawamura d—”
“i know,” you sigh, interrupting him. “and both of you actually aren’t supposed to be out h—”
as if just processing what daichi had said to him with his lagging brain, atsumu glares at his opponent. the blond’s lip curls upward into a taunting smile.
“it’S aGaiNsT tHe rULeS,” atsumu mocks, puffing his chest out as if to establish dominance like some feral, wild jungle animal. it looks like it’ll pop right through his expensive, tight dress shirt. “you’re just that eager to keep everything in check, huh? is that your policeman instinct kicking in? i’ll bet you’re real fun at parties.”
you raise your eyebrows at the menace as a vein throbs in daichi’s temple.
“first of all, i don’t care what you say to me because you’re a child,” daichi shoots back. “second of all, you can’t just go off on your own and incovenience other people every time you see a beautiful woman—”
beautiful woman?
huh, that’s kinda nice, you think.
you shake your head slightly to bring yourself back to your senses. you should probably get the two of them out of here. meanwhile, all your other coworkers are just sitting back and watching the events unfold. even the directors look amused in the background — wait a minute, is that cameraman seriously filming this??
“alright guys,” you say with a roll of your eyes, shimmying your handbag down your arm to put a hand on either of their backs. “why don’t you two just—”
“SAWAMURA!”
what now? you groan internally.
“I KNEW IT!” the tall, black-haired man speed-walks over to you, daichi, and atsumu through the same entrance daichi had used. he’s wearing a fitted, pinstripe vest over his white button-up shirt, paired with a plain, deep red tie. interesting choice, but it doesn’t look bad.
you wonder if this newcomer intentionally matched his tie color to the shade of the roses on set. for his sake, you pray he’s not actually that tacky.
“kuroo,” daichi acknowledges stiffly, the two men shooting lasers out of their eyes at each other.
“i knew you were up to no good,” kuroo comments suspiciously, eyeing atsumu up and down while he’s at it. “i’ll bet you just wanted to come and see what the bachelorette looks like — maybe even get a head-start in charming her.”
“that was not my intention,” daichi refutes, crossing his arms.
“and how are we supposed to know what your intentions were?” atsumu jabs.
“yep yep,” kuroo nods, putting his hands on his waist. “i guess it wouldn’t even matter if sawamura tried to get a head start, not like he knows how to talk to wo—”
he turns to gesture at you, and kuroo’s eyes widen, as if just realizing that he’s been in your presence this whole time. he swallows thickly, and you raise your eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.
“not like he knows how to, uh,” kuroo clears his throat, trying not to stutter. “uh, speak — talk, interact, if you will. with, uh, you know,”
you can tell he’s trying so hard not to stare at you. well, despite the absurdity of the situation, at least he’s living proof of how good you look.
“is there money on the ceiling or somethin’?” atsumu sneers at kuroo’s sudden inability to function.
“yeah kuroo,” daichi laughs triumphantly. “cat got your tongue?”
“so, sweetheart,” atsumu begins, turning his attention to you once again. “as i was saying—”
god, you really are just standing in a room full of pick-mes.
“hey, where did everyone go?”
a new voice catches the attention of all of you, and from the corner of your eye, you can see daichi and atsumu stiffen, as if to say, ‘the real threat is here.’
and once you crane your neck to see who it is, everything makes sense immediately. it’s iwaizumi hajime.
even with his makeup not fully done, his shirt not fully buttoned, and his sleeves not fully cuffed, he just looks so effortlessly... cool. and that’s ignoring the fact that his biceps are being molded perfectly by those cotton sleeves, the veins on his tan, upper arms peaking through from underneath, the sight of his sharp, sharp jawline when he pulls the necktie from over his head.
“what are you all doing here?” he asks, walking up to your group.
iwaizumi runs his fingers through his dark brown hair, and catches your eye. with a small, casual smile, he adds, “uh, hi.”
“hi,” you grin back, frankly just thankful that his entrance was enough to shut the other man-children up for a few seconds.
but unfortunately, this forbidden interaction between you two is all it took for the others to snap back to their senses.
“did you know i’m 6′2?” atsumu blurts out of nowhere.
“I’M 6′3,” kuroo says with a strange sense of urgency.
“i can cook,” daichi offers quickly, though he seems to suddenly regret taking part in these shenanigans once the words leave his mouth.
“damn,” the other two mutter under their breaths.
“yeah, well, height isn’t everything,” iwaizumi scoffs, possibly feeling just a tad threatened by the two bastards holding their heights over him — literally.
“that’s what short dudes say,” atsumu snickers while kuroo howls.
“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?” iwaizumi roars, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows now.
“YOU HEARD ME,” atsumu fires back, the two practically pressing their foreheads together, neck and neck.
there is way too much testosterone in one room.
for a second, you genuinely think a fight is going to break out — aren’t they all supposed to be actors?
“what the hell is going on here?” a voice asks coldly from behind you. you can physically feel the shadow looming over all five of your bodies, making you feel so... small.
you whip around immediately, eyes lighting up once you see who it is.
“omi-kun?” atsumu gasps in surprise. “w-what’re you doing here? are you going to be on the bachelorette too?”
“what?” sakusa growls impatiently. his eyes flicker from atsumu’s to yours, then back to atsumu. “the bachelorette? this is my fucking girlfriend.”
the jaws of all four men drop simultaneously as you fail to hold in your laugh (you can hear the directors and staff burst out laughing too, in the background). iwaizumi looks slightly relieved when you slink your fingers through the gaps between sakusa’s, but kuroo and atsumu look like their hopes and dreams have been shattered. daichi looks like he’s praying.
“maybe if you guys had learned how to not cut a woman off when she’s speaking, you would’ve heard me say that i’m not the bachelorette,” you chuckle as atsumu picks his tears off the floor. “omi and i have a date tonight — i just work here.”
“yeah, i was wondering why she was late,” sakusa states, biting the last word in particular as he shoots a look at his teammate. “don’t tell me she was babysitting.”
“n-no, never!” atsumu laughs nervously, trying hard to ignore his humiliation. “aren’t you guys going to be late? hurry up and go! go enjoy your date!”
the blond is practically shoving you and sakusa towards the exit of the studio now, and your boyfriend merely rolls his eyes before gently putting a hand around your waist to escort you out (you think you hear atsumu’s heart shattering). as sakusa opens the door for you, you can still catch the sounds of four — maybe three, since iwaizumi would appear to be better than that — grown men bickering in the distance.
“look what you did,” kuroo’s voice rings disapprovingly, most likely towards daichi. “you should’ve just stayed inside and followed the rules, and none of this would’ve happened.”
summary: kuroo is your pain in the ass classmate. nothing more. really.
a/n: the long awaited confrontation with kuroo….
Kuroo Tetsuro is many things.
A good son and grandson, filial to a fault. A model student with top grades, one all the teachers and professors love. A solid middle blocker, someone his team can look to if things get tough. A steady friend, loyal and true even if he has a predisposition to snark and make dad jokes, and nag - a habit he’s picked up from his grandma.
But in this instance, he knows above all he’s an unmitigated asshole.
He can’t blame the alcohol for his actions, even though it runs heavy through his veins, a poisonous fog that eats his mind. He can’t even blame Sato, let alone his teammates for egging him on, to ask you out for a stupid bet, for a stupid game played with an empty bottle, meant to promote fun but only led to tears instead (both his and yours, as it turns out). It was his decision to open that door whan Sato shouted that dare at him, his decision to do something as cliched as kabedon you in full view of leers and stares, his decision to ask you out on a date, all the while justifying it to himself as something done in good fun. Surely you’ll understand, it’s just for laughs, you’re a good friend after all -
It turns out that he’s also a fool for taking your friendship for granted.
…Oikawa is the son of a fallen daimyo and Iwaizumi is a samurai sworn to protect him. Matsukawa and Hanamaki are ronin hired to capture Oikawa cuz u know,,, reward n all that,,,
college au! mitsuya takashi for my college au! series
“am i interrupting something?” mitsuya grumbles, watching with a raised brow as he enters your apartment. bidding your partner goodbye—who gets a hearty glare from your roommate—you turn to face mitsuya, furrowing your brows at his bitterness.
“you’re back early,” you hum, walking into the kitchen to start dinner, and he drops his bag onto the couch, walking over to watch you as you cook for the two of you. it’s a set routine, you take turns, one cooks and one watches, it’s a cycle, and it’s nice. it’s really nice, and maybe along the way you’ve gotten a little too comfortable with the act, maybe it’s gotten a little too domestic to not let feelings spark, but life’s unpredictable—and mitsuya’s a sense of stability if nothing else. and you crave it—you crave him.
“was i supposed to be out longer?” he asks, staring at you with an expression you still can’t pinpoint. “wouldn’t want to get in the way of anything,” he rolls his eyes.
“am i missing something—oh, wait. is he like…some boy from another frat you have beef with? my bad, he’s just my partner for this presentation and—”
“he’s a dickhead,” mitsuya mumbles, and if you weren’t so busy stirring the pot, you’d notice the little pout on his face at the thought of some douchebag spending time with you on his couch. well, both of your couch—but it still qualifies as his, and said douchebag as no place spending the afternoon on it. and not with you.
“you seem to think that about a lot of people, takashi,” you hum, amusement lacing your tone as you add more spices. his name rolls off your tongue harmoniously, and mitsuya thinks it’s quite unfair that he doesn’t get to hear you whisper it in the mornings, or before bed (or in bed, but he doesn’t think about that too often—he’s a gentleman, he tells himself.)
“you always go for the dickheads,” he shrugs.
“well, i thought that one friend you had was cute, but you said—”
“he’s a dickhead too,” he shakes his head.
“but he’s your friend,” you insist, glancing at him over your shoulder. grinning, he chuckles, mood brightening just a little—just like it always does with you.
“i have some pretty shady friends,” he snorts, walking up to stand behind you.
“are you sure you’re not—” you never finish your sentence.
and it all happens too fast, your footing loses balance, and mitsuya’s far too shocked to keep his, and next thing you know, you’re both toppling down. you land on top of him, and he lands on his back with a groan.
staring in shock for a moment, your face hovers just above his, and you can see just about every little speck in his irises from this close up. he stares up at you surprised, and before you can help it, you giggle.
“what’s so funny?” he questions. you only snort, shaking your head, and he frowns, furrowing his brows and rolling his eyes, grumbling as you laugh.
“nothing, just thought you were stronger, is all,” you giggle, poking his chest. swatting your hand away, mitsuya scowls, glaring at you as you continue to insult his pride. and if watching the roommate you’re hopelessly in love with smile at someone who most certainly did not deserve that smile isn’t a bruise to his ego, watching you make fun of his athleticism is added salt to the wound.
“draggin’ me down with you to the floor, and now you’re gonna make fun of me too?” he mutters, but slowly, his hands inch to your waist, holding you in place, and you both choose to ignore it. just like you both choose to ignore the way you rub small circles into his chest.
“sorry,” you hum, patting his cheek. “i’m sure my partner would’ve caught—”
“don’t,” he glares, but his conviction is weak—he’s always weak to you. and whether it be a pouty request to fill up the gas tank of your car for you, or skip your turn to make dinner, or let you pick the movie for the fourth time in a row, or be accompanied for french fries at two am the night before a test, mitsuya is always weak in the knees as he caves. he always caves.
because it’s a set routine, you want, and he gives, and it’s a cycle, and it’s nice. it’s really nice, and it’d be even nicer if he could finally take the leap and tell you how he feels, but mitsuya’s a sense of stability if nothing else—and this might just break all stability he has with you.
but something tells him you already know exactly what his feelings consist of, and the look in your eyes tells him all he needs to know about yours.
“did you know he goes to your gym? he told me about his gym passions,” you grin, and he rolls his eyes, hands trailing under your shirt to rub circles into your warm skin with his thumbs. he fights back a smirk as your breath hitches.
“any guy who tells you about his gym passions is an immediate red flag, you know,” he murmurs, eyes trailing to your lips, stilling on them fleetingly before he meets your gaze once more.
“i don’t know,” you raise a brow. “he might prove to be stronger than you, since you flew down so easy and all. maybe you could try his routine,” you tease, reaching to pinch his cheek, and he moves to bite at your hand, eliciting a small shriek from you. chuckling, he shakes his head—and it’s an odd arrangement, arms wrapped loosely around your waist as he lays on your kitchen floor with you on top of him, but it’s nice. it’s really nice, and even if it breaks cycle, neither of you can find it in yourselves to hate it.
“bet i could take him in a fight,” he shrugs.
“no more fights, takashi,” you glare, and he huffs, looking away from your face as a small pout paints his features. “i’m serious. stop picking fights with—”
“i don’t!”
“what about last time?” you challenge, and he glowers at you.
“he picked it with me,” mitsuya insists. “he started it.”
“doesn’t mean you have to end it,” you chide. but gently, you cup his cheek, brushing over his skin with your thumb as he stares at you with wide eyes. “but if it makes you feel any better, you didn’t interrupt anything,” you murmur.
“oh good,” he mumbles. “was worried for a second we’d have a third roommate.”
“it’d be good for rent,” you quip, and he pinches your nose, grinning at the small giggle you let out.
“i think you’re plenty enough to handle as a roommate,” he claims. and neither of your are sure how or when things shifted, but they did, and you hope they shift some more.
“technically, if we shared a room, we’d be real roommates,” you whisper, and your forehead presses against his, your noses brushing as his eyes brighten at your words.
“good news, i can arrange for that,” he winks, and with a sweet chuckle from you, he grins, leaning up and pressing his lips to yours softly. and yeah, you’d wounded his pride quite a bit earlier, but right now, he thinks it was worth it if you get to build it right back up like this.
“should i call him to help me move my stuff? don’t think you’ll be able to handle it—” mitsuya cuts you off with another kiss, hands gripping your waist tighter as yours wander to his hair.
and a new cycle begins, but you think you might just like the new set routine coming your way a whole lot better.
a/n: for reins bc she wrote me the best hanma college au & i can’t compare to her but i tried :( & for bub too bc bubsuya is too cute
vaporwave
snowghoul
turnnoffyourmind
discoholicmusic
stormborns
tangentwithtanner
yousharknotpass
