content/tags: Angst, Oblivious lovers, Unrequited love, Strangers to lovers, Confessions, somewhat University AU, Beach volleyball, Snow Cones, Riding bikes, Barbecues
notes: my summer fic exchange gift to @tsumuisms ! i never knew how much i liked Miya Atsumu until i wrote this fic, i hope you enjoy it!!
thank you so much @sodaneko for beta-ing this fic and hosting yet another lovely fic exchange!!
You accept it, grateful to be able to quench your thirst in this blazing heat. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to join the Miya twins and their friends in a beach volleyball match.
In fact, you didn’t even plan on heading out today. Instead, all you wanted to do was hole yourself up in your room and finish writing your thesis. However, Osamu called to ask if you were free to be the extra player in their volleyball match, as you should at least enjoy the last week of summer before school started again. You thought for a moment, searching for an excuse. Then, as if Osamu knew any better, he mentioned his twin, Miya Atsumu, would be participating in the volleyball match, and the answer became clear to you.
You and Osamu were best friends since you both joined Inarizaki University, majoring in Food and Business Management. He was a year older than you but had taken some time off to gain some experience working in a famous restaurant.
Atsumu, on the other hand, had secured a volleyball scholarship and started university a year earlier. By the time both of you and Osamu joined, Atsumu was already the star of the volleyball team and was even selected to join the national team. Now, Atsumu is waiting for his university graduation ceremony in just a couple of weeks while his place in a professional volleyball team is already secured. With his bright and energetic personality, gifted volleyball skills and a chiselled body that could have been carved out of marble, he had won the hearts of his loyal fans.
And yet somehow, Atsumu had gotten into your head and was living there rent-free, much to your annoyance. You couldn’t imagine having a crush on your best friend's brother; it would be too weird and awkward. Besides, with women (and men) practically throwing themselves at him, there was simply no reason for him to look at you, let alone talk to you. Thus, denial and avoidance were the best course of action, though the only leeway you’d give yourself was accompanying Osamu to watch and support his volleyball matches.
It was just your luck that today, Atsumu was playing volleyball shirtless. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to be dragged out here by Osamu after all, especially seeing Atsumu’s grin shine brighter than the sun when he scored a victory for their team. Even when your own match was going on, you couldn’t help but sneak a glance or two his way.
To beat the heat after the volleyball match, the losing team treated everyone to snow cones. The group you had joined today consisted of members of the men’s and women’s volleyball teams from the university, making you and Osamu one of the odd ones out.
Atsumu seemed to naturally thrive in large groups while you were the opposite, preferring to stay in the background away from everyone else.
Osamu leaves your side to find some seats while you go to the shop’s counter to collect the snow cones for both of you. However, while queuing for your snow cone in the small shop, you somehow end up between Atsumu and Suna, a teammate of Atsumu. Your eyes frantically search for Osamu, but he’s sitting outside the shop and too far away to hear anything.
With Atsumu behind you, your heart starts to race, and your palms start to sweat. Osamu has introduced you to his twin on a couple of occasions previously, but you’ve never exchanged more than pleasantries and small talk of volleyball matches and academics.
What if he says something and you don’t answer it right? What if you make a fool out of yourself? What if he knows about your crush on him? A billion right thoughts race through your head, and you’re about to turn away from the counter empty-handed when he calls out your name.
“Y/N?” Atsumu asks, snapping you away from your thoughts. His voice is like honey when he says your name aloud.
“Huh? Sorry, I was just caught up in my thoughts here,” you stammer, mentally pinching yourself as you turn around, finally remembering the snow cones you were supposed to collect.
“Just wanted to hand ya the snow cones,” Atsumu says with a laugh. “I know how Osamu gets when he doesn’t get his food.”
He hands you the snow cones and your fingers touch. Electricity fires through your body from just his fingertips, and you can barely hang onto your composure. You want to look up at him so bad, but you’re starting to get a little lightheaded. It is probably the heat, or so you think.
You thank Atsumu quickly and immediately turn away, almost bumping into Suna. You mumble an apology and pull away, managing to briskly walk out of the shop to where Osamu waits. You hide behind him and pray you’re out of sight, but still oblivious to the fact that Atsumu still has his eyes on you.
————
It’s another bright summer day when you’re invited to join the same group of the Miya twins’ friends on a new scenic biking trail that just opened on the other side of town.
You contemplate not going after what happened with Atsumu at the snow cone shop, since it may be best for you to stay away, lest you make another fool of yourself.
But Osamu begs you to come because he doesn’t want to be one of the only ones who isn’t on the volleyball team over there. He promises you packed lunches for the next semester, to which you couldn’t help but agree because who could say no to his delicious bentos? In fact, his car should have been here any minute now to pick you up as you were carpooling to today’s activity.
He wasn’t usually late unless… no, he couldn’t be coming with his twin, would he? Osamu would complain about his brother constantly making him late.
When the car pulls to a stop outside your gate, you sigh as Osamu and Atsumu sheepishly wave. You roll your eyes; they’re twenty minutes late, and with the possible traffic jam, it would mean that you all would arrive an hour later than expected. Thankfully, the journey there isn’t completely uncomfortable as the three of you chat and laugh throughout the ride.
When all of you arrive, some members from the large group had already left for the biking trail while the rest were waiting with their bikes by the bicycle rental shop.
You wait for your bicycle, watching almost everyone leave, until you’re the last one left. Then, the shop owner returns to say they’re trying their best to find another bicycle as all their bicycles have been rented out.
“Wait, you don’t have any more bicycles to rent?” you asked, eyeing the owner incredulously.
“Sorry, Miss, we’re trying to find another spare one, but right now, we’re all out.”
You bite your lip, not sure if you should just head back to continue to wait. You can’t remember the last time you’ve ridden a bicycle, so this could be for the best.
The Miya twins had already gotten their bicycles, but they came over to you, and you explained to them what was going on.
“Why don’t you take my bike?” Atsumu’s question surprises you.
“Um… I…I-” you start, but Osamu cuts you off.
“Sounds like a great idea! I’m goin’ to head to the start of the trail and catch up with the rest of the group first, ‘kay?”
You shoot him a look of betrayal; how could he leave you alone with his twin like this, knowing how awkward you get with your obvious crush on Atsumu.
Osamu can only grin smugly as he rides off first before you can say another word.
As Atsumu pushes his bicycle towards you, you realize that it’s taller than you expected because his height towers over yours. He notices it too and adjusts the seat to fit you.
You try to get on, but it’s still too tall for you. As you get off the bicycle, your foot misses the ground, and you nearly slip. Atsumu’s quick reflexes kick in, catching you instantly, one hand on your power back and the other on your hands on the bicycle’s handle. Your eyes lock with his for a split second, but it’s like the world just stopped at that precise moment.
Your breath is caught in your chest as you stare, mesmerized by his gaze. It takes a full minute before you both realize that you’re frozen in that position.
You feel fire in your cheeks as you turn your gaze toward the floor as Atsumu goes to adjust the bicycle once more for you. This time, it does fit your height, and you get on once more.
You can’t remember the last time you had ridden a bicycle, but it should have been too difficult, right?
Wrong, because apparently your muscle memory for riding a bicycle isn’t working. You pedal forward only to wobble on the bicycle, and you struggle to find balance.
“Whoa there, gotta be careful,” Atsumu murmurs while catching you from falling again.
“Sorry, I haven’t ridden one of these in forever, so I guess I’m a bit rusty.”
“That’s cool, how about I hold onto you… I mean, your bicycle first, at least until you find your balance?” Atsumu’s offer sounds too good to be true.
“Are you sure?” you ask softly.
“Yeah, I’m still waitin’ on the other bicycle anyway; might as well help you while we’re here.”
You hesitantly pedal forward, quickly glancing behind you to see Atsumu at your back, holding onto the bicycle. Your heart races in your chest, not from the potential fall from the bicycle if you lose your balance, but from having Atsumu this close to you.
Soon enough, your muscle memory starts to kick in, and you can ride on your own without any assistance. Atsumu claps for you; his gentle smile makes you feel butterflies in your stomach.
When the shop finally finds another bicycle for Atsumu, the both of you can begin on the trail.
The trail is scenic, and the both of you stop occasionally to take photos of the picturesque backdrop of the mountains, lakes and the city you left behind. The conversation between the two of you seems to flow smoothly, easing your worries of how uncomfortable the silence could get.
“So, my brother’s been telling me that you come to all my games, huh?”
“Well, not all your games, but I do support your team,” you reply, trying to be as nonchalant as possible.
“I remember seeing you sitting with my brother in the stands as the team played a match against Karasuno.”
“You play so many matches, yet you can still remember that?”
“Of course, it was the first time I saw you.”
You turn away from him, trying to hide your smile. To your surprise, you’re having a lot more fun than you had thought you would.
He tells you about his childhood with his brother, growing up in this town, and about how he fell in love with volleyball. He tells you of how he actually has no idea how to cook, unlike his brother, and how he nearly set the house on fire when trying to boil water. He tells you he’s afraid of the future because one day, he’ll retire from volleyball and he doesn’t have a plan after that.
The more you learn about him, the more you realize you have in common, and you couldn’t help but enjoy his company that much more. He was much funnier than Osamu, and your cheeks ached with how much you laughed with him.
You can’t help but open up to him as well. You talk about moving to this town alone and meeting his twin in university, how you like to cook but weren’t the best at it, and how you don’t know exactly what you want to do after you graduate.
He listens to you and the things you probably rambled on about, and you think he’s probably too polite to stop you. A small part of you can’t help but hope that he’s enjoying himself too.
It’s easy and fun being with Atsumu, and you don’t want it to end, but you find the rest of the group was waiting for the two of you at the end of the trail. For a second, you think you could continue being by Atsumu’s side, but he goes and joins the rest of his teammates. They wave at him excitedly, and he doesn’t look back as he cycles ahead, leaving you behind.
After the biking trail, you realize you were spiralling from that moment when Atsumu not turning around to check if you were still there. Meeting and going on the trail together with Atsumu was fun, but you needed to remember to keep your expectations low so you wouldn’t be disappointed.
If he had a good time, shouldn’t he want to continue talking to you? And, if he wanted to talk to you again, shouldn’t he have asked for your contact details before he left? You start to wonder if he even had any fun with you on the trail at all.
You watch them and can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy. You weren’t an athlete like them, and you weren’t popular or sociable enough to hang out around them. You were just his brother’s friend with a massive one-sided crush. It makes you realize that he was the sun attracting others with his warm and bright personality, while you were just another planet in his orbit.
It is only after you leave that Atsumu’s asking his twin about you again when he can’t find you anywhere.
————
The best distraction from thinking of Atsumu was finishing your thesis. The last few days of summer were right around the corner when Osamu texts you about a barbecue bonfire party happening by the beach the following evening. Obviously, he would be the one in charge of the food, and what better person can he call than his course mate?
You sigh; on one hand, you don’t want to go there and see Atsumu and get your hopes up, but on the other hand, maybe you could just avoid him for the evening.
You come early and help Osamu set up the barbecue and dining area, which overlooks the beach and ocean. The sun is just starting to set, and on the other side of the dining area, the bonfire is also being set up.
The smell of fresh meat and seafood on the grill wafts through the air. Osamu stands facing the beach and ocean, but his attention is focused on the grill before him. Your mind feels a thousand miles away as you think of a way to avoid Atsumu for the rest of the evening. There’s no point in getting your heart racing for nothing.
When you nearly leave the fish on the grill for a little too long, Osamu picks up on your silence and asks you if anything is the matter. At first, you’re reluctant to tell him, but you know, as your best friend, he’s going to find out about it sooner or later, so you might as well spit it out now. Along with it, you blurt out how you're worried that Atsumu won’t see you the same way because you were nothing like him.
A knowing smile crosses Osamu’s lips as he tells you not to worry about it. You want to ask what he means when someone calls you to help move the drinks into the dining area.
Your mission in avoiding Atsumu seems to be successful as you move in opposite directions from him, as though both of you were repelling magnets. You can’t help but just watch him at times. Those warm, brown eyes of his may have caught you looking, but you immediately avert your eyes and walk away.
The sun has long gone, but the bonfire and lights from the barbecue and dining area illuminate the night. The drinks are almost gone when Osamu, who’s still busy at the grill, asks you to get the extra drinks from his car. He feels his pockets, only to realize his keys are with Atsumu. You want to sock him in the arm, but it would be dangerous when he’s holding burning hot meat with his tongs.
“Hey ‘Tsumu, over here,” he calls his twin, who’s busy mingling with the guests. “You have the keys to the car, right? Well, can you help Y/N with gettin’ the rest of the drinks from the trunk? It’s dark too, so y’all be careful, ‘kay?”
Atsumu rolls his eyes but does as he’s instructed. The walk to the car park is quiet, with a tension-filled silence that could be cut with a knife. The both of you walk along the beach, listening to the ocean crash against the shoreline.
You fumble with your braid and the hem of your sundress. Finally, Atsumu is the one to break the silence.
“ ‘Samu’s good at hosting these things, huh?” he says softly, trying to fill the silence.
“Yeah,” you murmur in agreement. It was true, and it was a trait that both the Miya twins inherited. “He’s great with big groups of people. In fact, both of you are good at bringing people together.”
“Really?” There seems to be genuine surprise in Atsumu’s tone.
You nod as Atsumu glances at you shyly before looking at the sand in front of you. Behind you, the waves crashing into the shore create a peaceful soundscape of the beach.
“I don’t know,” he replies, rubbing the back of his head. “I guess I do bring people together but… but there are times I don’t like all the attention on me. Quite a number of times actually.”
You pause in your tracks, and Atsumu stops walking too. “What? You’re kidding me. You’re literally the star of the volleyball team and the life of the party. But you don’t like the attention?”
“Pretty weird, right?” He laughs, but you can hear a slight sadness in his voice. “I mean, sure it’s kinda fun to have the spotlight on you, but sometimes there’s a lot of people, and I don’t know if I can really, you know, talk to people.”
He sighs before continuing. “People only want to know the player but never really the person, so I guess you could say it gets kinda lonely at the top.”
Atsumu bites his lip, eyes downcast. You take a step closer to him, wanting to comfort him in some way.
“But when I’m with you, I don’t feel like that. Y/N, I like talking to you because you actually listen. Somehow, I get to be myself around you.”
“Actually, there’s something else I want to tell you.” Atsumu takes a deep breath, steadying himself at this moment. He meets your eyes, and you find yourself entranced by his stare. “I like you, Y/N. I like you, not as a friend because I like, like you.”
Wait, what? You can’t believe your ears; Atsumu likes you. He likes you the same way you like him.
“But why?” You can’t help but ask. “You can like anyone you want… and you like me? What’s so special about me?”
“Because you’re you and I like you… your personality, your voice, your looks, the way you listen and the way you’re just sincerely you.”
“I like you, ‘Tsumu. I’ve always liked you,” you confess. The heat from your cheeks must have reached your ears. You want to scream and jump with joy because he feels the same way. Your one-sided crush isn’t one-sided after all.
“But, wait, what’s Osamu going to say when he finds out his brother and his best friend are together?” you wonder aloud. “I just hope it won’t be awkward or uncomfortable.”
“I think he already knows because why would he trust me with his car?” He waved the keys in the air. “I think he might have figured it out before we did.”
Both of you burst out laughing at Atsumu’s reply, and you couldn’t have felt any lighter. You stare into each other’s eyes, neither turning away.
He offers his hand, and you take it. Some part of you still can’t believe it. That Atsumu, your crush, actually feels the same toward you. Every moment you had spent agonizing about your feelings, thinking he won’t reciprocate them and reminding yourself not to get your hopes up, was all wrong. Your heart wants to burst in your chest with this new revelation.
The rest of the night feels like a warm, hazy dream. The fairy lights twinkle from the dining area, the fire crackling in the bonfire and having him by your side makes you want to live in this moment forever.
a series of the boys of haikyuu!! x reader one shots, inspired by the unofficial fan-made compilation of demos that frank ocean put out when he was mostly a songwriter for other artists – the lonny breaux collection.
tags/warnings will update as the series progresses: but the general gist of romance, fluff, angst (i <3 angst), depending on which one you're reading. there will be mentions of mental health, but these will be clarified before the start of a specific one shot. there will be language, mentions of suggestive content such as sex, drugs and alcohol but i will not write nsfw :)
author's note: on a drizzly tuesday afternoon in the office, i put on tlbc for the umpteenth time since my youth and was hit with nostalgia and inspired to do something with it. currently brainstormed chapters + characters below, though subject to change. more chapters will be added and will include songs from other non-commercialised releases (nostalgia, ultra and undocumented, rare). i hope i can put more people on this holy trinity mixtape series, even if the songs sound very, very dated, a snapshot of the era they were produced in.
acura intergurl ; akaashi keiji
back (to you) ; kageyama tobio
bedtime story ; miya osamu
day away ; oikawa tooru
denim ; kita shinsuke
dying for your love ; suna rintaro
know better ; bokuto koutaro
no love ; akaashi keiji
open air ; hinata shoyo
so fresh ; sugawara koushi
trouble ; miya atsumu
summary: what was supposed to be just a normal night out takes an unexpected turn when you end up sharing a secret kiss with your campus crush.
cw: mentions of drinking | alcohol | slight nsfw?? | mentions of substance use | cursing | college au | college parties
word count: 3k
thursdays were always a drag. your least favorite day of the week. the countdown to the weekend had everyone restless. and you swore time dragged on longer than it previously had.
today was like any other, your professor droning on about something you’d probably have to teach yourself about later, frat guys in the back tossing crumpled paper (and failing horribly to land it in the trash can), a group of girls whispering and side-eyeing you every time you raised your hand.
once class ended, you and your best friend made your usual escape to your favorite spot, the willow tree. you had scoped it out on the first day of school, its peacing presence dissolving all stress.
you sat at a table outside the student center, half in the sun, half in the shade. your bag dropped at your feet, laptop open, fingers moving across the keyboard as you worked on your psych paper.
your best friend, on the other hand, was doing anything but working.
“you’re staring again,” you said, glancing up from your screen.
she didn’t even move. “i’m observing.”
“you’ve been observing the same guy for like ten minutes.” that finally made her look at you.
you smirked, watching her eyes practically glued to the tall guy a few tables ahead, laughing with his friends.
she rolled her eyes. “i’m not staring at him.”
“then what are you staring at?”
“obviously i’m admiring how beautiful the sky is.”
you snorted. “really? are you sure that’s ALL you’re admiring?”
you nudged her under the table. “shut up.”
you just laughed, leaning back in your chair.
“whatever. at least you’re not pretending to be productive like five minutes ago.”
she sighed, closing her laptop halfway. “i was going to start.”
“you always are.” she didn’t even argue with that one, she knew you were right.
a soft breeze passed through, warm and light, carrying that mix of sunscreen, coffee, and the stress of overworked college students - the signature campus smell.
and for a just second, everything felt normal, until-
“hey.”
the voice came from just behind your laptop. you both looked up.
a guy stood a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, relaxed but not awkward. tall, dark hair pulled back, calm expression across his face.
your friend blinked.
“hi…?”
he nodded. “you’re in my psych class, right?”
you leaned back slightly, already sensing where this was going.
your friend sat up straighter. “yeah, i am.”
“choso,” he said simply.
she smiled. “i know.”
of course she did.
you bit back a smile as they started talking. it was easy, natural, like this wasn’t their first conversation. you stayed quiet, letting her have her moment.
after a minute, she gestured toward you.
“this is my friend.”
his eyes flicked to you.
“hey.”
“hi,” you said.
then his attention went right back to her.
“there’s a party tomorrow. off-campus. some friends are throwing it.”
there it was.
your friend didn’t even hesitate. “yeah?”
“you should come.”
“sure, okay.”
you raised an eyebrow, but stayed quiet.
“i’ll text you the address.”
“okay.”
“see ya around,” he added, already turning and heading back to his group like nothing just happened.
you waited exactly two seconds.
“oh my god.”
she whipped toward you. “oh my god.”
you laughed. “you were so goo goo eyed talking to him.”
“don’t start.”
“you just sit here looking pretty one second, and the next you’re getting invited to mysterious parties by quiet, intimidating men?”
she grabbed your arm. “don’t think you’re not coming with me.”
you looked at her, horrified. “are you serious—”
“yes. how am i supposed to survive without my favorite plus one?” she winked.
you sighed, leaning back and staring at the sky.
what she didn’t know was…while she was staring at choso, you were staring too. just not at him.
one of the guys next to him had caught your eye. tall, lean, messy black hair, and the prettiest eyelashes you’d ever seen. your type. exactly your type.
you’d noticed him in class before. he sat a few rows behind you. he always looked so focused in on the lessons, so attentive. he had that kind of intimidating, quiet demeanor that for some reason drew you closer to him.
you were definitely in for some shit.
—
later that night, after way too much convincing…
“we are going to the mall,” your friend declared, dragging you out of your dorm.
“i don’t even go out like that,” you complained.
“exactly. that’s why we’re fixing it.”
—
the mall was loud, bright, and packed.
you stood outside the dressing room, arms now full of dresses your friend had picked out. “just try them on,” she said, practically shoving you inside the tiny room.
one by one, you stepped out.
a blue one with flowy lace “no.”
a pink one with purple sequins “absolutely not.”
a green one with 3d flowers “what is that??”
you laughed, disappearing back inside each time.
“okay wait, THIS is the one trust me,” she said, handing you another dress.
you rolled your eyes but took it.
a minute later, you stepped out again.
this time, she went completely quiet.
“wait.”
you looked down at yourself.
it was simple, but it fit perfectly. it hugged you in all the right places. the color complemented your skin perfectly, bringing out your eyes as well.
“i don’t know…” you said, feeling slightly insecure.
“no. you’re getting it.”
“it’s not really me”
“it is now? you look FREAKING STUNNING.”
you hesitated, glancing at yourself in the mirror again.
it wasn’t what you’d normally wear. but…you didn’t hate it.
“fine,” you said quietly.
she gasped. “YES.”
you laughed as she grabbed your arm,
dragging you toward the register.
“tomorrow is going to be so fun,” she said.
you smiled a little, nerves already starting to build.
because now all you could think about was one thing.
would he be there?
-
the next day had come, and it felt like time has gone by even slower than before. every second dragged on longer than the one before, like the clock had been doing it on purpose.
by the time you had walked into your psych class, your nerves were already all over the place, every second that clicked by on the clock had your anxiety growing for the activities you had planned for later.
and then you saw him, all of the thoughts racing around in your brain quickly going still.
there he was, same seat in the back. like always.
he looked a little tired, faint shadows under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept much the night prior, but it didn’t take away from anything. if anything, it made him look even more attractive somehow. softer in a way. still distracting. still unfairly pretty.
you forced yourself to look away and sat down, trying to act normal while your professor started talking, words blending into meaningless noise. but you couldn’t help yourself. you glanced back.
and he was already looking at you.
your breath hitched, a soft pink flushing over your face and ears. you guys had caught eyes or about .5 seconds before you whipped your head back around, heart racing.
why was he looking at you?
all of your thoughts spiraled instantly. one after another, too fast to keep up with. nothing else mattered anymore, more the lecture, not your other classmates. just that. that one half second of eye contact with the boy you had been silently crushing on for months. the sharp ring of the bell snapped you out of your trance.
you immediately stood up, fumbling with your papers as you shoved them into your backpack. you exited the room, practically running, trying to put as much distance between you and him as possible. luckily, your classes ended early that day, so you went straight back to your dorm, your mind still stuck on the same question.
you set your bag down on your bed, and flop down face first into your pillows, letting out a long, muffled groan. the embarrassment from earlier replaying in your mind over and over again.
a few minutes passed before you heard keys jingling, followed by the soft click of the door unlocking.
“what are you doing here?” your best friend asked, a little surprised.
“my classes ended early today, so I just came back,” you mumbled, rolling onto your side.
“ohh okay.” she paused, looking at you, “you look kinda upset. are you okay?”
“yeah, yeah!” You said quickly, maybe a bit too quickly. “just a stressful day.” you let out a small awkward laugh.
“okay…” she said slowly, not fully believing you but not pushing it. “are you excited for tonight”
“yeah… for sure!”
“me too! i’m so excited to see choso, oh my god,” she said dramatically.
you laughed and tossed a pillow at her.
“relax”
—
by the time it was 8:30 you were both sitting at your desks getting ready. you weren’t used to doing much makeup, so your best friend took over, talking the whole time helping you.
“trust me” she said, focusing as she blended, “this is gonna look so good.”
you just nodded, watching her.
after a bit, she leaned back, admiring her work. “okay. done. what do you think?”
you looked at yourself in the mirror, a little surprised. it still looked like you…just a little different.
“wait…” you said quietly. “i kinda like it.”
“i told you,” she grinned.
she helped you into your dress, smoothing it down before stepping back.
“yeah. you look insane” she said.
you rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help a small smile forming.
you pulled your hair up into a messy ponytail, deciding to switch it up for once, the. sprayed on some perfume
“ready?” she asked.
“ready.”
—
the drive there was about 15 minutes, and with every minute your nerves got worse.
by the time you pulled up, you could already hear the music from outside. people were all over the yard, some laughing, some already way to drunk for a party that just started.
you stoped out of the car, pulling your dress down a little as you followed your best friend inside.
the smell hit you instantly, alcohol, smoke, and other various substances you couldn’t quite put your finger on. the music was loud and people were packed everywhere.
your best friend texted choso, and after a minute you spotted him and his friends in the living room.
and next to him, there he was, megumi. it felt like all the air had been taken out of the room.
he was leaning against the wall, red cup in his hand, dark hair falling in front of his eyes. for a second, your eyes met, before the both of you looked away.
standing along with him is choso, yuji, gojo, and nanami. yuji and nanami are standing together, talking. you can hear yuji laughing his ass off at his own jokes as nanami sits there, unfazed at his drunken shenanigans.
gojo and choso stand tall and quiet, scoping out girls with drinks in their hands as well.
your friend immediately gravitates towards choso, already talking like they’d known each other forever. he hands you guys drinks, and they go over and sit on the couch and your best friend drags you over with her.
you are now third-wheeling. great.
you sit awkwardly next to them, pulling out your phone, trying to keep yourself occupied.
a second later, you feel the couch dip next to you.
you look up.
megumi.
he’s sitting right next to you. his legs were slightly parted, and he was still holding that same cup from earlier. he smelled like musky cologne and clean laundry, slight alcohol on his breathe as he spoke. your brain had now gone completely foggy. shit.
“y/n, right?” he asks.
“uh, yeah,” you said. “you’re megumi, from pysch?”
he nodded. “didn’t take you for the party type.”
you let out a small laugh. “i’m not. this is actually my first one.”
he glanced at your cup, “don’t worry. its overrated.”
“good to know,” you said, setting it down on the floor. “what’s even in this?”
he shrugs, “no clue, none of us do actually.“
you let out a small laugh at that.
“i like your dress,” he adds after a second.
you blink. “than-“
“BODY SHOT TIMEE!” someone yells from across the house.
your best friends grabbed your hand, dragging you toward the kitchen now.
a big crowd of people is crowded around in a large circle. in the center, gojo has a shot of vodka in his collarbone. you watch as one of the sorority girls takes it back flawlessly, everyone cheering.
you glance back for a moment into the living room and see that megumi was still on the couch, completely uninterested in the chaos that was occurring in the kitchen.
and for someone reason, you liked that.
after a moment, you break away from the crowd, and head back into the living room.
“not into that?” you asked, sitting beside him again.
“not really.”
“yeah, me neither.”
there was a short pause.
“thanks,” you said quietly.
“for what?”
“the compliment, about my dress.”
he looked at you again. “it suits you.”
your face warmed a little.
a moment of silence passes between you two, before everyone floods back into the living room.
“i’ll be right back, he said, standing. “bathroom”
“okay.” you watched him go, then looked back down at your phone.
a second later, you hear an unfamiliar voice coming from your left.
“heyy.”
you looked up.
a guy you didn’t recognize dropped down onto the couch beside you, sitting way closer than necessary.
“i’m ino,” he said, words slightly slurred, obviously drunk. “what’s your name?”
“uh, y/n.”
he leaned in a little. “you here alone?”
“no i came with my friend.”
“well, i don’t see her,” he said, inching closer. “you single?”
“i’m not interested,” you said, trying to stay calm.
“c’mon,” he laughed. “just one/“
“get off of her.”
you froze.
megumi stood a few feet away, his expression calm but his tone wasn’t.
the guy rolled his eyes. “who are you?”
“doesn’t matter, i said get off.” megumi snaps back.
“what if i don’t?”
“get the fuck off of her right now asshole”.
ino stands up now, face to face with megumi.
“last time i checked she wasn’t your girlfriend?” ino says, still slurring.
megumi moves in front of you now, “get out of here, im not trying to fight you. “
ino, very obviously pissed off now, grabs your cup that you set down on the floor earlier, picks it up, and throws the liquid on megumi, it soaking you and him now, and walks away.
gasps are heard from surrounding people now, the commotion being heard from all around the first floor.
megumi turned to you right away, “are you okay?”
“yeah,” you nod. “i’m okay.”
“come on,” he says, holding out his hand. “let’s get you out of here for a second.”
you grab his hand and he guides you to the upstairs bathroom.
you guys enter the bathroom, and megumi shuts the door behind you. he hands you a fresh towel from the closet, then grabs himself one.
“thanks,” you said, wiping at your dress.
there was a small pause.
“sorry about that,” he added.
sorry about what? you didn’t do anything,” you said softly. “you actually helped me, thank you.”
he nods a little.
you and megumi catch eyes for a moment.
you had never noticed how pretty his eyes were this up close, his deep blue eyes, and suddenly, the loud music and chatter of the people downstairs stops. though this time, megumi doesn’t break eye contact with you.
megumi steps closer, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“you’re really pretty.” he says quietly, almost a whisper.
you looked up at him, a little surprised.
“thank you,” you smile shyly. “even right now covered in alcohol?” you joke.
“yeah.”
everything went quiet for a second.
he stepped a little closer, slow, giving you time to move if you wanted.
“is this okay?” he asked.
you nodded.
he leaned in slowly and kissed you, his lips soft and careful against yours. his hand rested on your waist, the towel he’d been holding slipping from his fingers and falling to the floor. a quiet sound left your mouth, one he caught and swallowed into the kiss.
and then—
knock knock knock
“y/n? are you in there? your best friends voice called.
you both pulled back instantly, startled.
“yeah! one second! you called.
you glanced at him, both of you a little flushed.
then you opened the door, walking out with your best friend now.
you glance at megumi once more, before your best friend drags ypu back downstairs.
—
by the time you left, the party had died down a bit. you grabbed your things, and started walking towards the front door.
as you were heading out, megumi caught up to you.
“get home safe,” he said.
“you too,” you smiled.
—
the drive back was quiet.
your best friend was half asleep, but your mind was anything but.
you kept replaying everything, the conversation, the way he looked at you, the kiss.
when you got back you helped her inside before she immediately collapsed onto her bed.
you barely made it into yours before doing the same.
—
the next morning, sunlight came through your curtains.
and as everything from the night before hit you all at once,
you started blankly at the ceiling.
what. the. fuck.
authors note: i hope you guys enjoyed chapter 1 of my series "when you know, you know". i worked super hard on this, and i hope that shows through my writing lol. chapter 2 should come out within the next week or so, but i will post a cute fluff in between just to keep you guys fed 😉
❤︎ megumi fushiguro had never planned to fall in love. but love comes in the strangest of forms right? and yeah, megumi could proudly admit to the whole world that you were absolutely weird as shit. that didn’t stop him from loving you, though. he couldn’t imagine himself not loving you at all.
click here to join the taglist!!
chapter index.
001. one night I was born in bed..
002. and stalked you on the internet..
003. it’s feminine sorcerer’s intuition..
004. ‘cause I’ve always had a vision of us standing like this..
005. all pressed up in the bathroom line..
006. you’re lookin’ like an angel on the walls of versailles..
pairing: academic rival!megumi fushiguro x stoner!reader
synopsis: breaking news: top students AND academic rivals, megumi fushiguro and [name] [l/n] are allegedly in an ongoing relationship.. that even he wasn’t aware of..
status: coming soon..
tags/warnings: academic rivals to lovers, college!au, everyone is aged up, megumi & [name] hv a love hate relationship (everyone knows they have fat crushes on each other), drug & substance abuse, mild angst sprinkled in, mostly fluff & crack
we like (raw)men - planet loser
001. “hi!” “I’m sure you are.”
002. don’t read this
003. ragebaitragebaitragebait
004. live laugh lower your expectations
005. Les I’m Miserable
006. panic at the disco
007. coming soon..
008. coming soon..
009. coming soon..
a/n: EVERYONE SAY THANK U TO MY GOAT CARSON FOR THIS NEOWWW @carsonoisy
click here to join taglist..
divider by @designlikenonsense (if anyone finds the artist for the Megumi art pls tell me I’ve had it since like 2021)
DEBATABLE 𑣲MASTERLIST
⤷ megumi fushiguro x fem!reader
syn. megumi has always been serious and put-together, especially when it comes to his academics... until he verses your school in debate club and practically starts foaming at the mouth when you speak.
cw/tags. nerd!gumi x nerd!reader, debate club, kinda academic rivals but not a lot of rivalry, shy loser virgin failure megumi, popular and confident reader, (can u tell i'm watching horimiya), forced proximity/summer camp romance, dirty/suggestive humour, kys jokes. fanart in banner drawn by me!!
꩜ ◞ HOW TO GET A NERD ADDICTED (WITHOUT MEANING TO)
Gojō Satoru, the insufferably disciplined chemistry prodigy tries a harmless experiment that spirals into an unexpected habit. At first it's funny but the jokes fade when you realize he only reaches for it after impossible expectations, disappointing grades, and phone calls from home. Without ever asking him to quit, you start using every excuse God has invented to get him to focus elsewhere. Somewhere between replacing a habit and becoming one herself, the line between friendship and dependence simply disappears. First love sometimes feels like withdrawal.
content n warnings ꩜ 8.3k words ， high school au ， friends to lovers ， slowburn ， humor fluff angst in that order ， emotional hurt comfort ， vaping and nicotine YEAAAAAAAA ， recreational nic use ， typical nerd gojo stuff ， they're both stupid your honor ， not proofread AT ALL n trying out a new prose style
ONE: Drip tip.
Three p.m. breeze hits your arms in fitful sways, residual sweat clinging to your skin slowly dissipating with the wind. Like most days, you’re somehow ruining your health one way or another. Aerosol curls inside your mouth and unfurls into the afternoon air, and with no time left in between, you huff in another inhale of the blueberry-flavored liquid. You turn your head and Satoru is already behind you, one hand, with a plastic bag wrapped around his middle finger, is in his pocket, definitely fiddling and circling the lining, one hand balancing a stack of books poorly.
Satoru’s footsteps stop right at your flank and on cue, you exhale out the vapor coating your throat, more aerosol coming into the air. Satoru clicks his tongue almost condescendingly, but after a year of chemistry with him, you’ve realized it’s simply his normal cadence. "You know, every time I see you with that thing, I lose a little respect.”
You lean harder against the metal guardrail bordering the convenience store's small parking lot, loosening your grip on your newly-bought pod. You spent the remaining pocket money you had on a random Tuesday to impulsively buy it off from Shoko. Tokyo had finally remembered it was autumn, and the wind had no mercy for bare legs. Five minutes before sixth period ended, you'd slipped into the bathroom and rolled your skirt another few centimeters anyway. Your chemistry teacher had looked at you over the rim of his glasses when you walked back in—equal parts disappointed and exhausted—but with ten minutes left before the final bell, neither of you had the energy to make it a discussion. A gush of wind hits the exposed skin of your legs once again.
"Good afternoon to you too,” you murmur, looking up at him. You grimace at his hand and its hold of the stacks of books, briefly wondering why the hell he didn’t just shove them in his comically nerdy, comically large backpack he’s had since tenth grade and for some reason refused to get rid of.
You tuck your pod into your palm, hiding the body from yours and Satoru’s eyes, though the tip is still visible. Satoru deadpans, “You're inhaling chemicals."
"You're inhaling copier toner every time you print your notes at the school co-op,” you shoot back instantly, one restless knee idly slotting itself between the vertical metal railings. Your foot stretches out into the air through the small space and you look at Satoru expectantly, waiting for an answer. Looking at your playfully used leg, he frowns in faux thought.
Satoru balances his books carefully, taking a moment to respond. "...That's different."
"Because?" you query.
"The copier doesn't taste like strawberry,” he responds completely seriously. Satoru’s hand shifts under his books yet again, and you briefly wonder if his constant book holding—at least an hour since you left school—would give him scoliosis or not. Satoru’s eyes drift to your vape. "...What flavor is it?"
You raise both your eyebrows at this. Satoru huffs, setting down his stack of books on the pavement, no mind to how dirty it could be, or how ridiculous it could look. "I thought you hated it."
"I do,” when he retreats back to his standing position, he deadpans.
"So why're you asking?" scanning the plastic bag in his left hand before beckoning it over. Satoru complies, holding it up and you take out the boring vanilla ice cream you had asked him to get for you minutes ago. You tear off the wrapper and shove the ripped bits into your skirt’s pocket—thank god it’s Friday, no matter with dirty skirt pockets.
For all of the one year you’ve known Satoru, you’ve known him as a certified loser. Not necessarily a loser in your sense, you could care less about how he displays himself, you honestly think he’s pretty cool, granted if he’s not talking about gacha probabilities. But Satoru’s of course your typical nerd. No vaping, not a wince of alcohol, no skipping classes. You can commend him for that. "...Scientific curiosity.”
You bite on the top chocolate layer of your ice cream cone, Satoru watching intensely with his normal accidentally judgy eyes. You lick at your cone and the coldness mixes with the minty parts of your pod’s flavor. Realizing what he just said, you snort. "Oh my God,” holding your pod out, you nudge it towards his face, earning you a much bigger scowl from him. "One hit."
"I don't—"
Cutting him off, you tease. "Scared?"
"I'm not scared,” Satoru, holding his ground, crosses his arms, eyes ripping away from the vape to look at your face. You have the smuggest expression he’s ever seen, usually reserved for when you manage to fool him into buying you something at some dessert parlor (Suguru usually tagging along) or when you somehow manage to outsmart him in maths.
You look at him daringly. "Then?”
It takes one, two, then five seconds for Satoru to click his tongue with the smallest hiss, looking everywhere except your little e-cigarette, then finally settling his eyes on it. He takes it with a low grumble, which only strengthens in sound when he sees the smugness on your face not disappearing, instead becoming more apparent. "...Fine.”
He takes the tiniest inhale imaginable. Nothing comes out. You’re quite sure Satoru’s never hit even once in his life, maybe because nobody approaches him with intentions of corrupting him—unlike you—so you understand the amateurish attempt. Nevertheless, it doesn’t stop you from snorting. "You inhaled like you're sipping hot soup."
"I did inhale,” he defends, eyes narrowing at you.
"You absolutely didn't,” you shake your head. Before Satoru could even utter a word out, you cut him off again, just as he says I. You reach over, tapping his shoulder, "Breathe in first."
He tries again, vapor filling his throat. Half a second later, you hear the wretched cough resonating deep beneath his lungs. He doubles over and you can’t help yourself from bursting into laughter. You topple over yourself, smile stretching across yourself with glee from the hilarity of his attempt. Satoru glares at you, "Coughing does not—" another cough settles in his throat, "—indicate quality."
"You look pathetic,” you wipe away little tears almost threatening to stream out.
He glares, pointing an accusatory finger at you for god knows what. "My lungs reject mediocrity."
"That's the nerdiest thing you've ever said,” you state, retrieving your pod back and shoving it in the pocket of your skirt. You watch Satoru grab his books and a wave of secondhand pain washes over you. At least the books are tied but how the hell is he going to commute with that thing.
Snapping you out of your sympathy, Satoru comments. "...I have said much nerdier."
The next day, you’re walking back home—with Satoru of course, because after a month of knowing each other you realized that you lived around the same neighborhood and you boarded the exact same train—and absolutely tarnished after your first physics class. You slump down, and absentmindedly, you dig into your pocket to retrieve your vape and you hit it once, letting the vapor settle in your tongue for quite some time before rushing to a place where you can actually exhale.
Satoru, following behind you and eyeing it, points at you meekly. "...Can I try once more?"
You look over your shoulder, finally letting the aerosol out of your mouth. You hand it over without thinking. He takes another hit and still coughs. "Marginal improvement."
"Barely,” you murmur. Silence engulfs you both for a split second, only being cut by the sound of your grin a moment later. "You know what people do?" you grab your vape back from him, a mischievous glint already present in your eyes, "They kiss while passing the smoke."
Satoru’s eyebrows furrow, blinking. "...Wh?" he continues, "that sounds—inefficient."
"It is,” you laugh, near delighted. You already expect him to roll his eyes at your next suggestion and call you an idiot, sixty percent because you’re friends, forty percent because he’s a snob that won’t kiss anyone and hasn’t kissed anyone. "Wanna try?”
Instead, he shrugs. "Okay."
More silence settles between you two and you stare at him with mild confusion. Your hands fiddle with the vape and you debate whether to tuck it back in safely in your jacket or not. "...Okay?"
"You asked,” yes, you’ve been friends with Gojō Satoru for quite some time. You can’t really deny that you’ve had a small, insignificant crush on him for… maybe four months now, but that’s about it. Satoru is pretty. Infuriatingly pretty, but again, that’s about it. Shoko thinks he’s pretty, Suguru sure as hell thinks he’s pretty with all the homosexual jokes he keeps throwing around at him. But Satoru is Satoru, and you value your friendship more than a romantic relationship with him anyway. You didn’t expect he’d be the type to casually go along with something like that.
"I was kidding,” you glare.
"Oh,” he pauses. "...Do you not want to?"
Your brain completely stalls and you glare at him, nearly like you’re disgusted. "I—" that couldn’t be more the case. You shake your head, trying to find the correct words—especially ones that don’t make you seem either like you’re rejecting him, or way too desperate. "...No—I mean yes—I mean—" you give up, sighing. “I want to.”
Satoru quirks a questioning brow at you, already leaning in. You jump at his motion but you quickly inhale a deep puff of the blueberry vapor, leaning in just as he does. It's soft, quick, barely there, and entirely too stupid for you to actually count as a kiss. Sure as hell was a kiss to Satoru though. You inhaled half of the aerosol in your mouth and transferred it to Satoru’s—you’re not sure if he caught it though at first, but you were proven he did when he started coughing lightly.
When you pull apart, you clear your throat. So."
"So,” you start, picking at the right words, "that was..."
"...A successful experiment?" Satoru shrugs, the joke landing with a casual cadence. You laugh at the absurdity, not minding that you just kissed one of your closest friends at a random whim mere seconds ago. You nod. Capriciously, Satoru adds, "Wanna do another trial?"
You nearly trip and topple over the curve.
TWO: Atomizer.
It’s only a week later, after grueling nights of studying past materials in your first year because you just had to pick physics as an electives not knowing two shits about physics, that you find Satoru by the vending machines with a blue vape, brand new, and certainly from a brand that Shoko usually carries around to deal with. He’s fidgeting with the thing, squatting while a paper is in his lap, looking concentratedly frustrated. Residual school air clings onto you, and you note that you and him are both still near school grounds. Satoru isn’t one to tamper with the reputation of your school and especially himself.
As if on cue to further your awestruck, Satoru takes a hit of the vape—now you can’t trick yourself into thinking that’s someone else’s and he’s just holding onto it for some reason—and you actually stop in your tracks. Who is this person who possessed one of your closest friends?
"...Satoru,” approaching him, you stand directly in his vision, brown loafers in his vision, shadow casting on top of him.
Looking up he gives you an awkward smile, “Oh, hi.”
"You bought one,” you say quizzically and if you looked close enough, amusedly. You never took Satoru for someone to have some weird fear or missing out, neither did you think he was the type to become addicted after one singular puff. Nevertheless, the thought of the Gojō Satoru, the guy currently representing your school for regionals in a robotics olympiad, casually vaping after trying it the first time a week ago, is deeply funny to you. “Why do you have one—you hated mine."
"I disliked yours,” he corrects like it’s common sense. "This one is mint."
Your eyes drop down from his eyes, down to his vape, down to his notes, those perfectly color-coded and coordinated notes that you sadly rarely see because all he gives you are his ugly in-class notes instead. You squat down beside him, taking his pod and examining it. In retrospect, you feel quite embarrassed that you’re so worked up over something as common as an e-cigarette, and it shouldn’t and doesn’t bother you. "You bought a vape because... yours tastes better?"
"That was one contributing factor,” he simply replies, hand skimming the pages of his binder once more. The high-pitched and annoying chime of the school bell rings from a couple meters away. You sulk. You came out of school grounds with a permit just for a soda and was hoping to get back immediately but you spent it all on talking with Satoru.
"You are unbelievable,” you mutter, turning your body to the vending machine and putting in your money. You punch in the buttons and soon enough, two peach sodas at the top row drops and clacks against the mouth of the vending machine. You take both and throw one at Satoru, opening the other.
"I've been told,” he smiles, catching the can.
Satoru vaping is a funny thing. All your friends have gathered that. After cornering Shoko and asking if her ass had anything to do with it, and her confessing quite transparently, you quietly deduced that Satoru is just trying things out. New bad boy in training. Several realizations have dawned on you since the first time you caught him carelessly (though knowing him, anything but careless, even if it was only meters away from school) holding a blue mint-flavored pod.
Firstly, vaping doesn’t suit him. Not necessarily because he’s bad at it, he’s gotten quite good in the week he’s spent doing it and being extremely open with your usual table at school—Suguru, Shoko, you, him—but because Satoru simply isn’t the type.
Secondly, Satoru doesn’t talk about it. One day, while you’re at some open-air coffee shop that allowed vaping near school, he just pulled it out while the four of you were sat on the table, laughing about how one of your mutual friends got caught reading a book below the table by your history teacher and lied that she wasn’t when it was completely allowed. One hit, then two, he doesn’t even pay attention to how Suguru’s jaw dropped. None of you were used to it but of course, it was funny nonetheless.
The third, you don’t know yet. But you know that it takes embarrassingly little time for everyone to stop reacting.
Now you’re remembering. The first day, Suguru nearly choked on his melon bread when Satoru casually fished the little blue pod from his blazer pocket between classes, earning himself a solid smack to the shoulder from Shoko because, "Quit acting like he's smoking crack." By the third day, the novelty had worn off entirely. Satoru would take one, maybe two drags while waiting for the train, tuck it neatly back into his pocket, then launch into an entirely unrelated explanation of why your physics teacher's grading rubric disproportionately rewarded memorization over understanding. You'd already stopped laughing at the sight by then. Mostly.
"...You look weird with that thing."
Satoru glanced up from the margins of his notebook, pencil still tucked between his fingers. His brows pinched together in genuine confusion, not even bothering to pocket the vape before answering. Coldness touches your fingertips; the coffee shop here is extraordinarily good facilities-wise, but don’t ask about the coffee itself. "How?"
"You look like you're pretending to be cooler than you are," you reply, reaching over to flick the edge of the pod with your finger. It barely budged in his grip. "Which is saying something, because you're the least cool person I know."
"I wasn't aware coolness was measurable,” he closes his notebook with one hand, expression completely level despite the offense you were very obviously trying to inflict. "...What's the unit?"
You open your mouth, only to realize you don’t actually have an answer. After several deeply contemplative seconds spent staring at the ceiling of the classroom, you settled for a shrug. "I don't know. Vibes?"
One afternoon, Suguru plucked the vape straight out of Satoru's hand before he could take another hit. Satoru stopped mid-motion, eyes following the little blue pod now dangling carelessly between Suguru's fingers. There wasn't even annoyance on his face. Just mild inconvenience, like someone had moved a bookmark he'd been about to use. "...Suguru."
"Hm?" Suguru hums innocently, already inspecting the thing like he'd discovered a strange species of insect. He flips it over once, then twice, lips quirking at the pristine condition. At this point, it’s been in his hands for two weeks, and you've seen him use that thing seven times.
"I was using that,” he frowns, sighing when Suguru simply says he noticed. "Give it back."
Suguru lifts his arm higher the second Satoru reaches for it, grin growing wider with every centimeter the vape traveled farther from his reach. You don’t really think you enjoy bullying your friend, and usually Satoru isn’t the butt of the joke, but it’s amusing either way. "Say please."
Satoru sighs through his nose, sounding deeply inconvenienced by the concept of manners. He glanced at you, perhaps hoping for sympathy, only to find you already biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. "...I could just take it."
"You could," Suguru agrees. "But that'd be rude."
Silence helps nobody. Eventually, he resigns. "...Please,” the word left his mouth with all the enthusiasm of someone reading terms and conditions aloud. You laughed so violently your peach soda fizzed up the wrong way, coughing into your sleeve while Shoko looked between the three of you like she'd somehow become responsible for an entire kindergarten class.
You doubled over the cafeteria table, nearly spraying peach soda through your nose while Shoko looked equally unimpressed by the exchange. Satoru accepted the vape back with all the dignity of someone collecting a confiscated calculator, brushing invisible dust off the casing before slipping it between his fingers again. "...You all derive an alarming amount of joy from my suffering."
"Mostly yours," Suguru admits.
The funniest part, at least to you, wasn't that Satoru had started vaping. It was how catastrophically academic he'd become about the entire thing. Not nicotine—not once did he ramble about nicotine—but the device itself. You'd make the mistake of asking one harmless question outside the convenience store and suddenly he'd be explaining coil resistance with the same seriousness he used when tutoring you in chemistry, phone already unlocked to some forum full of people arguing over battery capacity.
"...See, disposable pods are significantly less efficient in the long run,” was what he said three weeks into the whole vaping fiasco. You’ve gotten somewhat used to it. But still, like a monkey fussing over a banana, you were still amazed that you somehow made Satoru into someone who owns a vape. "And because the battery output isn't adjustable—" he continues even when you only hum with a nod, "it compromises flavor consistency."
Satoru lowers his phone. "...Are you even listening?"
You tear your attention away from the crow currently losing a fight to a pigeon over an abandoned onigiri wrapper. You weren’t, of course. YOu know you will probably be interrogated by him and asked to repeat what the hell he just said. You lie anyway which earns a sigh. "...Absolutely."
Eventually, curiosity got the better of you.
You caught up to him after school, right as he was stuffing worksheets into the clear folder he insisted kept them "psychologically organized," the vape balanced absentmindedly between two fingers while he worked. You nudged his shoulder with your own, waiting until he'd actually acknowledged your existence before speaking. "...How much did that thing cost?"
Now you’re a little too accustomed to how much Satoru uses the thing. Not enough for it to be concerning of course because vaping is harmless, in most ways. He answers almost immediately, like he'd anticipated the question sometime in the past week and had rehearsed the answer in his head. He names the price plainly, without a hint of shame or hesitation, before going right back to underlining a formula in fluorescent yellow. Your jaw drops.
"You spent that much?" you ask, voice pitching higher than intended. A couple of students from the neighboring table glance over before immediately deciding your conversation isn't worth eavesdropping on. You point accusingly at the vape, then back at him. "On that?"
Satoru explains—well, he says that he got it from a friend—finally looking up from his notes. He says everything with complete sincerity too, as if that singular fact justifies every financial decision he's ever made. Satoru's eyes drift toward the ceiling with the unmistakable expression of someone deciding whether honesty is worth the consequences. His fingers drum absentmindedly against the edge of his notebook once, twice, before he sighs through his nose.
Suguru lets out a bark of laughter loud enough that someone shushes him from across the cafeteria. You bury your face into your folded arms, shoulders shaking with barely contained amusement, while Satoru simply watches the three of you with mild confusion, as though he genuinely doesn't understand what's so ridiculous. Even Shoko looks vaguely offended.
She finally tears her attention away from her phone, blinking at Satoru with the same expression one reserves for people who microwave fish in shared office kitchens. "...I gave her mine for, like, 3,000 yen."
Satoru's brows furrow almost instantly. "...You overcharged her."
"I absolutely did," Shoko replies without a shred of remorse, slipping her phone into her blazer pocket. "Impulse purchase tax."
"You told me market pricing was dynamic,” you murmur.
"It is."
"...So?"
Shoko shrugs, completely unbothered. "...You're my friend."
For a brief moment, Satoru simply looks between the two of you. His eyes land on Shoko. Then on you. Then on the vape sitting innocently beside his notebook, as though it somehow betrayed him too. "...I think I'm being bullied."
"You are," you and Shoko answer in perfect unison.
Suguru doesn't even bother hiding his grin anymore. He reaches across the table to steal one of your fries, shaking his head at Satoru with something almost pitying in his eyes. "Dude," he says between bites, "you somehow got scammed and became a vaper in the same week."
Then you finally get the third point, which makes you light up with joy. You realize it shouldn’t though, the weeks to come.
The third is that Satoru does it after every minor inconvenience that strikes him and not dramatically. You find it amusing, of course, at first. You’ve known how much his family expects of him since forever, and you certainly know how much of a perfectionist he can be. You don’t comment on it most times, but still, after two weeks of watching him take a hit out of the thing every time he gets a ninety-five instead of a hundred, you start noticing patterns.
You find him after a phone call, right at the vending machines near school that have a better array of fruit sodas compared to the perpetually ‘broken’ vending machines inside school. You wave at him and he grants you a wave back, brows furrowing as he listens to whatever it is the person on the other side of the phone is saying. When he eventually hangs up, he immediately reaches into his pocket. Click. Mint. Exhale.
You swat away the cloud that comes up to your face, stopping right in front of him. "...Everything okay?"
He shrugs his shoulders. "My mother."
"...Ah."
Another puff. Satoru turns his face away, making sure the cloud of aerosol doesn’t hit your face. There’s a slump to his shoulders, no doubt, from studying math until his ears bled because of how many dispensations he had during class because of his competitions and olympiads. "She says I should apply somewhere else."
“Aren’t your grades perfect?” you ask, trying to seem harmless, shoving your hands into your pockets, fiddling with a loose string in the lining. Satoru’s eyes briefly land on yours and he takes several seconds to respond to your question, like it’s the stupidest query to have ever been uttered. To be fair, it technically is. It’s rare for you to not know who Gojō Satoru is; plastered in the school halls as a poster boy for the academics guy. It’s unfortunate he’s also attractive.
"They are,” he replies, and automatically, like it’s something that’s simply a given, he adds," they can always be more perfect."
You don’t know what to say after that. You’re sure Satoru’s parents are demanding—you know they are, one of the rare subjects of your talks during second break—judging from the way he laments in the mornings during report card day, but of course you don’t know the extent of it. You have your own share of demands from your parents, but who can’t shoulder measly hopes and dreams from the people who raised you? But Satoru isn’t you and you aren’t Satoru. You awkwardly shift your footing. Then again, it’s Satoru, he’s full of surprises. You ask, helpfully, "...Mint?"
He raises a brow. Holding out the vape, Satoru watches you and expects you to take it. You’ve said that you liked his flavor before. You flail your hand to decline, now thinking of how many times does he really use that damn thing and how many times has he used it since he got it. “Keep it.”
Putting on a smile, you tug at Satoru’s sleeve. “Come back to class, I wanna show you something.”
THREE: Fire button.
Your classroom was freezing today, heavy with the gushes of air from the newly fixed air conditioning. You were shivering at eighteen degrees and sliding your hands inside your jacket, meanwhile your seatmate, Gojō Satoru of course, was leaning into the table, doodling on the margins of his stoichiometry notes. You’ve spent too many hours thinking of Satoru the past few days and you entirely suspect because you’re still too shocked about his newly found second habit of popping his vape out of his pocket to take a hit whenever the timing suits him.
Because suddenly, you realize the difference between him and you. Mostly that every time you use one, it’s purely recreational, just something you do to either seem cool and not completely wreck your lungs like tobacco does, or something you try to attempt cool tricks with aerosol. And yet with Satoru, it’s something he does every time he gets a bad grade—when he bombed that one quiz, not really, he didn’t even fail he just got a 92 instead of a 100—or when he gets another phone call. A puff.
You don’t say anything about it though. Haven’t said anything about it. Class ends and everyone’s already packing their bags by the time you get snapped out of your day dream. Even if the CCTV cameras were out in your classroom, you know how stupid it is to inhale in your classroom. And yet, you find Satoru already pulling the damn thing out.
You frown. Grabbing his wrist, you tug on him, not enough to hurt, you’re not sure it could even hurt, Satoru’s too strong of a guy, leading him to wherever you please. The FamilyMart right beside your school. "Come on."
"...Where?" Satoru whines, though he doesn’t make an effort to release from your grip.
"Food."
He complains, already slinging his slowly slipping backpack further on his shoulder into a more comfortable position, digging into the blades of his shoulders. You’re a little bit mad to be honest that your school doesn’t open its west gate after school and you have to go around the main gate. It takes too long. "I'm not hungry.”
"I am,” you counter. Crossing the street and tugging at him very violently, he shakes his head at your antics. Arriving at the FamilyMart, you scan the area for a place to sit and when you do, you state: "You owe me."
"I do?" he asks, befuddled.
"You borrowed my calculator,” you say, completely serious, sitting down and settling your bag on the thoroughly loved outdoor sofa, with rips and bits that you’re sure hold as much bacteria as a yoghurt bottle. Satoru snorts and absentmindedly puts the vape away.
Sluggishly, Satoru follows suit of the motion, setting his bag on the sofa and getting up from his seat when you do, approaching the FamilyMart. You’re hoping for some ice cream—the FamilyMart cone actually, if the machine isn’t broken—or at least something extremely sweet and extremely cold. Eventually, you settle with a milk tea you’ve made far too sugary. Satoru settles with dumplings despite not really being hungry.
Only a minute later after settling down in your seats again, he's looking for it again. Noticing, you slide the milk tea across the table.
"Drink,” you say, not really an offer, just a command that Satoru responds to far better than he should. Satoru eyes you carefully. You offer him lots of things often, but it’s in the nature of friendship to be suspicious of things your friends do.
He questions. "...Why?"
"Because I bought it,” pushing the plastic cup further to his side, you quickly retract it to take a sip of it yourself, brows furrowing as you try to suck in a particularly stubborn tapioca pearl. Sugar reaches all the way to the roof of your mouth and you slide the cup back to him.
"...Okay,” he drinks instead. You watch the vape from your peripheral and a smile laces your face when you see him pocketing the small device back instead of putting it on the table or taking a swig at it the second he swallows your drink.
Eventually, every interaction with Gojō Satoru, the now vaper turns into you coaxing him to do something. Because you realized Satoru needs something to keep him company. Something to keep him occupied so he’s not drowned with his thoughts. "Wanna walk home?" was the go-to you said, because being neighbors was a fun trick, and you always had stories to share to him because of your much enthusiastically social lifestyle. "Library?" is your second go-to because Satoru loves libraries.
You don't know when grabbing his sleeve became instinct. Maybe sometime between the third phone call and the fourth ninety-five. You stop asking if he's hungry. You just start handing him something to do before his hand can disappear into his pocket.
So the next is "I found a café,” which Satoru sees through. Not the trying to get him to stop vaping part, but the secondary part which he thinks is your main motive, which is just really wanting to get sweet stuff and try a bunch of cookies from different coffee shops. And the coffee. "Movie?" after school when he doesn’t have cram school. "Come quiz me,” when physics comes up and you spend fifteen minutes laughing at something abysmally stupid. "Help me with this,” that somehow makes him feel useful.
The one that you always use, technically, every single day when you have class together. "...Sit with me." How can he complain?
He starts saying yes without asking why, you can’t even begin to talk about the delight you feel.
You’re in the middle of the hallway when you find Satoru languidly walking to his next class, a stack of books in hand. You can understand holding a stack of books on the first day of school, but lockers exist and he doesn’t need to be carrying all of those books in the first place. You laugh with a bell-like jingle, raising a judging brow at Satoru’s occupied hands, the little cloud disappearing into the air. Satoru stares. You whip around, a frown tugging at your own mouth as you stare at the top book, your curriculum’s mathematics book. “Why are you carrying those?”
“Because they’re books,” Satoru blinks.
“You own a backpack,” you mutter simply, finger pointing at the heavy-duty backpack slung only over his left shoulder, probably because Satoru with all his intelligence, fully believes slinging the weight of his backpack will balance out his hand. He nods. At that, you frown at him. “So use it.”
“They wrinkle my notes,” he meekly says as if he knows you’re going to burst out laughing the second he utters his words. You don’t, but you scoff at him ridiculously either way, leg kicking microscopic dirt at him. Silence engulfs the two of you for not as much as an uncomfortable time, but enough for you to ponder. You come to his flank and smile, shoving yourself in his vicinity to the point where he flinches, half (fake) disgust and half-shock, “wanna get coffee later?”
“Uh, sure,” he shrugs one shoulder, careful not to upset the impossible equilibrium of books balanced in his arms. Eventually, after a class you don’t take with him, you meet up with the boy in front of the school gates, with you scrolling to your phone desultorily, the last Instagram reel you see being a niche food parlor near a district not far from you.
When you see him from your peripheral—his shoes, actually, you shove the phone inside your pocket, nodding at him. You begin walking again, matching his pace automatically after months of taking the same route together. The afternoon sun spills through the gates, warming the pavement beneath your loafers. It isn’t until several steps later that your eyes drift toward the pocket of his blazer.
"...You aren’t touching it," you mention, narrowing your eyes at the lack of motion. Usually by 500 meters from school, he’s toying and fidgeting with it inside of his pocket instead of the seams inside, and by 600, he’s pulling it out and finding the nearest place where smoking’s allowed to take a hit.
"Hm?" Satoru hums absentmindedly.
"Your vape,” you slow your steps, feeling something get caught in your shoe. You check to see whatever it was but nothing is there. You frown, hopping on one leg for just a second, almost comedically.
He instinctively reaches towards his pocket before stopping halfway, looking down as if expecting the device to magically appear in his hand. For a second he simply stares at the outline beneath the fabric, brows knitting together with genuine confusion. Then, almost comically, recognition crossed his face. "...Oh—huh,” he hums, "I didn't even notice."
You slow to a stop without really meaning to, watching him more carefully than you had been lately. The blue disposable sat exactly where it always did, tucked neatly into the pocket he'd reached for dozens of times over the past few weeks. Except this time, he'd walked halfway across campus without touching it. Somehow, that tiny difference lodged itself somewhere uncomfortable in your chest.
"...I feel kinda guilty," you admit after a moment.
Satoru looks over. "For?"
You rub the back of your neck, suddenly finding the scuffed toes of your shoes far more interesting than meeting his eyes. It sounds ridiculous now that you actually have to say it aloud. People tried things all the time. Nobody accidentally turns their best friend into a vaper... probably. Whatever Satoru did after you gave him your vape was his choice and even if you made him do it the first time, it’d be stupid for you to be the reason for a guy to suddenly have a nicotine addiction. "I was the one who let you try it," you mutter.
A quiet laugh escaped him. "You think you corrupted me?"
"I mean..." you gesture vaguely toward the pocket where the vape still rested. "Evidence suggests I might've,” you hiss at the constant, sticky whatever it was stuck to the bottom of your shoe, profoundly more interesting than whatever response you or Satoru could conjure up in this conversation. "You bought your own."
"I bought my own," Satoru agrees, "you didn't make me."
The certainty in his voice makes the conversation stall before it could become an argument and you look at him like he just said two plus two equals five. Satoru slips the little blue vape from his pocket at last, though instead of lifting it to his lips like you expected, he simply rolled it lazily between his fingers. The plastic clicks softly beneath his thumb, catching glints of late afternoon sunlight. A cat passes by you and nuzzles at your leg and you resist the urge to pet it. You’re allergic. He watches it spin with an expression you couldn't quite decipher.
"...I think I just wanted something to do," he said quietly. “Something that shut my brain up."
You look at him without answering. There wasn't much to say to that, not when you'd caught glimpses of the phone calls, the perfect grades that somehow still weren't enough, the expectations he carried as naturally as those ridiculous stacks of books. Satoru doesn’t look at you while he speaks. His attention fixes very stubbornly on the vape that he turns slowly between his fingers.
"I mean, lately," he began before stopping. Satoru nudges the cat wedged between your legs, a carefully balanced toe-box caressing the cat’s chin. Or rather, letting the cat caress his shoe. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "I don't really think about it when you're around."
The words land so softly you almost miss them. Satoru continues walking, though still visibly befuddled. You blink once, then again, waiting for him to elaborate, to tell you he'd misspoken or that there was some perfectly logical explanation waiting just around the corner. There isn’t. He simply stood there looking faintly puzzled by his own admission. You catch up to him, looking up at him to do what you do; joke. “Are you confessing to me?”
Satoru ignores you. "I keep forgetting it,” Satoru agrees again, more to himself this time, sounding just as confused as you felt. You shift from his face to the untouched vape still resting loosely in his hand before a grin slowly tugs at the corners of your mouth. It was too funny not to say. The next joke arrives before your brain could stop it.
"So..." you began, trying—and failing—to suppress your smile. "I'm nicotine replacement therapy?"
Satoru considers the question with alarming seriousness, his brows drawing together exactly the way they did whenever he was solving a difficult chemistry problem, or when Miyagi-sensei said something stupid in class that made him want to take his glasses out and rip his eyeballs out of his sockets. For a moment you genuinely wonder whether he was going to start listing reasons why the comparison is scientifically inaccurate. Instead, he gives a tiny nod. "...That's one way to put it."
You laugh, bumping his shoulder. "You are impossible."
FOUR: Aerosol.
After that, catastrophe happens. Because everything you do somehow loops back to Satoru, especially in a place where he’s in. You being in his vicinity, at school, at the library, at anywhere, somehow you end up texting him or talking to him.
It starts with the night of that conversation. Satoru calls you an idiot through the phone because you called him on a whim right after you finished showering to ask about chemistry notes for tomorrow. Of course, he eventually put on his camera and with shaky fingers, pointed the extremely bad-quality video call camera to his notes for you to screenshot, not thinking of the much more efficient thing of simply taking a picture of them and sending them to you. Then the next day you start acting like you like him too much, which includes stealing his favorite hoodie, that one that smells too much like his horrible Axe cologne, but mixed with his own scent that you’ve somehow identified from a mile away.
You’re at the cafeteria, yawning as you drag yourself to your regular table. Shoko isn’t here yet, but Suguru is sleepily buried and engrossed in his sociology textbook and devouring a burger you believe his mother packed for lunch. You ought to think it’s because of his notoriously delusional, a little bit crazy sociology teacher who you’re not even sure actually qualifies to teach.
You throw your books to the table, a crisp smack resonating in the air. A couple of people look at you yet Suguru doesn’t even bother to look at you. You momentarily let yourself linger, hands on the table interrogatively. "Where's Gojō?"
Suguru looks up, finally, but you’re already scurrying to the drinks vendor and buying yourself a bubblegum drink. Following your figure, he gives you a ridiculing expression. "You text him every morning."
"So?"
"So you know exactly where he is,” he says matter-of-factly. When you finally slide into the bench across from him and process his words, the end of your middle finger’s nail digs into the plastic cup from the force of your grip; Suguru tilts a peculiar head at this. This marks the first person to know that there’s something fishy going on between you two.
The first thought Suguru has is how strange your reaction was, of course, you only tighten your grip on something when you’re about to throw things—which normally happens when something agitates you or embarrasses you, it’s a terrible habit. The second thought is why the mention of you texting Gojō Satoru would get you worked up like that when you haven’t had a single bad interaction with him in four months, not counting when he spilled juice on your shirt three weeks ago after school. The third and final thought is that he wouldn’t mind seeing you and his bestest friend as an item—especially because Satoru has morbidly horrible game.
A small, infuriatingly smug smile plasters itself across Suguru’s face. There’s nothing wrong with the expression though, not exaggeratedly smug, so you have absolutely no ground to physically assault him. You instantly understand what his expression hints at and you hiss. “Fuck off."
The second person who notices is of course, Ieiri Shoko, and still at lunch.
Satoru is already sitting at your usual lunch table when you arrive, two cartons of strawberry milk set neatly beside his lunch, and fries he bought before the recess bell to time it perfectly for when they got here. The open air of the cafeteria is making way for very clammy people to wiggle through small gaps and the humidity of the entirely too heating air to make you withdraw all your sweat. Suguru, is yet again, buried in his notes. You wonder why all the men in your friend group are intensely obsessed with studying while you and Shoko laugh and giggle around like lunatics during lunch. Suguru doesn’t even take the hard subjects, which he always threatens to punch you for if you say that in front of him. He takes social sciences and he just participates in debate and chess competitions.
Your eyes land on Satoru, already opening up his binder. You resist the gagging sound you want to emit when he does, just to piss him off, but you’re more occupied by the carton of strawberry milk. You, distracted, take a single stick of his fry, shoving it in your mouth. “You bought two."
"I know, [Last Name],” he says impassively, “I’m not blind.”
"...Why?" you say, tugging at his binder until it lands to your side of the table. Ssatoru doesn’t even whine for it, the same way when Suguru took his vape, he looks at you like it’s just a minor inconvenience. Somehow, you don’t notice the upwards curve of his lips as you do. Shoko certainly does; biology makes you incredibly keen on minor details.
He shrugs, taking out a physics worksheet tucked inside his binder and occupying himself with that instead. Leering at the piece of paper, you feel a small betrayal as your attempt to bother him fails. "You usually complain about not wanting to buy them.”
“Huh, thanks,” you're halfway through stealing more fries from Satoru's tray when he quietly slides the ketchup toward you before you even ask. You stop as if you’ve been caught red-handed. “I wasn't gonna—"
"You were looking at it,” he responds, staring up at you like he’s revealed your biggest darkest secrets.
Shoko watches the exchange, stealing a piece of his fries herself, taking a generous amount of sauce from the mini sauce place. Satoru glares at her and to that, she cheekily giggles. Though, it’s cut short by her own question, pointing a finger at him casually.“How did you know?"
Satoru doesn't even hesitate. "She taps her thumb twice on the table whenever she's deciding whether to steal my food."
"...I do not,” you frown.
"You do."
Insistently, you repeat. "I don’t."
"...gods,” Shoko looks at you. Then back at Satoru. Then at Suguru. Suguru’s already pinching the bridge of his nose, but the second he finds Shoko’s eyes, he understands exactly what she’s thinking. Because you aren’t subtle at all, and neither is Gojō Satoru of course. “Suguru,” she murmurs, leaning into his shoulder and whispering her next words, “our boy; he’s gone.”
Suguru sighs, “hopeless.” It would be better if Satoru, their best friend, didn’t have the emotional intelligence of a calculator—a scientific calculator, to be more precise.
So then, the third person to realize is you. You’re walking home again, almost exactly where the first time you kissed Satoru, almost near your neighborhood apartment complex. The pavement that nears the main road has been fixed, and it’s no longer as bumpy as it was around a week ago when some kids threw a damn rock at the spot and dented it. The sun is setting and cascading an orangey, pinkish sky, your bones feel like jelly after another day of school. You have a pork bun in your hand, half-chewn, and Satoru’s shoving a candy wrapper in his uniform jacket.
Eyeing him like a hawk, you see Satoru reach into his pocket. He doesn’t realize you’re noticing, and yet he pauses, then looks at the vape. He quietly slides it back into his pocket. You smirk at him teasingly, taking another bite of your pork bun. You take care to calculate just how many bites left for you to leave with the most satisfying bite. "No experiment today?"
"Hm?" he hums, squinting and pushing his glasses up as you approach your street.
"The vape,” you point and at that second, Satoru stops walking. You follow his motion, technically, lack thereof, and gaze at him quizzically.
"...Nah,” he steps closer and you’re forced to look up at him.
You swallow the last remains of the sweet meat in your mouth, suddenly very acutely aware of how Satoru smells; vaguely of sweat, the nice kind, and now citrusy cologne which you can’t deny you like. "Then what?"
A couple moments of silence wedges between you two like some unwanted guest. Though, even if you thought it was extraordinarily awkward and awaiting, it was bearable. Largely due to the fact that you didn’t wanna hear whatever could come out of Satoru’s mouth in a situation like this. And you didn’t want him to say something that would ruin you both.
You didn’t say anything about what he can do though. So instead of answering, he leans down. You curse him for his stupidly lanky frame in your head. Eventually, his lips reach yours and you physically feel the hair on your arms jolt awake, the muscles spasming as they press against yours. It’s longer than the first kiss you shared, and it’s certainly more impulsive. There’s no joke, neither smoke. Just warm lips and a smile he tries—and fails—to hide as if he’s been waiting to do that. When you separate, your face feels hot, and his feels too.
Satoru, of course, tastes like the jelly candy he just swallowed, strawberry coating his tongue. One of the main reasons you hang out with each other so much is because you’re one of the only people who can keep up with his sweet tooth. He once lied straight to your face that it was to mentally stimulate him. You taste like pork bun. It's rather disgusting when you think about it for more than a second.
“What did you do?” you rasp, voice coming out uneven, embarrassment fully draping itself on top of your form.
“Totally didn’t mean to do that,” he stammers out, reaching down to his pocket, tugging at the fabric inside and stretching it to his hand. You know he’s playing with the lining right now. “Sorry.”
You take a step back, laughing into her sleeve because you don’t know what else to do, hopelessly flustered. You take your time to gather yourself. You’ve been close to guys before. You’ve kissed guys before. You still didn’t know what the hell to respond with. “You're an idiot!”
"I've been told,” he agrees, stepping back too, fidgeting with his pocket.
"By me."
He agrees again, nodding. By now, a smile tugs at his face; you aren’t withdrawing, and you certainly aren’t showing any signs of being creeped out. Instead, you’re laughing nervously and looking anywhere but him, and even if Satoru apparently had the emotional intelligence of a—scientific—calculator, he understood from this that you liked him at the very least. "Mostly by you.”
He decides to go for it, "...Can I kiss you again?"
You’re appalled by the question. But the answer isn’t no. You pretend to think about it, shifting your weight from one leg to another. You still refuse to look him in the eye and Satoru is looking at you expectantly, though funnily enough, he can’t look at you either. “Only if you stop making everything sound like a research proposal."
"So that's a yes?" he asks. Giddiness laces the final syllable of his words.
“Go away,” you murmur, leaning in to kiss him first. Again, the disgusting pairing of food mushes in your mouth, and still, you don’t care. Satoru smiles into your lips again. So therefore; the final person to realize what’s been going on between you two probably isn’t Satoru. It could be you.
notes ꩜ i think everyone knows what types of stories i like writing ugh. sorry 4 not posting for so long. making a longfic and i have school fucking me anal style. um. enjoy. anyway, i have a taglist, i have an ao3. comments and reblogs appreciated. byebye 𖹭
you weren’t necessarily rude, just— closed off to most people, people liked to call you intimidating, cold, impossible to read. but you simply called it minding your own business, keeping your peace. so when your older brother aran asks you to come to japan to spend the summer with him you immediately decline. the idea of leaving home for months only to be surrounded by his loud, energetic friends sounded exhausting. but there was one in particular who was quiet. just like you, thinking you could find some peace and friendship within him, you were wrong. as he is completely swoon over you and wont leave you alone for gods fucking sake.
iwaizumi hajime x reader; where your hockey friend offers to help you stretch; hockey x ice skater au; suggestive but nothing explicit
his eyes watched as you carefully lowered yourself onto the lockeroom bench. “how many times have i told you to stretch before you skate, yn.” he says, taking a seat next to you.
“i know, i know, iwa, i was just so excited to try out this one turn i saw on tiktok.” you explain, letting out a small groan when you reach down to touch your toes.
“well, look what happened.” iwaizumi lectured, before learning back to rest on his hands. a moment of comfortable silence passes as you continue to stretch. you swear you hear him swallow before he carefully asks, “i can help you out, if you’d like.”
you come up to smile at him, taking in his averted gaze and pink ears. “i’d like that, iwa.” you tell him, and iwaizumi swears his heart flutters a little.
which is exactly how you ended up with him right behind you, slowly guiding your hips forward as you leaned weight onto the one leg you extended onto the bench. “attagirl,” he praises, while his thumb rubs small circles on your side. “you have to be taking care of yourself if you’re gonna be exerting your body as much as you do.”
he carefully guides your hips back as you switch legs, bending at the knee to really stretch out your calf. “how d’ya even know to do this particular stretches?” you ask, letting out a strained breath from the position.
“i had to do the same with tooru,” he says nonchalantly, slightly pushing weight onto you. “but not like this!” he quickly adds, realizing the current position you’re both in.
“oh wow, iwa,” you tease, looking back to give him a smile. “and here i thought i was getting special treatment.”
“shut up,” iwaizumi tells you, guiding you back up.
after releasing your hips from his soft grip, you turn to face him. you can’t help but notice the blush tinging his cheeks as you cup his face to give him a brisk kiss on the corner of his lips. “thank you, iwaizumi,” you tell him, turning quickly to gather your things together. before leaving the lockeroom, you turn to ask over your shoulder, “same time tomorrow?”
iwaizumi nods, a little quicker than he would like to admit.
————————————
later, you get a text notification.
iwa: “you can’t avoid stretching if you just wanted my hands all over you”
iwa: “are you free friday night tho?”
i wrote this on my plane ride home hehe. masterlist here! reposts help others see my work!
𝒮ynopsis 3 years ago, on the first day of freshman year, you publicly rejected satoru gojo’s casual coffee invite and humiliated him in front of everyone—shattering his reputation before he even had a chance to build one—for the rest of his university life. ever since, he’s made it his personal mission to one-up you in every shared class, ensuring you’re always second to him. the bitter hatred and animosity between you two has only festered, carrying straight into sophomore year. bored with the dull grind of uni life, you create a secret twitter account under the handle “lovesick” and dive into #nsfwtwt. soon you’re mutuals with the filthy, anonymous poster whose depraved threads have been your go-to late-night fuel. the twist? that same “nerd” you’ve hated for 3 years is the one behind the screen. so what happens when satoru finally uncovers your dirty little secret and threatens to expose you as the campus slut unless you date him to repair his ruined reputation? well—whatever it is… it definitely won’t be good.
ℱeaturing nsfw twt mutual nerd!satoru gojo x nsfw twt mutual popular mean girl fem!reader.
# NSFW TWT ! NERDJO AU ⋆ 18+ MDNI | SMUT AHEAD ⋆ mean/popular fem!reader ⋆ secretly mutuals ⋆ satoru makes softporn on twt ⋆ reader makes softporn on twt ⋆ no use of y/n ⋆ fake dating ⋆ rivalry & animosity ⋆ satoru and reader hate each other ⋆ art by @to00fu
synopsis: hinata shōyō convinces you to kick your cigarette habit over the summer he spends training in your sleepy beach town. the only side effect? you start to want things again. including him.
w/c: 8.7k (*screams in short fic lmao*)
what to expect: out-of-town athlete x local chef girly, my humble attempt at a slow burn, hinata flirts by telling the truth and y/n is not prepared, cigarette use, mentions of sex and parental absence
a/n: written for the lovely @blushinggray as part of @sodaneko's summer fic exchange! this is my first time participating in something like this, and it was even more fun than i imagined it would be. i hope you enjoy! ☀️
You first meet Hinata Shōyō in the alleyway next to your favorite club.
He's not that blessed in the height department, you think, which disqualifies him from the roster of tourists you keep in steady rotation on your phone. But skies, does he make up for it in other ways. The tips of his ginger hair are bleached from the island sun; the smell of sunscreen clings to his tanned skin. His knit shirt hangs off a frame of hard-won muscle, and a modest gold chain peeks out from underneath the collar.
Surprisingly, though, nothing about this man leaves a greater impression on you than his smile. Earnest, dimpled, and laced with a confidence you sorely lack, it tilts you off your axis the moment you receive it.
"It's pretty loud in there, isn't it?"
The base of the music thrums beneath your knee-high boots. You hum warmly in agreement.
"I wanted to leave thirty minutes ago," you say, cigarette smoke pooling from your glossy lips. "But my friend's a bit preoccupied."
"Really? What a coincidence!" He beams, shadows pooling into each of his dimples. You might as well have told him that you were from the same hometown — or had the same zodiac sign. "My friend is, too."
"Shut up," you laugh. "You're friends with Oikawa Tōru?"
"Ten years and counting. Though, we were more like rivals for the first three. We've been going on these beach volleyball retreats since we were teenagers. Been to Brazil, The Philippines...now here."
"Beach volleyball?" You raise your eyebrows. "Like, for fun?"
"For fun," he half-agrees, shrugging. "But also not."
At your confused stare, he grins. "I play professionally for a Division 1 indoor team back in Osaka."
"Oh, excuse me," you tease, positively tickled by this. "I didn't realize you were such a big-shot."
He shrugs. Not confirming. Not denying it, either.
"What about you?" he asks, brown eyes bright with curiosity. "Are you also visiting for the summer?"
"Would it surprise you to know that I grew up here?"
"Really?"
You nod. "My adoptive grandma owns the mahi-mahi joint down the street. I've been working there since high school."
"That's so cool!"
"It really isn't," you snort, taking another drag of your cigarette. "But I appreciate the enthusiasm."
A strong gust of ocean wind rips through the alleyway, bringing with it the smell of salt, alcohol, and garbage. You fish out a half-crushed box of Marlboro Reds from your purse and hold it out to him.
"Oh, no thanks," he says with a wave of his hand. "Those things are terrible for you."
At the amused glint in your eye, he blurts, "Not like I'm judging you or anything! It's just — "
"It's okay. I get it," you laugh, sliding one out of the box. The flame of your hot pink lighter unfurls with a crisp flick. "They are pretty terrible for you."
Something like confusion passes over his eyes, although his smile never breaks.
"Why do you do it, then?"
"Oh, I dunno..." you exhale. There's something comforting about the smell. "You know that saying? Here for a good time, not a long time?"
Before the athlete can open his mouth to respond, the sound of yelling reverberates down the alleyway. You recognize Mika's voice almost immediately.
"Fuck you!" she shouts at the bouncer escorting her out the main entrance by the elbow. "We weren't even doing anything!"
"Doesn't matter. Rules are rules — no more than one person in a bathroom stall at a time."
"Well, that's a silly rule," Oikawa retorts haughtily. "What if I was holding her hair back to puke?"
"Didn't seem like that to me," the bouncer deadpans.
You and your new smoke buddy eavesdrop the entire conversation from the shadows. You exchange half-amused, half-exasperated expressions like a blunt.
"Guess that's our cue." You flick the butt of your cigarette onto the concrete and stamp it out with your boot.
"Guess so," he murmurs back with a frown. "Can I get your name before we leave?"
"Y/N," you supply, extending your hand out for a shake. "Nice to meet you."
"Hinata Shōyō." His thousand-watt smile blinds you as he takes your hand and shakes it firmly. "Guess I'll see you around this summer?"
"From the way Mika was grinding up on your friend back there? I'd bet money on it."
Ever the gentleman, Hinata gestures for you to walk ahead of him. Your lips pull into a touched smile as you stalk off to fetch Mika — who, by the looks of it, is seconds away from tearing into the bouncer with her nails.
Hinata watches you go with a grin, glad to have made another friend in a new place. He starts following you out — that is, until he steps on a folded piece of paper. It must've fallen out of your purse.
Onigiri Miya Culinary Fellowship: Where Passion Meets the Plate, it reads when he unfolds it. Apply by August 9!
"Y/N, is this yours?" he asks, eyes widening in recognition. "I think you dropped it — !"
But you're already halfway down the street, bearing the weight of your lightweight friend and her inability to stay out of trouble. Hinata furrows his brow, wondering how on earth you managed to get there so fast.
He glances down at the flyer — it seems important, by the looks of it — and makes a mental note to return it to you sometime this week.
Just another reason to see you again, he supposes.
The Onigiri Miya fellowship is originally your grandma's idea. When she slides you the flyer across the bar during your lunch break, you stare at it like a body that’s surfaced to shore.
"Yeah. I'm not doing that," you say, burping. Your grandma's dirty bar towel smacks you upside the head. "Ow!"
"Watch yer manners." She tucks the towel back into her apron. Mumbles something about yer generation and ungrateful brats. "And at least read it!”
"I don't need to read it to know that it's expensive and a thousand miles away! Programs like that are just cash grabs to get more people to move to the city. They're a waste of time."
"Yeah? And ya don't think goin' to bars until two in the mornin' is a waste of yer time?"
At that, your nostrils flare. Your grandmother holds your stare. She may be frail and wrinkled from the sun, but her eyes are still sharp as a knife.
"Osamu's a good man,” she says. "Remember the summer he spent beggin' to help out in the kitchen? Sat in that very bar stool every day 'til I had no other choice."
"Oh, I remember." He was practically foaming at the mouth for the ceviche recipe. It was pathetic.
"I just...I'm not ambitious like that, okay?" you huff, scarfing down the last of your burger. "And I don't think I want to be."
Your words dampen the fire in your grandma's eyes. She looks at you like you’re young and don’t know any better. Which is probably true, but pisses you off anyway.
"Ambition doesn't make ya a bad person." Her towel is back out again, this time to wipe the mess you made on her bar. "Yer not yer parents."
For the rest of that shift, her words cling to you like seaweed. It's infuriating — how close your parents feel despite the thousands of miles and handful of years between you.
Even on this island, it isn't far enough.
"Junebug!" your grandma hollers at you from out front the next day. The deep-fryer bubbles with the crinkle-cut fries you just threw in. "There's someone here to see ya at table ten!"
You ask someone to watch your batch and grab your order pad on the way out. The ocean breeze smacks you in the face when you push past the kitchen door, and the dock is already teeming with families, drunk friend groups, and eager out-of-towners.
Hinata Shōyō is one of them. You blink back at his ridiculous smile — the way his sunscreen leaves a white sheen across his tan skin.
"I didn't know you knew Miya Osamu!" he says by way of greeting, holding up your flyer. "Are you applying for his fellowship in Osaka?"
"I — where did you get that?"
"You dropped it in the alleyway the other night." He tilts his head. "Did all that nicotine wipe your memory or something?"
You would glower at him, but he seems like he's genuinely asking. You instead reach across the table and pluck the flyer from his hand.
"Thanks for returning it," you say, tucking it into the back pocket of your shorts. "Is Oikawa joining you?"
"Nope! Just me. I'm meeting up with him afterwards to play beach volleyball, though. Wanna join?"
"I would, but..." You glance around at the tens of customers waiting to be fed. "I'm a little busy here."
"...right! Of course!" Hinata reels back, as if he's only just realized. "Maybe another time, then?"
You can't tell if Hinata has attention deficit issues or just a lack of normal work experience. Either way, it eases a soft chuckle from deep within your chest.
"What can I get for you, Hinata?"
"Please, call me Shōyō," he guffaws, eyes scanning his sticky laminated menu. "I'll take an Arnold Palmer and a mahi burger, please.”
"Funny." You purse your lips to one side and scribble his order on your pad. "That's my order, too."
"Really?" His eyes sparkle. You didn't know boys' eyes could sparkle. "Great minds think alike, then!"
Great minds is a bit of a stretch, but you hesitate to call him out on it. Instead, you dive head-first into preparing his plate — firing up the grill, blackening the mahi. Slathering tangy sauce onto the sourdough bun topped with fresh tomato, lettuce, and red onion.
There's an ebb and flow to cooking that carries you through each shift. Periods of speed. Periods of waiting. It reminds you of the waves on your favorite stretch of beach — stuck in a constant push and pull.
By the time you slide Hinata's plate across the table, his eyes bulge out of his head.
"This is huge!" he exclaims. "Are you sure I'll be able to finish all this?"
"I'm sure whatever you don't finish will go to the seagulls," you say with a shrug. "I should warn you, though, they're pretty aggressive."
You watch him as he takes his first bite. His shoulders slack, his eyes roll back. A deep, unabashed moan slips past his lips.
"My god," you balk. "Could you be any louder?"
"What?" There's sauce on his lips. "It’s good!"
The images that flood through your mind are filthy. You squash them down like mosquitos.
"You're totally getting that Onigiri Miya fellowship," he adds, yanking a napkin from its dispenser. "Have you submitted your application yet?"
You're thinking of using the flyer to wrap your chewing gum, actually. But something tells you Hinata won’t like that, and you don't feel like defending yourself.
"Anything else I can get for you, Shōyō?"
"Nope." His smile wraps around the straw of his Arnold Palmer. "Thanks, Junebug."
"I — " You blink. "Don't call me that."
The way his eyes glint already tells you that he won't listen.
Hinata starts coming over to your grandma's restaurant more. To eat. To talk. To make friends with the elders. They ruffle his hair and pinch his cheeks and promise to introduce him to their granddaughters, and you wonder how he has the energy to entertain them all.
"Want me to walk you home?" he offers one night. The sun has long since dipped past the horizon, and you're stuck behind the bar, polishing glasses. "There's this soft serve place down the street I've been wanting to try. We can go after your shift!"
"You sure?" You frown, inspecting a margarita glass beneath the orange patio lights. "We don't close for another thirty minutes."
"Don't worry! I can wait." His fingers drum atop the bar for all of five seconds. "Do you need any help, actually?"
Your grandma is quick to put him to work — stacking chairs, closing umbrellas. His back muscles flex beneath his cotton tank top as he hauls trash bag after trash bag into the dumpster, and you catch yourself staring longer than you need to.
"Thanks for the help, ya two!" your grandma hollers from the window of her pickup truck. Hinata waves as she speeds off onto the main road.
"You know," you say, lit cigarette already between your lips. The gravel crunches beneath your flip-flops as you walk. "If you keep showing up to the restaurant during my shift, people are going to think you're my boyfriend."
"Really?" Hinata blinks. "Why would they think that? They don't even know what kind of people I like.”
"Okay," you snort. "What kind of people do you like?"
"Oh, tons of people! Kind people, funny people..." An impish smile tugs at his lips. "I don't date people who smoke, though."
At your incredulous expression, he laughs. "What? Don't take it personally. What about you?"
"Oh, you know." A billow of smoke escapes your mouth, your nose. "Someone fun. Someone who doesn't take themselves too seriously."
Then, against your better judgement, "Someone tall."
"Excuse me?!”
"I'm being honest!"
"Tch. You shouldn't be so picky, Junebug!" Hinata scolds you. "You might miss out on someone great!"
"Yeah? Like who?"
The tips of his ears turn pink. “Like...Daniel Radcliffe. Sabrina Carpenter. Bruno Mars."
“Bruno Mars?” You’re cackling now. “Whatever planet you’re on, Shōyō, come home.”
There's a short line at the soft serve stand when you arrive. You and Hinata end up splitting a small scoop of strawberry — with rainbow sprinkles, per his request.
"I haven't had rainbow sprinkles since I was five," you snort, easing into a picnic table. Hinata slides in beside you. "How much was it?”
"Oh, don’t worry about it!" He hands you a napkin and spoon. “Money isn’t really an issue for me.”
The sound of cicadas fills your ears as you eat.
"Has anyone ever told you that you're too honest?"
"All the time," he laughs. "Has anyone ever told you that you like to dodge questions?"
When you don't answer, he adds, "You haven't answered a single one of my questions about Onigiri Miya. Is it because you don’t want to jinx it?”
"No. I just...don't think I'm going to apply."
"But why?" He's genuinely confused. "You're so talented!”
"I know how to make fish five ways. That's hardly talented," you retort. "Besides, I'm not really a big fan of Osaka. Or big cities in general."
"Because you've never been?"
"Because I don't know anyone!"
"Well, I'm from Osaka." He grins. "So you'd know me."
"Sure, but — "
"And I can introduce you to all my friends!"
Your shoulders sag. "It isn't that simple, Shō."
"Explain it to me, then," he says, leaning forward. His brown eyes press into yours. "Pretty please?”
You're not used to people looking at you like this. So intently. So directly. You feel like a contestant on a game show. I'll take vulnerability for 500, please.
"I don't have the personality for a place like that," you explain, hoping it's enough to satiate his curiosity. "My parents also job-hopped between cities all the time. It put a real strain on our relationship."
"Yeah? Were they always busy?"
"So busy. I'd sit alone in my classroom during family picnic days. It was miserable."
Your eyes avert to the pack of cigarettes in your purse. You really want another one, given the embarrassment now searing your stomach.
"I don't want my parents influencing my life like that," you finish quickly. "And an opportunity like this is just...it's too much. I won't do it."
Hinata, surprisingly, stays quiet. Simply leans back, folds his arms across his chest. Your nerves prickle at his contemplative expression.
"Well, that's kinda silly," he eventually blurts. "You don't even have kids."
He might as well have shanked you between the ribs.
"Gee. I had no idea, thanks."
"No! I didn't mean it like that! I just — " He tilts his head again. "By going against your parents' values, aren't you letting them influence your life anyway?"
"Skies," you mutter. "You really are too honest, Shō."
"Am I?” His smile is apologetic. "I just...I spent my whole life chasing after a volleyball career. So I don't really know what that's like."
"To be normal?"
"To not want things! Don't you want it? At least a little bit?"
There was a time in your life when you thought you did. A receptionist job. A studio apartment in the city. Someone to share it with, maybe.
But then came the grades. The required reading, the detention slips. The mind-numbing amounts of shutting up and sitting still. After barely graduating high school, you knew college wasn't for you. Your parents believe you don't amount to much without it.
So you keep things simple. Count your cigarettes. Burn off energy at the restaurant. Swim and lounge and fuck around to your heart's content. It's enough for you. Really.
"You don't have to answer that if you don't want to," Hinata says, pushing the cup toward you. "Just...think on it. And come by the beach tomorrow! Oikawa and I are playing with some friends around three."
You push your spoon into the last of the soft serve, grateful for the change in topic. "You're not gonna make me participate, are you?"
"Not unless you want to." He smiles. "I want you to watch me.”
Something about his words, the breezy confidence in which he says them, stirs something within you.
"Alright. I can swing by with some food. I have to leave by five, though. I've got a date."
"Deal," Hinata agrees, grinning ear-to-ear. "Who's the guy? Victor Wembanyama?"
You take your crumpled napkin and toss it at his face.
"Shut up, Shō."
He doesn't for the entire walk home.
You end up going a bit overboard on the food. Mahi tacos wrapped in foil. Fresh watermelon cut into cubes. A giant tub of homemade salsa you hope doesn't leak. You squeeze everything into your Yeti cooler alongside a twelve-pack of hard lemonade — it's so heavy, you make Mika carry it with you to the beach. Not that she minds.
"Wait. I remember you!" Oikawa Tōru exclaims the second he sees you. "You're that chick who picked up Mika from the club!”
You lay your blanket down on the sand and yank the cooler open. "Picked her up? I was there the entire time..."
"Would you have some manners, Oikawa?" Hinata glowers, hands on both hips. "Junebug isn't just some chick. She happens to be the best chef on the entire island!"
"Okay. I wouldn't go that far — "
"The entire island, huh?" Oikawa grins. He tosses an arm over Mika's shoulders. "That true?"
Your friend betrays you by nodding. "BuzzFeed Tasty did a video on her grandma's restaurant back in 2019. You were so cute in it, Junie."
Now Hinata looks betrayed. "I didn't know that! I wanna see!"
Against your will, you become the center of conversation for the next thirty minutes. Mika passes your YouTube video around like a bong. Oikawa deems your mahi tacos not bad. Hinata drinks your salsa straight out the tub, which makes you want to scream. By the time their friends pull up for the volleyball game, the cooler is nearly empty.
"Eyes on me! Okay, Junie?" Hinata calls from the baseline. He grins at you, spins the ball in his hands, and serves it clean over the net. Each side of the court bursts into motion as Mika shoots you a baffled look.
"Did I miss something?"
You slide your cheap sunglasses on and twist the cap off your lemonade. It fizzles as you lift it to your lips.
"Nope."
Now, you're not a total stranger to this sport. You're used to putting the game on the television behind your grandma's bar, sitting on this very sideline with Mika to cheer on different men. But none of them move quite as passionately as the one before you.
In fact, as Hinata dives into the sand to receive the ball — core tight, arm outstretched, eyes hungry in a way you’ve never seen before — you find yourself paying more attention. Sitting up a little straighter. Sucking in sharp breaths at his every move.
It's different. Exhilarating. It adds color to your conversation from the other night.
Don't you want it? At least a little bit?
"Skies," Mika breathes as Hinata spikes one of Oikawa's serves over the net. The ball shoots straight into an empty pocket, securing the point. "They really are professionals, aren't they?"
You watch Hinata as doubles over in triumph — fists clenched, shouts barreling down the beach. He turns to you and beams like he’s just won the lottery.
"Did you see that?!"
You suddenly understand where all of Hinata's energy goes — and why he just assumed you were applying for that fellowship.
You end up canceling your date over text, just to watch him play another game.
"What's Miya Osamu like?" you ask Hinata one afternoon.
You're splayed across your paddleboard — one arm thrown over your eyes, gentle waves lapping at the ankle you have dipped beneath the surface of the water. "You two know each other, right?"
The question has him sitting upright. Hair tousled. Eyes alert. He's practically a human exclamation point.
"Why? Are you finally working on your application?"
"Relax," you laugh, lifting your disposable vape to your lips. "I just want to know."
It's been a few weeks since you watched Hinata play at the beach. Since then, you've developed a steady rhythm of serving him food, stopping for soft serve, and waving him goodnight from the stoop of your grandma's old house. Renting paddleboards is a nice bonus. A consequence of your rare day off.
"I'm teammates with Osamu's brother, so I actually see him pretty often,” Hinata thinks. “He's cool. A little scary when he cooks. But cool."
You imagine a Japanese version of Carmy from The Bear. "Do you think I could handle criticism from a guy like that?”
"Oh, totally." Hinata frowns. "I mean, haven’t you two met?"
"Yeah, when we were teenagers…" You turn onto your side. The paddleboard rocks dangerously beneath you. "He has a whole Michelin Star restaurant now.”
"That doesn't make him unapproachable or anything. I actually think you'd get along really well!"
You hum amusedly. "Yeah?"
"Yeah! If you want, I can introduce you to him again."
The offer sits in your stomach like an overripe fruit.
"No, thanks. If I apply — "
"When you apply."
You roll your eyes. "If I apply, I'd want to get it because I deserved it. Not because I knew someone."
You ask him about life in Osaka — what restaurants he enjoys, if he has any pre-game rituals. His answers paint a rich, vibrant life full of friends, discipline, and purpose, and you slowly realize this town is but a small slice of his much larger world. Your summer with him here is temporary. An approaching expiration date.
The thought settles into you like an anchor.
"I know you don't think you have the personality for it," Hinata murmurs. Back against his board. Hands folded atop his chest. "But I think you'd really like Osaka. We could bar-hop. Go thrifting in Amemura."
Grinning, he adds, "You could come to all my games..."
"Please," you scoff. "You're just convincing me to move there so you can impress me with all your freak volleyball moves."
"Yeah..." Hinata laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Is it working?"
You feel your breath shallow, your face turn warm. Hinata's eyes glint in amusement when he notices. It's so overwhelming, you reach for your paddle and use it to push him off the other side of his board.
“I — hey!” he sputters, emerging from the water like a drenched orange cat. He flings his hair out of his eyes in disbelief. “What was that for?!”
“That’s for calling me by my childhood nickname all summer!” you call out over a shoulder, already paddling away. “And for drinking my salsa out the tub!”
You suddenly remember Hinata is a professional athlete as he swims toward you — breaths steady, form annoyingly precise. Before you know it, his calloused fingers wrap around your ankle, yanking you in.
You're a thrashing tangle of limbs for all of five seconds before you resurface.
"Shōyō!"
"Yes, Junie?" he says. Voice sweet. Hands splayed across each of your hips, keeping you afloat. His bright hair clings to his forehead, and his dimples are on full display.
You rip yourself from his grip and splash him vehemently in the face.
"I thought I told you to stop calling me that!"
"Why not?" he laughs, albeit while gasping for air. "It's cute!"
You submerge your entire face in the water to keep him from seeing how red you are.
Later that evening, you sit at the creaky wooden desk tucked into the corner of your childhood bedroom. A warm breeze rustles the frilly curtains you don't bother to change, and your laptop casts a ghastly white hue across the otherwise orange space. An empty application to Miya Osamu’s coveted culinary fellowship stares back at you, waiting to be filled.
You answer all the basic questions — your name, your pronouns. Your email address and phone number. It's the second half of the application that has you squirming.
Describe a dish that means something to you. Not what it is — why it is.
Where do you see yourself in five years? Be specific.
Why do you cook?
That last question has you slamming your laptop shut — not because it's hard, but because Osamu might as well have asked for your social security number. You go back to check that the rest of your application is saved before slamming it again.
It's a start.
Despite Mika's growing suspicion that you're catching feelings, you still go on dates with other people. You climb into the backs of fraternity boys' golf carts for a night on the town — push your tongue past their girlfriends' glossy lip filler after one too many tequila shots. It's fun. You're fun. You have been for years now.
You don’t consider Hinata to be part of your roster, though. Even when he’s the person you see the most.
“What do you mean you haven’t been out since?!”
He perks up from his second Arnold Palmer of the night. “It’s exactly as you said. The day we met is the last time I went to the club.”
“That’s criminal.” You blink at him from behind your grandma’s bar, hands stuck polishing an IPA glass. “We gotta change that.”
“Why?” He smirks. “So I can see how many numbers you get in one night?”
“No. Although the answer is five.”
You set your glass aside and lean over, smiling sweetly.
“I want you to teach me how to salsa and bachata like you did in Brazil!” You bat your eyelashes at him for good measure. “Please, Shōyō?”
Hinata is normally the one to make you blush. But as you stare up at him — lips pulled into a pout, bar-top lifting your chest like a push-up bra — he looks tense. Flustered, even. The payback sends a delicious thrill of satisfaction through you.
That night, you apply your mascara in the mirror of your old vanity — boobs shoved into a lacy top, thighs squeezed into your go-to skirt. You're just about done when the doorbell rings. Your grandma's the one to answer it.
"Hello, ma'am!" Hinata's bright, boyish voice echoes through the house. "I'm here to pick up your granddaughter!”
"Well, ain't that fresh?" Your grandma cackles as she lets him inside. "Normally, they don't even come to the door. Junebug! Yer regular's here!"
Hinata's footsteps creak up the staircase, and his sunny face pokes through your open bedroom door.
"Wow. You look beautiful!" he says, back to his usual, buoyant self. "You ready to go?"
"Almost." You reach for your lipgloss. "Gimme five?"
Hinata steps inside and looks around — at your floral wallpaper, the antique dolls lined up on your dresser.
“I can’t tell if you’re a girly girl or just a…really old lady.”
“Neither,” you snort, swiping the applicator across your lips. “I’ve outgrown most of this stuff.”
“Well, I like it.” He eases onto your queen-sized mattress with an abrasive squeak. “Oh! I also got you something!”
He pulls a crushed box from the back pocket of his jeans and hands it to you. Your face falls once you realize what it is.
“Nicotine patches? Are you serious, Shō?”
“What? They were on sale!”
“Whatever.” You shuck the box into your purse and toss it over a shoulder. “I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing one of those fugly things.”
Hinata frowns as he follows you back downstairs. “Well, with the amount you smoke, you might be caught dead anyways.”
The club is busy when you arrive. The line to get in wraps around the block, and the bass thrums beneath your faux leather boots. You grab Hinata by the elbow and drag him with you to the end of the line, the stress of that day’s shift already unfurling into the crisp ocean air.
“Y/N!” The bouncer high-fives you when you approach. “Who's the tiny tangerine?”
“Makoa, this is Hinata. Hinata, this is Makoa,” you supply brightly. “Makoa was the one who busted me for having a fake ID back in high school.”
“And she’s been a thorn in my side ever since…” he drawls, verifying both of your IDs. “Better treat her well, twerp. This girl’s royalty around here.”
Hinata watches with a smile on his face as you enter the club — greeting locals left-and-right, waving to the disc jockey like he’s your long-lost cousin. ("He DJ'ed my prom!") The bartender even offers you a free round of shots, and Hinata nearly gags after downing his. You grab a lime wedge from the cup on the counter and shove it between his lips.
“I like seeing you like this,” he murmurs after two more shots, pressed up against you on the dance floor.
“Drunk?” You wrap both arms around his neck, emboldened by the liquor now searing your stomach.
“Yourself.” He smiles at you lazily. “I can tell why you like this place.”
“Well…” You lean in close and smile right back. “Everyone I like has stepped foot in this place at least once. Yourself included.”
“Yeah?”
You nod like a broken bobble head.
“Yessir. Now dance with me, Shōyō! You promised!”
“So whiny,” Hinata tsks, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close. You nearly yelp from the contact. The heat of his breath against yours.
The music vibrates in your bones as you dance — sweat clinging to your skin, Hinata's hands splayed across your hips. At one point, you actually turn around and grind your ass against him, which will definitely send you into cardiac arrest tomorrow. For now, you both just enjoy the music and each other. It's nice. The most fun you've ever had in here, you think.
Your night ends with Hinata walking you home — arms thrown around each other, drunk giggles echoing into the night. Your grandma is fast asleep when you return, and you’re lucky she sleeps like a log as you sneak Hinata up the stairs like a teenager.
“Will you put a patch on me, Shōyō?” You pout, shaking the box at him. “Pwetty pwease?”
“I thought that was my line.” He plops down on the carpet beside you and plucks the box from your hand. Fingers grazing your shoulder, he asks, “Here okay?”
You nod. “Thank you, Shō.”
He chuckles as he rips open the packaging. “You’re welcome, Junie.”
The room is quiet save for the sound of crickets outside, the occasional creak of the aging house. Hinata applies the nicotine patch gently to your deltoid — breath hitched, eyes weighted with concentration. He touches you like he's afraid of something. Of you. Of himself. Of making the wrong move.
By the way your breath shallows, though, you don't think that's possible.
He massages you, then, hands kneading the flesh of your bicep, your forearm. He lowers his lips to your skin, casting a welcome chill down your every nerve.
"Is it okay if I...?"
"Mhm..." You stare down at him — chest rising and falling, eyes heavy and half-lidded. They flutter shut as he drags his lips across your skin. Slowly, achingly. Skies.
He works his mouth into your shoulder, your collarbone. Up the column of your neck. You tilt your head back to give him more access, and the second he presses his lips against that spot behind your ear —
"Shōyō..." you whine, fingers curling into the carpet. Heat collecting in your lower belly. "Can I, too?"
He nods. "Yes. Please."
You're not kissing. Not exactly touching, either. Instead, you're doing this secret third thing. Mapping your lips across his jaw. Pressing your nose into his cheek. Grazing his earlobe with your teeth and grinning when he moans. God. You want him. You’ve never wanted anyone more.
"Do you want to move to the bed?" you ask breathlessly. "I've got condoms in the drawer."
"Are you sure?"
You nod, shifting into his lap. "We don't have to label it. We can just have fun. Enjoy each other before you go.”
Hinata stills at your words. The casualness in which you say them. He squeezes his eyes shut, lets his long hair fall into his eyes. He knocks his temple gently, frustratingly, against yours. As if that was the last thing he wanted to hear.
"Junie..." he breathes. His voice a mere croak. "You know I can't."
His refusal hits you like cold water, sobering you immediately.
"But why?" You blink back. Scan his face for any signs you may have missed. "We both want it, don't we?"
"No." He shakes his head, hands finding the flesh of your hips. "At least, not like this."
"I — " You blanch as he lifts you off of him. "Shōyō — "
"I can't just sleep with you and have that be the end of it, okay?" he breathes. "I refuse to treat you like that!"
"But I'm agreeing to it!"
"Why, though?" Anger flashes across his eyes. "Why would you want something like that? Why would I want you halfway?"
"I don't know! Because you don't live here?" Because I'm only here for a good time. Because I'm not the kind of person people stay for.
"Y/N." His expression falls. "I don't think that little of you."
"Nobody thinks that of me!"
You wrap your arms around yourself, then, red hot shame frying your every nerve. Your legs are cold. Your mascara's running. The lacy top you wore so confidently earlier now feels too tight. Too exposed. You feel stupider the longer you wear it.
Hinata finds your laundry basket and grabs the first shirt on top. Yanking it over your head, he says, "If I'm going to do this, Y/N, it can't just be casual. That's not me. And, frankly, I like you too much for that."
He drags both hands down his tired face and laughs miserably.
"Do you know how much I hate the fact that you spend time with other people?"
The question has you reeling. This is too much for you.
"I'm sorry I even suggested it," is all you can manage, shoving both arms into sleeves.
Your stomach growls. You hate that it does. Hinata offers to run and get you some food; you instead ask him to go home. Part of you doesn't actually want him to — part of you wants him to read your mind and push back. But this is Hinata you're talking about. He, annoyingly, listens to you when it counts.
The smell of his sunscreen lingers long after he retreats down the staircase and slips out your front door.
The next few weeks pass by in a haze. Hinata keeps his distance from you and the restaurant. Your application to the Onigiri Miya fellowship grows stale in a bookmarked tab. You blow through a brand new box of cigarettes, the patches Hinata gave you shoved deep into your vanity drawer.
The island sports festival is the first time you see him in weeks. You're so nervous, you start to dry heave.
"You okay, Junie?" Mika asks, brushing the hair out of your eyes. "You look ill."
"I feel ill," you groan, leaning out the window of the food truck that took you twenty-two minutes to park. "Who knew seeing the guy that rejected me would make me want to hurl?"
"Hinata didn't reject you, though," your friend reminds you gently. Teasingly. "Quite the opposite, actually."
You dig the heels of your palms into your eyes. “Do you think it’s stupid to take a Dramamine two hours before a full-day event?”
"Yes."
"Alright, ladies!" Your grandma throws open the side door and bounds inside, rocking the entire truck. "I need help firin' up the grill — "
She stops short once she sees your pallid face.
"Skies, Junie. Ya look like shit."
"She's lovesick." Mika pouts, patting you on the back like a dog. You smack her hand away while your grandma barks out in laughter.
"I had a feelin' you'd get like this once shorty's time here was up," she says, cracking open a Gatorade from the fridge. You yelp as she presses the cold bottle to your neck. "Just don't let it affect yer cookin’, alright?"
You're grateful the volleyball courts are on the other end of the beach as you fire up the grill, chop enough limes and cilantro and onion to make your eyes water. Mika handles the register once customers start lining up, and your grandma oversees the entire operation — buttering up tourists, yelling out orders. It's the same thing every year. Except this time, you're antsy.
"Good afternoon, gorgeous!" Oikawa's voice eventually floats over the roar of the exhaust fan. "I didn't know you'd be here today."
"Guess that's what happens when you don't text me back," Mika teases, although you can tell she doesn't really care. "What can I get for you?"
She slides his order onto the ticket rack a moment later. "Don't worry," she says before returning to the window. "Yours didn't show."
The anticipation in your chest deflates like a balloon. It leaves you exhausted. Disappointed, actually.
So much so, you end up making Hinata's order anyway once rush hour is over.
"Cover for me while I'm gone?" you ask your grandma, plastic bag swinging from your elbow as you push out the side door. "And don't let that saucepan sit out for too long! I'm trying something new — "
The words die on your lips the moment you turn, Hinata's tan, stupidly athletic build hovering in front of your grandma's food truck. His eyes widen. The door slams. You grieve the fact that your fifteen minutes of overthinking between here and the sand volleyball courts are now gone.
"Hi," Hinata says. His face is a warm shade of pink.
"Hi." Your eyes flit between him and the food. You hold it out to him like a biohazard bag. "I made you lunch."
"But I didn't pay for — "
"It's on the house." You shove it into his arms. He accepts it with a breathless oof. "I also made the fries a little crispier. You like them that way, right?"
"...I do. Thanks." Like the sun on a cloudy day, Hinata's dimpled smile breaks through the tension. He reaches into the bag and peeks inside the to-go box. "And here I thought you hated my guts."
I don't. The opposite, actually. But you can't bring yourself to say that. Instead, you watch him fold fry after fry into his cheeks like a little kid. Or a squirrel.
"So how has your — ?"
"I just wanted to — "
The messy overlap of your voices competes against the sharp ocean breeze.
"You first," Hinata insists.
Your eyes avert to your sneakers. "I just wanted to say that I owe you an apology. An actual one, this time."
His gaze softens. "You don't need to apologize to me."
"I do, though. I asked you for sex and got butthurt when you said no, and I couldn't even accept the fact that your reasons for doing so were...were..."
“Hey,” he murmurs when you grow visibly frustrated. He crosses the distance between you and draws you to his chest. "It's okay. We're okay.”
He has no idea how relieved you are to hear that.
You stay there for a moment. Breaths shallow, bodies holding back. The last time you were this close, you were drunk out of your collective mind. This time, you hold each other better. More carefully.
"How much longer are you here for?" you ask.
"About a week." Hinata pauses. "Have you given any more thought to your plans after the summer?"
Yes. "Not really."
"Okay." He nods, voice surprisingly free of judgement. "It's okay. I get it."
Your bottom lip wobbles as you pull back. "Do you hate me for it?"
"Hate you? No!" Hinata blurts, free hand cradling the back of your head. The contact shocks you just as much as it soothes you.
"At the end of the day, Junie, I just want you to be happy. And if being here makes you happy, then that’s enough for me." His small smile makes your chest ache. "Pinky swear!”
You smile back, although it doesn't reach your eyes.
"And the volleyball tournament? It’s going well?”
"Oh, right! Oikawa and I made it to the semi-finals. Some twelve-year-old in the other bracket is killing everyone, though."
"Yamamura's kid? Yeah, she's scary."
"So scary." You both start laughing. Hinata rubs the back of his neck. "Think you'll be able to watch me?”
"I would, but my grandma's got me chained to that stove." She already gave me an earful for wanting to bring you food. "Let's hang out before you leave, though! If you want to, that is.”
"Of course I want to!" It’s like he's been waiting for you to ask. "I'll text you after my last game, okay?"
You watch him jog back to the volleyball courts. Mahi burger tucked into an elbow. Hand outstretched in a sunny, boyish wave. He doesn’t turn around until the last possible second, and it takes every ounce of your self-restraint not to run after him.
You’ll see him later, you think, embarrassed by how childish you feel. There’s still time.
Unlike all the other tourists you’ve met this summer, though, it doesn’t feel like enough.
The rest of the festival passes painfully. Afternoon is slow; dinner rush almost kills you. The food truck feels more like an oven the longer you stay in it, and Mika dumps cups of ice down your bra every hour. By the time you pull into the parking lot of your grandma’s restaurant after midnight, you never want to see or smell or even think about another taco in your life.
"So did ya patch things up with shorty?" your grandma asks, unprompted, after you kill the engine. She smacks her gum in the passenger seat and blinks at your exhausted stare.
"What?" she cries. "Ya didn't think I noticed when he disappeared off the face of the earth? I thought ya broke the poor kid's heart!"
"No." You lean your temple against the window and sniff the ends of your hair. It smells like fish. "I didn't break his heart. I just...things got weird between us."
Your grandma snorts. "Things never get weird between you and tourists. Must be heaven-sent, if he's got ya all worked up like this."
You don't know what sets you off — the late hour, the smelly hair, or your grandma's unminced way of describing your love life — but your bottom lip starts to tremble. The tears spill soon after.
"Oh, Junebug..." Your grandma reaches over the console to wrap an arm around your shaking figure. You cry into her shirt while she runs her fingers through your hair. "It's alright. You're alright."
"I'm not, though!" you manage between sobs. When was the last time she held you like this? Eighth, ninth grade? "All I do is work and smoke and feel sad all the time, and the one tourist I actually give a shit about is leaving, and I...I..."
Skies. The ache you've tapped into feels bottomless. Like a faucet that won't shut off.
"...I want more, grandma. I want him." You sniffle, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. "Is that selfish of me?"
Your grandma's eyes soften. "No, Junie. It's not."
She hands you a wrinkled napkin from the glove compartment. "Ya know, I remember when yer parents first dropped ya off. Ya were so scrawny and rude. Ya wanted nothin' to do with 'em."
"Still don't," you mumble into your snotty napkin. Your grandma chortles.
"They thought they were washin' their hands of ya, but...I knew I was gettin' a good one." Her eyes crinkle as she smiles. "Any person, any city, any kitchen, Junie, would be lucky to have ya. Got that?"
You don't. In fact, the mere idea of claiming space anywhere but here makes you nauseous. But your grandma's words are enough. Enough to soften your sobs, fuel your short drive from the restaurant to the house — this time in your grandma's pickup. You kiss her on the cheek before heading upstairs, changing into pajamas, and cracking open your laptop. Your application greets you the moment you enter your password.
Okay, Junie. You frown at the three unfinished questions at the bottom of your screen. Time to lock the fuck in.
You don't exactly have a way with words — your high school teachers told you as much. Unsurprisingly, though, writing about food is a hell of a lot easier than writing about dead authors and their cryptic gibberish. You pull your hair up. You cry through some of your answers. When you feel antsy, you reach for your nicotine patches and slap one on your forehead. The process is fulfilling. Cathartic, almost.
At 6:53 AM, you reread your answers for a third time before clicking submit.
You slam your laptop shut, sit back in your chair. The sunrise filters through your curtains, and all you want is to wash your hair and crawl into bed. But there's still one more thing you need to do.
The ocean breeze rips your hair from its updo as you run — fueled by adrenaline, Vitamin D, and the urge to see Shōyō as much as possible before he leaves. As promised, he texted you after his last game, and you made plans to see each other later this week. But it isn't enough. No amount of Shōyō will ever be enough for you, you think.
The Airbnb that he splits with Oikawa appears the moment you divert from the beach and into the neighborhood. It's a dingy, unassuming thing — a coat of pink paint peels off the battered stucco, and vines snake up the side of it like mold on a shower wall. You've only been here once, after watching Shōyō play. He raised an eyebrow when you said you had time to stop by.
"Really? But what about your date with Wembanyama?"
"Eh." You shrugged your shoulders and smiled at him from your beach blanket. "I can climb a tree any day of the week."
You bound onto the front porch and sink your elbow into the doorbell. You stupidly realize that it's seven in the morning only after the sound echoes throughout the entire house. You freeze. Feel your face start to burn. You half-consider turning on your heel and bolting away before —
"Junie?" Hinata says, cracking open the door. His voice is husky. He's wearing an old t-shirt. You want to press your nose into the collar and inhale him like you did the other night. But you digress. "What are you — ?"
"I didn't know you liked My Hero." You blink at the design on his shirt.
"Oh, yeah." He glances down. "It's my favorite show."
"We should watch it together before you leave."
"Yeah! We should." He frowns. "Did you come all the way over here just to tell me that?"
"Oh! No, I — " You squeeze your eyes shut. The exhaustion is kicking in. "I finished my application to the Onigiri Miya fellowship."
"You did?" His eyes brighten. The door is fully open now. "That's great!"
"I don't know if I'm going to get it," you ramble on. "Hell, I probably won't. But I just thought you should know."
"Well, thank you for telling me." He smiles. "And at seven in the morning, too."
"I know. I'm sorry." You wince. "I just — I submitted the application and I couldn't wait to tell you, and I also realized that...even if I didn't get it, I'd still want to be with you. In Osaka, I mean."
His expression is stunned. "I — you do?" You nod. "As in...?" You nod again.
"I don't mind that you're short." The words are out before you know what to do with them. "Actually, it's one of my favorite things about you. I like that you're bright and funny without trying to be. I like that you get rainbow sprinkles on your soft serve and jump over every fire hydrant you see.”
Skies. Where the fuck are you going with this?
"What I mean to say is...I like you Shō. I want you more than anything. And I get it if you don't want me anymore after that stupid question I asked you the other night — "
He closes the distance and presses his lips to yours before you can even finish. And honestly, you're relieved. The whole confession thing was wearing you out.
Your and Shōyō's first kiss isn't perfect. Between his morning breath and your unwashed hair, it's actually pretty unglamorous. But as you explore each other gently — him squeezing the back of your neck, you pushing your tongue past his lips — all you can think of is more. More closeness. More warmth. More of the person you spent the entire summer learning to like. Learning to want.
"...is that a nicotine patch on your forehead?" He laughs as he grazes his fingers over it. "I don't think you're supposed to put one there."
"Just be happy it's there, Shōyō," you breathe. He hums amusedly.
"Did you sleep at all last night?"
"No."
"Junie..." That husky voice of his again. "That's not good."
"I know, I know." You purse your lips to one side innocently. "Can I maybe crash here with you for a bit? I’ll treat you to brunch afterwards."
The lazy tilt of his smile has you dizzy. "Was this all a part of your plan to get into bed with me today?"
You snort. "Bold of you to think I'm that smart."
"You are, though." He frowns. "It's one of my favorite things about you.”
You can't come up with a good argument for that — especially now that every blink feels heavier than the last. Instead, you set aside the thought for after you wake up. You'll likely refute it. Likely remember all the times you felt the opposite of how Shōyō describes you. Maybe one day, you'll learn to see yourself the way he does.
But for now, you let him pull you inside. Like the boats you grew up watching, you let him pull you out to sea.
Captain of the hockey team Testuro Kuroo is determined to make you fall in love with the sport again. And no, he won’t drag your group project grade down!
taglist form | haikyuu uni
gen. disclaimer: all photos used represent outfits/poses, not reader appearance, though it's written to imply fem.
super smart super hot | da boyz (and kuroo)
1; super genius
2; cruel, cruel joke
3; definition of pathetic
4; tba...
"I remember, I believed you were something more than mortal, and you were in love with me"
💿 Flat Earther, Maisie Peters
a/n: surprise!! after a two year hiatus, of course my return had to be my favorite character and genre. thank you to @ae-de and @chlosology for beta reading this for me ♡
♫ angst, oikawa x gn!reader, wc: 1.1k
"What's your favorite conspiracy?"
A soft giggle bubbles through your lips and you glance up at him. You're on his bed together, propped up against pillows just enough to comfortably view the TV. His arm keeps you pressed up against his side, hand lazily making circles on your bare skin, sending shivers up your spine. Neither of you have made a move to choose what to watch, too comfortable in the silence now broken by his silly question.
"I don't think I have one."
He hums at your response, head nodding softly as he thinks. You stare, admiring the way the last rays of sunset catch in his eyes, the only time of day that can make the dark flecks in them really stand out. You giggle again at the level of seriousness he's dedicating to this one silly question, and he finally glances back at you.
"What?" the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles back at you playfully. "Mine's aliens."
"Aliens?" you raise an eyebrow. "Like, that they're real or not real?"
"They're real,” he responds quickly, then leans in to kiss your temple.
Oikawa Tooru loves you in a way that makes you forget about everything else.
He's the voice that chases away the anxious thoughts clouding your mind, the soft cotton of his shirt like a salve against your skin after a long day. Sticky hands in summer and numb fingers in winter, intertwined nonetheless like a lock, his lips against yours an unspoken promise that he will always be your Oikawa Tooru.
“My favorite conspiracy is…”
You blame the airplane for taking him from you.
The sky is a brilliant blue when he leaves, the same color he now represents, and it helps you feel a bit less lonely, but bitterness still chokes you up as you watch his disappearing back, and you wish you had it in you to beg him to stay.
You blame his team and the food and the sun that keeps him trapped oceans from you. You hate how even when he comes home, Argentina doesn't let him go. He makes you his but you cannot make him yours, nails digging into his sunburnt back as the bed rocks dangerously back and forth, staring up at freckles that didn't used to be there. He asks why you stare, smiling obliviously at the way you despair at his beauty; a beauty that you can feel is slowly slipping further from your grasp, yet you can't do anything but smile back.
“It's just for one year,” he had promised you. And then it was two, but now you're going on three, and you wonder if you're a fool for believing there will ever be an end to his promises.
He's more myth than man and you're his faithful believer, chanting his name like a prayer through the phone, in his bed, to anyone who stops to listen. But it's tiring, worshipping a man who exists more in memory than by your side, and as the months stack up and your youth passes by, the devastating truth settles in your bones that he's never going to come. The sky is not blue for Argentina's Oikawa Tooru, and you cannot keep searching for signs of him everywhere you go.
There's no warning from the universe when it happens.
He's home for vacation, the setting sun washing the whole street gold and bringing out those beloved flecks in his eyes. Just moments ago, you had been chattering while on a lovely stroll around your neighborhood, not really paying attention to your surroundings. You're almost in front of your home when it happens, a subtle act on his part that makes your stomach churn. It's numbing, the way his presence a few feet from you somehow feels further than when he's halfway across the world as you stare dumbfounded down at the hand he's just dropped.
It only takes him a couple seconds to notice you're not next to him, eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he turns to look at you. “What's up?” he asks, and you realize you can't hold it back anymore.
“You split the pole,” you whisper dumbly.
“What?” He steps forward to take your hand again, but you flinch away.
“When are you coming back to stay?” The forbidden question tumbles from your lips in a helpless whisper. His arm falls limply to his side, and you hesitate to look at him, still daring to hope that he won't say what you've suspected for a while now.
He's shocked, and your insides twist and turn as you watch the series of emotions that flits by his face like a shadow. The confusion, the panic, the guilt. It's a moment you both share in the breath before he speaks, when you both realize what the other has been holding in, and that there would be no coming back from this. No more lying to yourselves or each other.
It terrifies you, and you almost beg him to forget what you just said.
“I'm not,” he murmurs and he looks away, like he's ashamed, like he's sorry, like he can't bear to face you anymore.
It's all over after that; body heaving as you break down entirely, the echo of his words drowning out anything he says after. You feel his warm hands around your shoulders guiding you into your yard, but you're too wrapped up in the pain to care whether anyone saw you or not.
“Why?”
“You know why,” he says quietly. “I don't have any place here anymore.”
“What about me?” you sob, eyes flitting up to meet his gaze. There's deep sorrow etched in his eyes, but it's not fair how steady they still seem even as you fall apart before him. “Is being by my side not your place?”
“y/n, please,” he pleads, shaking his head, desperation creeping into his voice. Please don't do this. Please don't say that.
“Please,” you repeat, ears ringing. “Are we not in love?”
A silence stretches for what feels like an eternity and despair crashes over you as he stares at you guiltily.
“I love you,” he finally whispers, but the tears in his eyes don't mean anything anymore. You search his eyes for a glimmer, a reflection of the spark that you thought you once had, but the only thing that haunts them is defeat and heartbreaking truth.
“I'm sorry.”
Oikawa Tooru loves you in a way that makes you wish he had never loved you at all, and that you would always be his home was nothing short of your favorite conspiracy.
MIYA ATSUMU spends one night with you and writes an album about it.
CONTENT/WARNINGS: smau, strangers to lovers, band au, angst, hookups, mental health issues, suicide and self harm mentions, kys/kms serious and unserious, drinking, cigarettes, psych hospitals, warnings subject to change, mdni
TAGLIST: open, reply to this post to be added
PROLOGUE: and i would never want to
INTRODUCTIONS: god’s least favorites | hair of dog 5th gc
After long hours at the gym or a team meetings or at after parties for matches he's won, he'll come home to you. He'll have you on your back, hands hooked under your knees, pressing them to your chest as he drills his hips into you. Then he showers, eats a good meal, and goes to bed. When he wakes up in the morning, you're still asleep. Sometimes, he'll place a soft kiss on your forehead before he leaves.
Hinata lives his life without very much interference from you. He works and he sweats and he gets stronger and then, when he comes home, he remembers you. And coming home to you is like coming home to a different world. He's different with you. He has his life, and then has you.
Tonight, he fucks you languidly, thrusts lazy and slow. He holds onto the back of your head and cradles you to his chest as you sit in his lap. He feels like he hasn't seen your face. "You feel so good, baby," he says into your ear, and places a quick, sloppy kiss onto the curve of your neck. "Feel so good."
Your hips move with his. One hand grabs at the hair on the back of his neck. He thinks he can almost hear you say his name, like a breath.
When he showers, he realizes you didn't kiss him. He lathers your body wash on, and thinks it means nothing.
You're still awake in the dark bedroom when he emerges from the bathroom, towel around his waist. You're usually not. He sniffs the air, and frowns. "Are you smoking?"
You lazily raise a hand, and in the dark, Hinata can see the red tip of a cigarette. He flicks on the bedroom light. You're not looking in his direction. He takes a step towards you. "You know I don't like it when you smoke. Especially not in the house."
He watches you bring the cigarette to your lips and inhale. "You know, Sho," you say, smoke billowing from your lips as you speak, "I don't really care what you like anymore."
Hinata blinks. "That's mean. Why are you being mean?"
The smoke makes him want to cough. You don't say anything, you just keep smoking. The windows are closed, and Hinata gets annoyed, because the least you could do is open a window.
He takes long strides across the room and does it himself. The fresh air is welcome, but the stale smell of cigarettes still dominates the room. "What's up with you tonight?" he grumbles, mostly to himself, and doesn't expect an answer.
But you give him one. "I don't think I love you anymore, Sho."
It doesn't really register to him, what you said. He's slipping on a pair of boxers, back to you, and he hears the words, but not really the meaning. "What?" he says.
"I said I don't think I love you anymore," you repeat, and Hinata hears it this time. He turns to face you. You're still not looking at him. "Hard to love what's not there."
Hinata stares. He doesn't really know what emotion washes over him, exactly. Maybe anger, irritation. He just knows it's not the way he's supposed to feel. "What are you talking about? I'm with you every day. I'm always here with you."
You don't say anything. It irritates him further. "I'm with you every day," he insists again. "We live together. How is that not enough for you to love me? You're not-you're not making any sense."
Hinata is aware of how the anger and sudden panic bleed into his voice, how his sentences get faster as he speaks. His hands clench into fists by his wide. He suddenly feels small and exposed, his hard stare fixed on you.
You sit up in the bed you share together, legs dangling over the side, cigarette still in your hand. Hinata thinks briefly of how the sheets will smell, and wonders how he's supposed to get enough sleep for his morning practice. "Sho," you say, and your voice sounds softer than it did before, "I don't think you love me very much either."
His voice feels caught in his throat. "Of course I love you," he says. He feels almost desperate, and sort of like he wants to cry. "I love you," he says again.
It's clear to him then, everything he's done wrong. It didn't feel wrong when it did it. When he let you slip out of his life and into his own world. It felt normal, natural, like how things were supposed to progress. Like he was getting too tired to call you during his breaks and he felt like he knew you too much to get excited when he saw you at his matches. Hinata felt like you'd become too engrained in his life to be special anymore, and that's just how things were supposed to be.
So it makes sense when you say, "I don't believe you."
You sleep on the couch. He feels like he should argue with you, but he doesn't, and he sleeps in the bed, the smell of cigarette smoke in the sheets keeping him up all night, and you sleep on the couch. You're still there in the morning, and he kisses your head before he leaves. He texts you that he'll talk to you more, when he gets home.
He gets back when he normally does, tired and sweaty and achy. He's tired and his chest feels like it's been hollowed out. For the first time in years, Hinata thought about you all day, and all the things he should've done. When he drops his gym bag on the floor and wonders through the apartment, he's not surprised to find you're not there.
i posted this once and it flopped bad lemme try again because i wanna finish the hyperview collection if this flops bad again though i'll be sooo embarrassed i can't even lie
