most of my work has been deleted so im relinking them through reblogs
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☉ sexual content /mature themes
STANDALONE FICS / A THING OR TWO
THE SPINS (COLLEGE AU) / ODES (IVY LEAGUE SPIN-OFF)
FIGHT NIGHT | MMA AU
WESTWARD LOVE | WESTERN AU
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IT'S GETO DAY (3 FEB FICS)
celebrating geto on his birthday and more, this is for the geto girls and the geto girls only.
SKIN TO SKIN (geto suguru x pregnant reader)
HIT DIFFERENT ☉ (geto suguru x reader)
NASTY ☉ (dilf geto x reader)
I'M ON FIRE ☉ (dilf geto x reader)
GLOOMING ☉ (geto x grumpy reader)
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BLOODLINE | A JUJUTSU KAISEN ROYAL FANTASY AU
Sweeping from a distant celestial kingdom of epicurean plenty to the very depths of a hellish underworld where death, demons, and curses reside, this is a tale of kings and princes, knights and masters, dreamers, prophets, and mercenaries, who come together in a time of grim omens.
MAP // CAST
WRITINGS/HCS
DEFIANT (bloodline first draft + king nanami x reader)
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GANG BABY
a compilation of jjk men hcs
CLOSER ☉ (ghostface jjk men x reader)
ATTRIBUTES ☉ (jjk men x reader)
PACKIN ☉ (jjk men x reader)
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SAY IT'S HERE
a moment in time he can't divide into seven parts, this was it, you thought, this was the end. even more so when in the chaos of it all, two eyes lock, two hands touch, lives colliding—and nanami kento falls in love.
(nanami kento x chubby reader)
SAY IT'S HERE ☉
WHERE OUR PIECES FALL IN PLACE
REVISED EDITION ON AO3
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ME AND MY HUSBAND (ARRANGED MARRIAGE AU)
amongst the line of other women—taller, slimmer, perfect hourglass shapes with even more perfect, delicate hands—apparently, he chose you. wide hips, thick thighs, full cheeks, he chose...all of it.
(sukuna x chubby reader)
AN ARRANGED MARRIAGE (PROLOGUE) ☉
ON A MIDSUMMER'S NIGHT ☉
REVISED EDITION ON AO3
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RECKLESS SERENADE (ROOMMATE GETO)
he isn’t a fleeting thought or someone you only text to “buy eggs please, we’re all out.” because he’s seeping into your life without notice. making you do things you never thought you would.
JUST ANOTHER GUY ☉
TALK ☉
REVISED EDITION ON AO3
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IN FAIR VERONA (LIVE-ACTION / ACTOR AU)
all the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.
VANITY FAIR (actor sukuna)
AS YOU LIKE IT ☉ (actor gojo satoru x wife reader)
BEHIND THE SCENES ☉ (actor geto suguru x reader)
DRAMA IN PARADISE (actor geto suguru x reader)
FOOLS ON PARADE ☉ (actor nanami kento x reader)
JUST BETWEEN US TWO (actor nanami kento x reader)
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HERE LIES AN OCEAN (EX-FIANCÉ GETO)
or geto fucks up and finds his way back to you.
CALM BEFORE THE STORM (PT. 1) ☉
GODSPEED YOUR LOVE (PT. 2)
ALL NIGHT ☉
REVISED EDITION ON AO3
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GILDED (THE MALEWIFE GETO CHRONICLES)
give him praises and gold stars for being so good and so accomodating to your needs
SUMO ORANGES
DREAMBOARD ☉
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ONLY ANGEL
he wished he could tell you otherwise, show you exactly how he’d love you, obsess over you. couldn’t begin to imagine what you were like when you’re coming to life, holding no barriers, letting loose, and letting him in.
(modern geto suguru x chubby reader)
PEACHY ☉
GOOD GIRLS (PROLOGUE)
AS YOU ARE ☉
REVISED EDITION ON AO3
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READY FOR WAR (DIVORCING SUKUNA)
when partners are no longer compatible, love isn't enough. change is inevitable and instead of growing together, you both grew apart.
ROCK BOTTOM ☉
A TRUCE
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THIS IS NOT FOR TEARS (SUCCESSION AU)
PARACELSUS
COPING (gego/stsg)
ADAGIO ☉ (gego/stsg)
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POSE (FAKE BOYFRIEND GOJO)
what was it about plus-sized models and their ever-alluring, ever glowing beauty. such an air of confidence, walking down runways in heels so sharp they pierce his very heart.
(gojo satoru x plus size model reader)
SHE'S CONFIDENT
THE PARTY & THE AFTER PARTY
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SONDER (HISTORICAL AU)
a man does not recover from such a devotion of the heart to such a woman! he ought not; he does not.
NOCTURNE (geto suguru x reader)
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COME BACK HOME (TEEN/CANON GETO)
he wears the same face, has the same body, only when you call out his name, it’s for a person who is no longer, left dead and gone the moment he burned that village to the ground.
you don't correct it, don't deny it either. never giving them a reaction or reply. letting it pass through conversations like background noise—unanswered texts, curious looks, the occasional "is it true?" met with nothing but a shrug. no one thought it would last this long anyway. they never hid their surprise, the way their eyes lingered a second too long, like they were trying to solve a puzzle that didn't quite make sense, thinking of all the reasons why. him, untouchable and desired, no doubt taken...but by you?
you'd gotten used to it at the beginning, learning to swallow it down, tuck it away, accept it as one of those things. the way women flirted with him right in front of you, bold and unapologetic, like you were invisible, or worse—temporary. like you were just trespassing on a future they were certain would eventually be theirs. there was nothing you could do about it, hands tied to circumstances that came with loving a man with this much fame, this much gravity, someone the world feels entitled to encircle.
he's not sorry of course, it isn't his fault, he says, and he's tried everything to assure you, or rather he's demanded it from you. "don't be mad," he'd murmur after brushing off yet another girl slipping her number against his glass, his arm already wrapping around you, pulling you in close like that would fix it. that clinging to you, heavy and possessive, could make up for the way the world kept reaching for him. you used to think it might scare them off, the way he hung on you so openly, but it never did.
and you hate that it gets to you. the sharp little edge of exasperation grinding at you. why does he make you feel like this? why can't you just love him in peace? always a little jealous, a little frustrated. huffing and puffing like a vexed thing, to then losing steam and forgoing any need to mention it altogether. thus, when people say he's already moved on, that he's finally let you go, you let them believe it. you believe it. it's easier that way. to imagine him untouched, unbothered, stepping into the next thing like he always does. all effortless and untethered. not the kind of man who falls apart like you.
it doesn't matter now, you tell yourself. you were just a girl who wandered, who stumbled into a place she didn't belong. who met a star and mistook his orbit for something she could stay in. you weren’t meant to keep him, to hold him down. it's not that you ever needed it, not the marriage or the ring, but the thought of him and 'forever' lingered anyway, urged on by hope and wanting, like it mattered more than you wanted to admit. something fragile you never dared to name, a distant, impossible future.
only to find out that it was possible, it happened...just not with you.
and he hears it before he sees it. the whispers, the headlines, the way his name moves through rooms a little differently now. tied to a label he's forgotten about. single. a clean slate, reduced the shambles that is now his life into something easy to digest.
he doesn’t correct them either. not because it's true, but because he doesn't know how to explain the utter disgust he feels, a truth he can't even stand to look at too closely. that's what they expect of him anyway. in the way his temper runs shorter, sharper, how the smallest things set him off when they never used to. in the way he doesn't linger after matches anymore, doesn't entertain the usual crowd, brushing past people like they're nothing more than noise. women still come, still try, still press too close, too bold—but not like you, you were feisty, above him in so many ways, he liked your boldness, a little thing he wanted, needed to push his buttons, challenge him in all the right ways, remind him that he's worth more than the wins and losses—but now he doesn't even bother softening it. less than he used to atleast. just a flat look, cold enough to make them falter.
"just move on," someone suggests so easily, carelessly, he actually flinches. recoils so sharply it almost feels physical, a sickening film settling over his skin at the thought of anyone else in your place. what once came so effortlessly to him—the flirting, the fleeting touches, the meaningless distractions—now feels wrong in a way he can't shake. so hollow it is reaching for something that looks right but fits all wrong in his hands.
it's stupid, he thinks, the way his body still reaches for you out of habit. arm lifting like it expects to find you there, tucked against his side, like you always were. the absence hits harder in those moments, sudden and brutal, like missing a step you didn't know you relied on. whatever happened to facing reality, to letting go and saying fuck it, i don't need this, i don't need anyone.
you used to get mad. he remembers that. the way your expression would tighten, quiet and restrained, like you were trying so hard to be okay with it. and he'd pull you in because it was what he knew, assurance in the way he held you firm, a whispered demand to quell the spiralling thoughts in your head. oh those terrible fabrications you conjure up to do nothing but deceive you, turning your eyes away from what really matters. they mean nothing and they never did. i never knew until you, and i know now because of you. he wishes to say, in that unrefined and plain way, not like you with your eloquence...
even now, he comes up blank, always the first to snap and say the wrong thing. he should’ve known better. it's too late, of course. he's always been too late with things like this. wrong. wrong. wrong. because you’re not there anymore, and no one’s looking at him the way you used to—like he was just a man, not something to be wanted, claimed, chased. you never reached for him like the others did. and you stayed. and he—
he clenches his jaw, looking away before the thought can finish and lets them talk, lets them build whatever version of him they want, because it’s easier than admitting the truth. that he doesn’t know what to do with himself now that you’re gone. that the silence you left behind is louder than anything he’s ever faced. that for all the attention, all the noise, all the people still trying to get close. none of it feels like anything without you there to ground it.
he exhales, slow, tired, pressing the heel of his hand against his chest like it might steady something that won’t settle. so pathetic, he thinks. how the one thing he never thought he needed is the only thing he can’t seem to replace.
Seeing that sentiment about higuruma with in the mood for love, I can definitely see him deciding to take some time off to go somewhere he can bury his secret
oh dear this just made my heart hurt but in a good way. sometimes i stare at my favourite portrait of higuruma and think of all the ways a relationship with him would be so normal, almost uneventful at first glance. the kind that doesn’t sweep you off your feet, but settles in quietly, needing for space and patience. something you build piece by piece until one day it’s simply there, solid and unremarkable in the way dependable things are. he’s busy, you’re busy—there are always larger concerns pulling at his attention, cases that matter more, people who need him. and surprisingly, you understand, and it doesn't feel like a threat at first because that sharp, consuming feeling of being irreplaceable to him isn’t there, not yet, maybe not ever, but i don’t think you’d expect it either. higuruma’s love doesn’t arrive as longing—it feels closer to steadiness, to function, to something that works even when everything else doesn’t.
it’s easy to imagine the quieter moments with him, the ones that don’t demand anything but presence. i do think he’d be capable of handling a relationship with care and clarity, he’d say what he means, even when it lands wrong, even when it costs him. he doesn’t seem like someone who would soften the truth just to make it easier to swallow, and there’s something comforting in that, in knowing where you stand without having to guess. but that same rigidity, that sense of justice, makes the cracks all the more interesting. because when he does cross a line, and he allows himself to step outside of that structure, it's deliberate.
maybe that’s where the ache comes from. an affair with him doesn’t feel impulsive but like a decision made in silence, one he carries without showing. he wouldn’t unravel immediately, confessing and justifying. he’d continue on as he always does, so composed and measured. but it lingers in the pauses between his words, in the way he avoids looking too long, in how he chooses distance even when he stays. it doesn’t ruin him but it settles somewhere deeper, somewhere harder to reach.
and i can see him, eventually, deciding to leave for a while. undramatically and without any explanation that satisfies. just time off, a quiet disappearance to somewhere removed enough that no one asks questions. not to escape the situation, but to put distance between himself and what it’s turning into. a place where the days pass slowly, where routine (or whatevers more structured than he's already used to) replaces thought, where he can convince himself that what happened will stay contained if he lets it. but even there, it follows. in a way that demands to be resolved, just too present and threaded through everything, impossible to fully set aside.
your writing is the only reason i can't delete tumblr((:
thank you so much for reading and for sending in such a sweet message! 💛 seeing such lovely asks is one of the reasons why i don't give up on writing and keeping sukunasun active, the fact that i get such wonderful anons and having the privilge to correspond is amazing, i wouldn't have thought that my writing would bring me to meet so many of you over the years!!
Have any of your works made you cry when writing them? I know I do with reading them😭
hi anon! im so curious as to which ones have been tearjerkers, do let me know! for me, writing angst always sounds heavier in theory than it feels in practice. when i'm actually in the middle of it, i'm not drowning in the emotion the way a reader might be cause i'm busy thinking about pacing, or dialogue, or about how much to reveal and when to pull back. i do feel the hurt yes, but it's distant and never quite hurts the same when writing cause the sadness becomes something technical and i'm too occupied to fully sit in the weight of it. it's only later when i reread it that i can see things differently but the work and time leading up to it has shaped that angst into something i can already see coming, so it doesn't hurt as much.
but i did get a little choked up writing FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD and NOCTURNE, something about historicals just tug at my heartstrings. there's a soft spot for the fics i haven't posted or finished too like the mma sukuna breakup fic, the sequel to my jinichi fic, this one scene i wrote with bo in his feelings where he finally snaps and says the right thing, but in the wrong way...
I've wanted to ask for quite a while now of what you think about 'in the mood for love' bc when i watched that, all i kept thinking about was how nanami and higuruma fits exactly in that setting🚬⚰️
what an honour it is to be reminded of one of the greatest love stories ever captured on film. i personally favour chungking express more, but in the mood for love is something else entirely...the restrained and devastating development of an affair that (we see) starts with tiffin carriers and sideways glances to sharing cup noodles to having dinner at a restaurant. they're not meant to be romantic, it's not meant to be a date, but they share borrowed time in narrow hallways, a silence that lingers just a second too long within conversations that circle what they'll never quite say. everything is so carefully contained, and yet it spills over in the almosts, in the tension that becomes that same lingering ache that says everything in what it withholds.
that exhibition scene was just an excuse for me to talk about rodin's sculptures lmao. but it's a scene that establishes his relationship with reader. i felt i had to make it clear he wasn't there to steal her away or that she'd dropped nanami completely. also i like writing higuruma, there's such clarity with him, not like how i feel about nanami, it's so easy to decide his role and how he plays it, i hope i'm not mischaracterizing him by saying that i think he fits the role of 'second lead' more, unlike with nanami, i feel i'd have to keep putting him in and out of moulds to understand how he'd love and yada yada...but higuruma just fits so well, not the leading man, not the man who sweeps you off your feet, but oh gosh he's so good as a 'guy you don't want passionately', nothing about fate, just two people who are familiar and figure it out despite the imperfections. like his suits that are too loose, and the tie that is somehow always wonky. i also feel that scene speaks to those who would notice distinctions and understand the minor nuances to each character i brought to that fic. how higuruma's intentions weren't to court or steal reader for himself but that he's able to reason both sides. oh, he was just being factual. is probably one of my favourite lines hahah it actually made me smile. to me, rationality and logic serves as hiromi's base for everything, how he approaches love and relationships wouldn't be different, there's no fussing and fumbling, less romance but...it kinda is?? that he'd just...go for it?
there atop a balcony, the city burns in quiet colour. neon softened at the edges, blooming into one another until everything feels distant, indistinct. maybe it's the long week clinging to your bones, or the dull ache of another date that didn't quite happen, or simply the way you keep ending up here with higuruma. there's comfort in it, measured and deliberate. nothing that asks too much. you know he's still gathering himself after his most recent breakup, carrying it in the way he exhales, in how he lingers before speaking. he doesn't look back though, higuruma has never cared for history when it keeps him from moving forward and he's chosen not to stay there. you don't ask or reach for details. what exists between you is contained, intentional. a good meal, a shared bottle of wine, the quiet easing of tension. none of it meant to 'talk about feelings or make sense of 'what we are'…you both have an understanding and that's more than what most people have.
it works because it asks so little. two people with open wounds that haven't closed yet, finding a kind of stillness in proximity. he knows you won't press, and you know he won't either. it leaves room to breathe. no expectations, no strain. just the soft drift of two lives brushing past, returning when it suits them. it's easy in a way that doesn't demand explanation, and neither of you try to complicate it.
"you're beautiful," he says, almost absently, though his gaze settles with intent. your coat slips slightly at the shoulder, expensive in a way that feels out of place against him. more costly than all his suits put together. you let out a quiet breath that passes for a laugh. "i don’t think you wanna go there…"
"i know how to take no for an answer," he replies, stepping closer until your shoulders meet, warmth seeping through the fabric. there's a pause, a question left unspoken between the two of you, before he goes ahead anyway, "is it me?"
"no…it's just..." you murmur, hands rising to straighten his tie instead. it gives you something to do, somewhere to look. he's kind, steady, the sort of man people build futures with. makes good money and holds down a good job but it won't be long before you realize you'll never be more important than those things. still, there's a pull beneath it all, subtle but persistent, drawing your thoughts elsewhere. what if...what if..."it's complicated…"
"it doesn’t have to be, i could make things simple," he says, then leans in, tentative but certain enough to try, just once. something to test, something to hold onto for a night, maybe longer.
you stop him with cool fingers pressed lightly to his lips. "i’m sure you would," you say, a small smile finding its way through, soft and fleeting.
he withdraws without protest, the moment folding in on itself. a breath passes between you before he eases back, letting the distance return. for a second, you see an unnamed expression pass before his face, eyes slightly widening, as if he's forgotten himself and isn't sure how to to react. "maybe it's better this way," he says, rolling the tension from his shoulders, "seems we're meant to stay like this."
"like what?" you ask.
he shrugs, face turning stale, his feelings shifting away and replaced by total and utter dispassion, before drifting back to the skyline, "full of love and nowhere to put it."
you lean beside him then, both of you facing the same stretch of scenery, the city humming below. it doesn't fix anything, but it dulls the edge enough to stand there together a while longer.
thank you! gotta be honest april's off to a challenging start. im in a 'brace yourself' mode this week and mentally preparing for a bunch of work coming in soon, definitely not ready to face the onslaught, but i know with some planning and breaking down tasks, i'll be able to handle it in smaller portions that don't feel too daunting. i don't know why i worry either, i think i'm just used to feeling anxiety in a very fast-paced environment so hopefully i pull through! here are some of my high(and low)lights so far:
had the best time reconnecting with an old friend and meeting new ones along the way. i can't remember the last time i laughed that freely in such good company, it felt like something i didn't know i'd been missing. the night was beautiful in that quiet, fleeting way, and i was so wistful by the end of it that leaving, settling for a soft until next time, felt like a small kind of heartbreak.
my shoulder is in the worst shape its ever been. all twisted up in knots and i can't move my arm for fear of that sick, sick, pain. i have no choice but to wait til it goes away because im no stranger to this ache and my bf—whose capable hands and unmatched strength have always known exactly how to take my pain away—is, unfortunately, off on a business trip, i envy the rest of the world for stealing him from me.
in other news i had a great time finishing re9 the other day what a great game def top 5 of the franchise for me. i love how aged and fine tuned leon is. so happy the women working at capcom did him justice and had complete control over his development for requiem. the final result sorta speaks for itself. made it to my top 3 fav leons of all time.
i've been in the mood for sukuna lately...his domineering nature, his hedonistic tastes...i think about him and all the versions i've come to love. alpha sukuna, mma sukuna. i will admit i've been too indulgent with trying to make him something he's not, one of the things i worry over is if i'm doing his character justice or if i'm trying too hard to fit him into a mold he doesn't belong in. but i suppose it's part of the writing process, you learn a character the more you write them and sukuna is no stranger to my ever-changing takes and i hate myself for it.
i did ask another writer once about navigating this reallly thin line— realistically, sukuna has lived a long life and thus wouldn't think of relationships or monogamy or love as i would, if he'd cared enough for companionship in that way—and they mentioned that i write best from experience and having to think of other perspectives is something i could work on improving but also taking it with a grain of salt and cutting myself some slack too. i think about that one video of grrm describing the hardest character to write in asoiaf and he talked about bran and having to see the world from the perspective of an eight year old and how sometimes describing that viewpoint is tricky for him. not saying i could ever compare myself but its an example i use to describe it.
i suppose it's my biggest gripe with writing too, not just with sukuna but with nanami and gojo especially. i wish i could just ask them! put sukuna in a room and interrogate him. he'd love the attention, ask him about his battles, praise him for strength, he's not unfamiliar with worship, just...tired of it when coming from a lifeform so below him, tsk tsk human woman with such mindless and unnecessary quips. maybe feed him so he's at the very least satiated and in the mood to answer questions, "as someone who engages in the most deplorable and defiling acts of pleasure, how would you seduce a woman who doesn't—and pardon my choice of words—match your freak?"
as if i could survive that without getting killed...or seduced. not by his efforts obviously, but just by my lack of self-control and resolve, i'd find him so hard to resist, so difficult to hate. no i wouldn't jump him, but when time starts to pass, and we build rapport, and he not-so subtly suggests that we take this conversation somewhere more private and 'comfortable'....maybe somethings are just better left to my own interpretations.
still, his answer wouldn't be seductive in any conventional sense, he doesn't court or adapt himself to others, and he certainly doesn't concern himself with compatibility. desire to him, is something to be imposed, not negotiated. he'd probably look at you with that thin, unimpressed smile, more insulted by the premise than intrigued by the question. "seduce?" he'd echo, like the word itself is beneath him, "you speak as though i need to lower myself to meet anyone halfway."
then there'd be a pause, a dismissive one, "if she doesn't match me, then she's not worth the effort," he slightly tilts his head, something almost amused, almost cruel in his expression as he says with full confidence, "she'll learn, or she'll break."
oh sukuna, i wish i was appauld, i wish i didn't want to bend and break under you. he isn't driven by mutual pleasure or emotional exchange. his interest rooted in curiosity, dominance, and stimulation. he values intensity, some vulnerability maybe, but not harmony. if a woman doesn't share such appetites, he wouldn't coax it out gently. at best, he'd provoke, test, see if she rises to meet him. at worst, he'd discard her entirely. so i guess the real answer is simply, "i wouldn't."
anw, what im trying to say is that as much as i love sukuna, i feel like i could do better in portraying him as accurately as possible. im aware that he's popular and that a writer's take on him is still valid despite mischaracterizations, im not policing fics or anything, but idk why it irks me with my writing specifically or why it matters that i get it 'right'. i know it's impossible to abide by canon 100% but i wished i could write him in a way that makes readers say 'oh yes, he'd be just like this' or 'that's exactly what he'd do/say'.
"why did you choose sukuna(sun)?" because i've crushed on getos my whole life, always the types of guys who were composed, quietly intense, a little distant in a way that made you want to earn their attention. all those dismissive glances and being ignored, the kind of men who were too cool for me and i could never impress. so intelligent and incredible at what they do. not even joking when i say he is my dream man and i want him exactly as he is, i love love love geto so much that my heart hurts just thinking about him—but getos have never approached or shown interest. it's ironic because the only men who ever do are sukunas. the brash, imposing ones, the overwhelming ones, the ones who don't hesitate or second-guess or soften themselves. a little rough, a little mean, but undeniably certain of what they want and unafraid to take up space to get it. there's something almost disarming about that kind of confidence, even when it borders on too much, like being seen too quickly, too intensely, in a way that leaves no room to retreat or hide.
maybe it says something about the kind of presence i attract, or it's just my luck, but it does make you wonder what draws in chaos while i keep reaching for something far more controlled, far more careful. sukuna is the man i don't dream about, he's not my crush, he's the one who shows up anyway, uninvited and undeniable, all sharp edges and certainty. not the kind you build a quiet life around, where it's slow and steady and passionately quiet, but the kind that leaves an imprint so disruptive and hard to ignore. maybe that's the difference, i long for that intentional love, built over time, chosen again and again. but what finds me is always immediate, consuming, unwilling to wait to be wanted. this feeling of being whisked away, being taken, is so intoxicating in the moment, all heat and urgency, like you don't have the chance to question it before you're already in too deep.
does toshi's swimmer "friend" knows his ex chubby gf and how did toshi and his "friend" met.
i just wanna hurt myself
hmm, i feel like she'd know about his ex but she wouldn't pry, not out of disinterest, but out of respect and maybe instinct. knowing it'll only do more bad than good when ushijima keeps it to himself in a way that makes it clear it isn't something to be touched lightly, like he's the only one allowed to hold it. so she lets it be, even if the silence says more than anything he could've told her.
if you read it as them dating, then yes, it works. it's fitting because they're similar, aligned in ways that make things uncomplicated. two athletes, both driven, both focused, who understands the demands of that kind of life. they meet when they can. it's convenient but it doesn't go further than that because similarity doesn't guarantee depth. and for ushijima, who once knew what it felt like to be pulled into something messy, emotional, and hard to define, this kind of relationship, while easier, isn't where love blooms.
they'd known each other from school, not close, but familiar in the way athletes often are. shared spaces, overlapping routines, mutual recognition without much interaction. it wasn't until that day, the one where she'd seen you sitting outside the gym, eating quietly after the breakup, that things shifted. she remembers noticing the way ushijima looked at you then. not too obvious, but present in a way that didn't match the situation. like there was something unresolved and unspoken she didn't have the context for. still, she'd set aside her self-awareness, her ability to read the room and say, hey, this isn't the time and decided that was the day to ask him out. direct and with the confidence that comes with feigned conviction, that she could withstand rejection. and maybe a part of her knew he wouldn't, because it was right, because it made sense.
of course, people move on. that's what's supposed to happen, but ushijima doesn't seem able to. or maybe he just needs more time than most. she doesn't know what holds him back, only that sometimes, when she's with him, it feels like he isn't entirely there. not in the way she'd hoped. she remembers watching him back then, before anything between them had started. the way he'd walk you home, how you'd talk and talk until, somehow, he'd let out a quiet laugh. rare, but real, all deep and melodic. she's never heard that from him. with her, he smiles, yes, but it feels measured. polite, even. responding the way he thinks he should, not because something truly moved him.
and there was that other time, an accidental, unintentional peek into an empty classroom with a door left slightly ajar. she hadn't meant to look, but she did. coming to find the two of you kissing. in broad daylight, in the most opportune of times. and ushijima had been different. no hesitance there, no longer the composed, controlled version of himself she's come to know and admire. he's unguarded in the way he leaned in, the way a muffled sound slipped from him, something soft and low that didn't belong to the image he carried everywhere else. and when he pulled away, it wasn't distance he created, but closeness. his hand coming up to cup your face, steady and certain, like he was promising wordlessly, that he'd protect you against all and anyone, like he was assuring you, like he loves you.
"we should go," you'd said, but he kissed you again. and it lingered longer than it should have. longer than she could keep watching.
she understands it much later that what she saw then wasn't just a moment shared between two, but that it stars a version of him she can't reach. there are parts of him that don't quite open for her, corners of his expression that never fully soften, reactions that feel just a second too restrained. it isn't something she can point to, it's just an absence, this subtle disconnect she feels more than she understands.
even now, when they're closer, when in some ways, she's 'won', she doesn't see you as competition. not really. you feel more like a part of him that exists outside of her, something already claimed by time and experience. there's a hurt there too, that you were ushijima's first kiss, first love, first...everything. she's not the person who shaped how he understands something as fundamental as that. she exists after, in the space that follows, where things are clearer, maybe easier, but also less…alive.
she's mature enough to understand that it isn't about being first, but being the one that lasts. relationships after all aren't meant to mirror each other. she knows she isn't you, and she doesn't want to be. she has her own strengths, her own rhythm, and her own reasons for choosing someone like ushijima—even so, she won't apologize for wanting him too, for pursuing him—and for a long time, that feels like enough. she thinks, what she has is special too, built on the knowledge they don't demand too much or that this coulf unravel without warning. it may not burn the same way, may not feel as consuming or all-encompassing, but it's real in its own right. it's consistent and she can hold on without fearing it will slip through her fingers.
the sounds of training turn into a quiet hum after practice, harsh echoes of lapping water and splashes soften into low ripples and the occasional drip of water hitting tile. she sits at the edge, towel draped over her shoulders, squeezing the ends of her hair when her teammate drops down beside her, nudging her knee lightly. "can't compete where you don't compare," she says, almost offhand.
it seems her relationship with ushijima is more obvious now, more visible in a way that makes people look twice, like they're trying to figure out what it is exactly, where it stands, how it works. or maybe that's just her way of seeing it, the awareness settling in now that she's part of it. she doesn't overthink where it's unnecessary, doesn't pick apart every glance or passing comment, but she isn't careless either. rumours don't slip past her, not when they start to take shape around a relationship she's involved in, especially not when they start to sound a little too certain for her liking.
"this isn't about comparisons," she replies, sharper than she means to, eyes fixed on the water, "and over a guy? i wouldn’t stoop so low."
her teammate hums, unconvinced, "you gotta be realistic," she says, leaning back on her hands, gaze flicking toward her, "it's not about you being less, it's just…he's not starting from zero with you. we kinda saw how much he liked the other one."
the other one. she lets the words sit there, like they've reduced you into a placeholder, a role instead of a person. it's easier that way, she supposes. it turns you into something distant and unnamed, that you don't matter as much. but she knows that's not true. even without the name or details, she's seen enough to understand that the other one wasn't just someone he dated. you are forever tied to him, a shape left behind she wonders if it was ever meant to be filled at all.
she exhales, the words settling and making her uncomfortable, they're not wrong, but not something she agrees with either. "i'm not trying to replace anyone," she says after a moment.
her teammate shrugs, "that doesn't mean you're not standing next to someone that's still there."
yes...you're still there, always. not in the middle of practice or conversation, but tucked in the corners, in the small, private, and most intimate of spaces. catching him by the lockers with towel slung over his shoulder, water still clinging to his hair. "there's this cafe nearby," she says, keeping her tone light, "people say they've got really good desserts."
ushijima pauses for a second and she notices recognition pass behind his eyes. "i know it," he says. he knows the seat by the window, with light spilling in and catching on your face while you sat across from him. unimpressed expression, arms crossed, a small, petulant pout pulling at your lips like you were already prepared to hate everything about it. pancakes and waffles and baked goods set between you, too sweet, too indulgent.
until you take a bite and everything changes. he remembers the way your expression softens, how the pout disappears in an instant, replaced by something brighter, delighted, like you hadn't expected to like it this much. salt and sugar melting together on your tongue, and you savour it, slow, deliberate, like the moment deserves to be stretched out just a little longer. he remembers thinking i like the way you eat. the way you chew, the way you pause just slightly, as if committing it to memory. you reached across the table, holding your fork out toward him, insistent, "try it," you'd said, like it wasn't optional. demanding he take a bite, that he enjoy this moment just as much as you. i know how much it means to you, i know you wanted me to understand it the same way you did. and he did, not the taste, but the way you looked at him when you offered it. like sharing it mattered more than the food itself. like the moment only counted if he was part of it too.
"we could go after this," she adds, a little more hopeful now, filling the silence he leaves behind.
he doesn't elaborate, merely shrugs and says, "i don't mind." doesn’t even look at her when he says it. there's no interest, no curiosity, just agreement, like the decision doesn't require anything more from him.
she feels it then, a drop in her chest when she'd been expecting more. but she won't mention it, she knows, by now, that this is what it takes to be his, if she can even call it that. and even here, with how little ground she feels she's gained, it already starts to settle into a familiarity. the sense that this is what it will always be, a careful accumulation of expectations that never quite meet anything in return.
because he turns back to his locker, pulling it open, and that's when she sees it. a photo of you tucked against the inside of the door, slightly worn at the edges like it's been there for a while and judging by how he doesn't address it, doesn't make an effort to conceal it, like he's become accustomed to its presence, suggests that no one has bothered to mention it...or that it's not meant to be seen by anyone else. that it's intimate, a version of you for his eyes only.
it shouldn't be suggestive, but you're wearing his jersey. nothing but his jersey. the fabric loose on your frame, slipping just enough at the collar to reveal exposed cleavage, the hem stopping just short of where a shadow lines and forms underneath ample breasts. then lower, to where his palm is stretched wide, laying there on the expanse of your stomach. fingers squeezing just slightly, stretch marks and pudgy flesh spilling from in between. of course, he's not the main focus despite him taking the photo, there behind you, he's hidden a smile in the curve of your neck, a sneaky one, a triumphant one. it's not subtle that this photo, this...memory, was his idea. your expression says it all, shy and a little uncertain, eyes looking into the camera with not-so hidden excitement, caught in a moment that feels more like it was taken than performed, like you hadn't thought about being seen at all.
there's an implication beyond it. that he'd treated this photo with such fondness, like it were ritual, something kept close before matches, something he carries with him without needing to explain why. she stares at it, "you still keep that?" she asks, voice threathening to break unevenly.
ushijima glances at it, then back at her, "it's not something you need to worry about." not harsh, but final.
she swallows, nods once like she understands. "i could give you one of mine," she offers after a moment, a little lighter now, like she's trying to balance something out.
he doesn't even hesitate, "it's fine."
she shifts her weight, eyes flicking back to the photo, then to him, "are you gonna take it down?"
he pauses, not like before when she suggested the cafe, this time, he straightens slowly, standing there like he's actually considering it for the first time, like the question hadn't occurred to him until now. and when he answers, it's the same as always. honest and unapologetic. "i don't want to."
i don’t know if u take requests and i don’t really ask them but i was wondering if u could write like maybe a geto with a chubby reader who not shy per se but more so a little standoffish in the beginning but is actually the biggest sweetheart ever and like maybe a friends to lovers kinda thing but like they’re both extremely complex like idk ur writing style is just amazing so whatever u do is amazing SOS X
i feel like this ask was meant for me !! urgh i would absolutely love to read a fic like this, truly would make my dreams come true. that achingly slow burn and the budidng friendship between these two would kill me!! i'd love to write and bring it to fruition but until then just know that i absolutely love the idea. it's probably the type of fic that can only be written by someone who'd understand, which i wouldn't deny being like the reader in some way but oh man writing about falling for geto for this reader would hit so close to home...the avoidance! the pain of being misunderstood! the baring of your soul in the most vulnerable of instances! the push and pull! it's definitely something i'd love to explore and try my hand at, soon, but until then do be patient, but i have a feeling that's not gonna be problem when falling for geto / reading a fic like this requires as much. <3
not everyone might like this, but i just thought about a what if scenario where mma!sukuna and y/n have a kid—
sukuna is getting older as time passes, so he’s settling down with his family while still working in this business as a trainer.
their kid maybe picking up an interest in his work, and sukuna is terrified lmao 😭 sukuna is begging you to help him convince yalls kid to pick another interest because he’s worried for their safety and doesn’t want his kid to end up in scars like he did.
i’m rambling too much— have a great day!!
im so sorry for getting to this so late !! thank you for being patient and waiting for a reply <3 and don't worry about rambling, i love long asks and this is so sweet!
i always wondered if having children was in their future. sukuna strikes me as the kind of man who cherishes his wife above all else, so he'd only ever agree if you were fully, wholeheartedly on board. even then, his first instinct wouldn't be excitement but worry. pregnancy to him isn't just a milestone, but something that asks too much of you. the strain, the pain, the unpredictability of it all. but he knows it's not something he can shield you from entirely, that he has to support you when your hormones tip the world sideways and you need his reassurance more than ever, when you need him in gentler ways than ever before.
i feel he'd be good at that. he's lived a disciplined and routine-driven life, always in control, thus he channels that into caring for you. keeps track of every appointment without needing reminders, memorises the little changes in your body before you even voice them. he notices the way your breath catches when you shift, the slight crease in your brows when something aches. his hands always warm when they find you, pressing gently into sore spots, lips brushing against your temple, your forehead, lingering like he's trying to soothe more than just the surface.
you tell him it's the perfect time. he's retired, your workload is manageable, you're financially secure, the house is big enough, the city kind enough. there are big parks and top schools and quiet streets, all these small assurances stacked neatly into a future that makes sense. the two of you raising a child together, shaping something good out of love and patience, watching them grow into all these possibilities. you can see it so clearly, the good and the bad, the laughter and the sleepless nights. but sukuna only sees you. the way your eyes light up, the way your lip pulls between your teeth when you're hopeful. and he can't lie to you, not about this, admitting with heavy heart and weightier honesty, "i'm not ready."
not just about being a father. well, part of it is, yes, but deeper than that lies a fear. the kind that sits heavy in his chest and refuses to be reasoned with. the thought of losing you eclipses everything else, the thought ubearable even. sukuna won't entertain the idea any further. no mama means no baby, and he won't trade you for a child, no matter how precious.
he knows himself well enough to admit it, that he doesn't know how to love anyone more than he loves you. raising a child would demand something from him he's never had to give before. a kind of selflessness that requires letting go, it's all in or nothing and he's learned to share a life with you...how is he supposed to stretch that space further without causing some damage? without hurting you?
so you both table that conversation for another time, agreeing for now that "it's a big decision to make." and "we'll come back to it." as if it were so easy to simply pick up and set down and carry on. life resumes its usual rhythm almost too easily. sukuna goes back to training rookies, recording his podcast, slipping back into the role of being the best husband ever. and you...you soothe the baby fever by ignoring it, quieting that ache in your chest the only way you can. you stop yourself from lingering on baby names, avoid the parenting aisle at bookstores, not daring to peek at onesies and booties on sale in matching colours, folded neatly in shop windows. you pretend it doesn't tug at you, that it doesn't sit there rotting into something worse, persistent and festering, just beneath the surface.
he's been bulking up lately too, now that his diet is less strict and cutting the weight doesn't have to be as severe a process anymore. there's a fullness to him now, his frame broader, heavier in a way that feels more lived-in than sharp. fills up around his arms and torso, his muscles haven't softened, just settled. less angular, more solid. "think i should try a different weight class?" he asks offhandedly, like it's nothing. but after one glance at your unimpressed and distant expression, he lets it drop without a fight.
"do you really wish to compete again?" it comes out sharper than you intended, dangerously close to accusation, sounding more like a demand. you thought that chapter of his life was closed, so why does he speak like it's still within reach? like there's a version of the future where he's still chasing something that doesn’t include you the way you want it to. a future only made for himself, more fighting, more weight, more everything that doesn't matter, shouldn't matter.
the thought hits hard, guilt following just as quickly from questioning him. who are you to make him choose? he wasn't even serious, it's just your mind spiralling again, feeding off unresolved dilemmas and setting them aside waiting for a confirmation, waiting for something you undoubtedly want but can't have. and would a child fix anything if you're not standing on the same ground to begin with? would they flourish being raised by parents who aren't on the same page?
months pass, and neither of you bring it up again, no more mentions of the future, but the silence isn't empty, the thought never leaves. pressing in and slowly carving out space between you, forming that wedge of distance that only grows. you keep busy, fill your time with work, with chores, with anything that keeps your mind from wandering. you stay on your side of the bed, putting sex on a pause indefinitely and letting intimacy fall away without ever addressing it. "are we good?" he asks, despite knowing the answer, and you nod, not turning his way and tucking yourself deeper under the covers. eventually, the idea dulls, hidden away beneath the weight of everything else life throws at you, you're so close to forgetting about it altogether.
until sukuna steps through your front door with a surprise.
it's small, curled up in his hand. a sleeping pitbull, all soft breaths and warm weight. "he was at the gym this morning," he says simply, like that explains everything. but you see the eagerness in his eyes, almost boyish, with the urge to hold it close. the dog stirs at the sound of his voice, nudging closer, tongue flicking out to lap at his cheek, and sukuna, of all people, leans into it.
there's an urge to pry further, why did he suddenly take pity on a stray animal and decided to bring it home? why does he make decisions so rashly, did he consider your thoughts? "we can't," you start, already thinking of the time, the effort, the responsibility, "we're both busy and...it's a dog." that should be enough reason. but sukuna's not listening, at least not right now when he's lying there on the floor watching the lump of grey, like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. his head tilts slightly when it whimpers, his expression soft in a way you've rarely witnessed.
and it's easy to fall for the pup, but not as completely as sukuna does. the man spends all his time with him, going on walks, prepping his meals—these incredible slow-feeder bowls filled with meat, vitamins, fruit, and grains, a dog never had better—fully embracing the pet parent life, he watches over him with the same attentiveness he once reserved just for you, maybe still does, just…shared now.
"his coat is so shiny," he says one evening, swiping through pictures on his phone, pride slipping into his voice like it belongs there. you don't say it out loud, but your chest twists at the sight, at the ease of it. how naturally he slips into care, the sight of it that looks so close to what you once imagined for the two of you. he wakes up earlier now, well, earlier than he's used to, just to take the dog out, the two of them jogging side by side. keeps a towel by the door to wipe his paws clean, muttering under his breath when he wriggles too much, "oi, you're gonna leave tracks and daddy doesn't wanna clean it up." you catch him once, half-asleep on the couch with the pup sprawled across his chest, one large hand resting protectively over its small body like it might disappear if he lets go.
it's not the same, you remind yourself. this is simpler, something he can manage, something that won't take you away from him. but when you watch him kneel on the floor coaxing the dog to eat, voice low and patient, you wonder if this is what he meant when he said he wasn't ready. not incapable, not unwilling, just afraid of loving something that might ask him to survive losing you.
"he needs a name," you say one night, standing in the kitchen while sukuna measures out food with surprising precision. he pauses, glances up at you, and there's something tentative in his expression, like he's waiting for you to take this from him or shut it down entirely.
"thought we could pick one together," he replies, voice lower than usual. together. the word settles between you, fragile, unfamiliar in the way it hasn't been for months.
you hum, pretending to think it over longer than you need to. "as long as it's not dumb," you warn lightly, though there's no real bite behind it. sukuna scoffs, like the idea offends him, but there's a small shift in his posture. shoulders loosening, muscles easing. later, the two of you sit side by side on the couch, tossing names back and forth, some serious, some not, while the dog stumbles between you, clumsy and curious, pressing into whichever hand is closest.
it's not a fix. you know that. whatever sits unresolved hasn't disappeared, but this feels like a step, even if it's a small one. a moment shared again, a hurt tended to together instead of avoided. sukuna leans back against the couch, watching you as you scratch behind the dog's ears, your laughter softer than it's been in a while. his gaze lingers, steady, like he's memorising it. and when the dog finally settles, curled up between the both of you, sukuna's hand finds yours without much thought. his fingers slotting into the spaces between yours, curling in firm, reminding himself you're still here and it's enough. you're enough.
it happens unexpectedly, a year later, there in the privacy of your home on what had been a seemingly ordinary day. you pace the length of the bathroom, bare feet cold against tile, waiting for the results on three separate pregnancy test sticks lined up on the counter. different brands, different promises of accuracy, but all meant to tell you the same thing—hopefully. you can't afford to be uncertain at this point. not now, not when your heart is suspended by a single, fraying fiber, ready to give way at any moment. every second stretches, thick and suffocating, your hands hovering uselessly at your sides like you're afraid to touch anything, to disturb the outcome before it's ready.
you won't say it was the heavy rain that night that drove you to seek him out, that it flooded the streets and turned the city cold, gave you an excuse to stay in, stay close. or the fact that it had been awhile because distance had settled between you in ways neither of you fully knew how to undo. but you remember the way he looked at you, really looked, like he hadn't in months. the way his hand cupped your face, slower this time, more deliberate, like he was relearning you, the woman he refused to lose. thumbs brushing your cheeks, your lips, feeling nothing but skin and softness. there was no rush to it, no careless urgency. just the warmth of choosing each other again.
the two of you come to realize, sometime in the middle of it all—in the way your bodies find each other again, like they remember what your minds tried to forget. in the press of his lips against yours, in the broken sounds he exhales into your neck, in the way your name slips from him like it's something he's been holding back for far too long—that you missed each other. deeply, achingly so. there's no talk of babies, no careful conversations about the future, but the way his hand drifts to your lower belly, resting there with a tenderness that feels almost reverent, says more than either of you dare to.
slow and sensuous he moves, wanting to commit it to memory, like he intended to make it special. like this was the moment that changed everything. it's not just about want, but meaning. about making something out of the space that had grown between you. there's a devotion in the way he touches you, his hands roam without rush, lingering on the parts he knows so well, your waist, your hips, the curve of your stomach, grasping, holding, like he needs to remind himself that you're still his, still here.
and you feel it too, the passing of time written all over his body. the ink of his tattoos slightly faded, like sun-worn memories stretched across his skin. the weight of him different now. heavier, heftier in a way that makes you feel held in the most secure of ways, you relish in being buried under. the small things haven't gone unnoticed, the way he's changed, you don't mind any of it, not when it's him. you press yourself into him without hesitation, breathing him in like something familiar and long missed, like something you never stopped needing.
and you love the feel. it's always nice when he finishes inside you, so hot and copious, each pump of his hips fucking you through the comedown. but this time, he works each load into you with purpose and you milk his cock for every drop, squeezing down and lifting your hips closer for more. sukuna doesn't stop, doesn't pull out, not even after the second, third time he's released inside you, after the point where most would slow, catch their breath, and let the moment settle. instead, he grips you tighter, pulls you in closer, thrusting and thrusting like he's got all the time in the world and yet, too much wasted on not giving you exactly this. almost urgent, desperate even, to make up for it. sukuna has been denied for too long and refuses to let it end just yet.
there's only so much of you, so much you can take, and despite the years and familiarity that has grown, the countless times you've fucked and done...this together, taking your time, setting the pace, where kisses and touches take precedence, where he doesn't say the dirty things, only the things he truly means "let's make a baby," he whispers, voice rough but the words are edged with the certainty you've been waiting to hear. his hand finds yours, pressing it against his heart, as if he needs you to feel that he's finally ready to start a family with you.
"why now?" you ask, needing to hear it, needing an answer that's steadier than your doubts and the way your heart is about to implode, not from joy, but that this was everything you wanted come true but you'd wish he'd want it too.
sukuna's hand comes up, rough thumb brushing against your cheek, slower than usual, like he's choosing his next words with care, bearing his true feelings to you, "i don't want to be afraid anymore," he says voice low, intimate in a way that makes your eyes brim with tears, a sudden wave of love for him sprouting from deep within you chest. there's a pause, his gaze softening as it lingers on you, "if it's with you, i'm ready for whatever comes after."
you nod wordlessly as the tears begin to run down your cheek. sukuna who might be in a loving mood, still indulges in a bit of filth, choosing to lean in and lick your tears. you chuckle at that, then smile as you feel his heartbeat thumping loud, hard, beating fast in his chest. wondering if you'll ever get used to the way he loves you, all-consuming, all-encompassing. too much and yet never enough at the same time.
it had been so different after too, just two people relishing the silence. "a baby..." he murmurs, arm heavy around you, your cheek pressed to his chest, a little fuzzy now that he's stopped shaving it, the steady rise and fall beneath you grounding in a way you hadn’t realised you needed, "i hope they're just like you." his fingers traced absent patterns along your spine, fingertips lingering like he needed that bit of contact still, like he needed the reassurance of you there beneath his hands. you remember thinking, faintly, that even if nothing changed, even if the future stayed uncertain, this was worth holding onto.
but now, your mind slips toward the worst thoughts. what if you can't do this, what if the answer waiting for you isn't the one you've been quietly hoping for, what if...he changes his mind? the questions come too fast, too sharp, until they blur together into something overwhelming.
and when you finally force yourself to look, to step closer, your eyes focus on the thin lines that will decide everything. heart pounding so loudly it drowns out every other thought, every doubt, every fear you've buried over the past year. and beneath it all, there's a fragile, blooming hope you're almost too afraid to pay attention to. for a moment, you hesitate, caught between wanting to know and wanting to stay exactly here, in this fragile space where anything is still possible.
the world doesn't end, doesn't shatter or split open the way you thought it might, but it shifts, all in a second. your breath leaves you in a shaky exhale, vision blurring before you even realise you're crying, fresh tears streaming down without resistance. your hand comes up instinctively to cover your mouth, like you can hold the moment in, like you might break it if you breathe too hard. it's there, repeated three times over and giving you no doubt to what it means. pregnant, it reads, undeniable.
your hand drifts instinctively to your stomach, pressing lightly, as if you might feel something already, as if the change has already begun. and maybe it does, maybe it always would have, because standing here, heart racing and aching all at once, you realise this isn't fear anymore when it feels a lot like the beginning.
the baby arrives soon, and when they do, it still feels like a miracle you weren't quite prepared to hold. loved instantly, fiercely, in that way that leaves you breathless. how is it possible that your baby knows their kicks before kanji, before they know anything else, before words, before meaning. before even the shape of the world, waddling unsteadily toward sukuna with determined little steps, tiny fists raised like they've already decided he's something to conquer. it must be genetics, you think, because they'd been just as restless before they were even here—soft, muffled thumps against his open palm resting over your warm, stretched belly—like they were reaching for him long before they ever saw him.
and sukuna, who once said he wasn't ready, meets every clumsy swing with the same steady patience, crouched low, letting those tiny hands collide harmlessly against his own. when he pretends to lose, letting himself fall back with a quiet huff just to hear that bright, delighted laugh, then getting piled on by both tiny child and large dog, he watches them like he used to watch you, attentively memorising every small thing before it can slip away. still, his gaze always drifts back to you, his wife, an unspoken understanding passing between you of what it took to get here. the hesitation, the fear. now you watch him lean down as your child reaches for him again, small fingers curling into his shirt and realise it was worth it. the waiting, the doubt, even the moments you thought might break you. this life, this love, this family you built piece by careful piece, everything he'd thought he'd never have, and everything he chose anyway.
..sunny....after that last work of toshi and now this? 😭 you're killing us omg
im so sorry! i know it's heart-wrenching and personally, they've become so dear to me now that i do wish for a happy ending for them, although i wonder if that happy ending would mean getting back together. it's clear that ushijima still has feelings for her, but i recognize it could be the aftereffects of what they had. the imprint of a relationship that meant something, even if it couldn't last in the way they hoped. only in hindsight does he realize how deeply he feels, so the loss hits harder because he's trying to process emotions that are already tied to absence.
there was something you mentioned about him being the more refined or ‘better’ version of a boyfriend for the next partner, and it really stuck with me, it made me really reflect on how relationships and people are influenced by what came before. how love isn't just about two individuals meeting in a vacuum, but about all the versions of ourselves we carry from past connections. what we learned, what we changed, and what we couldn't quite keep. sometimes people grow into better partners because of a relationship that didn’t work out, and that doesn't make the prior one any less real or meaningful. it just means it left an impression on shaping how they love next. i think that's what makes stories like this so compelling to write and read, because there's always that lingering question of whether someone becomes 'better' without you, or simply becomes more of who they were always meant to be.
i thought to explore this with 'the swimmer' as the 'next girl' character reader measures herself against. although it's open to interpretation whether ushijima is dating her or if she were just another friend/person he shares similarities with. to reader, she becomes the embodiment of someone who would understand him in a way she couldn't. someone more aligned with his world and that he'd be proud of. she assumes their relationship would be better because there's less friction, fewer differences, less room for misunderstanding, less reason for either of them to question if they fit.
what actually makes someone 'better' for the next person if every individual is different, shaped by their own ways of loving. then compatibility isn't something that can be ranked or compared so neatly. which makes me think what we interpret as someone being 'better suited' is really just a reflection of our own insecurities and the way we measure ourselves against others. and in doing so, we risk overlooking the fact that what we had was never meant to be replicated. it was only ever meant to be understood in its own context, as something that existed. with reader, ushijima experienced a side of himself that wasn't just about hard work and performance. that version of him, more open, more human, doesn't exist in the same way without her, so letting her go feels like losing access to that part of himself too.
i also believe you were right, he wouldn't be a better person, but a better boyfriend. one shaped by experience, by what he's learned to do differently after losing something he didn't fully understand at the time. not fundamentally changed at his core, but he's more aware, more deliberate in how he shows up for the next person. less about becoming someone new, and more about learning how to love in a way that better matches the person in front of him. it hurts to think about.
not that they think of each other 24/7 but it comes and goes, that's the thing with grief too, your life sorta just moves around this loss you carry everywhere. the important distinction i had to make was that ushijima hasn't healed completely. it's why he hasn't found anyone else, why he doesn't want anyone else. he shouldn't be comparing you with the next person, even if it's the only experience he's had with love, but it shows how he hasn't moved on. he's unable to say 'yes, that was then, this is now, i love her and what we had was good but it ended, and i'm looking for the next relationship.'
maybe it's not entirely 'realistic' for ushijima’s character, but it's not completely false either. i do think he tries to meet other people, to move forward in the way he believes he should, but nothing quite takes hold, not in the way he expects. because i think for him, feelings don't resolve on their own. there needs to be an action taken, they linger until he actively works through them, until he consciously lets go. and after the breakup, when he finally begins to understand what he felt while he was with her, it only deepens the attachment in a way he didn't anticipate. it becomes harder to separate what was from what is, because now he can clearly see what he had, what he lost.
even so, it isn't guilt or regret that keeps him tethered to her. he still loves her because he equates that with consistency, love isn't something that turns off, it was real and it continues, even if the relationship doesn't. it doesn't mean 'replacing her' as kuroo puts it, ushijima is selective and deliberate, people don't overlap or substitute easily for him. so when someone leaves a real impact, it's not something another person can just 'fill.' that kind of connection doesn't get overwritten.
maybe a happy ending isn't about returning to what they were, but finding a way to exist with that love without it hurting quite as much. the romantic in me likes to think they're still in love but are just waiting for that one moment or two to bring them back together, and this time, they actually make it work.
i had this scene in my head of ushi spotting her in public but it didn't make the cut. i think i'd like to leave things opened ended for now but you can read it here:
ushijima sees you for the first time and something shifts, so subtle but undeniable. his face, usually so composed, softens into a wistful expression, as if the distance between you suddenly becomes too large to ignore. all at once, it hits him again. the weight of everything unsaid, the thoughts he never knew how to shape into words, the feelings he didn't fully understand until they were already gone. he doesn’t speak or move, as if his senses have sharpened all at once, the world pulling into focus in a way it hasn't in years. colours deeper, sounds clearer, everything anchored by the fact that you're here. he doesn't look away, he can't. because looking at you feels like holding onto the last certainty he has. that you're real and still within reach, even if only for a moment. and if he looks away, if he lets even a second pass without seeing you, there's an unspoken fear that you might disappear again, like you never existed at all.
he watches a little longer, taking in the way you drift along the shelves, picking up books, turning them over to read the summaries before setting them back with quiet consideration. your hand lifts to your chin, thumb resting there as you think, lips pursed, brows drawn together. he knows you're calculating, weighing price against value, if you should get a paper or hardback, or whether you'll even read them once you take them home. his gaze follows when you reach out toward a sports magazine, fingers hovering for a moment before you hesitate and pull back, blinking as if you've reconsidered something only you can see.
and then...you smile. it starts small, then widens, bright and familiar. it lights up your face, as if you've stumbled across something that belongs to a memory only you can access. for a moment, you look almost certain, like you've found what you were looking for without meaning to.
he sees the magazine then, his own face on the cover, sharp and composed, the same expression he carries into matches. distant and focused. it's the kind of image that belongs to someone you're supposed to admire from afar, not someone you once knew up close. but your smile doesn't falter when your fingers hover over it again, this time more certain, as if the choice has already been made.
he wonders if you're smiling because of the image, or because of something else entirely. the kind of thing only the two of you would understand, a memory maybe, a fleeting feeling that still lingers between where you stand and where he's watching from. all the possibilities and he can only think, selfishly, of what it would feel like to kiss you for the second-first time. like nothing has been lost, like time hasn't stretched and changed both of you into people who don't quite know how to meet in the middle anymore. would it feel the same, or would it carry everything you've been through in the space between? he doesn't know, only that, if given the chance, he might finally find out.
I'm taking my chances! does ushi and his chubby gf get back 😫
well, it depends.
if they shall never get back together, it's the kind of ending that seems right when you look at it from a distance. they seem happier, growing into themselves, they have space to do that, focusing on their own goals without needing to put anyone else first, it's the kind of ending that makes sense. but oh look him with those dark circles, those sloppy spikes that have lost all function and feeling, look at how he keeps watching her, just dying for some kind of interaction, ready to wipe her tears, kiss her lips, and fix everything. and see how she doesn't smile as much, how she leaves as soon as the bell rings and avoids everyone for fear of being a bummer, being a nuisance. does this mean that their breakup was for naught? oh to be young and feel love's keen sting.
i'd like to think it's reader's choice although i'd love to see them reconcile as long as it was genuine. on one hand, ushi might attempt to win her back, but it takes a lot, and with his career, i question if he would have the time or energy to pursue her the way she deserves. additionally, i believe he's the type of person who wouldn't really chase or exert much effort to win someone back when the breakup was mutual, and both have justifiable reasons for it occurring.
it wasn't solely because he did something 'wrong' but rather that they were young and struggled to handle their differences. when loving someone means two different things. what do you do when it's your first love and you've never been in love before.
you tell yourself the breakup was for the best and necessary, that some people just don't fit, no matter how much they care. that letting go was the right choice, because staying would've meant losing something of yourself. but ushijima knows that he was better with you. to him, being different was never the problem. he never thought of you as something that needed to be reshaped. if anything, you were the one part of his life that didn't need to make sense to be right.
his success and the life he built can be measured and he understands those things, but you weren't like that. you were unpredictable in ways he didn't know how to respond to, emotional in ways he thought needed grounding, and at the time, he treated those differences like variables. things to steady, to guide, to correct so they would align better with what he knew. he thought that was how you took care of something important. but you weren't something that didn't 'fit'. you were the only thing that didn't need to.
to meet someone like him, so sure of himself, so grounded in what he wants, and to think of course i should rise to that. of course you should try harder, be better, smooth out the parts of yourself that feel too loud, too much, too uncertain. not because he asked you to, but because it felt obvious. like he deserved someone who matched him. you don't think it started from a bad place. not entirely. you just thought. this what love looks like.
and because you were already insecure, even before him. already used to measuring yourself against other people, already aware of how you looked, how you came across, how easily you could be dismissed or misunderstood. so when he pointed things out, direct, honest, without subtlety, you didn't question it. you accepted it not as criticism, but as guidance. because if someone like him noticed, then it must be true. and if it was true, then it was something you could fix. something you should fix. so you did. little by little.
you softened your words. held back your thoughts. second-guessed the way you looked, the way you acted, the way you were. you told yourself it wasn't changing, just improving. becoming someone better, someone more put-together, someone who made sense beside him. and he never told you to stop per se. he just said things as they came, "you don't have to try that hard." "you're overthinking again." "this looked better before." he noticed everything and you built meaning out of it.
ultimately, you wanted to be someone he could be proud of, and maybe a part of you believed you weren't enough as you were despite the show of confidence. even the most bright and bubbly people struggle with insecurities. so by the time it ended, it didn't just feel like letting him go, it felt like losing something you'd been trying so hard to become and figuring out who you really are.
getting back together isn't as simple as talking again or deciding to leave the past behind, because that past is significant—it's a whole history, layered and heavy, something that doesn't disappear just because time has passed. there's too much to unlearn, too much to understand differently before you can even begin to see who the other has become. you wouldn't just fall for him again the moment your paths cross, if they ever do, and ushijima wouldn't try to force it either. in his own way, he respects it too much for that. and maybe that's the problem—because both of you believe the other is doing well enough, better even, that it's kinder to leave things as they are. but grief doesn't settle neatly, and healing isn't a linear process. it tugs at you, it makes you hesitate at the wrong moments, it makes you believe that missing is faltering. and in that quiet uncertainty, the cruel hope that spurs, the question remains—how do you set aside what you want, for what you think is best?
it was really interesting to write about it here and portraying ushi's pov in the latest piece, i feel like falling in love for him is less of a gradual realization and more like something that settles into place without asking. inevitable and absolute, not something he chases or even fully understands while it's happening, but once it's there, it stays, unwavering and so very difficult to undo. there are no 'aha' moments or milestones to really solidify it, as with most high school relationships—no clear turning point to say this is where it changed. it just exists, quietly building in the background while he's focused on everything else, until one day it's there in full, undeniable, and already out of his reach. and i think that's what makes it a little tragic for him—by the time he understands it, there's nothing left to act on. it made exploring his restraint, and the way he processes emotions so differently, a lot more layered than i expected.
and i love the reader in this one, she's so girly, so youthful and romantic, and incredibly relatable too. that feeling of having a boyfriend for the first time and wanting to do everything right, wanting to have that flowery, saccharine relationship you see in dramas. where it’s cheesy, a little unrealistic, but still feels real enough to want. she leans into it fully, into the sweetness, the excitement, the idea of being chosen and choosing back just as fiercely. and i think that's what makes it hurt more, because she isn't wrong for wanting that, she just happened to want it with someone who expresses love in a completely different language.
that's just how relationships are, especially when you're in high school and your crush turns into your partner turns into your first love before you even realise what's happening. everything feels new, exciting, easy to fall into. you don't name it while you're in it, no one does. it only becomes love after the fact—after it's gone and your life shifts completely that you can't pretend it didn't matter. like there's a threshold you have to cross to understand it. a pain that doesn't occur til you've met the criteria. some tears, some regret, words you wish you could take back—heartbreak, after all, is a phenomenon, not a circumstance.
ushijima's not difficult to read, just look a little closer, there are obvious signs of his...sadness? misery? anguish maybe, or rather let's just call it what it is. a complete and utter wreckage. the type that can't be cleared or claimed by anyone else but you, always at the centre of it. he thinks you should take responsibility. scour this collapsion and make sense of it, pick up the pieces, put me back together, just—
"do something about it!" he shouts, so loud it echoes. a whole classroom looking on in stunned silence. ushijima clenches his fists and demands the world of you, that you'd turn it back upright on its axis and stay there, exactly where you're meant to be. who else is he to revolve and rebuild his life around.
"i can't do anything," you snap, rolling your eyes at his petulance and not bothering to hide it anymore, "the gym's been booked for weeks, the volleyball team has to share." as if he owns the place. like he has any right to command it. you're only meant to make arrangements, not shift things around to his liking. maybe once, you would've phrased it differently, made space for him the way you always did. but not when he's standing here, taking his anger out on you like he didn't set himself up for it. still, ushijima realizes his mistake with raising his voice, like something in him has been cut clean through, and he doesn't quite know how to respond to the absence.
it's quiet too beyond the classroom and not the kind of quiet that settles gently, but the kind that presses in, noticeable in every space you used to share. conversations that used to come easily now stall before they begin. you pass each other in the hallways like strangers. telling yourself this is normal, people break up, they move on, and so should you. except moving on feels nothing like you expected.
the worse thing is thinking of him still, all the time. in the most habitual ways. when you see something he would've pointed out, when you catch yourself about to say something he would've given no reaction to. you miss him, but not in a way that makes you turn back. just enough to ache, to remind. enough to know that whatever you had doesn't fit anymore.
and it only seems to get worse.
dealing with heartbreak is easier when you have extra snacks. the way you start eating without thinking, filling time, filling space. it's simpler to avoid everything when your mouth is occupied, when there's a distraction to focus on other than the dull, persistent ache sitting in your chest. taking shape as a packet of biscuits tucked into your bag. another in your drawer. maybe a milk tea after lunch, then something else just because.
you tell yourself it doesn't matter, until it does, until it's time alone and away form the rest of the world and you're sitting on the steps outside the gym. lunchbox open on your lap, half-finished, fingers dusted with crumbs as you reach for another biscuit you don't even want. but it's been a rough day, time ticks slowly and nothing seems to be going your way. it tastes sweet at first, then strangely flat, the aftertaste lingering longer than it should. texture dry and completely stale.
then there's a sound, and you don't look up when the doors open, but you hear him. ushijima steps out of the gym, sneakers hitting the ground in a measured gait with bag slung over his shoulder, posture the same as always, straight and unchanged. beside him...a girl.
you recognize her vaguely. swimmer, you think. tall and lean. she speaks in soft tones, with words carefully chosen. no animated expressions or exaggerated quips. everything about her streamlined and effortless in a way that makes your heart fall to your stomach. she says something to him, smiling, and he listens, head tilted slightly in that familiar way that means he's paying attention.
it shouldn't mean anything. it doesn't mean anything. 'you're overthinking again,' you hear him scolding you as you shove another biscuit into your mouth, chewing too quickly, the sweetness turning thick and cloying on your tongue. don't think about it. your throat tightens up and a heat starts to rise upwards. don't think about it. your vision turns blurry, tears already brimming. don't think about it. you chew. and chew. and chew. you don't want to be here, you don't want him to see you like this, he can't see you like this. sitting alone, crumbs on your fingers, halfway through something you didn't even want to eat. you stand up too fast, panic flaring sharp and sudden. thunk—
your lunchbox slips from your lap, hitting the ground with a dull, hollow clatter.
you freeze. the girl turns first and you see it in your peripheral vision, the shift, the movement, but you don't look at her. you can't. not when you already know what you'll see. your mind already filling in the details for you, sharpening, exaggerating them until she's everything you're not. and him—
you force yourself to glance up and ushijima is already looking at you. a still, unreadable expression on his face. eyes sharp, and lips pulled into a thin line. it's harsher than you remember—what happened to muscle memory, to the way his eyes used to lift and brighten when spotting you, lips already giving you a smile, already prepped to press against yours. as if the ushijima everyone knew melted away into something reserved just for you. there's no gentleness or subtlety here, nothing familiar to spot and say yes that's him, that's my man—just a flat, distant look that makes your chest tighten, because for a split second, just a second, you think he looks...disgusted.
the humiliation hits before you can stop it, making you feel exposed. you look away immediately, crouching down to gather your things, hands moving too quickly, clumsy in a way that makes everything worse. you don't bother closing the lunchbox properly and you don't wipe the crumbs from your fingers, or your face. merely shoving everything together like if you move fast enough, you could undo the moment, undo all of this.
"sorry," you mumble, though no one asked for it, but it's the only thing you can say. sorry i exist. sorry i intruded. sorry i made a mess and i'm still a mess. you keep your head down and you don't wait for a reply, leaving and hoping to never return.
all while ushijima improves, he plays harder, trains longer, wins more. there's no visible crack, nothing that suggests anything has changed. tendou for one still makes it a point to bring it up. won't stop asking questions, making jokes, setting him up with a new girl every week. "you're not even trying!" he whines, smacking ushijima by the shoulders as if gassing him up and trying to jumpstart his heart into beating again, to be functional at the very least.
"i am," ushijima replies, because he shows up. out of obligation more than interest. a few meetups. polite conversation. short replies that taper off into nothing. that small circle of girls from a different school tendou edges him closer to, "just say hi!" he urges, and ushijima comes up with a million other things he'd rather do.
like watching you get ready in the morning, or walking you home, or asking if you've eaten, asking if you're drinking enough water, did you leave your stuff behind again, maybe he could look around, find a familiar looking item that isn't just embedded in memory, but in front of him here. it would give him a chance to see you, tell you off. maybe you'd be reminded of his good points, wasn't that why you liked him? because he...cared about you? it was just a reaction, he'd say, explaining why he yelled, making up for his anger, his avoidance, would she even want that? he thinks, how do i go back, how do i make it right again, i'd do anything.
"i'm trying to get you outta this slump!" tendou makes too much noise for ushijima to really explain, not that he needs to when the results speak for themselves. it never goes further, nothing feels right. they don't look like you, don't sound like you. all these faces a blur when nothing comes close to round cheeks and the brightest smile he's ever seen. would they stir that urge in him to impress, to take care of everything as he should. would they make him feel like he was capable, that he could solve their problems with chastising, with teasing, that he's the only person who took lead in their life. would they stand on their tiptoes, asking for a kiss with puckered lips and glittery eyes, would they plead with him, for him, in that sulking way, in a breathy voice, whispering his name or calling out for him in need, lingering just there on the tip of their tongue, "ushi..." you said, called, begged. all so full of something irreplicable.
there was a time before all of this, when things were simple and there was no need for anyone else. the moments that used to belong to—"just the two of us..." you sing, voice carrying the tune imperfectly, coming up with lyrics of your own "we could make it if we tried..." ushijima stifles a snort, hides a smile behind your plush eagle. he insists on correcting you, itching to hear you tell him 'who cares! it's still the same thing!' but the days feel like they could go on forever and there was no rush. no need for specifics and right answers.
you lying beside him, freshly painted nails held out for inspection. "ta-da!" you exclaimed. wiggling your fingers showing off pinks and blues, gem and cat eye patterns galore, a different swirl on each finger. "i did them myself!" they weren't perfect, slightly uneven, in colours you weren't sure suited you. but for all the imperfections, it was a perfect first attempt. earnest and raw. as it should be.
he took your hand without hesitation, turning it slightly, examining it with that same quiet focus he gave everything else. "i like this," he said. and the way he said it, with certainty, so sure and confident, made something warm and giddy bloom in your chest.
"you do?" you stare at your nails now with a new perspective, no longer chaotic and messy but something to be proud of. you turn your hand slightly, watching how the light catches on the colour, and for once, you don't think about what could be better. you don't wonder how he would've seen it, what he would've said, if it would've been enough. forgoing the need to fuss or fix, to hide where the lines aren't perfect, shaking off the fact that the colour bleeds at the edges if you look closely. it doesn't feel like a flaw anymore, just proof that these hands of yours are exactly what he likes.
small and plump, your grip a little clumsy, hands you once thought weren't made for anything special—unlike his that are built for great things—you'd tucked them away more times than you could count, unsure of what they were worth. but ushijima takes them anyway, thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles before he lowers his head, pressing a gentle kiss there. your skin meets the smooth, warm touch of his lips, less to comfort and more to assure.
he notices how you perk up immediately and swears to you as a knight would making an oath, "i do," he says, unwavering. because ushijima's always noticed. fully, without hesitation, all the details you thought might go overlooked. maybe he's failed with others, trampled on their egos, hurting feelings without meaning to, but you took up space in his life in a way nothing else did, constant and unignorable, until paying attention to you wasn't a choice, but something that simply…happened.
he can see you limping, your shoes scraping slightly against the ground like you're trying to hide how much it hurts. walking a little slower with each step as the pavement seems to stretch on forever, damp from an earlier drizzle and hard under the soles of your feet.
he stops you without a word, hand closing gently around your wrist, pulling you in before you can brush it off. "i'm sorry," you huff, already tired and half-defensive, like you're expecting him to tell you to keep up.
but ushijima crouches in front of you on his knees, hands reaching out, "give me your shoes."
you blink, "what?"
"you're in pain," he says simply because it's reason enough, "i'll carry you."
even as you hesitate for a second, more out of habit than anything, you give in, toeing them off. ushijima hooks them easily between his fingers before he lifts you without effort, one arm under your legs with the other securing your back. the movement is seamless and natural, as if he's done this before, even though he hasn't. but it makes sense, this position, being the one who carries, who supports, who takes the weight without question. it makes him feel…right. reliable. like this is what he's meant to do. lead, protect, provide in the ways that matter.
you're different from him. softer where he is firm, uncertain where he is sure, but he doesn't mind. he's never minded. if anything, he finds it…endearing. the way your arms loop around his neck instinctively as you settle against him with a quiet sigh. your head rests against his shoulder, warm and trusting that he'd get you home safe. maybe it's the relief from your aching feet, or that you're surprised he doesn't make a big deal out of it, but the way he offers his service so plainly, always wanting to help, to make things better, makes you want to cry a little. you wonder if you could do the same, if there was a way to stop relying on him so much, because despite all the quiet assurances, you feel too heavy, too much of a burden wrapped in his arms. the sight you make must be so telling to others. one whos so spoilt and the other who could do better than carry his chubby girlfriend home.
the rain starts again, sudden and heavy, soaking through his shirt in seconds. it clings to him, tracing the lines of his body, dripping from his hair in steady streams, but he barely reacts. just shifting slightly, angling himself so you're shielded, shrugging his jacket up over you as best as he can. you barely notice the rain like this, only the sturdiness of his chest, the lingering scent on his neck, deodorant and soap lingering there. clean and familiar from after-practice showers. you think, distantly, how important those showers are. how careful he is about routine and preparation. what a shame that the rain is already undoing it, washing it away bit by bit.
it's so easy to feel ridiculous, but ushijima doesn't seem to feel the same. so you nuzzle your way a little closer, breathing it in while you still can. holding on to this fleeting moment and what remains before it's gone. "i love you," you murmur, half-asleep, the words slipping out like they've been eager to for awhile.
he stills. it's not a phrase he's practiced or prepared for. he understands what it means, logically, but saying it, returning it...feels like it demands more than he can give in that moment. the right timing, the right words. a conviction he doesn't have at the moment. a certainty he hasn't fully grasped yet.
when he looks down, you're already asleep against him, breath slow and even, he doesn't say it back. the rain pours, streetlights leading the way, he doesn't say it back. he sets you down upon your bed, dries the sheen of sweat and mist off your face, he doesn't say it back. he takes your socks off, keeps you warm, makes you tea, and still...he does what he's ought to, what he knows is right, all with a throbbing in his chest he can't put a name to, akin to the hurt of being incapable, of trying and still being on the losing end. he clenches his fist not in anger but frustration, wishing, wanting for something he just can't feel.
he realises it too late, when he's already lost you.
it's unfortunate that it happens after the relationship, not while everything was still possible. instead, it occurs later, in the silent, vacant locker room, when he has nothing to divert his attention from it. no drills to run, no voices to cut through the quiet, no version of you nearby to respond to. just the echo of water dripping from the showers, the faint hum of lights overhead, and the stillness pressing in on all sides. it comes to him there, without warning and without effort, settling into place with a clarity that feels almost undeserved. not a truth he arrives at, not a realization he works through. heartbreak, like love, just…is. and when it settles, it does so completely.
he sits, he sighs. with a towel resting loosely over his neck, feeling like there's nothing he can do about it. only left with the knowledge that he let something important slip past him without recognising it for what it was.
there were signs, even before. the way his gaze would sharpen when others looked at you a little too long. a subtle narrowing of his eyes, a warning not said but noticed. a sudden shift in focus that only ever happened for you. in hindsight, it wasn't done just out of caution but a deliberate choice to threaten. not with words. but in how he positioned himself closer, how his presence cut in without announcement, how his voice would get deep, stripping their pride away when necessary.
oikawa had been the worst of it. all easy charm, easy smiles, the kind of attention that came naturally. "she's cute," he said once. casually testing and watching for a reaction. as if he was asking for a fight, or hoping to mock. ushijima isn't stupid. he might not be the best at reading the room or the hidden meaning behind people's words, but he knows how some intend to provoke, to push at the edges of him just to see if it holds. which is why ushijima didn't hesitate.
"she's taken," he said, voice lower than usual. but even as he said it, he knows it wasn't entirely accurate. taken implies something claimed, and you hadn't been pursued. you had burst into his life, confident and convinced, placing the choice in front of him like it was obvious. and he had simply accepted. chosen what made sense.
he isn't sure oikawa would understand that, because the way oikawa looks at you, with light curiousity, like you were someone he could entertain, someone to entertain him, it lacks the weight of finality, of knowing that if it came down to it, if oikawa wanted the same thing he did—not just your attention, but you, entirely—then he wouldn't hesitate to take without asking, to charm and flirt his way into your heart and call it harmless.
ushijima's fist tightens slightly at his side, he wouldn't do that. he made a choice, yes, but more than that, he gave you one as well.
oikawa raised a brow, "didn't realise you were that serious about it." because he knows what they think of ushijima. that a relationship couldn't possibly be of interest to him, let alone sustaining one. so he doesn't bother with elaboration, leaving no room for misinterpretation. he claims it wasn't possessive, he could've done way worse, in the way others might've been, with fists and a sharp tongue, but it was firm. like he'd already decided where you belonged.
he grits his teeth at the thought of them now. classmates, friends, faces he can't even place properly anymore, just the memory of their attention lingering where it shouldn't have. you were always so passionate, so damn sweet. with praise and compliments for anyone, with the way your eyes lit up over the smallest things, something cute, something funny, with a warmth that spilt over into everything you touched, adding beauty to the most mundane of things. all the world before you, and you took every opportunity you had to admire it. so...irresistible and infectious. his popularity be damned, none of that ever mattered. men don't stop for anything, shouldn't stop, not when they want something. not when it comes to you. and yet, he had.
and how could he have refused you? ushijima never let his sights wander, always fixed on a dream he was already halfway to achieving, each step leading somewhere defined. you were nothing like that. you lingered in the small moments he would've otherwise passed by. the way sunlight hit a window just right, the quiet joy of a sweet treat shared between classes, the long stretches of time that didn't need to be optimised. and somehow, without force or insistence, you pulled him into those spaces with a firm grasp, guiding him to a place unfamiliar. places without goals or outcomes. places that didn't make sense to him at first, but felt important anyway, simply because you were there. why did he draw the line at claiming you in moments, but not in meaning. why did he ever think that was enough.
years pass and you see him everywhere. on billboards, on posters, across your feed. interviews, matches, headlines. his name carries weight now, his presence larger than anything that used to exist between the two of you. sometimes there are memories that return when you stumble into the familiar, a picture of him with tendou, both of them mid-laugh, capturing a rare bond, fleeting youth caught in the frame. and another more recent one of ushijima standing beside the swimmer you remember, both of them holding up gold medals at the olympics, the weight of it heavy and unmistakable in their expressions. you swipe, and there's a second image. this time not on a podium, but at a quiet table, a selfie of the two of them dressed in laidback, stylish clothes, leaning slightly toward each other in the frame. it has the kind of ease that says 'we're on a date,' or maybe just 'we've shared something significant and understand each other because of it.'
there's an ease between them, a sense that they're like two pieces of a puzzle fitting together, like they were meant to be. something you recognise but can't relate to despite how much you want to. it makes you pause, but just for a second. telling yourself that you wouldn't want that anymore, not if it means you'd put yourself down, after all, a new relationship doesn't make the one you had with him any less meaningful.
still, he looks the same. older, but still him. taller in a way that feels more defined now, broad shoulders filling out his frame, posture as straight and unyielding as ever. his features have sharpened with time, jaw more set, gaze steadier, carrying that same unwavering focus that once made it impossible to look away. there's more to him now, worn in at the edges, so masculine, like experience and age has settled into his bones, making him all the more handsome and still too much for you to ever have kept to yourself.
you think, this is better. this is what he was always meant for. whatever you had with him belongs somewhere you could never traverse again. in a classroom, in your old bedroom, in the backseat of his car. all the places the two of you have left behind, the places that don't quite fit into the life he has now.
so you keep scrolling.
but ushijima doesn't. and he knows better than to make it obvious, but he's finally alone. no teammates, no press, no fans around. he tells himself he'll be careful, he never likes posts, he doesn't comment, he doesn't leave any trace that he's been where he shouldn't. but he sees them.
here in the dim light of his hotel room, he can't help himself. ushijima fiddles with the waistband of his shorts, fingers hooking into his underwear too and letting them slide down. his cock already hard and throbbing, leaking pre at the tip, he hisses when the cool air stings just a little. with shaky hands, he strips off and reaches for his phone, giving into an urge he's been struggling to tamper. he taps and types and dives headfirst into your profile, already looking for a new post.
like the one where you're on vacation, a tropical place with open sky, white sand and sunlight catching on your skin, wearing a swimsuit that hugs you in ways that feel more confident now. no more pastel pinks and bunny rabbit patterns, no more frills or ribbons, no more loose clothing to hide and cover the parts you found unflattering. he's watched you get ready for school countless times, but he'd always look away, steeling himself to resist.
but here, his gaze doesn't pull away. observing and fixated. you're still you. still plush and full, but different too. grown into yourself in a way that makes something tighten in his chest. "you're still so pretty..." he groans under his breath, voice low, rougher than he expects, speaking more to himself than anything, like he's trying to ground the thought before it runs too far. because looking at you like this, so distant, so unaware, feels dangerously close to wanting something he no longer has any right to. he's tilting his head back and moaning from how much it hurts, how much he wants. it's not revealing or provocative in theory, you're just lying in the sand, hair mussed by salt and sweat, eyes half-lidded against the sun, lips curling by the corners as if you know he's watching, caught in a moment that feels like you're encouraging him.
it should be nothing more than a simple photo, but he stares at it like it holds more meaning, all while stroking himself while his precum does enough to get him slick, oozing clear and down his shaft as he thrusts up into his fists. zooming in and noticing drops of seawater clinging to your skin, at the curve of your neck, trailing lower and catching in the hollow just above your chest. that spot where your swimsuit dips and holds your breasts up, he imagines what it'd be like to cup them in his palms, his hands are big enough, now more than ever.
he tries to stop, to make himself last, he can't be a grown man finishing in the first few seconds, that would be embarrassing, wrong even. he's always told himself he'd make you come first, that his pleasure shouldn't be above yours. but even as his eyes move lower, just to peek at something else, to move farther from the edge of his climax, there's nothing there to save him from it. the curve of your waist, the way the fabric hugs without apology, a belly that's pudgy and sitting right atop the waistband, that soft flesh he's always wanted to bite down on. detail after detail that pulls him right back in.
it isn't posed or edited, it seems like you're not even trying, and that's what makes it worse. he swipes, careful to keep his thumb away from double tapping, from closing the app entirely, from letting go and moving on. your lips are parted slightly, like you've just exhaled, hair damp and tousled, sticking faintly to your cheek. there's a glow to your skin, like you've been oiled, so smooth, so healthy. maybe it's just that you're happy, alive, and your expression, so unguarded and unaware, so content, feels too intimate for something meant to be seen by everyone.
he shouldn't be looking at you like this—"i miss you," he grits out, stroking fast as he drops his phone to the side, choosing to let his imagination take over, choosing to picture you in his mind's eye. you on your back with legs perched on his shoulder, folding you in half and leaning in so close, he wants to watch your face, wants to see you teary eyed and loving every second of him fucking into you, letting him kiss and suck on your tongue as he fucks you through it. he's not one to talk, but sex requires communication, and maybe in this respect, he fails too, unable to tell you how he really feels, how badly he wants you just as you are, he should've told you, he should've proven it to you then, but the pleasure should say all it needs to, he could show you still, please ask for it, please beg for me, please take me back, please don't make me wallow in regret—but he does.
because even like this, where you're untouchable and entirely out of his reach, you still feel like something that was once his to hold. that you weren't just a memory or a loss, that you're not gone forever. it's present. immediate. the thought of you, the shape of you, the way you'd felt under his hands. he feels his balls tightening up, feels his stomach coil tight. here, on the precipice of coming all over his left hand and washing himself with cum and consolation, he wants to hope, he wants, more than anything, to try again.
"please!" he whines, sounding so pathetic to his ears, so desperate, but there's no one to listen or interrupt it. no one to pull him out of it, and he groans so loud the walls could shake. he comes and it sets him on fire, blazing hot and burning with passion, with renewed vigor, cum shooting out across his abdomen and landing across his chest in ropes. "holy shit," he breathes out, it's so hot, too much of a hassle for him to clean up, why does he always do this. his chest heaves, his eyes water, hair sweaty and damp, sticking to his forehead, but he keeps at it. stroking til he's too sensitive to go on, tip bobbing and spurting that last few pumps of cum, he wonders, just how good it would feel to press it against your tongue, watching it spill into your mouth on the comedown.
and afterward, when he's done with the guilt—not of jerking off but having relied solely on that, for putting himself in this position, for resorting to it—he exhales and reaches for his phone, just to check the time. but the screen lights up, and it's still there.
your picture, and the small, unmistakable mark beneath it.
he liked it. one red heart added to the count. for a second, he just stares, something sharp and immediate cutting through the quiet he'd just settled into. it's so fucking careless, so unlike him. fuck, he doesn't remember deciding to do it. doesn't remember pressing anything at all.
his thumb hovers over the screen. it would be simple to undo it, act like nothing happened, like it were a mistake. too quick for you to have noticed. everything undone in a second.
but he doesn’t press it. instead, the screen dims in his hand, the image fading to black, everything remains, still attached to your name. awaiting your notice as ushijima awaits your reach.
give me the breakup arc now, give me the words he's unable to utter, unable to say how torn he feels between the effortful and effortless. how does he try at love, exerting himself when it requires so much less than that. the most he can offer is truth, in its most blunt and unrefined form. because it lacks comfort? or because his vulnerability stays locked behind a single word, a single touch. the reach would suffice, not to feel but just to know he has intentions, so he knows you're within grasp. that you're not made of porcelain but it would be nice to be held and admired once in awhile, if only ushijima were capable of handling the fragile and fine you.
high school is a time of turmoil and treading into the unknown, or at least in ushijima's case, the uncertain. a relationship isn't a priority but there's a lingering expectation. an excitement bubbling, a budding urge he can't tamper. blames it on temptation steering him away from goals and achievements more worthwhile. also because his teammates talk about nothing else, do nothing else. it's always girls and dates and a never-ending plethora of issues and fights they're working through, 'we're figuring things out' they say but it starts and ends like seasons. it seems relationships don't last that long, a month or two tops, lucky if they get to three, but everyone cries and complains and grieves for something so...insignificant.
he thinks he's above it, that he wouldn't be as afflicted as the rest of them, all tears and snot and wasted time, no, he'll succeed, he'll make the most of his abilities, move forward without unnecessary distractions. he knows what he's capable of, and that he wouldn't need to...prove himself as such. not in this matter. not even when it's so hard to resist, when it would be easier to relent.
he falters, not all at once, but in small, inconvenient fractures. in the way his attention drifts toward you, staying put a second too long. your pressed skirt riding up your thighs, grey sweater tight around your chest. "mahhh, would you look at that, someone's making it very hard to concentrate," tendou grins, eyes glinting with mischief. ushijima doesn't admit how purple has never looked better when grazing such soft, supple skin. or how his decisions begin to account for you without him meaning to, he hands you the pen you forgot, or grabs the book you dropped, almost automatically. like he's indulging himself, but not quite, tells himself that it makes sense to act where needed, it isn't affection but efficiency.
when you look at him with that confident, sparkling glint in your eyes—hoping he'll notice the careful sweep of eyeshadow, the way your lashes curl and flutter, the new eyeliner you saved up for, expensive but justified because this is a special occasion. the chubby girl never confesses first, not to the most popular guy in school, not when the gap between you—physical, social—says everything before you ever could. not only would be useless, it would be unwelcome. still, you tell yourself, stubborn and bright with something that feels like hope—this time, you think, this time i will get the guy.
there's a pause, not long but just enough for him to think. "i can try," he says, like he's weighing something practical. shrugging casually with hands tucked into his pockets, "but i won't lie about how i feel just to make this work." it should sound like a boundary, but you hear it as a chance, even though there's a quiet part of you that wonders if love is supposed to sound like a trial run. but he's not pretending or leading you on, and that feels like respect. so you say "thank you, thank you, thank you!" with pumping fists and an excited squeal. throwing him off balance when you give him a hug so tight, so warm. he doesn't hug you back but the awkward pat atop your head is a good alternative.
it's not hard to find significance in alternatives, not when you've spent so long learning how to read meaning into the almosts, into what's given instead of what's missing. convincing yourself that a half-step forward still counts as progress, that something adjacent to affection can still be called love if you hold onto it tightly enough. because he's worth it, or at least, that's what you tell yourself. the best you're ever going to get, the closest thing to a boyfriend. he is exactly what you want, you insist, as you start shaping that want around him—trimming it down, smoothing it over, until it fits neatly into what he's willing to give.
ushijima who's easy to understand in a way that almost throws you off. you're so used to indirect insults and backhanded compliments—'i admire your confidence!' and 'wow you have such a great personality!' sounds so grating—but when he speaks, it's like he expects the world to meet him at face value. "i like this on you," shouldn't sound so rewarding, but he makes his team jacket feel like high fashion, like you're the prettiest girl in the world when draped over you. there isn't anything to compare you to, no invisible scale you're being measured against, simply a declaration that stands alone and allows you to coexist with it.
there's no speculating, no second layer to peel back, just his voice landing exactly where it means to. you don't have to wonder if he's lying, and that feels rare enough to hold onto because it means he does like you, he chooses you. even when his words are sparse, even when they don't come wrapped in subtleness. you start to build something out of them anyway. all piled up into something steady and stable you can stand on without second-guessing your footing.
it happens slowly, without intention. he walks beside you after school because it's on his way. he listens when you talk, not absentmindedly, but with focus, like your words matter in a practical, grounded way. he says things like, "i don't like guessing games," and "i'll tell you if something's wrong," and you nod, thinking this is what honesty is supposed to look like. you don’t notice the warning in it, that honesty, to him, doesn't bend.
you start to rely on him and the quiet way he shows up. 'getting the guy' has never been so difficult, or rather, he puts you up to the challenge, making it feel like something to be earned. "you should know i'm the prize!" you scoff, arriving at the cafe he picked for your first date. not bothering to ask about your preferences, just sent a location pin with a time and date, like he was scheduling a meeting instead. "and if you think this is gonna woo me, you're wrong!” you add with a huff, even as you slide into the seat across from him.
it's not that he's inattentive, it's the opposite, almost. he decides everything. orders for you before you can open your mouth, asks the waiter for a window seat without checking, sets the pace of the conversation like there's a right way for it to go. there's taking the lead, and then there's steamrolling. so firm and unyielding, like your input was considered elsewhere without confirmation. it should annoy you more than it does. well, it does annoy you.
but the pancakes are delicious, fluffy and not too sweet, letting the berries shine instead of drowning them out. the sparkling apple cider cuts clean through the richness of the caramel cake, and there's a small bowl of your favourite fruit, neatly cut and placed closer to your side of the table without comment. it's thoughtful in a way that sneaks up on you, precise enough that it doesn't feel like a coincidence.
you don't know if you should be mad or flattered, but ushijima makes up your mind for you, "i thought it was the guy's responsibility to plan the first date," he explains flatly, "based on your socials, you seem to like sweet things, and this place has five-star reviews—" he pauses, like he's checking his own logic, then adds, "this was the most efficient option."
it doesn't feel like settling, more like learning a new language. not just about translating, but learning different ways of looking at the nuances, such as why certain expressions exist. where affection isn't loud or obvious, but tucked into smaller, quieter places. you tell yourself that just because it doesn't look the way you imagined, it doesn't mean it isn't there. and if you listen closely enough and pay attention in the right ways, you'll hear it all the same.
sometime in the summer, when the air feels lighter and the days stretch just a little longer, he takes you out to the arcade. it's nothing extravagant—just a quiet suggestion, a time and place sent the night before—but it still feels different. outside of uniforms, outside of routine, you both look…new. you catch him glancing once, briefly, at the way your dress moves when you walk, soft and flattering in a way that makes you stand a little straighter. and you notice him too, in a simple tshirt and jeans, sleeves just short enough to show the line of his arms, unassuming and unfairly handsome. neither of you say anything about it, but it's known anyway, private and unspoken.
you both squeeze into the tiny photobooth. barely fitting but snug enough that you feel the swell of his bicep pressed against your arm. you like it more than you should, enough that you have to control the way your smile threatens to give you away. as you adjust yourself on the screen, fixing your hair and checking angles, ushijima doesn't move. he sits still, posture straight, head just slightly out of frame.
"we have four photos lined up, are you just gonna sit there for all of them!" you chide, nudging him lightly.
he glances at the screen, then back at you, unfazed, "i don't want to ruin it," he says simply.
you blink, "ruin it?"
"i'm not good at photos," he shrugs.
it can't be true, not with a face like his. you stare at him for a second, then decide to beg "pleeeasee?" grabbing and tugging at his sleeve gently, you give him your best pouty look, which doesn't do much when he only raises an eyebrow in reply.
you huff, dropping the cute act, "you're supposed to be my boyfriend right now! we're makin' memories here! we have to pose! like a hug, or a kiss!" you point at the sample strip taped to the side of the booth. four frames of a couple leaning into each other, kissing from different angles. "look! i don't know about you, but they look like a real couple to me," you wiggle your eyebrows suggestively. well, kissing is rather conservative given that they look like they're about to suck each other's face off. it's way too crude to be up there.
he studies it for a moment, expression unreadable. "they look…committed," he says, matter-of-fact, in that deadpan tone you've grown so fond of.
you burst out laughing and the flash goes off for the first picture, catching you mid-laugh while he remains still beside you, arms crossed, expression steady.
then he shifts, just slightly closer, his shoulder pressing more firmly against yours. flash.
you’re still smiling, but your breath catches as his arm uncrosses, hand hovering for a moment before settling at your waist, tentative but sure. flash.
there's barely time to think before he closes the distance properly, one hand coming up to cradle your jaw, thumb warm against your cheek as he tilts your face toward his. that's when his lips meet yours, perfectly timed with the camera's final burst of light. flash.
"um..." you blink when it's over, heart racing, heat blooming across your face. the screen shows a preview of the photos, all perfectly framing the progression. your cheerful, unobstructed laughter, his careful, gradual movement towards you, the subtle possession of his hand on your waist and jaw, and ultimately, the kiss, captured clearly and unmistakably in the final moment. "we have to decorate!" you exclaim, a little too quickly.
you're immediately enthusiastic, tapping on stickers and scribbling doodles across the strips. sparkles, stars, little notes that make you giggle. he sits beside you, arms folded again, watching with a faint self-satisfied smirk that you pretend not to notice.
"and you have to participate in this too!" you tell him.
he doesn't respond right away, but when you step back to admire your work, he reaches forward, tapping a few pink and red heart stickers and placing them in the most random corners. overlapping your scribbles, filling empty spaces without any real pattern. it's messy, uneven, nothing like the neat symmetry you were going for, but somehow it pulls everything together.
finally, he leans in, tapping the screen with blunt precision, adding a small text box at the bottom. 'better with you.'
he treats you like everyone else, which ought to signify nothing, yet it matters because he notices things—when you're quieter than usual, when you leave your belongings on his desk, when you look like you're about to ask for help with your homework but don't. he doesn't make a scene out of it, doesn't lower his voice or linger longer than necessary, but he adapts in small, practical ways. he waits, reminds, steps in without asking if you need his advice or yet another one of his brief lectures. occasionally, he opts for his personal solutions too. it feels like care, even if it isn't dressed like it, even if it doesn't reach for you in the way you sometimes wish it would. and maybe that's enough to convince you that it's the thought that counts, that intention matters more than delivery, that love—if this is what it is—doesn't always have to feel gentle to be real.
"where did you find it!" you exclaim, relieved but bewildered when you spot the airtag clipped neatly onto the handle of your water bottle. ushijima holds it out toward you with one arm, giving it a small shake like he's prompting you to take responsibility for it. "you left it in my car," he says, plain as anything, "i didn’t want it to get lost again." he doesn’t sound ticked off, but the faint pink creeping across his cheeks gives him away, enough to tell you exactly where, exactly when.
"oh," you say, before your face twists into a cheeky little expression, grinning from ear to ear, "sorry, was kinda distracted then." and you don't bother hiding the implication. four hours making out in the backseat of his car will do that—your water bottle the least of your concerns.
he pauses, just for a second, like he's deciding whether to respond or let it pass. no room for words when the taste and feel of your lips still lingers there. faintly sweet, like the water you'd been sipping, warm from the way you kept leaning into him instead of pulling away. it comes back in fragments more than anything. the press of you against him in that cramped space, the distinct hitch of your breath when you laughed into his mouth, when you moaned, the way your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like you needed something solid to hold onto.
it isn't the kind of memory he dwells on often, but it stays anyway, clearer than it should be, sharper than the present moment in front of him. his thoughts circling back to you and nothing else. your lips, the warmth of your skin, the curve of your body pressed against his in ways he can't articulate without heat creeping up his neck and in other more intimate places too. the things he wants to do when there's more time, more space, all for the closeness he craves, his car will not do, four hours isn't enough, it floods his mind so fully, the prospects, the plans, fuck this, he's unable to think. enough that when he looks at you now, all smug and grinning like it's nothing, he has to choose, deliberately, to let it pass.
"you should keep track of your things," he settles on instead, calm and composed. except now the pink has spread a little further up his ears. you stifle a squeal, biting down on your lip when he looks too good like this. that restraint, that refusal to indulge you outright, feels just as telling as if he had.
he's good to you in ways that are hard to argue with, but when it comes to you, how you look, how you feel, his words land differently. "you don't have to put on so much," he says once, glancing at your makeup, not unkindly but direct. and another time, "you're overthinking again," he says when it's been weeks and you've still not listed career choices and possible universities to apply to. there's no cruelty in it, just an assurance that this is helpful, that this is what you need to hear. and you tell yourself he cares, because he does, but you start adjusting yourself so there's less for him to correct.
and it builds. you laugh something off, then think about it later. you hesitate before speaking, filtering your thoughts the way he never filters his. later, in the library, you're bent over a stack of textbooks, trying to make sense of equations that twist your brain in knots, the same ones you've been staring at the past few hours. he leans over, pointing at a mistake in your notes, and his fingers brush yours for just a second. it's barely anything, accidental—or maybe not—but it leaves a spark that won't go away. he doesn't notice—or pretends not to—the way your heart stutters, and you don't either, at least not aloud.
the moment stretches into silence between you. the smell of his soap mixes with the faint scent of old books, and the directness in his voice as he explains the solution contrasts sharply with the subtle heat of that touch. "it's not that hard," he says, and you're hit with the realization that this is turning into an impossible task. sitting straighter, thinking faster, hoping that if you just get these questions right, you'd fit neatly into his world—even just this tiny part of it—you'll feel like you belong. and somehow, the thought excites and terrifies you.
when you finally tell him, carefully, that sometimes the way he says things hurts, he frowns slightly, not defensive, but wholly confused. "i'm just being honest," he says, "would you rather i lie?" and you don’t have an answer for that, not one that doesn't make you feel unreasonable. because he is honest. he just doesn't seem to understand that honesty can still bruise.
it happens on a day that wasn't meant to matter. you've made another attempt, tried again, new effort, new hope, something softer in how you present yourself. within the snug confines of your bedroom, you twirl to show him your newly-altered uniform. the grey sweater hugs your curves a little more gently, the skirt rests comfortably on your hips without pulling too tight, and you've chosen a shade of lipstick that feels like you, not what you think he expects. he notices, obviously he does. as he sits by the edge of your bed, he eyes you a moment too long, inspecting your figure in that way that makes you self-aware even as it indicates he's scrutinizing. and then, almost reflectively, he comments, "i think you looked better before, this seems like you're trying too hard."
you feel it settle somewhere deep, heavier than it should, would it kill him to just give you a compliment, because it isn't just about the uniform, it's every small correction, every time you've tucked in your stomach, pressed your shoulders back, tried to slim down, reshaped yourself into something easier for him to accept.
deflating, you roll your eyes but hide it from his view, sighing loud as you turn away and go back to getting ready. "if losing a little bit of weight is trying too hard..." you whisper to yourself, already seething but holding back your tongue before your words bind you to a worse fate. still, as best as you try to hide it, your hands betray you when you practically throw your hairbrush aside instead of setting it down gently. or that you forego using perfume today because screw it, why would it even matter! slamming down the bottle with a loud thud.
"do you even like me?" you ask suddenly, louder than you expect, the words spilling out before you can filter them, trembling at the edges. "or just the version of me that makes sense to you?" the version that's easier to handle, that was so willing. the thought hits you like a cold weight, perhaps if you stayed as you are, he'd find more reasons to poke and prod. that the honesty he prides himself on could turn into a relentless measuring stick, one you could never pass. your chest tightens with the fear, but also a stubborn spark. you need to know, one way or another, whether he's capable of seeing all of you—and liking it.
he exhales, like he's weighing the truth carefully. "i like you," he says, "but i'm not going to pretend i don't notice things. that wouldn't be fair to either of us."
either of us he says. as if you ever pointed things out so deliberately, without consideration or compassion. as if you looked at him and saw all the ways he could change, should change—cataloging every imperfection like it was a flaw to be fixed, every slip or hesitation something to correct. but you never did that. you noticed, yes, the way he carried himself, the way he spoke, the tiny habits that made him…him, and you internalized them instead. you tried to mould yourself around them, sharpen the contours, smooth the curves, shrink the parts of you that felt too much, thinking that's what love meant. i will get the guy. i will be better. and now, it feels like it's not enough, like it all means nothing. the weight of all the effort you piled on yourself, and it hurts differently than any insult ever could.
"i thought you'd like a smaller girl," for all these expectations he has, he should've thought about the most obvious one. still, you shrug off the faint tugging in your heart, forcing the words out with more bite than you feel, "not that i did it for you, but the least you could do is be supportive."
he blinks, caught off guard for just a second, then meets your gaze evenly, "i am supportive," he says, "but i preferred you the way you were, that doesn't make..." he gestures vaguely to your figure, "...this wrong. it's just…is what it is."
"this? i'm trying to be better, isn't that what you want?" your voice lifts, not quite breaking, but stretched thin with something too close to it.
"you wanted this," he says, sharper than before, the words landing with more force than he probably intends. and you don't know if he means the changes you've made or the relationship as a whole, but there it is—the line he never crosses. the place where he won't soften or bend, won't meet you halfway if it means changing how he speaks, how he sees. and for the first time, you understand that this isn't something that will grow into what you need. this is already everything he's willing to give.
even says, "i just went along with it," when it can't get any worse for you. out of all the things to say, he chooses the one that cuts deep, or maybe it just makes the most sense. "you were the one who pushed for this." he doesn't say it cruelly, but like a fact he's simply acknowledging, not something he realizes could break you.
"i'm done," you don't cry when you say it. that surprises you more than anything. the solidness of your voice and how it doesn't waver, like this was a long time coming, like the decision had settled into place long before this moment. there's a dull ache in your chest, but it isn't overwhelming. it's final, like closing a door you've been holding open for too long. "we're just two very different people," you say, there's no villain here, just a shape that never quite fit.
ushijima doesn't reply, doesn't refute, you're over waiting for explanations or apologies. he won't offer them anyway. his silence isn't empty, but it isn't reaching either, he makes no attempt to stop you and there's no instinct to fix what's breaking. he just sits there, elbows on knees, like he's accepting the outcome of something he already understood the limits of.
but you know him well enough to recognize it. the way he chooses silence over the inevitable end unfolding in front of him. because saying it out loud, the mere speaking of it. would make it real in a way that can't be taken back. and he doesn’t avoid reality, he won't delude himself, he meets it head-on, even when it costs him. "i told you from the start i won't lie to you," he says, not defensive, just stating fact.
"i know," you reply, you do know. he didn't mislead you, didn’t promise something he couldn’t keep. you were the one who kept hoping honesty would eventually sound like softness, like reassurance, like the kind of love that didn’t make you feel like you were being measured.
he nods after a moment. "i guess, this is it," but the words feel bitter, the taste of lies has never sat right there, but he can't seem to stop, can't seem to make sense of why he needs to do it in the first place. there’s something off in the delivery, something that doesn’t quite align with the certainty he usually carries. like he's simplifying something he hasn't fully examined.
because you believe him. you always have. and maybe that's why he doesn't push further, doesn't correct himself, doesn't dig into whatever is sitting uncomfortably beneath his own words. would it be too much to ask that you call him out on it now, that you push him, make him say it properly—go on, make me admit it, make me say that this mattered more than i planned for, that you mattered more than i accounted for, that i love —
but you don't, and he doesn't. and the silence that follows says everything neither of you will.
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the gym in poland is quieter than he remembers japan being. bigger, too. ceilings stretched higher than ever before, the echoes linger longer, and the language around him shifts in ways he's grown accustomed to but never fully settled into. practice ended hours ago, but ushijima remains, alone with a ball in his hands, running through motions that don't require translation. launching spikes and serves like clockwork.
"you always stay late, or is this one of those brooding things i've heard so much about?" the voice cuts clean through the empty space. familiar and so very amused.
ushijima doesn't turn immediately, "kuroo," he states.
tetsuro leans lazily against the doorway as he takes it all in, like it doesn't take much to get comfortable, arms crossed, grin easy and unchanged despite the years. "took some effort to find you out here," he adds, "you don’t make it easy."
ushijima almost laughs, "didn't think you would try."
"yeah, well," kuroo shrugs, pushing off the wall and stepping inside, "i was in the area. figured i'd check on japan's finest export." his gaze sweeps the gym, then settles back on ushijima. "plus, i was curious."
ushijima finally looks at him. "about what?" there are only a few possibilities, and he already knows which one kuroo's here for. oikawa's been harping on about an all-star match for weeks, and shoyo's only made it worse, running with it like it's his personal mission to stir interest out of everyone.
kuroo's smile widens just a little, "about whether you're still like this," he gestures vaguely toward ushijima and everything else he's made up of, at the empty gym, the late hour, the quiet persistence, "or if anything's managed to get through that thick head of yours yet."
ushijima considers the question and the answer comes easier than it should. "there was someone," he says.
kuroo stills, interest piqued immediately, "was?"
"is," ushijima corrects.
the air shifts and kuroo lets out a low hum, something more thoughtful than teasing now. "huh. didn’t take you for the 'holding on' type." because everyone knew what he'd been like all those years ago. anchored, immovable, the kind of person a girl wouldn't be enough to derail. when ushijima's breakup was just news, it had been treated like anything else, noted, processed, and moved past. an opportunity for others to step in, to try their luck, to see if there was space where you used to be.
but there hadn't been. not really. not ever. "i'm not." he says, he hadn't changed in any obvious way. still consistent, focused, still the same player they'd always known. if anything, he'd only gotten better. but there lies something distinct no one could quite name at the time. the absence of what was once there, subtle but noticeable if you looked long enough.
"sure," kuroo says lightly, "...and yet."
ushijima looks back down at the ball in his hands, turning it over, passing it back and forth between his palms. the same way he used to turn over plays in his mind. except this isn't something he's been able to solve. "i haven't seen her in years," he says, "we don't speak."
kuroo studies him now, "you never replaced her," he says, not quite a question.
ushijima sighs, "and i still think about her." he doesn't know which comes first, the smile that forces its way on his lips or the sharp pang in his chest. but there's no hesitation in his words, no attempt to soften the blow of his admission, just a statement of fact.
kuroo exhales, slow, almost impressed, "wow, you're serious."
ushijima doesn't respond. he doesn’t need to and the silence stretches, filled with the bouncing thud of the ball hitting the floor and something heavier than before.
"what happened?" kuroo asks eventually, tone still curious but also wary.
ushijima's uncertain how he should answer, "i was honest."
kuroo snorts, then nods, like he could relate completely, "sounds like your version of a horror story. no need to elaborate."
but he does, he goes on as if maybe it'll ease the ache a little, "we...had our differences. she wanted a boyfriend and i guess i didn't know how to be one." it's not regret, exactly. he doesn’t frame things that way, but it's close. uttered with the same ingredients, self-blame and a realization that's just a fraction too late.
"i thought…" he pauses, searching for the correct wording, like it still matters to get it right, "i thought if something could be improved, it should be said, that it was the right way to care."
kuroo watches him, "and?"
"i guess she took my words to heart, we called it quits," ushijima's gaze drifts, unfocused for a moment, "she listened, like she always does." kuroo's expression shifts, something understanding settling in.
"and you didn’t want her to," he adds, another pause.
"no," ushijima admits, but not for the last time.
"so what," kuroo says after a beat, tone lighter again but not dismissive, "you're just gonna think about her forever? never try again?"
the truth is, he has tried. in small, practical ways. conversations that went nowhere. moments that didn’t stay. nothing that lingered the way you did. "i haven't found a reason to stop," he says instead.
kuroo lets out a breath, half-laugh, half-sigh, "that’s rough."
ushijima nods once and they move on. still, you remain there a weight in his chest. a fragment of himself left tethered to someone he can't reach anymore.
if he were as honest as he thinks he is, he might've said it more. how much he's carried it all these years, how long he's held on, how the thought of you never really left. even in another country, another team, another life, you still occupy every corner in his mind. he might've said, i haven't gotten over you, i can't move on, i'd like to be better. the words simple, unadorned, and painfully true. but he doesn't. not yet.
hm...probably toji because he's the lesser of two evils and that's by a large margin. that said, after picturing a relationship with jinichi, i'm not entirely on board with experiencing clan life as his wife, not even as a lover, there's a moral discrepency i can't overlook, esp when he plays a part in the cycle of dysfunction and abuse, not actively but his passivity serves his own self-interest. as much as i love apathetic characters who are scary and a lil violent, a relationship with toji would be normal in comparison. 'two evils', isn't right either, as if toji had similar or worse intentions. i feel alot of my misgivings with him come from a place of assumption. it's become common to say he's a deadbeat or that he doesn't shower lmao, probably more true than false but he's more doomed than anything, being a zenin, never healing from grief, there are instances of self-hatred and regret, but a whole lot of heart too. and if this is about what i think it's about—no, i don't find jinichi ugly in fact i want him to break my pelvis and spit in my mouth while he pounds me through the mattress.
