a/n: this is for giggles only, no serious allegations 😭
also i will not be watching the world cup anymore IDCCC I WANTED MBAPPE TO WIN so i will be finding out match results through social media and through anyone who would like to update me
there is a video somewhere on facebook (uploaded by his mom in glorious 240p quality) of 6 year old isagi standing in front of his elementary school class with a bowlcut so tragic that it genuinely looked like someone balanced a mixing bowl on his head before attacking it with kitchen scissors, confidently announcing that his dream was "to become the strongest dinosaur." not soccer player. DINOSAUR.
when his teacher gently reminded him that dinosaurs were extinct, little isagi burst into tears and yelled, "then i'll be the first one back." every birthday, his mother comments "my little t-rex 🦖💙" under his instagram posts, and his teammates have absolutely found the original video.
during middle school he went through an intense motivational quote phase where every single one of his posts was a blurry sunset with captions like "winners never quit. quitters never win. #grind #mindset #dreambig" despite the fact that he was literally 13 years old and had homework due the next day.
bachira once unearthed the account and now randomly sends him screenshots whenever isagi starts giving tactical speeches. "weren't you the one who said 'pain is weakness leaving the body' after failing your math quiz?"
he accidentally replied "love you too ❤️" to his dentist (he thought it was his mom) after they texted "see you next week!" and didn't realize until 3 days later. he changed dentists.
his first email address was something like [email protected] because 12 year old isagi believed there was a chance nike would email him directly.
his mom still owns a video of him trying to recreate a bicycle kick in the backyard, completely missing the ball, flipping over anyway, and somehow kicking himself in the forehead. you can hear her trying not to laugh behind the camera while asking if he's okay. he responds with a thumbs up before immediately starting to cry.
itoshi rin
rin genuinely believed he was mysterious in middle school. in reality, he was just... 13. there is an old instagram account consisting entirely of blurry pictures of rain puddles, empty hallways, electrical poles, and black-and-white photos of his own shoes with captions like "..." or "nothing lasts forever." he posted these from an iphone 6 while his mom was texting him asking what he wanted for dinner.
when he first discovered english, he refused to use google translate because he thought he was "figuring it out naturally." he wasn't. there is still an old bio floating around somewhere that proudly read: cold... never giveing up... wolf spirit... football is my destiny... don't disturbing me.
sae found it within 30 seconds.
as a kid he was interviewed after a youth tournament and, with his entire face covered in juice from the orange slices they gave everyone afterward, looked dead into the camera and said, "i don't have friends because they slow me down." right after finishing the interview, he walked over to his teammate and asked if they wanted to trade pokemon cards. the contrast hurts.
there exists security camera footage from a grocery store where he walked directly into one of those automatic glass doors because he expected it to open faster than it actually did. instead of checking whether anyone saw, he stared at the door like it had hit him.
he once got caught practicing intimidating facial expressions in his phone camera before a match because he wanted to "look scarier." buttt, he forgot the front camera was recording. the video is just 5 straight minutes of him furrowing his eyebrows in complete silence before sneezing out of nowhere.
itoshi sae
sae had the opposite problem: his digital footprint is almost nonexistent... except for the tiny handful of things that somehow make everything worse.
there is exactly one surviving family video from when he was around 9 years old where he confidently performed an entire dance routine during a school festival. it’s because he misunderstood the assignment and thought everyone had to commit. his expression never changes once. he performs every move with the seriousness of someone conducting heart surgery while wearing a glittery cowboy hat two sizes too big.
when he first moved overseas, he confidently started using spanish slang he'd overheard from his teammates without fully understanding what any of it actually meant. one day after a match, he wanted to congratulate one of them and proudly went, "felicidades, papi (congratulations, daddy).” the locker room went dead silent for exactly one second before everyone completely lost it.
he once appeared in the background of another player's vlog carrying 9 grocery bags because he'd refused help. halfway through the parking lot one bag broke, oranges rolled in every direction, and instead of reacting like a normal person he simply stared at them for a full 10 seconds before sighing like this couldn’t have been avoided and it wasn’t his fault.
he thought "photo booths are a waste of money." someone dragged him into one anyway. every single strip gets progressively worse because he clearly doesn't understand what you're supposed to do. first picture: 😐. second picture: 😐. third picture: slightly smaller 😐. fourth picture: blinked.
his childhood haircut deserves prison time. nobody talks about it because they're scared of him, but the evidence exists…
nagi seishiro
nagi's entire digital footprint is basically proof that nobody should've given him unrestricted internet access before the age of 13.
there are years worth of abandoned youtube channels with names like epicdragonmaster72, nagi_gamez_real, and minecraftproofficial2, each containing exactly one upload before he got bored. every video starts with, "uh... hey guys..." followed by 23 seconds of silence because he forgot what he wanted to record.
he once accidentally left his microphone on during an online game and recorded himself arguing with his mom because she told him to take a shower.
"5 more minutes.”
"you said that 40 minutes ago."
"yeah, but now i mean it."
the clip has been reposted so many times that even professional players quote it at him.
there is a photo from elementary school sports day where every child is smiling except nagi, who's lying face-down in the grass because he decided the event had "gone on long enough." teachers initially thought he'd fainted. he was just bored.
his search history would kill him. i’m talking:
can you microwave frozen pancakes.
how long can clean clothes stay in basket before technically dirty.
do plants know if you forget to water them.
is sleeping 12 hours actually bad.
he once confidently answered "yes" during a school presentation after the teacher asked, "does anyone have any questions?" the entire classroom stared at him. he had misheard.
mikage reo
reo's family tried very hard to give him a polished public image growing up. unfortunately, they couldn't stop him from being deeply, painfully enthusiastic.
there is a professionally filmed video from a charity event where 10 year old reo confidently walks onto stage, trips on air, disappears below the podium for a full second, stands back up, brushes imaginary dust off his suit, and continues his speech as if the laws of physics simply didn't apply to him. the audience applauded harder after the recovery than the speech itself.
he had an embarrassingly intense "gentleman" phase after watching old movies where he'd insist on introducing himself by kissing the backs of elderly women's hands. everyone thought it was adorable except him years later, when his grandmother showed the compilation during his birthday dinner and joked about how this is why his elementary school teacher hit on him.
his first ever username was something like richboy_reo because he genuinely thought people would assume it meant he was "rich in personality." nobody assumed that.
middle school reo discovered expensive cologne and interpreted "one spray is enough" as "they're lying." there's an old class photo where every student is smiling except the one directly behind him, whose eyes are watering because the scent cloud was apparently visible to the naked eye.
before he met nagi, he tried making motivational workout content online. one particularly infamous clip features him enthusiastically saying, "if i can do it, so can you!" before quickly slipping off a balance ball and vanishing completely out of frame. whoever edited the video zoomed in, replayed it 3 times, and added meme sound effects. he accidentally uploaded that version instead of the original and didn't notice until it had already accumulated thousands of views.
even years later, nagi still occasionally watches it when reo starts acting a little too smug. "you gonna finish lecturing me... or are you gonna fall off another yoga ball?"
"delete that video."
"mmm... no."
bachira meguru
bachira's mom absolutely documented everything. every birthday, every school recital, every random tuesday where he decided wearing rain boots with pajamas was "fashion." buttt for him, she also believed facebook albums should contain no fewer than 387 PHOTOS each. there is an entire album titled "meguru discovers worms!! 🪱💛" consisting of him enthusiastically introducing individual worms to the camera like they're distinguished guests at a dinner party. "this one's really nice. his name is noodles." he was 7 years old.
he went through a phase where he thought beatboxing was the coolest skill a human being could possess. he wasn't good at it tho. there are dozens of voice memos on an old ipad that are just "boots and cats and boots and c– pffft– hold on." once, he accidentally sent one into the class group chat instead of his homework. nobody let him forget it for the rest of middle school.
there is a clip from a youth tournament where the interviewer asks, "what motivates you to play soccer?" and bachira, after thinking very seriously for a moment, goes, "the little monster in my head.” complete silence. one parent in the background quietly asks, "... should we tell someone?"
he made one of those "day in my life" videos as a kid and completely forgot other people would actually watch it. halfway through, he proudly shows the audience the tiny pebble he's been carrying around for 3 weeks because "it has good energy." the comments were split between "this kid is adorable" and "i think he's communicating with spirits."
when he laughs really hard, he still occasionally snorts exactly like he did when he was 8. there is no escaping your genetics.
shidou ryusei
shidou's digital footprint is less "embarrassing" and more "how are you still allowed to participate in society?"
there is security camera footage from a convenience store where he walked in, saw one of those inflatable tube men outside through the window, pointed at it, and shouted, "HE'S JUST LIKE ME!" before sprinting outside to hug it. the tube man reflexively smacked him across the face.
he once accidentally livestreamed himself trying to cut his own hair because "how hard could it be?" the answer was very. halfway through, he realized he'd created an accidental bald spot, stared into the camera for a solid 10 seconds, sighed, and muttered, "well... we're committed now." he emerged the next day wearing a beanie in the middle of summer and claimed he was “trying to be a trendsetter.”
there is an old school disciplinary video where teachers are trying to explain why climbing onto the gym roof is dangerous. "why did you do it?"
"wanted to see the sunset."
"... during math class?"
"yeah?"
he downloaded one of those voice changer apps and spent an entire weekend prank-calling his own friends pretending to be an old lady. everyone knew it was him because he'd randomly start laughing halfway through every sentence.
there's a clip of him celebrating a goal so aggressively during a youth match that he tripped over absolutely nothing, rolled 3 times across the grass, stood back up with both thumbs in the air, and somehow got an even louder cheer than the actual goal.
karasu tabito
karasu had the confidence of someone who genuinely believed he was the funniest person in every room. sometimes he was. sometimes... he was not.
his middle school youtube history is full of videos titled things like "top 100 savage comebacks" and "how to roast people instantly." he memorized them like they were flashcards. one day, he confidently hit a classmate with, "yer built like an expired yogurt."
"... what does that even mean?"
"... i dunno."
there’s an old video from a school festival where he volunteered to emcee because he thought he'd absolutely crush it. he spent the first 30 seconds making jokes that landed perfectly... and then confidently introduced the wrong performance group. the poor elementary choir walked onstage while he proudly announced, "LET'S HEAR IT FOR THE KARATE CLUB!"
he went through a phase where every single instagram caption ended with a smirking emoji because he thought it made him look cooler.
good game 😏
pizza 😏
happy mother's day 😏
like stop. please.
(thankfully) his teammates had to steal his phone and remove the emoji from his favorites.
he once tried winking at someone across the room because he thought it'd be funny. then he got dust in his eye halfway through and ended up looking like he was having a medical emergency.
kaiser michael
kaiser genuinely thought he invented aura.
there is an ancient photo from his teenage years where he is wearing approximately 6 different necklaces, 3 rings on one finger, leather pants that looked painted onto his body, a scarf despite it being july, and a vest with no shirt underneath. every single item individually could've worked. together? he looked like he'd lost a fight with a pinterest board titled "dark prince aesthetic” or something.
before becoming famous, he tried making football edits of himself. every video featured aggressively slowed-down clips, random latin phrases, phonk music, and enough monochrome filters to convince people color had been outlawed. the comments were ruthless:
bro thinks he's the final boss.
who edited this? shakespeare?
it's a 5-second pass, calm down.
he once got caught practicing "effortless" candid poses in a store window reflection. he didn't realize the glass was transparent. everyone inside watched him dramatically lean against a wall, look into the distance, adjust his hair, leave the frame, and immediately come back to try again because he didn't like the first attempt.
there's an old interview where someone asked him what his greatest weakness was.
"i don't have one."
"be serious."
"i am."
the interviewer just blinked.
every now and then, someone reposts an old photo where he attempted to bleach his hair by himself before he knew what toner was. it came out super yellow. ness claims it looked "radiant." literally everybody else calls it the banana era.
ness alexis
ness… has the kind of digital footprint that screams gifted kid who discovered editing software!
there are approximately 200 anime-style edits he made in middle school using free editing apps, complete with glowing eyes, galaxy overlays, fake lightning, floating feathers, and enlarged text that simply read: "never underestimate me." the character in the edit? himself.
he went through an impossible-to-defend magic phase. not liking magic. genuinely trying to become a magician.
there is a christmas video where he confidently announces he's about to make a coin disappear forever. he then drops it into the heating vent and bursts into tears because it actually disappeared forever.
his first powerpoint presentation in school had 43 slide transitions. every single bullet point exploded, spun, bounced, dissolved, or flew in from somewhere. his teacher reportedly looked motion sick by slide #8.
he once accidentally posted a selfie to his story instead of sending it privately because he wanted to check if his hair looked fluffy enough. the caption simply read: hmmm... maybe. he deleted it 30 seconds later, but it was too late.
there’s also an old screenshot where he corrected someone's grammar on youtube with: "actually, it's 'you're,' not 'your.' 😊 just trying to help!" he never lives this down.
and finally... because the universe enjoys bullying him... there exists one ancient livestream clip that ness has spent years trying to erase from the internet. every time it resurfaces online, kaiser likes it within 10 seconds.
he was answering viewer questions when someone asked, "what's something you've always wanted a partner to do for you?"
without a single ounce of hesitation, he leaned toward the microphone and said, "i think it'd be cute if they dressed as a puppy. just once. like with little floppy ears! and maybe they'd bark once! i think it'd be really adorable!"
r/aita for saying my girlfriend gained weight u/saeitoshi10
current conflict: my girlfriend is super sensitive — beyond what i expected. i feel like a total failure because of it.
solution: ask this subreddit on their thoughts of the situation, may receive feedback worthy enough to enact on
situation at display: my girlfriend is more sensitive than i thought. it was a couple days ago, i had just come back from a trip out of the country for my career. my girlfriend is completely aware of how career-oriented i am, so the distances are well managed. i admire her for that.
though, upon getting back, i noticed she just looked a bit different. it was a one-off comment; an observation. no insulting, no belittling … so how could she get so mad that she started yelling at me? i kept my composure, as an adult would, and told her to relax. and yet, still, it didn’t prove any effect.
i am just utterly confused and honestly drained from this. it’s not something i want to put energy into. i just have to know, am i really as bad as my girlfriend is making me seem?
| u/bumblingbachirahehe: my mom ALWAYS told me that doing something like this is something only idiots do! 😅😀 maybe apologize? suck up your pride! yta! 🙂
| u/NOTrinitoshi: remember when u got caught watching footballer buttcheek jiggle compilations on the family computer
| u/karasu.endsu: this is reddit why’s this written like a lab report and why is no one questioning it at all?!
| u/teddyknightnotbear: i mean innit love im british or whatever ive only been in 2 chapters of the manga
> u/Chris.Princeisonline: Teeeddyy what’d I tell you about not breaking the fourth wall! 😅
| u/aikugota.snakeinhispants: DUDE NOOOOOO u do not bring up weight around ppl YTA that’s crossing a line
| u/sheloves_sendou: give me your girlfriend
| u/themichaelkaiser: Fact #5 about women — their opinions carry zero rationality. Find out more on tonight’s episode of my podcast “The Blue Rose Blooms Again”.
> u/poof!itsness: YAY kaiser we love you <333 everyone tune in!!
> u/cheetahprint..chigiri: bitch no
| u/isagiyoi.11: No. This is awful. Villainy . . . please apologize to her. YTA.
| u/shidouisdeepinside: well i mean u guys are basically broken up now so how abt u answer that dm i just slid u? 😏
| u/NOTrinitoshi: YTA YTA YTA YTA YTA DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE END UR LIFE
> u/itzcharleschevy: im ctfu
| u/xnagisei: nta i think
> u/reoreoreo03: NAGII howd the FaZe Clan audition go
> u/xnagisei: gud
> u/reoreoreo03: im so happy youre branching out<3 remember to come to the field at 4:00 !
> u/xnagisei: 👍
> u/saeitoshi10: ? my comments arent a private chat. i need answers.
| u/julianloki.therealest: bruh i mean ur obv the asshole but i am very intrigued by u 🤔 youre quite the specimen
> u/itzcharleschevy: julz why u texting like that
> u/julianloki.therealest: hugo’s rubbing off on me 😞
| u/iggybunny: lmfao wait that’s ur girlfriend? she’s with me rn. we’re reading this together. 😭🤣 yta btw
Vergil "asking out" his partner by just being around them more often than usual and gradually inserting himself into their life to the point where he acts like it's suuuuch a buuurden to take caaare of you. Well, if he must, he offers you a sliver of his great power, thus becoming your patron through a blood pact. He just has to so he'll know where you are at all times so you don't waste his power on something stupid that only a stupid, dumb, stupid little human could think of. Only a sliver because you don't need that much of his magic to defend yourself against demons.
Also, it would be best that you understand what enemies you may face, so he supposes that he just HAS to start a 10-week long lecture series about the vulnerabilities of low-level demons that come up to the surface while you HAVE to let him lean over your shoulder and point out the key things to note from the 200 page PowerPoint he made. The 200 page PowerPoint he SLAVED over because he knew that it was the ONLY WAY such a STUPID human could understand his GRAND AND COMPLEX MIND.
Oh, you got hurt anyway? Well, since you're soooo pathetic that you can't even defend yourself with magic, he guesses that he just HAS to keep an eye on you. He can't do that without being close, so he supposes he can take the time in his day to move all of his stuff into your apartment because it's his DUTY as the STRONGEST BEING to PROTECT THE WEAK. And cleaaarly you don't take care of your body properly or put in the time for proper training so he suppoooooses that he could study your dietary habits to ensure you have the BEST practice routine and diet that only someone as WISE and EFFICIENT as HE could put togetherrrrr.
wanna write something (big surprise) inspired by (verbatim retelling) of my love life (recent schizophrenia) so i can move on (be free of the shackles of a man) but im so deadly scared of it being a small world...
reader who's a complete loser and suna who's an awkward athlete who sit together in class and only bond over how cooked they both are reader thinks sunas way out of their league but sunas just really fucking nonverbal lol
the way to your heart (if someone ever bothered looking for it) is either a yellow brick road of laughter or through the stomach. and suna rintaro seemed to be breezily striding down the former every time you'd settle down next to him in your godforsaken reading seminar. his bored eyes catch yours as he mimes a choking motion when your professor asks you to turn to page 87. you reciprocate by doodling a firestorm engulfing the classroom, accompanied by two miniatures of you and him giggling. he shows you the meme of speed holding in his laughter from underneath the table in advance. it's all fun in games, all in good humour, as the hands of the clock glide by the one hour mark, but it's only after you're back in your dorm and he's disappeared into thin air on the trek back from the lecture hall that you wonder if he's like this with everyone he meets. so witty, so easy to cause fits of laughter, so utterly charming that your chest churns at the thought of the semester ending soon.
the answer you conjure, for once, is not the correct one. beyond the volleyball team, he's intensely selective with who he talks to. it's almost a thorn for him to open up, choosing to slink into the background as bigger, more prominent personalities take over social situations, but somehow that thorn gets reduced to a stub whenever you waltz into class late in a potpourri of floral tones and warmth, hair mussed from the walk down from your room to the building. it's too easy almost, to make you laugh, and he knows this because despite your bored exterior is someone who can't help but find joy in the dull environment of the class, but it's also too easy to give himself away to you in ways that he normally doesn't.
he's not your type. you prefer men with substance rather than rocks and internet references for brains (is what he tells himself). start of the semester, you tried to keep up with the litany of words that left the professor's mouth, actually engaging on contested points. it's what made him notice you, the firmness in your tone when it came to arguing your case. in a class full of sleepy, wandering eyes, it was a welcome surprise. midway, you give up, now mirroring his scheming, lazy self, looking for any excuse to weasel out of work. escaping through jibes is a common bonding point.
time flies. through shared chuckles, pointed sarcasm, he has a mental portrait of you now. and he's committing it to memory. the words are always at the tip of his tongue as he walks back with you, glossing over everything and nothing but the real question that he's dying to ask you. the semester's almost over, and he's yet to ask you to meet him outside of class. if you think he's funny now, you'd probably think he's an entire standup show with two glasses of wine in you. he knows you drink. he's seen you for a second, from the corner of his eye, a sliver clad in black, messily gyrating at a party, before you disappear from his sight, a maiden lost in the sea of sweaty bodies.
it's the last day of class. it's a big campus. he knows you're not in the same courses as him.
your throat is parched like never before. you have no idea what the professor's talking about, as usual. the borrowed pen in your hand scrawls something silly on a torn piece of paper: i'm so fucking cooked lol, fingers damp with nervousness as you steel yourself to slide it over. the seat next to you is empty.
If ANYTHING is real god manifestation vibes energy aura my balls etc PLEASE make something happen PLEASE i am DESPERATE i am not reblogging ts for any interactions likes etc i am reblogging this FOR MYSELF strike down this fuhahh account just for something to happen with us PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE I literally have a WEEK PLEASE im so DESPERATE AND DOWN BAD UNIVERSE PLEASE i desire NOYHING else
thinking about firelord zuko who very quickly discards tradition as soon as you’re married.
he never walks ahead of you, always a few paces behind like he has a better view or he’s appreciating a sight only to be seen once in a life time. your fingers stay interlaced beneath heavy cloaks that bare the emblem of his home nation, but nowadays yours is stitched into the fabric with threads imported from your own. right above his. right above his heart.
zuko who’s shadow takes shape in the darkness, allowing your light to filter through a room full of opinionated others. he knows the extent of your capability extends beyond the wildest dreams, far greater than those who stand around you waiting for the crack in your visage. you’re strong, even if you stand a few heads shorter than him, your voice is loud and oftentimes the most correct in a room full of static and noise. he’d never let you feel less than, he never speaks for you, lips only parting to clear the buzz in the air and to allow attention to fall to you.
fire lord zuko who insists on being your right hand at every table — leaving you to take a seat at his head. he can’t stand the thought of eating meals at opposite ends — where the distance makes him feel lost, too far from home. he eats to your right where he can listen to the mundane up close, watch the way your lips curl around bites of food or a the words that make up tale from your tribe. he listens like the world has stopped for the two of you, like a nation in need of rule can wait another day for its lord and his princess.
in a similar fashion, he tends to you like a devout follower. even if there are handmaids and tailors and people to help. every door you’ve ever walked through is held open by him. for you. he lifts the straying edge of your train with a certain reverence, treating extra fabric like it’s an extension of you. zuko twirls the braids into your hair in the fashion that you like, undoes the lacing strings of your attire with fumbling fingers that only know the roughness of flames after a late night — because even though his mess of your garments is embarrassing, it makes you laugh in a way that warms him like honey notes in milk before bed.
zuko preps the water that laps at the tension in your shoulders and eases it away with hands that move like molten lava. rose petals bob along the surface, perform twizzles in the ripples of water that ebb around the lines of your body. worn down by work, diplomatic duties but tended to by unspoken love and adoration. zuko sinks into the tub behind you, bare and warm — his chin on your shoulder and face in your neck because that’s the only place he’s found safe enough to call home.
when you’re married to zuko, life is not instantly easier and the traditions of others still find their way into your relationship as performative duty… but he carries part of the load. he makes it simpler for you, because loving you, is simple too.
wanna write something (big surprise) inspired by (verbatim retelling) of my love life (recent schizophrenia) so i can move on (be free of the shackles of a man) but im so deadly scared of it being a small world...
reader who's a complete loser and suna who's an awkward athlete who sit together in class and only bond over how cooked they both are reader thinks sunas way out of their league but sunas just really fucking nonverbal lol
the way to your heart (if someone ever bothered looking for it) is either a yellow brick road of laughter or through the stomach. and suna rintaro seemed to be breezily striding down the former every time you'd settle down next to him in your godforsaken reading seminar. his bored eyes catch yours as he mimes a choking motion when your professor asks you to turn to page 87. you reciprocate by doodling a firestorm engulfing the classroom, accompanied by two miniatures of you and him giggling. he shows you the meme of speed holding in his laughter from underneath the table in advance. it's all fun in games, all in good humour, as the hands of the clock glide by the one hour mark, but it's only after you're back in your dorm and he's disappeared into thin air on the trek back from the lecture hall that you wonder if he's like this with everyone he meets. so witty, so easy to cause fits of laughter, so utterly charming that your chest churns at the thought of the semester ending soon.
the answer you conjure, for once, is not the correct one. beyond the volleyball team, he's intensely selective with who he talks to. it's almost a thorn for him to open up, choosing to slink into the background as bigger, more prominent personalities take over social situations, but somehow that thorn gets reduced to a stub whenever you waltz into class late in a potpourri of floral tones and warmth, hair mussed from the walk down from your room to the building. it's too easy almost, to make you laugh, and he knows this because despite your bored exterior is someone who can't help but find joy in the dull environment of the class, but it's also too easy to give himself away to you in ways that he normally doesn't.
he's not your type. you prefer men with substance rather than rocks and internet references for brains (is what he tells himself). start of the semester, you tried to keep up with the litany of words that left the professor's mouth, actually engaging on contested points. it's what made him notice you, the firmness in your tone when it came to arguing your case. in a class full of sleepy, wandering eyes, it was a welcome surprise. midway, you give up, now mirroring his scheming, lazy self, looking for any excuse to weasel out of work. escaping through jibes is a common bonding point.
time flies. through shared chuckles, pointed sarcasm, he has a mental portrait of you now. and he's committing it to memory. the words are always at the tip of his tongue as he walks back with you, glossing over everything and nothing but the real question that he's dying to ask you. the semester's almost over, and he's yet to ask you to meet him outside of class. if you think he's funny now, you'd probably think he's an entire standup show with two glasses of wine in you. he knows you drink. he's seen you for a second, from the corner of his eye, a sliver clad in black, messily gyrating at a party, before you disappear from his sight, a maiden lost in the sea of sweaty bodies.
it's the last day of class. it's a big campus. he knows you're not in the same courses as him.
your throat is parched like never before. you have no idea what the professor's talking about, as usual. the borrowed pen in your hand scrawls something silly on a torn piece of paper: i'm so fucking cooked lol, fingers damp with nervousness as you steel yourself to slide it over. the seat next to you is empty.
wanna write something (big surprise) inspired by (verbatim retelling) of my love life (recent schizophrenia) so i can move on (be free of the shackles of a man) but im so deadly scared of it being a small world...
reader who's a complete loser and suna who's an awkward athlete who sit together in class and only bond over how cooked they both are reader thinks sunas way out of their league but sunas just really fucking nonverbal lol
the way to your heart (if someone ever bothered looking for it) is either a yellow brick road of laughter or through the stomach. and suna rintaro seemed to be breezily striding down the former every time you'd settle down next to him in your godforsaken reading seminar. his bored eyes catch yours as he mimes a choking motion when your professor asks you to turn to page 87. you reciprocate by doodling a firestorm engulfing the classroom, accompanied by two miniatures of you and him giggling. he shows you the meme of speed holding in his laughter from underneath the table in advance. it's all fun in games, all in good humour, as the hands of the clock glide by the one hour mark, but it's only after you're back in your dorm and he's disappeared into thin air on the trek back from the lecture hall that you wonder if he's like this with everyone he meets. so witty, so easy to cause fits of laughter, so utterly charming that your chest churns at the thought of the semester ending soon.
the answer you conjure, for once, is not the correct one. beyond the volleyball team, he's intensely selective with who he talks to. it's almost a thorn for him to open up, choosing to slink into the background as bigger, more prominent personalities take over social situations, but somehow that thorn gets reduced to a stub whenever you waltz into class late in a potpourri of floral tones and warmth, hair mussed from the walk down from your room to the building. it's too easy almost, to make you laugh, and he knows this because despite your bored exterior is someone who can't help but find joy in the dull environment of the class, but it's also too easy to give himself away to you in ways that he normally doesn't.
he's not your type. you prefer men with substance rather than rocks and internet references for brains (is what he tells himself). start of the semester, you tried to keep up with the litany of words that left the professor's mouth, actually engaging on contested points. it's what made him notice you, the firmness in your tone when it came to arguing your case. in a class full of sleepy, wandering eyes, it was a welcome surprise. midway, you give up, now mirroring his scheming, lazy self, looking for any excuse to weasel out of work. escaping through jibes is a common bonding point.
time flies. through shared chuckles, pointed sarcasm, he has a mental portrait of you now. and he's committing it to memory. the words are always at the tip of his tongue as he walks back with you, glossing over everything and nothing but the real question that he's dying to ask you. the semester's almost over, and he's yet to ask you to meet him outside of class. if you think he's funny now, you'd probably think he's an entire standup show with two glasses of wine in you. he knows you drink. he's seen you for a second, from the corner of his eye, a sliver clad in black, messily gyrating at a party, before you disappear from his sight, a maiden lost in the sea of sweaty bodies.
it's the last day of class. it's a big campus. he knows you're not in the same courses as him.
your throat is parched like never before. you have no idea what the professor's talking about, as usual. the borrowed pen in your hand scrawls something silly on a torn piece of paper: i'm so fucking cooked lol, fingers damp with nervousness as you steel yourself to slide it over. the seat next to you is empty.
wanna write something (big surprise) inspired by (verbatim retelling) of my love life (recent schizophrenia) so i can move on (be free of the shackles of a man) but im so deadly scared of it being a small world...
You're not one to get nervous before classes, but this presentation of your paper has you pacing up and down the cramped hall of your apartment. Your way of dealing with particularly scrutinising conferences was running through your slides, reciting them to someone you know to ward off the nervousness, but tonight you're a wreck all by yourself. Shuffling through papers desperately trying to gather your thoughts, you spend a minute wallowing in pity, cursing the hundreds of expectant faces who'll be staring up at you tomorrow.
It's been two years since Geneva, and as you've aged and your career has expanded, your apartment has not. You bump into the corner of the low-lying table and hiss softly in pain.
Breaking you out of your haze, your phone rings, Oliver's number flashing. Ideally, he'd be your guinea pig (who'd fall asleep after you make it past your introductory remarks), but he did say he'd be out tonight.
"You better be on your way here. I'm freaking the fuck out."
The voice that greets you isn't his. It's, instead, a soft murmur that can just barely be heard after an initial few seconds of silence.
"So you're the side piece, huh?"
You pause, contemplating your next course of action. You can't even fathom who, what or how you've been dialled, though you have an inkling of an idea.
"You have the wrong number," you sigh, hanging up. You didn't have the mental capacity to engage with whoever was on the other side of the phone tonight, being more than swamped by your own shit. Still, the phone rings again, and this time you toss it on your couch with more force than necessary, grateful it doesn't crash onto the floor as you sigh.
To make full use of your available force, though, you throw the marker in your pocket against the whiteboard for good measure. It squeaks miserably, making a curve and falls to the ground.
You're in that animated state of flow of talking when Oliver enters the large room. He's about 15 minutes late, and he blames the cab driver that stopped him for a selfie. Your hands are moving rapidly as you explain (what he assumes are hieroglyphs) behind you, making a joke about something called the Kuiper Belt that has everyone laughing. He supposes that it must be a very expensive belt. As he settles into an empty chair at the back of the hall, he tips the cap he's wearing a little lower, and pushes his facemask a bit higher. Selfishly, and subconsciously, he hopes that his motion distracts you for even a mere nanosecond, to recognise his presence, but he's imperceptible in the crowd of people furiously taking notes or nodding in agreement.
"...And though I don't claim to be prescient like those on Arrakis, but the similarity I have found with Dune is fact that the temperatures in Kolhar, just like...."
Oliver's doing the thing again. He catches himself before his train of thought leaves the room entirely.
He's never claimed to understand your work. He stopped trying after you tried to explain calculus to him in high school, but inadvertently overcomplicated the whole endeavour by quoting some axioms you were learning about in your dual enrolment course. Needless to say, though your teaching had become much better, Oliver would still find himself zoning out when you slipped into the jargon-y, super-science-nerd-y side of yourself. His mind would latch onto the words he would understand from the litany of complicated terms you'd use and play around with them instead.
Prescience.
He always thought that time travelling and the ability to look into the future led to an overcomplicated, never-ending loop of things. (He's watched enough in Avengers: Infinity War to realise that only a fool would want to look into the future). What good would warning your future self be when you had to come back and warn your younger self and so on and so forth. It hurt his head to think about this, and considering Avengers was one of the milder watches on your LSD-trip-esque watchlist of scientific nonsense, he's had to think about this quite a lot.
As you drone on about planets whose names, frankly, seem made up, Oliver takes a peek into his own future, dabbling in a bit of prescience himself. He's approaching his peak, his golden age, according to the pundits. A season more and he could be the most valuable defender in the world according to his agent. He'd be captaining the Japanese team for the fifth year straight, hopefully to Worlds once again. Finances were no issue for him. His agent was going to get a sneaker line customised after him from Nike, maybe a sports water he didn't necessarily believe in (he'd find a fine whiskey or vodka collaboration more tasteful), probably buy his mother her second summer home in the Swedish countryside for 55th birthday.
Though he knows about the call you'd got yesterday, a stupid slip-up by him, leaving his phone unattended and unlocked as he'd gone to fetch Yoko (one of his longer indulgences), he can still see you in his future.
You'd be there at Worlds, cheering for him from the friends and family box seats. You'd be the first person to make fun of his fraudulent brand deals. You'd advise him on the location of the summer house. Whether he was in Spain or Italy, you'd take the time out to make your stops on your increasingly frequent research-driven travels, and he would collect trinkets from the cities each away game was hosted in that would remind him of you.
He, never, of course imagines a future where you're not there. His mother might protest about the unnecessary luxury that is a second house, Nike might drop the deal given his sordid PR record, Sae Itoshi could finally ascend to captaincy — and Oliver would let him do so gracefully, because there was nothing more satisfying than a story coming full circle, and a new blossom of talent in a bleak landscape. He was just that kind of guy — but you were there, through it all, in your graphic printed longsleeves, low rise jeans and scuffed trainers.
Though he questioned the legitimacy of prescience, it was clear: all paths led to you. You'd forced him to sit through Dune 2, which ended up being less torturous than he'd expected, enough for him to ask you what happens next as he reversed out of the cinema's parking lot, and you'd propped a leg under your thigh, and turned to him with a moony sort of expression you reserved for very few things in your life.
You'd mentioned the Golden Path that Paul saw, a prescient interpretation for the universe that could lead it to salvation, even if it came at the cost of great difficulty, and Oliver now smirks into his mask as you wrap up your presentation with a polite "thank you."
Your energy has now simmered, leaving in its place a more nervous, hesitant force. He knew just how bad he fucked up yesterday by letting Yoko call you, because he knew how anxious you'd get before big events. In ordinary circumstances, it'd be him who'd be the guinea pig for your public speaking ministrations. You were not as charming as him, not as easy and comfortable under pressure in front of a large group, and he remembers you initially struggled to take your everyday classes, a burden that's eased with time. The words that you'd painstakingly chosen, the equations you'd solved with intentionality would turn to cardboard in your mouth when presented with the option of actually articulating your findings in a lucid manner.
Still, you manage tight-lipped, but genuine smiles at the students who file out and thank you for your insights, as well as your peers who'd occupied the front rows.
You've got your back to him when the midsized lecture hall has emptied itself out, and are busying yourself with packing up your laptop when he pads down towards you.
"That joke about the Kewpie Belt was hilarious," he drawls, and he expects to see you fall into familiar ways; your half-smile, a light punch to his shoulder, and a hopeless shake of your head. Then, you'd let him carry your bag and take you out to lunch.
You do no such thing. You stiffen, and turn around with a grimace. He knows your ashen face when he sees the circles under your eyes, a rare sight despite your friendship of nearly a decade.
You were hungover and pissed. Clearly, in no mood to entertain him.
All the more reason for him to press on, then. You beat him to it.
"Fuck off," you groan, and you sling your bag before he can protest. Apologies and grovelling are a part of his Circadian rhythmn at this point: he excels when he's on his knees.
"At least hear me out, I'm sorry," he says pointedly, taking an easy, loping stride to keep up with you where you have to make the effort of walking faster. You can't help the physical feeling of disgust that crawls up your spine, that makes you want to burrow inwards at the way the word rolls off his tongue so smoothly, as if it were completely weightless.
"It was a mistake! I broke up with her as soon as I figured it out. And your presentation was great, right? No harm, no foul," he blabbers, throwing his hands in the air sheepishly when you dignify him with a withering look. Oliver is a mediocre liar and a decent gambler at best, but what keeps him on the tables despite his losses is not just the cash he has to blow, but the excitement he attracts. Excitement is short-lived, however, and if anyone bothered staying past the party that was Oliver's lifestyle ended, they'd figure out his trade secrets.
Oliver's tells were as clear as day. You just had to want to look.
The exaggerated lilt in his voice, the cloying sweetness in his words as if he were explaining himself to his mother rather than a friend, the way his eyes flashed when he exclaims. This is a practiced routine, and you congratulate him on adding another feather to his cap: footballer, womaniser and actor.
"No harm, no foul?", you mimic, scoffing. Now he was just being obtuse. He knows you like the back of his hand, he knows you'd been up drinking to stave off the humiliation that had burnt through you from the call, coupled with your nerves about the presentation. (What he doesn't know is that you'd slept through three alarms and woke up drooling on the floor by your RA, who'd swung by to pick you up. Hot with embarrassment, you did not acknowledge the empty bottle of Merlot that had gotten you through the night. You'd barely made it in time for your lecture, and were a wreck for the first five minutes. You refuse to, however, divulge this information to him, lest he gains verbal confirmation to what he already knew in his gut: he had you hopelessly besotted.)
"All's well that ends well?", he counters mildly, breaking out his Sunday best smile. You treat him contemptuously, but he can hear the exhaustion in your tone.
"I'm tired, Oliver. Leave me alone," you said quietly, stepping out of the room.
You're staring at your miso soup petulantly, like a child peering into a mirror displeased by their reflection. Oliver prods it towards you gently. The soup is a metaphor for your heart's betrayal towards your head, a heady concoction that weaves together your weaknesses for this man in a salty, broth-y mixture. How you were persuaded to lunch was beyond you (You lie, you gave into his pathetic demands too easily), and as he fans himself with a laminated menu at this sidewalk cafe, you finally find it in you to glare at him rather than the poor hangover cure.
"How'd she figure out who I was?", you ask, glacially calm, though your expression betrays you.
"You and ma are the only two women on my call log. Most frequented, too," he says. It's simple. It's the truth.
"Did she go through our texts?"
"Nah. Face ID lock on the app."
You place your palms on the plastic tablecloth, a gaudy red with flowers. Your hands are sweaty. They stick. You're considering his words carefully, and he savours the way you look when the cogs in your brain are at work, doing what they do best.
"Dumped her, in case I didn't make it clear," he adds. He thinks he's being helpful.
You inhale sharply, and take a drink of the ice-cold water in front of you.
"Oliver," you begin, your voice controlled. "You do realise that Yoko wasn't in the wrong here? Objectively," you speak.
You love that word. Objectively. Factually. Logically. Empirically. Any part of the English language that gave you the illusion of control in this moment over the whirling shitstorm that Oliver is, the maelstrom of your life.
"If I were her, I'd also be pissed that my boyfriend was spending more time talking to some lab rat than me," you intone, and you hate the way your brain fires all synapses when you say the word boyfriend.
"I'm not her boyfriend. And you know I'm not good at this shit," he shrugs, and you feel the visceral, primal urge to reach over and strangle him.
Circles. That was how each one of these interactions went. You knew your place in Oliver's life, but many of his passing attractions did not. Some revered you, others envied you, while others still viewed you as a threat to eliminate. All perceptions were thoroughly embarrassing, since how could a lowly, unsexy, unfunny late-teen equivalent of a childhood best friend live up to the perfection of each woman that came tottering her way into Oliver's life?
Of all perceptions, though, you hated the last one because you felt that it was true. The word "side piece" is reductive, but the truth is at its finest when it is bare. You're no better than the any other person who's got their eyes set on Oliver, debauched and eligible bachelor Oliver, with his scruff and baritone and deep pockets and even deeper, more generous heart.
For someone who'd have a body count in the double digits, you find it baffling how all these years later, he hasn't developed some tact, some response other than "I'm not good at this shit."
"That's a fucked up response and you know it."
He shrugs.
"Would you rather have me lie and say that I'll cut you off every time I start a new fling? 'Cause you know you'll be getting whiplash every two business days."
You sigh, clenching the tablecloth again.
"That's not what I meant, Oliver," you seethe. For all his looks, his expensive taste and rationality, he behaved like the seventeen year old at the club more often than one would expect.
"You're an adult now. I'm an adult. Do you seriously still think you're going to be going into your thirties with this shithousery?", you say exasperatedly. "The calls, the lies, the embarrassment for everyone but you, your inability to be accountable and slide everything off with this stupid 'no harm no foul' attitude," you say, and before you can realise it your voice is gaining in pitch, in frustration.
"You can't fix me," is the only response Oliver deigns you worthy of, and you half expect him to leave.
"Get your head out of your ass. You don't need fixing, least of all from me. You need to," and you once again, grab at thin air for the words from every language that you knew, "treat yourself better," you sigh at the end, and the corner of his lips quiver up into a tentative smile.
"Look at you, telling me to treat myself better," he says, tilting back his chair smugly. You burn at his words, painfully reminded of your college days, punctuated with him forcing you out of your stuffy dorms to take a walk, grab takeout, do something other than kill yourself over differential equations.
"Ugh. This would be so much easier if I were a sentient superior species with mind control that could take over your brain and just force you to do what I tell you."
"Are we talking Ratatouille or Attack of the Brainsucker here?", he asks, and you roll your eyes in response.
Circles, squares, everything eventually came back to its beginnings with you. But in a distant yet near future he was inching closer to, Oliver could see the golden threads of fate winding in funny ways, taking him on his prescient path. He was sure of it.
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