synopsis: and then they were roommates. or, uh- neighbors. but that’s still cliché enough to fall in love, right?
pairing: atsumu x f! reader
tw: light swearing/cursing
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“Yes, ma’am,” you say, both arms holding a scratchy plastic basket and phone tucked between your shoulder and your ear. You can't shake the feeling that the store smells like cotton candy, and you give neon candy-wrappers a longing look before passing into an aisle of brightly-coloured drinks.
You agree with the commanding voice on the line vapidly, “yes, yes, it will be done by tomorrow.”
“Of course! Yes, wagyu, I will pick it up today,” you continue, grabbing the aforementioned meat off a shelf to your left. Your boss rambles in your ear, and you weave through the worker restocking the shelves and the man cleaning the overhead sign- picking up a premade unagi-don bowl; lid cloudy from the heat.
“[name], make sure to-”
“Record the cost? I will, I promise, and I’ll give it to finances in the morning for reimbursement.”
She hums her approval in your ear, and you stand on relevé to grab a glass bottle of kumquat juice; body close to tipping over while you teeter on the small metal rack of the drink section. Your heels skid across the floor when you hop back onto the white tile, and you desperately rub your sole over the charcoal mark you’ve left.
The volume from your phone trills down, and you use the second to twist open the drink, sipping it delicately and transferring your basket from one arm to the other. Picking the device back up, you hold it to your ear again; currently preoccupied with your beverage and the bag of konipeito you’re attempting to open with one hand. Nicking your ankle on the corner of it, you pause in front of a vending machine- bright blue kanji jumping out harshly against white-painted metal.
“[name]...” your boss says something unintelligible, and you catch your reflection in the glass pane before turning your attention to the drinks inside.
“Mhm?”
Coffee or milk? Coffee- or milk?
There are only two cartons of milk left, so at least someone thinks it’s good- but coffee’s been a staple in your fridge for years now, so...
Something sounds in your phone, but you just hover your fingers over the buttons of the vending machine indecisively.
You make a vacuous noise.
Coffee.
Abandoning your ripped plastic package of candy, you select C7, still nodding along to whatever your supervisor is saying.
“[name]...”
Bottle of golden juice nearly-full, you tip your head back slightly, fingers drumming against the label. You stare at the sticker for a moment.
You quite like this brand- and you’re pretty sure there’s a melon version of this juice so-
“[NAME]!”
You jump in shock, slamming full force into a hard surface.
Your phone clatters to the floor, and your drink -that you hadn’t even yet paid for- shatters. Fractals of sweets are spilled all over the cream tiles, and you’re sure this is the cacophony to your ignorance.
You pick up your phone in a rush, smoothing your fingers over the surface to check for cracks before shoving back up to your ear.
“Yep, yep,” you breathe, “I will get that done. Yep! Sorry- bye!”
You scrunch your face and cringe.
You cannot get fired after your first day.
The chiding of your coworker ringing your ears, you’re suddenly aware of the drink seeping through your white blouse. An asymmetrical patch of the tunic is stained a pale yellow, and the nylon clings to you like a second skin.
The sugary liquid drips down your wrists, trickling into your pristine, ironed cuffs, and you curse. The lace frills droop down, beads of juice giving them a sickly hue.
“Nice shirt,” someone drawls, and you’re about to glare; pull your blazer closer, until-
It's your neighbor.
This time he's not a glint of gold, he's a bright flash of it- lingering longer in front of you.
You take a moment to blink; clear your head- because he's attractive-
But then he opens his mouth and you think maybe not.
“Ya shouldn’t be running around a grocery store torturing yourself in those crappy heels, y’ know,” and you’re torn between paying attention to his lips or the words coming out of them.
Crouching, you gather your groceries; trying to salvage and arrange what’s left of what you selected- a slight bite to your words.
“I, uh, don’t think my shoes are the problem.”
Dust from the floor sticks to your palms, and you sweep the konipeito into a pile and head over an adjacent trash can- watching as the greying candies tumble into the black bag.
He leans against it obnoxiously. The rattle of the metal of the garbage container rattles, almost as if announcing him.
“Ya mean where you got yelled at by your boss? That was hilarious.”
You inhale sharply.
Be polite, your mother’s words echo in your memory.
He cusses.
“Shit.”
Taking in his dishevelled appearance -ebony polo sopping wet with your beverage and clumps of rice from your donburi stuck to the fabric- you rein back your retort.
Crude.
Irritation still simmers in the back of your thoughts, but you apologize nonetheless.
“Sorry about your shirt,” you extend a hand. His callouses are rough against your skin, and you find your mind drifting to the lotion you used in the office today.
“Look like a friggin’ onigiri ‘cause of you,” he retaliates.
His fingers pluck at his polo, and he flicks the drying grains of rice in your direction.
You try to hide your indignant exhale.
Try.
Despite his words, he crouches down, dumping a bottle of mango ramune into your basket.
Quizzically, you stare.
He meets your gaze, and though he says nothing- hands still collecting your spilled goods- his espresso-coloured eyes speak without a sound.
Items dumped back in your basket, he holds it out to you, already striding to the cashier.
You grind your heel into a crack in a tile and hesitate, but follow.
Your bill is rung up, and you apologize to the staff before leaving.
Your neighbor’s reading some magazine cover about the Schweiden Adlers, and while you’re mildly offended he’s not looking at the Watanabe issue to his left, you raise your voice slightly.
“Let’s go,” you wave a hand- the other weighed down by your tote.
“Let’s?” he asks, angling his chin up.
You sigh. “You live in 095, Roppongi tower, right?”
“What the-“ he snorts, but you interrupt with an eye roll.
“I’m your neighbor. I live in 094. I assume you’re heading home?”
It’s not your most civil moment. And yet there’s something about him that makes decorum boring.
You head out the sliding glass doors, heels intentionally clicking on the cement.
He’s walking a pace in front of you in an instant, and you hum plainly in acknowledgment.
The sun has not begun to set yet, so her rays still light Tokyo awash with a warm glow. Tendrils of sunlight drift through the city, illuminating crosswalks and slipping through the shadows of buildings.
The silhouette of the star is reflected by the skyscrapers surrounding you, and you catch the light framing your companion of sorts.
Spotting the embroidery on his drying shirt, you shift your bag higher up on your shoulder.
“You play for MSBY?”
He side-eyes you, and the scrutiny makes you look straight ahead.
“Didn’t peg ya as a volleyball-typa-gal.”
Your grip on the canvas strap of your tote tightens.
“I work for Watanabe. I can be an everything-type-of-girl if they need me to,” you declare proudly.
“So a know-it-all.” He scoffs.
Your scowl is much harder to restrain than anticipated.
“There is nothing wrong with being a know-it-all,” you protest, though he arches an eyebrow.
“Besides how they’re bloody annoyin’.”
“It just proves one’s erudition.” Your tone is clipped.
“How fancy,” he dismisses, shoving his hands in his pockets nonchalantly.
You step off the curb with extra force, jamming the back of your shoe into a divot in the pavement.
A jolt of pain flashes through your ankle, and though the discomfort is temporary, your neighbor’s smirk is not. You clench your jaw, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Heh,” is all that escapes him.
The front of your heel connects with a pebble. You kick it forcefully into the sewer.
It ricochets off the metal grate harshly.
You increase your speed, matching the beats of his steps until yours are synced in tempo.
You don’t make any effort to start up a conversation, and he seems bemused enough on his own, so you keep on the path back to your apartment.
The street signs flash a vivid selection of colors, but you don’t spare them a glance. His presence beside you is like an itch- tugging at the back of your mind the way a schoolboy tugs on a girl’s hair- making you pay attention.
Sifting impatiently through your tote, you fish out your keys- tapping your card against the scanner on the door just before he can grab his.
For a second, you toss him a look of mock innocence from under your lashes.
You walk faster, treading through the lobby.
Stepping into the elevator, you slide to the back of the lift, placing both hands on the railing and gazing out the glass walls.
You catch the daytime sky begin to interlace into the sunset, gentle blues meshing with kind pinks to create a pastel purple. You press your fingers to the glass and hope you can watch this alone during the ten-floor ascent to your condo. Casting a quick peek towards the double doors, your lips unfurl.
He inserts his hand between the gap, pushing the two sides apart and coming to lean backwards on the rails beside you.
You stay quiet.
The elevator starts to rise, and through the shifting shadows and splotches of light, you realize he’s back.
The glimpse of gold.
Bathed in the setting sun’s glory, hair windswept and slightly ruffled. Even with a soaked shirt, as the world bleeds into evening, he’s a modern-day Adonis.
His intense gaze fixed on the sky, you see every contour of his figure- the highlights on his Adam’s apple; the way the sun lights his eyes into a glowing ochre.
Someone could paint him, and he couldn’t be more beautiful.
But he’s blunt and brash, you think to yourself as the elevator bell chimes.
And yet there’s a flicker of interest in you, a small pull that looks past the swearing and the unwarranted insults.
So as the pair of you exit the platform and stop in front of your adjacent living spaces, you dig a canned coffee out of your tote.
You hold it in his direction.
“[name],” you introduce.
He takes it, tossing it in a perfect arc and catching it flawlessly.
“Miya Atsumu.”
Atsumu.
“A pleasure,” you reply on instinct.
Is that what this is?
He chuckles. Sly; taunting almost.
“Sure.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
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a/n: the support you guys showed for the first chapter was so helpful-
i made a lil’ kageyama reference but it’s not particularly relevant? he will not be appearing in sfily.
synopsis: and then they were roomates. or, uh- neighbors. but that’s still cliché enough to fall in love, right?
pairing: atsumu x f! reader
masterlist | prev. | next
You don’t really know how to feel about your new apartment.
It’s situated in the heart of Tokyo; where you can hear the cars and the people whizz by; where you can see the neon lights flicker from your veranda. The air smells like burnt marshmallows- a mix between petrol and the food stalls that litter the ground below. You can spot each rain droplet on your glass doors. Little freckles of the sky’s tears.
Everything’s made of glass- the small desk you’ve been given; the sink in your bathroom; the doors of the cabinets in your kitchen. The windows of every skyscraper you pass by are glass.
In fact, the whole place is immaculately furnished. It’s pre-furnished, actually- some sort of media stunt by Watanabe to promote good employee treatment. You’re lucky that most of the things here are your taste; you can’t even look at the bill for that new blazer you splurged on.
Impressions, impressions, impressions.
It’s all about impressions. A new outfit for your first impression at the office; a new apartment for your first impression in Roppongi.
The fleeting thought that it’s a district of light crosses your mind. Fairy lights are strung upon the trees in the winter, you’ve heard. Still- even without the seasonal decor, Mori Tower illuminates enough of the sky on its own. As you sit on your balcony, you can see it.
You can see the stars that twinkle above: and the glowing reds, yellows and greens of the street signs blow. It’s not quite midnight, and the area is buzzing.
It’s not quiet. It’s kinda loud, to be frank, and the bustling of your fellow citizens and the ringing of bike bells fill your ears until they drown all other sounds out.
The world finds its sound here. There’s chatter and singing and it covers everything; dampens all thoughts. Each bright billboard, each restaurant window. It dampens all thoughts.
Does that make it quiet?
You don’t know. But it’s your first day on the job tomorrow, so you feel you should know. Your blazer is pressed and pristine, hanging on the back of a chair without a crease.
Crisp, clean- that’s how you would describe your apartment. It’s so clean there isn’t a speck of dust anywhere- like it hasn’t been lived in.
And so a part of you misses the rustic charm of your old home. You miss the small convenience store that stayed open ‘till two.
Sure, you like the furniture in your condo. But it doesn’t feel like home.
You’re not sure you’ll feel at home in that jacket either. Or in Watanabe headquarters. And who really fits in at Japan’s biggest fashion magazine?
You sigh, the stress rising and falling with your chest.
Your apartment -nor your job- is how it used to be.
A laugh bubbles its way out of your throat.
Kinda sucks.
You’re prepared for this, or you think so. Yet a restlessness prickles at your skin until you’re leaving your apartment, pulling on a light jacket to visit the karaage place downstairs.
It’s just three minutes away, snuggled between a wagashi shop and a tea house. You order something light. The yen in your pocket is traded for a small basket of six pieces, and you twirl the chopstick in your hand.
Prodding at a piece before actually eating one, you stare at the wood grain on your table. The varnish makes it smooth underneath your fingers, and you give a final glance to your nail polish.
Opportunity comes to those who are prepared, right?
You muse absentmindedly to yourself, dipping a chopstick in sauce and touching the tip to your tongue.
You suppose you need to get groceries tomorrow too.
Soon, your basket of karaage is finished. It’s pretty good, and you’re sure to come back when you’re feeling homesick. There’s another franchise location in your neighborhood, and you wonder if it’s still there.
Might not be. The high school kids must’ve driven the owner mad.
You miss that high school. You sigh.
You miss your home.
But here’s nice too, you guess. And you’re excited about your job, though the butterflies of nervousness haven’t left yet.
So you don’t know how to feel about your new apartment.
Standing up, you thank the woman at the cash register and head out the door, wary of the drizzle falling from the clouds.
The bell on the door rings after you, and you hold a hand out like you’re intent on catching a droplet of rain in your palm. You debate pulling your jacket over your head to shield you, but you walked from home without an umbrella, so you figure you can walk back- even if the rain is falling slightly faster now.
You tread lightly but not quickly on the sidewalk. There’s something about rain that makes you want to stay put. To just watch it meet the ground in a clear, crystalline sheet.
Rain’s the same wherever you go.
You take comfort in that.
The raindrops pat your head, and you continue in the direction of your apartment feeling slightly refreshed.
Tomorrow will be fine, you tell yourself, and you’ll grow to like this place the way the flower likes the rain.
Yeah. That should be about right.
You’re making your way up the stairs to your door; hair damp- when you see him.
He’s a glint of gold passing by; wet locks sparkling under the LED lights in the hall. His hair is blonde -it’s a good dye-job- and he’s sporting a thin black jacket; unzipped and billowing behind him.
You only catch a glimpse, but it’s his stance that draws you in. The way his chin tilts up, the self-assurance in his posture. You don’t meet his gaze- but his irises are the colour of brown eyes in the sun, except you’re indoors.
Impressions, impressions, impressions, you recall.
And as he slams the door -in frustration, in enthusiasm or plain carelessness, you don’t know what- you chuckle to yourself.
synopsis: and then they were roommates. or, uh- neighbors. but that’s still cliché enough to fall in love, right?
pairing: atsumu x f! reader
warning: mild swearing. (just three)
masterlist | prev. | next
There are times like this- when you leave your balcony door open. When you let the smell of fresh rain and the humidity permeate your apartment; when the space lets in the scents wafting up from izakayas and the street vendors handing out amezaike. You leave the door open in hopes that Tokyo comes to visit.
The flickering glow of skyscrapers, the bustle that pervades Roppongi’s every step. The breeze that drifts across your skin; the footfalls that kiss your ears as a way of greeting.
Introducing you to the night.
Often, you have drifted off the noise of the metropolis; stared at the vivid sky in place of the to-do list on your desk.
Glowing ads and vibrant letters dot themselves in the sky- row upon row of windows illuminated by those burning the midnight oil.
Behind the glass doors, the world is alive.
And it is now, when the sidewalks are dark with water and the night is even darker, that you find yourself at ease; speedily cataloguing wardrobe pieces and sending emails on behalf of Watanabe.
The peace of the night is juxtaposed against the hustle of your workplace, and you value times like these. A moment of quiet among the pressure of being employed in a prestigious organization.
Your pen presses against paper, and you check things off with a light hand.
Booking a venue for the spring photoshoot? Check.
Emailing the office to confirm Watanbe’s attendance to Tokyo Fashion Week? Done.
Forwarding the address for that one fashion show in Ginza? Finished last night.
Ordering-
A bang sounds against your wall.
You pull your silk robe on, tying the fabric strips into an easy knot. Smoothing your palm over the thread embroidery, you approach your door- turning the handle and sticking your head through the gap.
“Hello?” you ask, though the hall is empty. You inhale, closing the door softly.
Grabbing a cold bottle of peach tea from your fridge, you sit back down again- fingertips brushing the stack of papers on your desk. You open your laptop. Glancing at the spreadsheet in front of you, you type the costs from the receipts under your elbow onto the document.
Currently in your apartment and on your person, courtesy of Tendou’s altruism and your convincing puppy-dog eyes. You smile, shifting the robe higher over your shoulders. It’s soft- weightless; almost- and you remember the reverence your coworker treated it with. You promised to keep it clean, though, and you roll up your sleeves as a precaution.
Hiroki Toshira floor-length gown in cerulean-
Someone yells- a loud, reverberating sound that startles you. Droplets of your tea splatter on your paperwork. The ink bleed dyes patches of your counter ebony.
You once again usher yourself to your door, grumbling and peeking through the porthole.
Nothing.
Deciding to work on your balcony, you pick up your computer; some papers and your drink; setting it on the table- cotton camisole a little warm from holding the device against your side.
You like it outside. The overhead light built into the ceiling creates your own kind of dusk- just bright enough to illuminate your work, but dim enough to make your small workstation appear like flickering candle from afar.
Gazing at the bustle below for a moment, you return to your work- tapping keys while humming the tune of the music video playing on a billboard. Headlights carve trails into the darkness, blending with Tokyo’s ever-present radiance. You lower the brightness of your screen.
Your bottle of tea is pushed to the side gently, and you click send on a work email to Tendou.
Searching the web address of Watanabe, you scroll through yesterday’s articles. There are entries on cuisine; meditation; proper etiquette at fashion events, and you’re about to read it when-
BAM!
A volleyball slams into your table. Your tea bottle clatters onto the table, the drink gushing over your keyboard and wetting your seat cushion.
You curse.
Papers scatter, lying over the floor in a carpet of mulch.
Grabbing the nearest piece of fabric, you try to mop it up. Liquid spreads over your desk, dripping onto your balcony floor and soaking your socks. Ink from company forms spread until the words are unintelligible, and you’re left hovering over a corporate mess.
You needed this catalogue, and that clock-in sheet, and that summary of Mizuhara’s spring collection and it’s all ruined-
You groan. Discomfort itches at you.
Dammit.
The keyboard and your fingers are sticky- the substance sticking to the dirt on the table’s frame. You smush the cloth over the keys, pressing hard in the hopes that the beverage hasn’t caused permanent damage to your laptop.
“Where’d it go?!” a shout breaks through your frantic efforts.
“Bokuto-san! Bokuto-san, it’s right here!”
“No Hinata,” you hear another unfamiliar voice say, “that’s the other one.”
“Then what happened to the Mikasa one?”
“Ya think we tossed it over the railing?”
It’s your neighbour. You stare down at his mess on your veranda.
You grit your teeth, your irritation from your previous exchange lingering.
“No,” you whisper. “You did not toss it over the railing. You just tossed it on my work. And my tea. My fifteen-dollar tea.”
No one hears you- though you wish your annoyance was much more apparent. A moist feeling on your calves brings you out of vexation.
Oh no.
Oh no.
You used the robe. The robe that Tendou loves wholeheartedly and that he’ll probably- no, confirmedly- need for tomorrow’s shoot.
You’re going to get skinned.
Grimacing, you pinch the bridge of your nose.
You used it as a rag?! Company property- as a rag?!
It’s sopping with tea, an ugly, maroon stain dragging the ends down miserably.
Stress stiffens your stance. Shrugging the clothing off as delicately as you can, you remove your tea-steeped socks, placing both on your couch. You snatch the volleyball off the floor.
Storming to your door, you fling it open- knocking insistently on Atsumu’s door.
You must be something of a sight- splotches of tea staining your camisole; shoving a volleyball at him harshly- because his first instinct after opening his door is to laugh.
“Bokkun,” he calls out behind him, “looks like we didn’t lose that ball.”
Bounding up to you, “Bokkun” waves enthusiastically.
“Thanks for bringing our ball back! Who’re you?”
You ignore him completely, pushing the ball in Atsumu’s direction.
“Atsumu. Take it.” Your eyes narrow.
He just leans against the doorframe casually; athletic shirt creased around his torso.
“Whatcha’ doin’ up so late, [name]?”
You don’t have the patience for this. All you want to do is finish up that spreadsheet and send that robe to the dry-cleaners before Tendou fillets you like mackerel.
“Returning your volleyball.”
Polite, polite, polite- you almost chide yourself, but you determine it’s a little too late to be polite. He still doesn’t take the ball.
Orange hair flashes by, bouncing by the entry. He introduces himself as “Hinata”, and you can’t even get a word in before he’s going at a mile a minute.
“Hey! Did you see that spike?! It was all like “bam” right! And it was such a good jump and the set was-” It all comes out of his mouth in a rush; a blur of pure energy and movement.
“It was fine,” you clench your jaw, “the set was great. Knock-your-tea-over, type-of-great.”
Atsumu jeers.
“It was jus’ that good, huh?”
You throw the ball back at him. Your exhale is shaky.
It clips him on the shoulder, and he grabs it in the air before it can roll into his apartment.
“Good aim,” he says, gaze challenging, daring you to go further.
Your nails press crescents into your palms.
“Yes- well.” You glare. “I’m not a professional volleyball player, so-”
“I thought ya were an everythin’-typa’-gal.”
That snide, little-
You clench your fists harder to avoid glowering.
“Y’know,” he parrots your expression, “ya should come and do karaoke with us. Show off sum’ of that versatile skill.”
He emphasizes his air quotes, and you dig your heels into the ground.
You can spot the scattered tortilla chips on the counter; the spinning disco ball and the purple TV screen in his living room, and if it wasn’t so tacky, you would almost approve.
“It’s two in the morning.”
“City never sleeps,” Atsumu remarks. You feel a vein pulse.
“And,” he sneers lazily, “what other interestin’ stuff do ya have to do at this hour?”
“Work,” you bite out.
“Mhm, like somethin’ prissy for that magazine. Bullshit; not worth the money. Who even reads that anyway? Gotta be those stuck-up folk.”
He chews up your pride and flings it back at you.
You step forward, and you can hear the impact of your foot on the floor. Anger prickles under your skin. His smug expression dissipates slightly, and that only sprays gasoline over your fire.
Jabbing a finger in his chest, you retaliate.
“And what the hell are you up for?” Your tone sears.
It’s like you’re in two different atmospheres. He's lax- like he’s jesting without a thought- vexing you without a thought- and you are enflamed.
“Ooh, ooh,” Hinata volunteers, “we won a game today! We’re celebrating.” His exuberance only serves to piss you off further.
“Oh, yay, victory.” Your shake your hands mockingly. Resentment poisons your words.
He does not know the sheer effort you put into getting this job. He doesn’t know the times you didn’t sleep- the times your professor wouldn’t even look at your ideas for the university paper. He doesn’t know how you missed your surprise birthday party for Watanabe. He doesn’t know how it’s almost impossible to have friends out of the workplace.
“Yes, yes! You won. Great. Good on you!” You throw your arms up. You’re spitting venom now.
“Volleyball is just a game. Try to be mindful when real workers put their time into creating media coverage, for you.”
And it’s like you’ve flipped a switch.
Atsumu stands to his full height. You can’t even recognize him. Blackened hostility boils on his face, and the air is suffocating. His shadow looms over yours and it takes you no longer than a millisecond to recognize that you’re feeling panic.
“The fuck did you just say?”
Get out, get out, get out-
You wrench the doorknob from his hand. You steel your spine; voice raising in false grandeur.
“Goodnight, Atsumu.”
You can feel the force with which he slams the door rattle your bones.
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a/n: third chapter!! I'm actually pretty happy with the way sfily is coming along, and I'm honoured that some of you would make fan art for it. <3 all the “designers” mentioned here are not real. neither are the prices, though they have been inspired by prominent fashion items by badgely mischka and the model kiko mizuhara. anyways ahah i should probaby log out so this will be the last content post for a while..(i have 3 posts in my queue and after that, i’ll be completely inactive :((
“Hey, ‘tsumu, why do you smell like juice?” Bokuto asks, pulling on his MSBY jersey.
Atsumu takes off his polo, tossing it in the direction of an adjacent bench.
“Some girl spilled it on me at the store.” It lands on the floor.
Sakusa gives him a withering glare from the corner of the change room.
“And you didn’t change your shirt? That’s disgusting.”
The setter rolls his eyes.
“Not like I coulda’ just pulled it off in fronta’ her.”
“Technically, you could have,” says Hinata, poking him the shoulder.
“Yeah,” Bokuto agrees, snickering, “you could have.”
The duo race out the door and into the gym, laughing all the way.
And then it’s just him and Sakusa, and Atsumu thinks he’d rather be doused in juice again than listen to his teammate mutter something about laundry.
“So,” Tendou drawls, resting his chin on his hands, “how’s the hot neighbor?”
Your tug on the strings of his hoodie playfully, watching as he pops a piece of karaage into his mouth expectantly.
Sighing, you relent.
“He’s still hot. He’s somewhat of a jerk, though.”
“Ah. Was it because of the heels?”
“Tendou!” you chide, nudging him with the aforementioned shoes.
“So that’s a yes, then?” Your friend teases you, and you jab your chopsticks in his direction, huffing.
“No! He’s crude. And brash.”
“So just your type?” Satori waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
“Ha! No- I’d rather just date someone from work, to be honest.”
“Like that Konoha-kid- I’m pretty sure he’s into you.”
You arch a brow.
“No.”
Tenou ties the hoodie strings you’re holding into a bow around your finger.
“Yes.”
“You’re just guessing.”
“I’m always right.”
He shoots you a wide smile.
“But,” you joke, “what if I had a secret boyfriend?” Grinning, you poke him with your free hand.
He laughs, tying the bow tighter.
“Yeah- Konoha.”
“No!” you deny, using your index finger to drag his plate of mochi over to you, “what if it was Semi? Or that blue-eyed guy from nationals- he was cute!”
Satori gives the knot a final tug.
“Or, you could just go after the opportunity right in front of you,” Tendou sweeps his hand out in front of him dramatically, “neighbor-guy.”
You scoff.
“Yeah, right.”
double bonus:
“Only if you sing the song for our wedding.”
“Deal.”
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a/n: this is very short and very low-quality, but I had this in my drafts for a while and had to get it out. this has a bit of foreshadowing!!
“Ohmyg-” you can’t even get a word out between your laughter. You clutch Tendou’s arm, practically doubling over.
“AHAH- ohmygosh- Konoha!” Your finger points accusingly at his hair. The aforementioned coworker purses his lips, and Tendou nudges you.
“I can’t believe he actually did it,” he whispers obnoxiously, loud enough for Konoha to hear.
Twisting the fabric of his jacket, you chortle.
“I can’t believe you convinced him to do it!”
Stumbling in your heels, you shift forwards, pointing again.
“Look at it- it’s so- so curly!”
Your chuckles ring out into the hall.
Scoffing, Tendou grins, “no duh.”
He steadies you, hooking an arm around your waist. You rock back into the hold.
Konoha looks at your midriff, frowning- fingers tentatively playing with a curl.
“It’s not that bad.”
Glancing at you just so, Tendou raises his eyebrows, and you burst into laughter again.
No, he mimes. Teeth on display, you hip-check him, delighting in his little “oof”.
“No, no Konoha- it looks great.”
“Kinda hard to believe when you’re still laughing.”
Smiling sheepishly, you wave a hand, intestines still shaking with humour.
“Sorry- sorry..”
Satori swats your hand out of the blue.
“Let gooo,” he drawls, smoothing out the creases in his coat. “This was expensive.”
“It’s not even yours!”
He rolls his eyes.
“It’s infused with that ‘claire de lune’ perfume. Kinda like what Watanabe’s water tastes like.”
“Tendou!” you gape, “did you drink her water?”
He protests indigantly.
“No, I-”
Suddenly, the double doors to the office swoop open. You and Konoha stand stock-still. Satori pretends to busy himself with papers.
Watanabe strolls in, the click of her heels resounding through the workplace. Sterility seeps into the room, and you hold your breath as her eyes scan your form for even a hair out of place.
She glances at the presentation board lying on your desk- fragments of photos sorted in piles across the surface. You clench your jaw, recoiling in anticipation of her quiet, cutting criticism.
A puff of air is released from her lips, and she holds this month’s magazine draft out to you. Obediently, you take it, nodding in tepid thanks.
She leaves just as quickly as she came, slipping into her frosted-glass cubicle.
The oxygen rushes back into the hallway, and you see Konoha’s shoulders sag. Slowly, the atmosphere picks up it’s pace. Sighs of relief are let out, and you hum nervously.
The other shoe drops as expected, though, and you shoot a glance at Tendou as Asahi rushes down the corridor, muttering frantically about “missing water.”
You arch a brow, teasing quietly.
“Not even a little sip?”
A jacket hits you right in the face.
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a/n: ahah my attempt at humour and something i wrote when i got a couple seconds of free time!
