✶⋆.˚ ROMANCE TROPES | KARASUNO FIRST YEARS .ᐟ
⤷ masterlist ; requests open ; 1.7k wc
a.n ; once again inspired by @/kaiijo's romance tropes post. seijoh four version. also technically hinata's is post timeskip sorry 😓
hinata shoyo ✦︎ slow burn.
the first thing hinata learned is that the world does not wait for someone like him. the second, is that lost things arent always meant to be found.
it was not love. not at first, at least. not in the way he thought love was supposed to be. he had thought love was something grand, something that swept people off their feet. a need that burned so fiercely it became impossible to ignore.
but love, he found, was also in the quiet things.
it was in the way you pressed a cold glass of calamansi juice into his hands after practice, the way you scolded him for streaking mud across the tiled floors. it was in the way you laughed, in the way you softened your words when you saw frustration crease his brow. it was in the way you knew him. not as a player, not as the small giant who he had hoped he was, but as shoyo, the orange haired boy who did not yet understand that belonging was not something you had to earn.
he did not meet you in the way stories often dictate—no grand moment, no collision of fate. you were simply there, an echo in the places he passed through, a constant presence in a world that had yet to root him in place. you took him in, nothing more than an agreement of a helping hand. hinata washed dishes, swept floors, folded clothes with hands used to spiking.
and hinata did not know when the shift happened. when your voice became the thing he sought at the end of the day, when your presence became something he could not bear to go without. he did not know when his heart, which had always belonged to the game, had made room for something else. for someone else.
but he knew this: he could not stay. he had not come here to love. he had come here to learn. he had always known this, of course, had told himself as much from the moment he stepped off the plane. he had counted down the days—not because he wanted to leave, but because he knew he had to. he was here to train, to become the best version of himself, to sharpen his skills so that when he returned to japan, he would be unstoppable.
but how could he leave when you were here? when he could no longer separate the rush of a perfect spike from the rush of your laughter? when the love he did not know he was capable of had already settled in his bones, warm and steady and unshakable?
to remain would mean letting go of the very thing that had brought him here in the first place. and yet—
when he looked at you, he wondered if there was a way to do both.
kageyama ✦︎ rivals to lovers
talent is cruel. it grants gifts without fairness, without reason, and it does not care for the hands that stretch toward it, desperate, aching.
kageyama tobio was given everything. his body was built for this, his mind wired for precision. he does not need to reach, to strain, to break himself apart just to touch the edge of greatness. but you—
you were not. you were not sculpted by gods or kissed by fate. every inch you have climbed has been paid for in blood, in breathless nights, in the weight of your own limits threatening to pull you down. you have fought for every second on the court, for every fleeting moment where it feels like you belong.
he notices you because you are loud in your defiance, because you refuse to bow, even when the game reminds you of your place. and it frustrates him, the way you do not yield. the way you chase him, even when the world tells you you’ll never win.
you have always believed that hard work was work enough—that if you ran fast enough, pushed hard enough, wanted it badly enough, you could close the space between yourself and everyone else. but kageyama was born standing where you fought to be.
he has never known the hunger that gnaws at your ribs, the way defeat carves itself into your bones like a second skeleton. where you claw your way forward, he soars, effortless, unattainable. the court bends for him, the ball obeys his command, and you are forever damned to watch.
at first, it’s contempt. then, it’s curiosity. and then, it’s something else, something that settles in the spaces between rivalry and something softer. something that lingers in the silence of long bus rides to tokyo, in the accidental brush of shoulders, in the way his gaze finds you in a crowded court.
he does not speak of it, and neither do you. not when he looks for your gaze in the aftermath of a game, even if you spent most of it warming his part of the bench. not when you meet him halfway, your breath sharp, your heart louder than the crowd. not when the distance between you is no longer a battlefield, but something fragile, something waiting to be named.
maybe this was never about winning. maybe this was never about talent or passion, about what was given and what was taken. maybe this was only ever about the chase.
and maybe—just maybe—he doesn’t mind being caught.
tsukishima kei ✦︎ forced proximity.
hate was not a strong enough word for what you felt about tsukishima kei of class four.
you were mature enough not to fall for his taunts, his sneers and side remarks. you barely ever spoke to each other during practice, and only said what you needed to any other time. nothing more, nothing less.
so when daichi handed you the bus seating chart and tsukishima’s name stared back at you, you nearly turned around and stayed home. eight hours from iwate to tokyo, plus stops. and he was the only space left beside you. you didn’t complain. not to daichi, not to him. you respected them both too much for that. but god, you were already drafting excuses in your head. a fever, maybe. your sudden death.
he didn’t talk. neither did you. the only sounds between you were the low thrum of the engine, the soft chatter of your teammates, and the occasional shift in his long legs as he tried not to touch yours. it was cramped. painfully so. your arms were close enough to brush when the bus hit bumps in the road. your knees kept knocking. every time you moved, he tensed. every time he breathed, you counted the seconds between.
nationals. it should’ve felt exciting. it should’ve felt like triumph. instead, your heart was stuffed with awkwardness, your chest too tight with everything unsaid. tsukishima never liked you. he was polite, just barely, but cold. analytical. never cruel, just… indifferent. and you were tired of pretending it didn’t sting.
the inn was worse. a traditional ryokan; picturesque and paper-thin. there weren’t enough rooms. not enough futons. and when the groups were decided, you and tsukishima found yourselves once again shoulder to shoulder. this time on the floor. this time, no seat belts or armrests between you.
you shifted again, trying not to think about how close his shoulder was to yours.
“can you stop shifting around?” he whispered.
you turned, face scrunched as you tried not to jump him right then and there surrounded by your teammates.. “can you stop acting like i’m the worst thing that’s ever happened to you?”
“you aren’t.”
and, before you could interject, turn around and wrap your hands around his throat;
“i just don’t like this kind of closeness.” his voice dropped lower. “not with people i don’t understand.”
“tsukishima.” you tried, voice tentative as you figured out what exactly you were feeling in this moment. “you never let me.”
he turned his head, voice barely audible. “you never gave me a reason to.”
for once, you had nothing to say. you slept facing opposite directions, but you both stopped pretending.
yamaguchi tadashi ✦︎ unrequited pining.
unlovable people aren’t supposed to look at each other like that.
he watches you from behind his locker door, the metal slats slicing his view in half, as if the universe itself is trying to protect him from getting too close. you’re standing by the window, head tilted just slightly, bathed in that awful morning light that makes the classroom feel lonelier than it should.
you’re always like that—quiet, eyes turned down, sleeves tugged over your knuckles like you’re trying to disappear into yourself. you rarely speak unless someone addresses you directly, and even then your replies are short. curt. forgettable.
but yamaguchi never forgets.
he knows you aren’t the kind of person stories are written about. and he knows he isn’t either. you’re not loud. not remarkable. not beautiful in a way that catches people’s attention. not smart like tsukki, not athletic like hinata, not the kind of person who draws a crowd without trying.
and yet—your silence terrifies him.
because it means you’re close enough to touch. and still entirely out of reach.
you should be attainable. reachable. understandable. he should be able to stand next to you and not tremble. he should be able to ask you for help with homework, or lend you his notes without second-guessing the way his hand shakes when he offers them. he should be able to give you a juicebox at lunch without planning the moment ten times over in his head and still bailing out.
but he can’t.
because the only memory he has of being near you—the only real one—was that day on the playground. a group of boys had pushed him down, spit cruel things between their teeth, and yamaguchi had curled inward, waiting for the worst of it to end.
and then, you.
you didnt shout. didnt throw a punch, didnt so much as move a finger. you just walked past, sharp and deliberate. and somehow, it was enough, scattering like birds on a wire. all you had done was help him up, not even asking his name or making eye contact before you left.
but yamaguchi never forgot. he still dreams about it, sometimes. not so much the fear, or the venom. just the moment your hand closed around his.
he’s never found the words to thank you, even all these years later.
and maybe thats his problem.
he thinks maybe he’d rather stay quiet forever, if it means holding onto the version of you that still looks back at him.
even if it’s only in a dream.
