Ridiculous. It’s utterly ridiculous, Kuroo tells himself. There’s no way he has a crush on two people. Absolutely not. And two people he doesn’t know well, at that. This has to be some sick prank his body is playing on him. But pranks are supposed to be funny, and not bothersome, right?
So why are there these butterflies in his stomach, this bubbly feeling in his chest and the yearning to see her again? ‘Her’ being the pretty, new roommate Kenma has. Well, technically, she’s not his new roommate. She moved in with him about two months ago, so it’s been a few weeks, but since then he only got to catch a glimpse of her here and there when he was – yet again – hanging out at Kenma’s. She hasn’t even said a word to him yet and he’s somewhat glad because if she did, he’d be done for, surely. All he knows is Kenma offered her his spare bedroom without hesitation when she needed a place to stay. Therefore, the intensity with which his body reacts to her, is astonishing considering how little he has seen of her. But he won’t pressure her, so he continues to cherish the moments when she comes into the kitchen to grab a snack or drink, before scurrying back to her room.
And then there’s you. Kuroo smiles like an idiot every time he hears you say something over the mic when Kenma and the two of you are playing another round of Call of Duty. When you’re laughing, there’s this pang in his heart as if you were shooting him, despite the game mode making friendly fire impossible. Like Kenma, you’re a streamer, playing a variety of games in vastly different genres: a little Ori here, Mario Kart there, sometimes you’re taking care of your island in Animal Crossing – the list is endless. And even if he has no interest in the game you’re currently playing, he turns on your stream anyway because he likes to watch you. Or rather: he likes to listen to you. Because your face is a mystery. You don’t show yourself on stream, on social media or anywhere ever. But he doesn’t mind. At all. He likes to put on your stream, lay down and just listen to your voice clouding his thoughts. It’s so calming and–
The deep rumbling of his controller rips him from his daydream, and he can only watch as his aragami dissolves into thin air. Your laugh comes through his headphones, right to his ears, and he swears his heart is melting on the spot.
“Kuroo, what was that? Why would you walk out of the shadows right when a guard is coming at you?”
“Oh, shut up. You’re not even playing. I was just trying to lure him over,” he argues.
The excuse is lame and utter bullshit and he’s seething as Kenma calls him out on it, “Do you remember how I told you he has a crush?”
“Damn...” you taunt him. “Are you gonna tell me, who the lucky woman is?”
You, he thinks.
“No,” he answers the second Kenma says, “How many subs are you offering?”
Kuroo knows, his best friend is kidding, but he still throws him a warning glare across the screens between them, almost followed by a controller.
The both of them are sitting in Kenma’s streaming room with two remarkable gaming systems, so they could game together regularly.
“You’re practically living here already, so it makes no difference,” Kenma had said when he had shown him the new furnishing after a complete overhaul of his studio.
The only thing keeping Kuroo from ripping Kenma a new one – physically or virtually – is the fact that neither you nor Kenma’s are streaming. Oh, the horror had this been streamed live on the internet, for tens of thousands of people to hear, captured forever.
“It’s my roommate.”
His eyebrows furrow in confusion. He expected Kenma to rat him out, to tell you about both of his crushes.
“Although he has barely seen her,” his best friend adds instead.
You chuckle.
“I know it’s stupid,” he grumbles, “How can one have a crush on someone they have only seen so far? Like, I haven’t even talked to her. She only ever greeted me with a nod or something.”
“She’s a lucky woman,” you say to his surprise.
Again, Kuroo’s confused. He wholeheartedly expected you to tease him. Instead, your tone is soft, serious, genuine. No sarcastic undertone, no snarky remark.
“Love is unfathomable, Kuroo,” you add, the tenderness in your voice sending a shiver down his spine.
At the same time a certain guilt gnaws on him. He feels like he’s betraying you and himself with his crush on Kenma’s roommate – or is it the other way around? Which of these feelings are the true ones? The genuine ones? Are the things he experiences for you real and the ones for Kenma’s roommate his mind playing tricks on him? Or does he actually like the roommate and only imagines he has a crush on you?
Then again, does he know either of you good enough to have serious romantic feelings for you? Or is he so desperate for romance or female attention that his heart jumps on the first woman to notice him? But Kuroo was never one who had problems with girls’ attention. Women would ask regularly for his number or give him theirs when he went out for drinks and sometimes even when he was doing trivial things like getting grocer–
A siren going off outside rips him from his thoughts. It’s so loud he swears he hears it coming from Kenma’s and your mic too.
“Kenma, what is up today? That’s like the third one, no?”
“Third or fourth,” Kenma agrees with you. “And every time they’re loud enough to get picked up by my mic, no matter how much I lower the sensitivity.”
Kuroo tries to get back into the game but you’re too distracting, always taking his mind off the objective of crossing through the derelict graveyard, always getting him caught by a guard.
Something hits his head. Kenma threw a crumpled piece of paper at him. “You suck. Get a drink or something.”
Grudgingly, he listens and leaves for the kitchen where he stands in front of the fridge, the handle in his hand, staring into the void.
The door to Kenma’s roommate’s room opens and she comes out, but he refuses to look at her. If he did, his body would act up again: he would blush, his hands would get sweaty, and his mind wouldn’t be able to form a coherent sentence.
She takes a deep breath. “Hey, Kuroo.”
He freezes. Her voice is one he would recognize under thousands – no, millions – despite never having it heard in reality. It’s slightly different than over the mic, but still recognizable. His brain short-circuits. He sees lips moving, but he doesn’t register the words coming out because all he can think about is you. It’s you. You’re her and she’s you. You are one and the same person.
“H-Hey,” he stammers.
There’s a moment of heavy silence between the two of you. His brain is still trying to grasp what is happening, trying to process the new information he just got, but it’s too much. His brain is overwhelmed, and he doesn’t know what to do, what to say, how to react. What you say next, certainly doesn’t help either.
“So... you have a crush on Kenma’s roommate, huh?”
Warnings: little suggestive and if you intend to be aphobic, you can fuck right off :)
Track: Slaves – Warning From My Demons
A/N: This is kinda self-shippy, since this is very similar to how I experience my asexuality. Remember that every ace and their experience of asexuality is different. So just because I feel like this, doesn't mean every other ace feels like this.
You’re warm. Or maybe it’s because his hands are cold, the blood slowly gathering somewhere else. Either way, Atsumu doesn’t care. All he can think about is you straddling his lap, your thighs touching his, and your hands on his ribs to steady yourself. How he came here? He doesn’t remember. What time it is? He can’t tell. His thoughts are clouded with the taste of your lips and the comfort of your weight on him. He’s reveling in the feeling of your soft skin under his fingertips. Usually, you’re quick to pull the hem of your top down in case it slides up enough to reveal any skin, but not today. Today, Atsumu gets away with his thumbs inching higher and higher until they touch you, savoring the time you take to place his hands gently but firmly above your clothes again. He’s too selfish to do it by himself.
It doesn’t stop him, though. Rather than that, he just starts drawing circles above your clothes, his hands travelling over your waist to your spine, trailing it up and down, and back. Instead of getting lost in the feeling of your skin, he gets lost in your scent—a mixture of the perfume he gifted you for your birthday and your natural scent. Your body’s weight is soothing, like a weighted blanket giving comfort. Atsumu is on cloud nine, wishing this moment would never stop. You shift slightly, but enough to feel him–
Your body stiffens at the sudden contact and you pull away—much to Atsumu’s dismay. Within a second the temperature has dropped ten degrees. Avoiding to look at him, you slip from his lap. “You should go.” Without saying anything else, you disappear into your bathroom. The bolt clicks when the door is locked.
Throwing his head back, Atsumu fights a frustrated groan, his lust, and his pounding heart at once. He hates these words. It’s the same thing, over and over again: Somehow the two of you end up on your couch, kissing, but as soon as his hands slip just a millimeter into the wrong direction, or his tongue licks across your lips, asking to be let in, you clam up and ask him to leave.
He sighs. Despite his cold hands, placing the back of his hand on his forehead does nothing to cool him down. So he just sits there, hot and bothered. Not for the first time and not for the last time. Other guys would’ve stopped coming back after being left like this multiple times, but he’ll always come back because he likes you. No, he realizes, he loves you. And if this everything he’s going to get, he’ll gladly take it and treasure every moment. No complaining, no pushing you, nothing more.
It takes half an hour until enough blood has returned to his brain to function properly again, thoughts not as hazy as before, albeit still desperate. The apartment is absolutely still, the only sound disrupting the silence is the clock’s ticking coming from the wall.
With heavy limbs he gets up. He stops in front of your bathroom, about to knock. But he stops when your muffled sobs reach his ears. A deep breath gives him enough courage to knock. Though it’s timid, just like his voice calling your name.
“Please talk ta me,” Atsumu pleads.
Another minute of silence passes before the lock clicks again. You come out, eyes red and swollen, but you’re not crying anymore. His arms reach out by themselves, wanting to hold you tight. Your words stop them mid-air.
“Let’s end this.” The silence following is not deafening enough to drown out his heart shattering. Nothing more he could’ve lived with. Nothing at all he can’t handle.
“What?” he rasps, holding back tears.
“I said, let’s end this,” you repeat, voice colder than before, less broken. His finger tips reach out when you brush past him, but they only graze you.
He follows you into the kitchen like a lost puppy, while his brain still can’t wrap around what you just asked. “End it?” He knows he sounds like he has a single braincell left and while that isn’t true—he’s smarter than many people think—it’s all he can utter while his thoughts are empty, trying to figure out what has gotten into you.
“Yes. Whatever this”—you wave one of your hands dismissively around—“is.”
“Does this”—he mocks your gesture—“mean nothing to you?”
“It does!” you snap when you turn to him. “And exactly that is the problem, Tsumu! Sex isn’t for me. I haven’t felt sexually attracted to anyone ever and I don’t like doing these things with people. Even thinking about doing it with someone else turns me off.” With his nickname leaving your lips, so does the coldness. You sigh resignedly and Atsumu senses the desperation in you too.
Unable to hold his gaze any longer, you walk to your fridge, just to have something to do.
“Is that why you always pull away, when…?”
Your throat is dry, so you nod.
“But you like kissing me?”
“I do. I do so much, you wouldn’t believe it. But everything beyond that is too much for me.” There’s a metallic taste on your tongue and you realize it comes from gnawing on your lips.
“And?”
Your eyes start to burn. He doesn’t get it, does he? “Do you realize what that means? I don’t want to have sex. Ever. And that’s nonnegotiable.” You close your fridge again, only to slide down, your back against the cool surface. “Fuck, Tsumu. I wish I could, but I can’t give you what you want in a relationship.”
Frustration at the situation turns into anger at you, although you don’t deserve it. It’s not your fault, but who are to know what he wants in a relationship? Who are you to decide he couldn’t be happy with you? “So?”
“So? Atsumu, I know you! We’ve been friends for years. You came to me when you wanted to vent about your then-girlfriends and told me how unfulfilling all of these relationships were. And don’t get me started on your countless one-night-stands. A sexless life isn’t for you. And I can’t compromise on that.”
The blame isn’t on you for thinking like this. With the number of flings he’s had in the past, one can be easily let to believe he’d rather live without love than without lust. But none of them was you. You’re different. “Let me try! Please! I wanna be with ya! And isn’t the point of dating to determine if people are compatible or not?”
“I don’t want to be an experiment for you to see how long you can go without sleeping with someone. I won’t let you get my hopes up, only for them to be crushed soon after when you realize a relationship with me isn’t fulfilling enough.” The dam breaks and tears stream down your face.
“But–”
“No.”
“Love, please give me a chance.” The pet name slips past his lips before he can stop it.
You bite your lip and shake your head, a distressed look in your eyes. “Don’t do this,” you plead.
“What?”
“Don’t call me that. I can’t say no when you do…”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to manipulate you or something like that.”
“It took so, so much time and mental work to come to terms with this myself; I thought I was broken for years. If you were anyone else I wouldn’t care, but you… you could destroy all of this accomplishments again. Simply because you mean so much to me and I know if you said I couldn’t make you happy because I’m asexual, I would be back where I was before.”
Atsumu sinks down beside you, carefully wrapping an arm around your shoulder to pull you close, your head softly falling on his shoulder. For the next minutes, he’s just holding you, silently, while you cry your heart out. With his nose buried on your hair, he gives you gentle, almost unnoticeable kisses to the crown of your head.
“You know,” he starts after a while, “even if it turns out we’re not working out, you’re perfect the way you are. You deserve to be loved and cared for, no matter your sexuality. And anyone who can’t see that, isn’t deserving of you and your love either.”
Then and there, Atsumu swears to himself he will do whatever it takes to make your relationship work. It’s what he wants so desperately. And he couldn’t stand seeing you like this ever again—especially not if he himself is the reason. He might not be good with relationships, but he knows you and he will do his best for you. Because you’re worth it. No fuck in the world could keep up with the bliss of having you in his arms, feeling your warmth. It’s what you deserve: someone who loves you unconditionally.
Track: Marshmello, Jonas Brothers – Leave Before You Love Me
A/N: It may not sound like it, but I love him and I hate hurting Oiks, I swear! :D
You were a coward and a hypocrite. You always insisted on solving disagreements and conflicts in person. Not via video calls, not via phone calls and, above all, not via texts. Talking face-to-face avoided misconceptions through miscommunication, keeping these disagreements from turning into full-fledged fights.
That’s also why you always preferred to have that kind of conversation the next day when all parties involved had gotten some sleep and – at best – some food too, so no one would say things they were going to regret later on in the heat of the moment. Communication was key and for you that included everything: from words, over facial expressions, to body language. Hence you never had real fights with the (at least in that regard) likewise level-headed and rational Iwaizumi over the years, as both of you shared the belief it was better to approach differences with calmness and patience.
Oikawa, however, had always been one who wanted to straighten out things as soon as possible – no matter if it was three in the afternoon or three in the morning. Because of this, all your discussions had been resolved over breakfast – a compromise the two of you had found between texting in the middle of the night and talking after you had gotten off work and he off practice – and both of you had grown fond of it by now. Until now.
Your phone’s display lit up and Oikawa’s face appeared on the screen. His smile shone brighter than the sun rising on the horizon on your side of the windshield. With an abrupt move, you put the sun visor down but the sun was still to low to be held back. Angrily, you slammed it back against the car’s ceiling.
The buzzing sound of your phone was the only noise in the stuffy air of your car, not counting its engine, but instead of answering the call, you turned your focus back on the road as the speedometer needle moved further to the right and the scenery rolled by faster than it should.
Conflicts between Oikawa and you had always been solved over breakfast. Always. Except for this one. This one wouldn’t.
Your display tuned black again, only to light up with Oikawa’s smile again, barely two seconds later. Your knuckles turned white as your grip tightened around the steering wheel. It was unfortunate he was already awake. You had hoped he would sleep longer, give you more time to get away from Tokyo.
This time Oikawa gave up earlier and your grip loosened around the synthetic leather, your foot easing its pressure on the gas pedal.
You told yourself it was for the better, that he needed this cut. However, you had to repeat these words over and over like mantra to convince yourself of their truth, because in reality you weren’t sure whether you were doing the right thing by leaving Oikawa like this: secretly, after a sweaty night in the sheets, with only a note on the hotel room’s nightstand.
Maybe it was wrong, but you didn’t know what else to do. All you knew was that accepting Oikawa’s proposition a while back to sleep with each other to blow of some stress had been a mistake.
Both of you had agreed to a no-catching-feelings-policy, so you didn’t think about the risk any further. But feelings are nothing you can control and then happened, what had to happen, leading to you fleeing over the National Route 6 from Tokyo to Sendai.
Last night, on the suite’s balcony, while you were gazing at the stars, he had told you about the deadline to decide whether he wanted to go to Argentina or not nearing and how he still hadn’t made a decision. When you had looked at him in disbelief, asking him what the hell was keeping him from going, he had turned to you, your gazes meeting, with his eyes practically screaming ‘you’ while his lips said, “I’m not sure if I’m good enough.”
Struggling for words, you had only stared at him until he had broken the eye contact to watch the stars again, knowing very well you looked right through his lie, but asking whether you believed in parallel universes instead.
The words had found you a few hours later, when you were tossing and turning in the bed while Oikawa was sleeping soundly next to you.
Tōru Oikawa.
Follow your dreams.
Go to Argentina.
I wish you the best.
Your screen lit up for the third time, reminding you how his contact photo was the contrary of what would await you at the other end of the line you didn’t pick up. Despite his pretty face, he was the definition of ugly crying. And you knew that was waiting for you would answer the call: the crying, the sobs, the broken voice. They would drown out the rustling of paper as his hand clenched around your note.
You didn’t know if parallel universes existed. But if they did, there were probably hundreds, if not thousands or millions of universes where you returned the feelings that were currently starting to bloom in Oikawa’s heart.
In this you didn’t.
When he tried to call you a forth time just seconds after hanging up for the third time, your heart clenched. He wouldn’t stop on his own. He needed you to cut the chord, to start moving on.
Once again, your speedometer climbed higher and higher as the scenery flew by faster with every second. You let down your windows; the air was getting to thick to breath. But the chilly morning air wasn’t helping, you were still a hypocrite. Alas, it was for the better. Losing him as a friend would hurt, but it was better to nip his feelings in the bud, kill them while the pain would still be bearable.
