Ok But Lazy Makeouts With Suna?? You And Rin Are Sitting Together And So Close That Suddenly You're Kissing

october 17th ♡

– ceo!kuroo tetsurou x assistant!reader; timeskip au, slow burn, mutual pining

– summary: It’s October 17th. The day of which you can never get a semblance of peace. It’s the start of volleyball season.

part one

a/n: i saw the hq movie and remembered my roots. it's kuroo time. love that man. (w.c.: 6.4k)

It’s October 17th, your desk calendar tells you. 

Marked in a quick circle in bold red pen for emphasis. Not like you could forget it, what with the building buzz that seems to escalate with every hour and the excited greetings bubbling in the office. And certainly you couldn’t forget the date with your boss reminding you of it every single chance he could get.

It’s October 17th. The day of which you can never get a semblance of peace. It’s the start of volleyball season. There’s a tally sheet in your mind that holds eight marks— one for every time he’s mentioned the damn day— and it’s not even time for your second cup of coffee. 

The most wonderful time of the year, according to Kuroo. 

There’s a pep in his step as he juggles his briefcase and files between hands and skips towards his third meeting of the day. His phone is tucked between his ear and shoulder, swarmed in the air of chaos and yet, there’s a wide smile on his face. Toothy and eager, almost maniacal. An exhilarated man, the ringmaster of madness, preparing a show for thousands with only coffee and sheer enthusiasm running through his veins. 

The tiles beneath his feet practically turn golden as he passes by. 

He stops before your desk on his way out, phone dutifully tucked yet ignored as he meets your gaze with burning excitement. The chatter on the other end of the line is audible, and he really should be listening to it, but instead his focus is maintained on you. You raise a brow in question, fingers hovering over the keyboard to your computer and e-mail to the finance department woefully on hold as your boss stares at you. 

Tufts of his hair are pulled in various ways, the standard for a busy morning, and the sleeves of his white button down are rolled up to his elbows displaying the veins that no doubt pulse excitedly; But the most revealing part of him, the most captivating part in his day of havoc, are his eyes. 

Honey auburn that burns alight in sheer joy— the kind of happiness that he wants you to revel in, hopes to convey in the intensity of his gaze. Sticky honey brown that coats the inside of your stomach and fills you with warmth. A gleam that can make flowers bloom with just his simple gaze.  

Slowly, he points his finger towards your calendar that’s displayed clearly for the regular passerby. Fingertip presses the red circle on the paper, emphasizing the words scribbled inside of it detailing the events of the day. 

1st Day of Volleyball Season!

His smile splits his face into two. You add another tally to the sheet.  

Indulging him with a grin would be encouraging juvenile behavior, so it takes everything in you to bite back the tugging of your lips and instead roll your eyes. It doesn’t deter him. He all but clicks his heels together as he prances out the door, throwing his fist holding his briefcase in the air with a silent cheer, and answering whatever question was posed to him on the other end of his line.

It’s October 17th, Kuroo’s favorite day of the year. 

Yours, too. 

Although, you would never tell him that.

-

The starting game of MSBY vs. Tachibana Red Falcons is a match predicted to be vicious and brutal. Considering Japan’s top players had more than proved themselves to be powerhouses during the Nations League Tournament over the summer, the star power and media attention given to the players has given the entrance game to the season an anticipation that could not be tamed— not that anyone in the marketing department would want it to be. 

The players this year have been nothing short of top tier athleticism— a detail that so graciously fell into the JVA’s hands and became their capitalized advertisement. 

An unmatched season! A trial of power and speed! Japan’s best players go head-to-head in the best playoffs Japan has ever seen!

Kuroo practically played the lottery every morning with luck like this. 

The Ariake Arena fills up like a lightning flood, waves of bodies decorated with black and red filling seats with heightened excitement. It vibrates throughout the stadium, transcends beyond the high beams and open space. It fills and suffocates until all that can be seen, heard, and felt is pure, unadulterated energy. It’s a straight shot of adrenaline to the heart. It’s the taste of a sweet memory. 

The sound of excitement from guests and vendors steadily rises and Kuroo buzzes in place. His shoes tap incessantly on the wooden floor, fingers flutter with anticipation as he adjusts, then readjusts, the now wrinkled tie across his neck. His cheeks ache from the endless smile that pushes on them. 

Carefully moved chess pieces, endless phone calls, and retina-burning contracts with sponsors have finally gotten him here: To the sweet smell of cool conditioned air and freshly waxed floors, to the sounds of chants and joy, to the sight of his successfully pitched logo printed beneath Miya Atsumu’s smug face on the large banner tacked on the left side of the arena. The veneration on his face is one that finds itself familiar to veterans. Standing on the shining hardwood of the court, his hands finally find rest on his hips, his gaze stilling at the sight of his months-long work. 

Pride doesn’t really do much justice to the feelings inside of him— but damn if it isn’t a close enough guess. His hard work finally actualized, but it’s only just really beginning. This is where his fun begins, the shining light, the gentle reminder of how much he loves his job.

October 17th, the best day of the year.

“We need to see the players before warm-ups begin.” Kuroo says after a moment, not even needing to spare a glance backwards to see if you’ve heard him. Such is the consequence of having a good assistant, one that, even with all the eye rolls and dragging sighs, is always a step ahead of him.

“Coach Foster said that he could spare us ten minutes before he gives his locker room speech. Coach Sato said the same.” You tell your boss, stepping beside him as his eyes follow the movements of staff members dragging carts of volleyballs to their respective places. An approving look settles on his face, a delightful perusal.

There's a tablet held in your arms as you notate on a timetable, presumably a schedule with detailed notes that Kuroo has to be on in order for the evening to go well. Probably one you've put a lot of time and effort into. Knowing you, it’s probably color coded. A schedule that he would do well by both you and the company in abiding by.

He shoves his hand between the tablet and your fixed stare, wiggling his fingers obnoxiously in front of the work that holds your dutiful attention. "Stop paying attention to that and look around you. Smell the air! What is it you smell?"

The excitement held so passionately in his eyes bore into your unimpressed ones. "Stale popcorn and lemon cleaner, Kuroo-san."

"So negative, I think the long work days are finally getting to you."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Not mine. You love me too much to quit." He grins. He gestures his hand outward, panning it across the stadium to the sight of guests filling the seats. "It's the smell of anticipation! The promise of a worthwhile game! How can you not be excited?”

A ping resounds on your tablet that draws your gaze back down to the schedule. It’s a message from the volunteer coordinator. You write a note in the margin—volunteers in break room at 8:45, give thanks and gifts at 9.

"It’s hard to be excited when you keep yapping in my ear about what day it is." You mutter distractedly.

"You're telling me," Suddenly his fingers are poking into the skin of your cheeks, lifting the skin upward in a manufactured smile, "You look frightening." 

You swat his hands away, your own palms connecting with his in a vicious slap. "If we don't get started now you're going to be late in meeting the President of the JVA at his box seats." 

Kuroo waves his hand nonchalantly. "Ah, he'll wait for me. I am the reason we’ve got a turnout like this. It's the least he could do."

You roll your eyes, formality lost as you address your boss. "It's about the principle of it, Tetsu. He'll be upset."

"Have you forgotten what day it is? How can anyone be upset on this day?"

You stare at him in violent silence clearly exposing the extent of your disdain for him at this moment. It’s a futile endeavor. Your stare only fuels the fire of his need for provocation tenfold. His smile widens, teeth bearing a shit-eating grin. With little remorse, you tell him, "You're very annoying when you're happy."

His head tilts backward in a laugh, lean and tall figure elongating with the motion as he, genuinely, finds himself amused. “And you're even meaner than usual when I am. C’mon, let’s pay the Jackals a visit.” Accompanying the turn of his body, he taps the tip of your nose with his slender finger and begins a trek towards the main entrance leading to the corridors of the arena.

“No.” Your quick retort is the popping of a balloon. He deflates, hands thrown upward in exasperation as he turns around to face you once more. You swear he stomps his feet. 

"God, what now?"

“Favoritism.”

He balks with a furrow on his brow, “Pardon?”

“Favoritism. It’s obvious to everyone in this building who you’re rooting for, so we need to minimize those details before someone catches wind and decides to tell the press that the games are rigged.”

“Now, that is an outrageous idea. No respectable reporter would use my words against me.” Kuroo smiles, annoyingly, confidently. To which your stare only digs further into him, the infamous memory of last year’s season playing quite clearly across your face in which his sarcastic comment about players salaries made headlines and resulted in a week of endless phone calls to your office.

“JVA DIRECTOR STATES DIV. ONE PLAYERS WILL NOT RECEIVE SPONSORSHIP BONUSES AFTER ASTOUNDING SEASON AS ‘WE DON’T PAY FOR MEDIOCRITY AND THESE PLAYERS SUCK, OBVIOUSLY’.”

It’s the conveyance of death in your eyes alone that really gets him going. Truly, there’s no one more impressive than you. 

“I said, respectable.” Kuroo emphasizes, hardly batting an eye as you walk past him. 

“C’mon. Coach Sato is waiting with the Falcons.”

“The favoritism allegation is ridiculous. Ask around the office, no one is able to tell that you’re my least favorite of them all.” He follows you into the hallway without prompting like the well-trained dog you’ve made him to be, “That’s how good I am.”

You turn back to look at him, “Oh, sure. So the names Bokuto and Hinata don’t mean anything to you?”

Biting back a smirk, he says, “I have no idea who you’re referring to.”

—

In the aftermath of a worthwhile game and an impressive start to the season, the stadium quickly finds itself abandoned. Scores of people taking to the street to celebrate their win or drink their sorrows away, their raucous din and lived delight exiting with them, leaving only a barren arena—save for the remaining staff who dutifully tidy the empty aisles and clean the floors. Yet, even with their humble presence, it’s quiet. Only the light echoing of shoes and brooms on the floor, the rolling of carts, the sounds of vacuums filling the space and providing life. 

And standing on the second floor of the arena, leaning his body against the railing overlooking the court, Kuroo finally gets a second to just look.

There are very few times in which Kuroo is quiet. Or rather, there are very few times where he gets the chance to be. 

It’s hard to walk the line between professional and man, not that he does a good job at it on a regular day. It's an all-consuming persona and his job demands the full devotion of mind, body, and spirit despite the relative nonurgency that comes with being a Marketing Director. And while he’s never been known for his outstanding polish as a young professional— particularly within the confines of his office— Kuroo has never not been one to commit. What is demanded of him is what he gives, and more. 

These days he’s finding it almost impossible to switch the hat of boss for the one of man. The lines between the two become even more blurred with each passing day that he spends another sleepless night in the office, attends another soul sucking meeting that could have truly just been an email, brown noses at people with titles and credentials that he cannot bear to remember for the sake of money. 

Humanity slowly depletes when met with the four walls of an office that never changes shades.  Moments like this are brief allowances. The empty stadium is conducive to the quick slip into a memory, the removal of the permanent hat for the other one. 

The game played not even an hour ago is replaced with that of what he remembers.  The once erratic beat of his heart before the blown whistle, the feel of burning muscles in his calves, and the sting of the ball on his skin; He can almost taste the salt of the disappointment of a lost match, and the sweetness of the joy the game gave him. If he tries, Kuroo can recall the last time that he was on a court just like the one before him and remember just how wonderful it once was.

The sweet memory of it all. A sliver of happiness that he keeps stowed away in the back of his mind, meant only to be pulled out in times of emergency. When life gets too loud and work becomes exactly what it is—work. It’s the needed reprieve, the gentle vice. But much like everything else these days, it lasts for only a lingering moment before it fades into the nothingness of everything else. 

There isn’t one particular thought that he can train on. He couldn’t even tell anyone what exactly it is that he thinks about, for it all blends together into the great variation of everything. A hectic whirlwind of things that fall over one another as they fight to take his attention. 

The game schedule for tomorrow, the invoices he needs to have approved, the mountain of unread emails relating to a media sponsorship that needs to be finalized by the end of the month, the leadership training that he needs to attend next week. Seeing Bokuto and Hinata before the game was a slip of the hat into the relative calm of youth that he remembers so fondly, he should probably try and hang out with them more. His social life is already pitiful. There’s also the fact that he has to go grocery shopping since he just ran out of instant noodles, unless he wants to have takeout again—but he’s already racked up quite the bill this month in takeout alone and he hasn’t been able to go to the gym enough to counteract those great decisions. He needs to return his sister’s phone call, something he keeps prolonging, not because he doesn’t care to know the details about his nephew’s birthday party next Sunday but rather because that will inevitably lead to the discussion about their father’s well-being and truthfully, that’s not a can of worms he’s willing to open just yet. And also—

“Hey.”

Kuroo’s head snaps towards the intrusion, towards the voice that cuts through the storm of flying thoughts and stills them in their rampage. 

You stand behind him, your blazer thrown over your purse and the sleeves of your dress shirt rolled up to your elbows. Your hair is no longer the neat style you had at the beginning of the event, but instead the reflection of a long work day. Your own work hat stowed somewhere deep in your purse, in favor of someone he’s rather fond of. 

“Hey.” He returns, surprised but pleased. He had figured at the end of the game you would have made haste with the exiting crowd. Your duties done for the day, the schedule you made him stick to like glue finished and completed. Any other person would have run for the doors and be home by now. 

But, here you are. Standing with a content smile on your face and a softening in your eyes as you meet his gaze. (Truthfully, he should know better. You’ve never been one to just leave without telling him, whether directly or through email, for home or for a date. Hell, you all but yell your plans in his face just to reduce the risk of confusion. But he assumes, still, that you’re smarter than him. That you know when to call it quits on a work day and head home. 

He conveniently forgets that, above all, you’re good at your job. You never listen, too stubborn and insistent on doing your duties even when he tells you to go home early; to not worry about the final details on a draft or a missed message; tells you that he can handle it. That’s never been you, because aside from being fantastic at being his assistant, you’ve been committed to your craft no matter what it is. You care too much about your job and the things it affects. 

Because that’s who you are. It’s who you’ve always been. It’s what he knows to be true and violent about you, and it's what he’s been able to see blossom since working with you. So, of course you’re here. Waiting for him, because that’s what you do. Commit to being there for him, through and through. 

Because you’re his assistant, of course. 

Just his assistant. That’s all.)

He stands straighter, manners not entirely drilled out of his subconscious, even if he was distracted. A beat passes, he looking at you and you looking at him, before he, finally, extends a hand— inviting you to join him. You do, settling next to him on the rail, and gazing over the object of his fixation. 

It’s a content silence. The inhale of the aftermath, the exhale of the preparation. One you both know the extent of, have shared too many late nights for. There’s great relief in being able to revel in the fruits of one’s labor, but there’s something all the more satisfying in knowing someone else was basking in that reward too. In not being entirely alone, despite the job often making him feel.

This is your moment just as much as it is his, something he’s never been more convinced of. 

Much of the success belonging to him would be nothing if not for your firm foundation, the depth of your support for not only him, but the game. The wondrous, joyous game. 

 It’s only a moment or two of the stillness between you two before you gently disturb it. 

“Today went well.” You tell him. 

He gives an affirmative hum, a small smile befalling on his face. Folding his arms across his chest, he tilts his head from side to side in consideration. “You don’t think the banner was too big?”

“It’s no bigger than it usually is.” You shrug and he hums again. 

Another beat, then he says, “Did you notice the photo?”

“On the banner?” You ask. 

“Yeah.”

“I did.”

“Good.” He says, resolutely, looking over the arena once more as two staff members begin folding up the commentators chairs on the sidelines of the court, “You chose it.”

“I know.” You say. He smiles again, a happy and content one; and you would tease him about it— (about the fact that he’s smiling as though this were a great victory fought between the marketing department and the photography studio, one that he emerged victorious in fighting tooth and nail for your input instead of the reality of the situation. 

It was a cloudlink sent to his email on a Tuesday afternoon, filled with prints of various D1 players that he was asked to provide input on. A task that he, then, delegated to you by calling you into his office on your lunch break and having you play eenie-meenie-miny-moe with him. With a sandwich held firmly in your hand and Kuroo pecking at his snack bag of trail mix, you point to the smug face of Miya Atsumu.

“It’s because of the smile, right?” He had asked, his eyes squinting and head tilted to the side as though that would give him better understanding of the man’s face. “He’s a great player. He just has the look of a winner.”

“I don’t know. I just think he’s hot.” You tell him simply.

Kuroo chokes on a peanut. You laugh. He sends your choice over to the graphic design team.)

—but you let him have the small win. Four years of working together has taught you which of the battles to fight, and truthfully, there aren’t that many that you don’t give to him. Admitting sucha  thing, however, would be a violation of everything you hold dear to your job so you obviously omit that. 

Kuroo speaks once more, his voice soft as he continues to regard the court. “You did a good job today.”

There’s no tease in him, no wry smile or setup for a joke that you’re clearly walking into. For all intents and purposes, Kuroo Testurou stands before you as a man with more than his guard down. He stands honestly, made soft and tender by the trials of a hard work day and the victory of his labor. 

The kind of man you know him to be, that you hold such deep admiration for. 

“Thank you, Tetsu.” For fear of disrupting the quiet that surrounds the arena or fear of shattering the genuineness of the moment, you respond in kind. Equally gentle when you tell him earnestly, honestly, “So did you, but that’s not new.”

You feel it before you can even see or hear it. The turning of the tide, the impending slant of his smile; The red alert alarm that you have built into your head for Tetsurou’s moments of snarkiness blaring loudly. 

The taunt is on its way and you begin a rebuttal before he even opens his mouth. Kuroo’s face contorts into an exaggerated look of disbelief.

“We were having—”

“I cannot believe it—” 

“—a nice moment!”

“—Is that a compliment I hear?”

Rolling your eyes, you turn your head away from him. “If you’re going to act like that—”

“No, no! Can’t take it back. You said it already.” 

“Nope. I formally recant my statement—”

“Ooh, big word—”

“—I forswear what I said—”

“—Forswear?! How do you even know what that means?”

“—You did an adequate job. Actually, you did exactly what was expected of you. Nothing more.”

“C’mon, give me some credit. You weren’t expecting me to land that invite for that GQ party next month. And how did I do that? Remind me one more time?” Kuroo leans his head towards you, tapping his ear repeatedly. 

“By doing your job.” You insist and he throws his head to the side in hurt.

“By being the best at my job.”

“They invited you because you were badgering them in the box seats. What did you bribe them with?”

He levels a steady smirk at you, “Sounds like someone doesn’t want to go.”

You gasp, eyes narrowing, “You wouldn’t.”

“Admit it, then.” He grins.

“Admit what! That I kept you on schedule for the day so that you could actually do your job and get us the invites? Then I will admit that I did my job excellently.” You poke your finger into his chest repeatedly and he laughs.

He agrees with a small nod of his head, smiling widely, knowingly. “You did.” 

“I did.” You affirm. “And with enough time to factor in potty breaks. Plural.”

Kuroo laughs again, incredulously, “Potty. Who even says that anymore?”

“Me. Your lovely, amazing assistant that you are definitely taking to the GQ party.”

Kuroo’s gaze fixes on yours, held firmly as the grin lingering so resolutely on his face reaches up to his eyes. The conversation peters out into another gentle silence, ambers meeting yours in a steady embrace, and voicing what remains to be said. Held tightly by the reciprocity of your own gaze.

It happens, then. The quiet kindling that has become so familiar between he and you. The settling of a warmth between the space that has been occurring more frequently; Found only in times like this. When laughter dissipates and ease takes over. When it becomes glaringly obvious that you enjoy your boss’s company a little more than you probably should, and that he doesn’t necessarily mind you all that much. There isn’t much to say about it even though your tongue feels heavy in your mouth and fiction dictates that this is the moment where someone should say something.

But what is there to say at this moment to the man who signs your paychecks? Who eggs you on in ways that no one would even bother to do? What could you express other than profound admiration and deep annoyances over his character? What could you tell him that he doesn’t already know? 

(Maybe the truth that is buried deep within you. One that you haven’t admitted to yourself because honestly, you aren’t even sure you believe it yourself.

There’s bound to be affections shared between two people who work in such close proximity as you two. Regard, appreciation, fondness— but not that. No, it couldn’t be that. That would be ridiculous.

Because he’s your boss, of course. 

Just your boss. That’s all.) 

“You should go home,” Tetsurou is the first to break the stare. Fortunately, too, lest you become too absorbed in your thoughts and do something stupid like risking getting lost in the eyes of amber. He turns his attention to his hands on the railing, his thumb tapping repeatedly on the metal. “Get some rest. You deserve it, keeping me in line and all.”

He bumps his shoulder into yours. 

“Are you heading home soon?” You ask.

He shrugs, before looking to the court once more. “In a minute.  I’m going to stay for a little longer. Not ready to go home yet.”

You hum, “Then I’ll stay with you.”

There’s a beat of silence, one that, when you glance towards him you expect to see filled with amusement. Maybe a tease on his tongue once more about how hard you work, about how miserable you’ll be in the morning for staying up past your bedtime. Instead, you see only the calm stillness of his face, eyes fixed resolutely on the empty court before him. 

He leans forward onto the railing, bracing his elbows against its fixture, watching the scene below him as though it were the most interesting thing in the world. Four janitors taking a break from their waxing of the floor to play a quick, and sloppy, game of volleyball. Soft laughter echoes throughout the room, broken apart by low mutterings of commentary on their plays that sends the four older men into even further laughter. 

Then, “Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I went pro.”

To learn of other people in the course of a years-long friendship is natural, rightfully expected— and while there is much of Kuroo that you do know and can recite off the top of your head, the willful admittance of intimate details, especially in quiet times like this, is always surprising. Especially when coupled with the contemplative silence that follows his words, the genuine wonder, the longing written on his face as the rose thoughts of a first love bloom in the cracks of a fallen smile. 

In the softening of his eyes and the deep sigh that he releases, you realize that there’s a Kuroo Tetsurou that you don’t know. 

Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, you reach out to find him. You ask, softly. “Why did you stop playing?”

His eyes remain trained on the court, as though the answer were laid upon the hardwood floors. “It was time. I loved the game but, I don’t know. Just didn’t make sense for me to keep it going. There were other things I needed to do, and playing professionally would have taken up too much time.” 

You can almost see it, then. A younger Tetsurou, even more chaotic and rowdy than you know him to be, with hopes and dreams that exist somewhere in the great web of could have been’s, cast to the side because of the “other things”. You don’t pry, not when he’s already being so forthcoming as it is, but you make a note. Store it away in the folder lodged deep in your mind dedicated to the man.

“Would you be happier if you did?” You ask, albeit hesitantly. Not entirely sure what you would do with the answer.

He rolls his broad shoulders gently, like a tide rolling in under itself, swayed under its own pressure and maybe that should mean something. “Well, it’s not like I’m unhappy. I’ve got a good life, good job, good people. I’ve got it all.” 

He spares a quick glance to you. So quick you wouldn’t have caught it had he not already been the centerpoint of your fixed stare, but truthfully, when is he not? When is he not the center of your gaze, your life, your world? Everything in your routine seems to start and end with Kuroo Tetsurou.

“But I can’t deny how much I miss the game.”

—you don’t mind all that much. Especially not when he’s like this. Open, sensitive, and wanting to talk. When he actually takes the time to chew his thoughts out and speak them into existence rather than continue his sordid and pointed teases.

You lean forward onto the railing. “Do you think you would have made it far?” 

He adjusts his figure next to yours. His crooked elbow touches yours, but he makes no move to remove it. “Well… I hate to brag, but…” 

You scoff. “You do.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Hard to say.” He shrugs his shoulders wryly. “In another life, I’m still playing.” 

It sounds sadder than he intends it to be, but it’s the truth. And you get it; have your own could-have’s stored deep in the recesses of your mind, your own forgotten dreams about who you wanted to be that haunt and plague in the twilight of hard nights where sleep is elusive and quarter-life crises spring forth in the darkness—but it’s not all bad.

“Well, in this other life, if you’re playing and I just so happened to know you,” You tell him, “I would be your biggest fan.”

He huffs at that. Looking at you with a tilt of his head and a handsome smile on his face. “Oh yeah? And if you didn’t?”

“I’d be Miya Atsumu’s biggest fan.” You say simply.

“You already are.”

“Yeah, but I know you have jealousy issues so I just don’t say anything about it.”

Tetsurou nods his head. Amused. “Well I’m glad to know you, then.”

It happens here, again. 

The quiet kindling, the lingering warmth. With hopes and dreams laid out before you, and the brief allowance into the depths of his intimate details he holds tightly under the weight of himself, do you find the familiarity of the man again. The one you know, the one who laughed so hard at your banana costume that milk came out of his nose. The one who canceled all of his meetings for the day when you broke your pinky finger in the office and who stayed with you in the hospital until a cast was put on. 

The one who smiles at you so gently, as if you are someone important. The one you can’t help but smile right back at. Kuroo Tetsurou, your boss, a friend.

Movement in the corner of your eye draws your attention to the court. The janitors that were once playing amongst each other slowly begin to stray from the court, picking up their brooms and exiting towards the sidelines. Looking at Tetsurou, you find that he’s still looking at you.

“They’re not closing the stadium for another hour. And it looks like the janitors have had their fun.” You say, “Wanna play a quick game?”

His brows raise to his hairline, “You know how to play?”

“We had to choose a sport to play for gym class back in high school and it was either tennis or volleyball. So I guess you can say I know a thing or two.”

“Ah, a professional.”

“Mhm. I’m here to give you a run for your money.”

Tetsurou pushes himself off the railing, standing to his full height as he accepts the offer. Towering over you at his 6’5 height, he begins rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, cuffing the white material until it reaches the crook of his elbow. A quick glance to the revealed skin is only a firm reminder of what you had pointedly forgotten. Long slender fingers attached to a thick and veiny forearm, sculpted through years of volleyball practice and continued exercise.

If he wanted to, he definitely could have made it professionally. You almost choke on your spit.

“Oh, I’m counting on it.” Tetsurou gives you a smile that rivals the smugness of Miya Atsumu in that stupid banner and you know for a fact that in that other life, you would’ve been Kuroo Tetsurou’s biggest fan whether you knew him or not— and not because he was a good player. 

—

“You need to lock your elbows.”

“They’re locked!”

“No they’re not. Look at this,” Tetsurou steps underneath the net, approaching you in long strides before tapping his fingers against the elbows of your interlocked hands. He watches with little impression as your arms swing easily with his force, “Noodles. How are you supposed to receive with this?”

“I’m trying but it’s not comfortable!”

“So you’d rather suck?”

“Kinky.” You say with a waggle of your brows and he rolls his eyes.

“Stop it. Here, you need to—” Without a second thought, he steps behind you, wrapping his arms around your torso and fixing your hands. wrapping your right hand over your left and running the length of his warm touch down your forearms. Innocuous and gentle, but stiffening as you breathe in the musky scent of his cologne and the faded scent of his aftershave, and feel the hard planes of his chest press against your back. 

“Straighten your elbows,” He mutters, voice heavy beside your ear.  “And keep them locked. Helps you to have a steady receive for any kind of ball. If your form is perfect then you can always pass the ball using this part, here.” His right index finger touches the surface of your forearm, running between the length of your elbow and wrist to accentuate his point. 

It isn’t a matter of fireworks when he touches you, the exploding kind that has butterflies and goosebumps erupting over the expanse of your skin. It isn’t as though your eyes have suddenly been peeled open and the realization has struck you hard across the face like every romance story that preaches about the magic of the first touch, the electricity of meeting hands across the table, the sudden realization of knowing.

No, this is entirely different. A comforting touch, not uncommon, but intimate and while it doesn’t have you reeling in revolutionary realization, nor does it have you fanning yourself from the flames of sudden desire, his touch does, eerily, have you sinking in further. There’s no fluttering and flustering with the confusion of flooding feelings, but rather, it has you looking at his hands with a slight furrow. 

Wondering, when his hands suddenly got so soft, yet so firm. Wondering, in what part of the intertwining of his life with yours did his touch suddenly not only become okay, but felt as though it belonged? 

Were this any other man, you would have a harassment claim sent to HR before he could even get near you. But it’s Tetsurou; And when his slender fingers wrap gently around your wrist, turning them upward slightly, you don’t go rigid in his embrace, but instead fall into it. Settle into his grasp, entrust yourself in his hands. 

Because how could you not?

“Like this?” You ask, quietly. No need to exert volume considering he’s right next to you. In search of approval in how you’ve adjusted your hands, you turn your head to the side to look at him, only to realize how close he is to you. Eyes able to see the steady pulse of the clench in his jaw as he focuses on your form, the sharp angle of his jaw, the closely shaven hairs of his stubble.

“Yeah, just like that. Good.” He answers, before removing his hands and bracing them against your shoulders, straightening your posture for the receives that you are no longer focused on getting.

If Kuroo Tetsurou turned his head to you, there would be nothing stopping his nose from bumping into yours. You must be silent, too caught up in the overwhelming nature of it all because he’s suddenly stiffening from his position over you. Then, at a speed you’ve never seen him move before, he’s rescinding his body entirely from you. And it should sting. The speed at which your boss acted as though you physically burned him, his body essentially repulsed from touching you. 

He’s putting great space between you two as he ducks back under the net to his side of the court, yelling over his shoulder, “T-that should fix it. Try, uh, try now. Try serving.”

“I thought I was receiving?” You ask his retreating figure and he stills, considering for a moment, before waving his hand in the air— obviously embarrassed and confused at the fact that he’s just jeopardized everything and made his assistant uncomfortable. 

“Whatever, just give it back to me.” He says, frustratedly.

And you allow yourself, just for a brief moment, to store another could-have in the sanctity of your fantasies. One where he isn’t your boss, and you aren’t his assistant, and you are able to admit to the true and honest parts of yourself—

“Nice return! See? Better already.”

—you rather liked the way he touched you.  

a/n: HEEEEELP i love him your honor. sorry for always ghosting. i wish i could say i wont, but i know i will. lol

uquiz that tells you what circle of hell you would go to

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Amajiki Tamaki ❖ S5EP89

With a single word from Netanyahu, the crossing was closed. With a single word, two million people were starved and buried! We are just numbers in the archives of this dark world. How long will this injustice continue? Our lives in Gaza are like those of prisoners. No food, no water, no electricity, no medical treatment. No basic necessities of life.

uhhh new uquiz hang out with me and I’ll say what I’d tell my friends about you 

"You don't have to walk me home."

"It's nothing." Iruka rubs the back of his neck when he lies, flat palm against his skin as he smiles sheepishly. "It's not out of my way."

It is. He lives on the complete other side of the village, down by the schoolhouse. There's no real reason for him to meandering down here by the main gates, so close to you that the back of his hand brushes against yours intermittently.

It's rare that Iruka even comes out with the groups for dinner, let alone a couple of drinks. His cheeks are tickled pink from the alcohol, the smooth skin of his scar silvery white against it. Whenever you glance his way, it crinkles in the middle as he smiles.

"Really," he insists, "It's my pleasure. Besides, it's what boyfriends do."

Boyfriend. The term sounds so childish, but it makes your chest tense with excitement. Your relationship is still shiny and new, glimmering with a future of unknowns, polished with unfettered affection. Tonight was the first time you introduced him with that word 'boyfriend' and tonight was the first time his hand found yours under the table, out of view from the rest of the world.

The street lights barely illuminate the road, puddling weakly in their own respective spots and pulling weak shadows across the front of your apartment building.

"You should come in for a coffee," you say as you turn on your heel, stopping both of you short, "As a thank you."

"I don't drink coffee, but..." Iruka looks away for a moment, rather sheepish despite no one being around to witness, "I'd still like to come in, if I could."

Your face splits into a smile as you bounce on the pads of your feet, purely excited at the insinuation. Dating has its own set of rules, most of which are outdated, but appease the elders and their watchful eyes. Dates are usually done in groups, public displays of affection are kept to a minimum, and, most importantly, men aren't to come into a lady's home this late at night without pretense.

Like coffee.

You step forward into the dim, halfway there light of the lamp, and place your hand on his arm. He follows suit, but more daring, his hand finding the dip of your waist.

Appearance is important to him. Teachers are judged to a different standard than everyone else. These little rebellions only exist when there's no one else to hear them.

"I could make some food?" you offer, thing soft lilt to your voice more playful than anything. Iruka leans in, bonking his forehead against yours, and says:

"I don't want that either."

His hand scoops around the base of your neck, pulling you up and guiding your lips to the press of his own. There's an edge of innocence in the chasteness, physically buzzing with anticipation of more as he hums into you. Every breath between you is used to get closer; each exhale your chest deflates and he crushes you closer, that hand on your hip now snugly behind you, curling your back into him.

Each inhale he takes advantage of, tongue sneaking past your lips and lewdly pressing into yours. The lewdness of it all -the wet, spitty, desperate way he engulfs you deeper at every chance, the way his hand has drifted to squeeze the fat of your ass- surprises you so much that it's all you can do it keep up, holding on by his shoulders. The heat of his breath mingling with yours makes your whole body searing hot.

As if he knows, Iruka starts working his knee in between yours, thigh firm against your pussy and giving you some of the friction you desperately need. When you buckle into the contact, he moans like a wanton whore, open mouthed and deep, eyebrows crumpled together in rapture-

A low wolf whistle echoes down the street.

"Aw, get it, sensei-!" By the time you both scramble apart, the gaggle of youths (much too old to be his current students) is nothing but shadows running in the distance, guffawing as they go.

"You- hey-" Iruka's face is scarlet with embarrassment as he staggers over his words, both trying to yell and stay quiet enough not to wake your neighbors, "Go home, boys."

"They can't hear you, Umino." You pat his arm and a half-hearted laugh. You'd care more if you were younger, but age gave you thicker skin.

Your boyfriend apparently doesn't feel the same.

"Aw geez," he laments. Somehow, the kiss has mussed his hair, pulling a couple long strings in front of his face. "How embarrassing, people are gonna talk-"

"They were going to talk anyway-- people love gossip," you laugh, tugging at his sleeve, "Come inside and let's give them something to talk about."

His jaw flexes as he comes around to the idea, physically swallowing the shame of being caught.

"What happened to the food you were offering?" he teases, voice low and rolling. You turn away, walking towards the stairs to your building.

"Don't worry," you hum, "I'll give you something to put your mouth on."

bitter ain't sweet

summary: Suna x F!Reader. a college fairytale in reverse

word count: 2.8k

cw: angst to fluff, [kuroo voice] stupid young people, hypothetical discussion of throwing up towards the end

a/n: one night i was so so miserable bc i just know suna is out there falling stupid in love with girls who don’t care about him and this was born

"Aren't you tired?" You say, amused, as a twenty-one-year-old Suna Rintarō stretches out his legs over the arm of your couch, his head resting in your lap.

"Nah," he shakes his head, his eyelids dropping shut and his muscles going limp when you thread your fingers through his hair. "I'm staying on that grind."

"Oh, aren’t you," you snort. He reaches up to flick your face, eyes still closed, and settles for waving his hand vaguely around in search of your face about five inches below it.

"Vulgar," he says. "Who's teaching you these things?"

"You."

"Ah. You shouldn't let me do that."

"Do what?" You cease petting his hair, and he wriggles petulantly upward, searching for your hand. You give in too easily and resume.

"Corrupt you," he says, all too happily. "Anyway, like I was saying, I can't decide where I should take her out Saturday."

With the subject change, you let your mind wander away from the man at hand. You pull your hands away from him, the only contact between the two of you the weight of his head in your lap, pressing against your stomach. He doesn't notice, too engrossed in parsing out his latest romantic encounter with his latest romantic interest.

You sigh and tip your head back as far as it can go. Oh, Rintarō. You've been long since corrupted, ruined for all men by one who falls asleep in his classes and passes them all anyway, who has a beautiful singing voice only so long as he's wasted, who takes you to movies and taught you to wait in the bathroom to watch a second one for free, whose glowing eyes see everything but you.

Rintarō doesn't have a type.

Sometimes she's tall, sometimes she's short, always she's enamored by him. He never really gets to know her that well before it's over.

He likes—adventure, likes flirting and fucking around, likes it when she does something he doesn't expect. Eventually, though, something has to shift. It can't be late-night driving and hot tub hickeys forever, as much as he wishes he could stay steady in the stream of change.

Sometimes he ends things. Sometimes she does. He's never really that cut up about it.

And there's always another girl.

Rintarō doesn’t want to break hearts; he’s not playing the dating field like it’s some kind of game. It’s just never... quite... right.

You’re right (and he knows you know it). He’s tired. He wants a cinematic story with a happy ending, in his own way, without frills or saccharine sweetness. He wants someone he won’t get tired of, someone who doesn’t idolize him, someone to love. Hands cold and blood pooling in his cheeks, Rintarō just wants.

You’re Rintarō’s best friend, one of his favorite people in the world; you make everything easy. Of course he’s sitting next to you, shoving popcorn in his mouth and staring at his television, when he figures it out.

“Your friend,” he says suddenly, interrupting the sopping, dramatic monologue of the man onscreen. “Your, ah, roommate.”

“What?” You glare at him, the tension of the scene broken.

“Is she single?”

Your expression shutters off. He’s never not been able to read your thoughts on your face. It’s disturbing. He’s not sure what he did wrong—his words, interrupting the movie, discussing her—but he wants to take it back.

“Yeah, she is.” You cock your head, still inviting an explanation. Now that he’s started, he can’t stop his momentum.

“Would you—do you think, uh—”

“She does hate you,” you say, dry to his ears. She hates him because she’s the one who checks in on you while he’s out, who watches you insist over and over again that you’re over him, who lets you lean on her when it all inevitably happens again. To Rintarō’s knowledge, she’s just a little ornery, someone who will fight for what she wants, someone whose next move he’ll never guess. “That might be a problem.”

“I’ll figure it out,” he waves it away, infuriatingly confident in his own subtle magnetism. “But only with your permission.”

“My permission.” You echo, sounding faraway. He’s handing you a big, round, waxy red apple here; watching your turmoil with serpentine eyes. Rintarō leans forward, takes one of your hands between both of his. The movie is long forgotten.

“Yeah. You’re my friend, and she’s yours. I don’t want to move forward with anything if it’ll make things weird between us.”

“Why would it make things weird between us?” You say, and he doesn’t have an answer, just a gut feeling. “Do what you want, Rintarō, don’t bother with what I think.”

“But I care what you think,” he says. “You’re right. Fucking around isn’t enough for me, anymore, you were right when you said I go after women I don’t really like. But I like her,” he says your name, and your heart feels overworked and suddenly you’re just exhausted. “I really do. I think I always have.”

You jerk your hand out of his. He jumps at the moment, at the outright fury that breaks over your face. His hands feel cold, again.

“If you care so much about what I think, then don’t,” you say, more bitterly than you want to. “Don’t ask her out, don’t try to convince her she’s the one. Don’t jump ship from dating women you don’t like to dating women who don’t like you.” You let out a broken laugh, and he’s not sure exactly where this is going but he’s sure it’s too late to salvage. “For the love of—do something good for yourself, Rintarō.”

You storm out, the blood rushing in your ears deafening his pleading, his desperate questions. He catches your wrist, and you look back at him with something awful in your face. The line between love and hate is thin. Your last words hang in the air like thunder rolling behind your lightning, and the echo sounds a lot like stop being selfish, Rintarō.

The door catches before it shuts, and Rintarō can’t bring himself to close it, ‘cause maybe you’ll come back. He sits down next to the opening and scrubs his hands over his face, through the strands of his hair. His head hurts. He feels sick. He fucked up.

You’re Rintarō’s literal girl next door, or you were, his freshman year in the dorms. Your assigned roommate was never home, and his was always kicking him out. He found a comfortable spot as the shade to your sunny disposition, spending countless afternoons dragging you outside to laze around on the green or pulling you out of the library to stock up on more poisonous energy drinks.

He’s selfish; he’s not stupid.

He's spent too many days almost lying across your dining table while you don an apron over your hoodie and shorts, whipping together incredible concoctions from a cookbook. He can't cook worth shit, but he loves to watch you do it, phone lifted in front of his face but eyes trained on you. He heckles you as you go. What do stiff peaks mean? That's dirty. I'm not eating this if the souffle comes out flat. How many syllables are in ratatouille, honey?

Every time, he says it's his favorite food in the world, right around the time you slide him a portion, because he knows he's an ass and he's sorry about it. And because you're amazing.

He knew that, too.

You have standards too high to ever want anything to do with him like that, know him too well to imagine that he could treat you like you deserve to be. At his bravest moments, he imagines that if he could prove to himself he could do it with another girl, one not as important as you, he could convince himself he could touch you without breaking.

At his most cowardly, he asks for favors you can't give.

Your laugh, that raw sound filled with anything but mirth, plays over in his mind and it feels like it’s sanding him down, tearing him into pieces. If Rintarō has nothing else going for him, he can make you laugh; he can bring the light into his sunshine girl’s face. It feels like he’s ruined that, too.

The ring of your doorbell is like a death knell. Once upon a time, when boys like Rintarō fucked over princesses like you, they would have been executed for their dishonor. Maybe he’ll go back to Hyōgo and ask Kita to bring back the old days.

There’s a scuffle behind the door; muffled words that he can’t understand.

“You shouldn’t!” He can hear your roommate say, frustrated and protective, and it hurts to think that she’s protecting you from him. He curls in on himself (further), wonders what he looks like in the fish-eye view of your door’s peephole. The stems of the flowers he’s holding crinkle in his grip.

Shit shit fuck you fucker, he thinks at himself.

The door opens a crack, and your eyes appear above the lock.

“What do you want,” calls your roommate, and his view of you disappears.

“Can you let me—” the sentence is aborted, but Rintarō can imagine your combination of hand gestures and mouthed words.

“Okay, okay,” she calls, and he’s more than a little relieved that she seems to be getting further away. He almost feels bad for it, too.

Mostly, though, all of his energy is focused towards feeling guilty about you. You pop the door open, leaning on it, and there’s not a smile on your face when you face him, just shadowy eyes and chapped lips.

“Hi,” you open the door for him, flannel pajama pants dragging on the floor, and he watches, eyes wide. “You wanna come in?”

He passes you the flowers, stammers through an explanation for them that doesn’t make any sense to his brain no matter how many words he adds on. You don’t say a word to help him, don’t complete his sentence to parse out his meaning, nothing. You just let him flail.

Eventually, he trails into defeated silence, and wishes he could be grateful that his own voice is no longer grating on his ears. It’s embittered by the way you take the flowers, expression unchanging, and turn, pretending to fluff them up and rearrange them.

He stares at your back, left open and vulnerable. You don’t have a reason to guard against him, he guesses, he left all his swords behind when he stabbed them through you today.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and glance halfway over your shoulder. Rintarō freezes.

“You should be free to date who you want. Or ask, anyway. Especially if that’s how you—how you feel.”

“No,” he says, and his tongue feels thick and gluey and stupid.

“Yes,” you argue. “I’m sorry I reacted—um. I let my f-f—” You can’t seem to finish the sentence, a long-held horror icing over your veins. Years of pining, collapsed into this one awful moment.

You drop your chin to your chest, stare down at the flowers. There’s an aphid crawling in one of the roses, descending into the heart of the bloom.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s like a full-body sigh to finally say it right. You turn, and he’s right there, and it’s so easy to lean your head on his chest and let his heartbeat calm you.

Except his pulse is hammering in allegro, faster even than yours, and you have to wonder why unflappable Rintarō seems on the verge of panic.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I lied.”

“About what?” You lift your head, and his eyes are softer than you’ve ever seen them, his mouth barely turned down.

“Not your roommate,” he mutters, and you nudge him.

“Can’t hear you.”

“I—shut up, this is hard, okay?” His voice has no anger in it, though, and you can’t help the smile that tugs at your face, even as you brace yourself for god-knows-what. “I made a lot of mistakes. That were especially. Unfair. To you.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say plainly. “Please, what the fuck?”

“I’m in love with you,” he says it like a curse, scrubbing his hands through his hair, eyes squeezed shut. You stand up, ramrod-straight, and he sways a little, practically unnoticeably, at the loss of your touch.

“You are not.” Your voice is firm but your eyes are watering. You want him out, you want him to go away. You want him not to use this, your most precious secret, against you. You want him to be better.

“I am,” he says. “And I’m sorry.”

“That is,” you struggle for words, and that distorted laugh escapes you again. “That is cruel. That’s not funny.”

“I’m serious,” Rintarō says, desperate, hands out and palms up. “I love you."

"I'm going to be sick," and you might be joking, but your hands are clutched over your stomach like maybe you mean it.

"Please don't," he says, and the familiar warmth of his touch is a balm on your clammy cheek. "I made mistakes because I was scared. That you were too good for me, that I'd fuck you over, just like I ended up doing. You're right, I think, I knew I was dating girls I didn't like or who didn't like me and I thought I couldn't face that with you. I know it sounds stupid, really stupid, but it's true, Y/N, please."

Wiry strands of Rintarō's hair are sticking to his forehead, his lashes clumping together, his mouth wobbling. You hate how many minutes you've spent staring at that mouth, the shape memorized through quick, platonic swipes of your thumb across it to clear smeared crumbs, through taking advantage of his love of side-eyeing other people and leaving you free to stare. That's your undoing—the stupid tremble of his barely pink, bitten lips, the ones you've always wanted to kiss until all of his snarky nonchalance has melted right off him, the way you know Rintarō couldn't fake that expression if he wanted to.

"And my roommate?"

"I'm an asshole," he says, with none of the usual wryness he uses when he's being charmingly self-aware. "I couldn't face my feelings for the only girl I couldn't have so I asked for the closest thing to it."

Maybe he could have survived like that, chasing a forever that could have existed if he weren't heartstoppingly, achingly, crazy in love with you. He could have watched from a safe distance as you fell in love with someone else, could have distracted himself while the girl he wanted found someone who was better for her.

"You could have me, though," you say, frustrated. He shakes his head.

"Nobody should have you. Nobody deserves you. Should just feel lucky you let them hang out with you." You huff out a laugh, but he sounds dead serious. You remember, early on, you'd gone on a couple dates, and Rintarō had always been there, sprawled over your couch, yawning, tawny eyes narrowed. Don't drop your standards for these losers.

"You know this kind of thing doesn't foster trust," your hands cover his, and there's a hopeful glimmer in those eyes that makes his breath pick up. "Kind of an ominous start to a relationship."

"I'm not romantic." He's a little afraid of the effect the words will have, but he needs to be honest with you, with himself. Even when it's ugly. Example: "You threatened to puke on me when I told you I love you."

You turn your nose up in the air, joy leaking through your expression, and the rub of your thumb over the back of his hands feels like forgiveness. His teeth tug on his lower lip, exposing the scar where he'd once had a lip ring that had driven you into a fever for all the months he'd worn it. You know then: you have history with the fucking mouth he has on him, and you're not done with it. "It was deserved."

"The worst part is that I wouldn't mind." He'd just worry that it got in your hair, that you weren't feeling good. God, he loves you so much it's grossing him out. "Are we...okay?"

"We will be," you say, and kiss him, because you've been wanting to since he first hid in your room from the chaos of your floor's common area. And then you kiss him again because he's really good at it. And then one more time, to bite his lip and hear him pretend he didn't whine when you pulled away. "You shouldn't call yourself an asshole, you know. I don't like it when people shit talk the people I love."

"Mm, it was deserved," he grins. "But if you really want it—you should make me."

the concept of having a girlfriend is insane a girl laughs at your jokes enough times and then you’re like i guess it’s my life’s mission to make you do that forever

leaky, thick cock virgins who wanna make you cum soooo bad but they just don't know how and and and you're just soooo pretty to them that they end up losing their mind, so excited to finally fuck you, so they hammer into you like a rabbit- no technique, no finesse, no skill whatsoever, but their dick is just so big that it hits everything it needs to anyways and has you seeing stars

Would you give this little osamu an onigiri ? 🍙