Suna <3 - Blog Posts

four drink rule - suna rintarou/f!reader (1.6k) sfwish, a bit silly, alcohol mention, enemies to something, samu dying a hero's death

atsumu slumps down into the banquette seating lining the wall of the club, exhausted.

there's a mysterious stain on the upholstery next to his thigh; the music is so loud it's rattling his teeth; and it's so hot in the crowded, rowdy space that the thin material of his dress shirt is sticking to him, even with the three top buttons undone.

this was supposed to be a night out with old friends.

this was supposed to be fun.

but now he just wants to go home.

"how many's she on?" his twin appears before atsumu, a drink in each hand. osamu mercifully hands the full one over to him.

atsumu accepts the drink gratefully, not a damn clue what it is, and takes a healthy swig. it burns a little on the way down, and does little to parch his actual thirst, but it's better than nothing. he swallows, panting lightly as he drags the back of his hand over his slick mouth.

"three—"

osamu nods, turning his head to scan the crowd of bodies.

"—what about suna?"

osamu takes a sip of his own drink, a less gluttonous one than his brother had. he turns back to his brother and gives him a pointed look as his adam's apple bobs.

he sighs, and the sound seems to come from deep within him. "three."

"who's watchin' him now?" atsumu asks.

"aran-kun."

atsumu's brow arches at his brother's response. "aran's supposed to be watchin' her."

they share a look. the beat in the song playing over the sound system drops. they're moving towards the thick of the crowd before they know it.

they find aran relatively quickly, near the bar where osamu had left him with suna, but he is horrifyingly alone.

"where is he?"

"where is she?”

the twins speak at the same time, tones equally accusatorial. 

aran rolls his eyes lightly, shaking his head. "relax, they got into one of their spats and she stormed off a while ago, and he said he was gonna go see if he could steal a cig off someone outside while i got another drink."

both of the twins nod, slightly relieved.

osamu’s eyes sweep the surrounding area for a moment.

"aran-kun... where's your drink?" 

aran looks over at the bar where he must have left his glass, but finds nothing there but a ring of condensation where his drink once sat.

he looks back to the twins to meet two identically wide pairs of eyes.

"god damn it.”

atsumu runs his hands through his peroxide blonde hair, gripping the strands roughly in frustration. “aran! the Four Drink Rule is in place fer a reason! it’s sacred!”

"yeah, yeah I know," aran sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he squeezes his eyes closed.

atsumu stomps his foot—actually stomps it, like an overgrown child—and laments ”this never woulda happened if kita-san were here!"

“kita-san’d never be caught dead in a club, but at least they behave themselves when he’s around," his twin reminds him, more composed than his genetic counterpart. the more level-headed of the two evaluates his options momentarily. “tsumu, you go check outside and see if you can find that dickhead. i’ll look for her. aran why dontcha take a lap and see if you can find ‘em in any… dark corners.”

aran’s nose crinkles in disgust.

“why do i get the worst job?” he gripes.

“yer the one that lost track of ‘em,” osamu says sternly, and aran can’t refute his logic even if he hates it.

they part ways, and osamu approaches the bar—waiting for the bartender to turn her attention towards him as his fingertips tap the sticky surface of the bartop impatiently.

finally the woman approaches.

“sorry to ask ya this,” osamu sighs, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, “did a girl come through here recently? real feisty, probably ordered a lemon sour with no ice, about—“

he intimates your approximate height to the bartender.

“—yea high?”

the bartender actually laughs a little bit at how defeated osamu seems, nodding her head.

"yeah, I served her a lemon sour with no ice a couple minutes ago. maybe 10? only remember her because she told me i wasn't allowed to tell some big guy with bleached hair. she made me pinky promise and everything.”

osamu knocks his fist between his eyes. yeah, that was definitely you.

“everything okay?” the bartender asks warily, watching osamu cycle through all five stages of grief in the expressions on his face.

“oh yeah, we’re fine. thanks fer yer help though, miss, and ‘m sorry about the trouble.”

atsumu, aran, and osamu all meet up again where they’d left each other—a few minutes older and substantially more grim.

“couldn’t find ‘em.”

“he wasn’t outside.”

“she got a fourth drink.”

they all relay their findings one after the other, the bad news compounding.

osamu looks at atsumu. atsumu looks at aran. aran looks at osamu. then the order repeats itself in reverse.

“i’m not doin’ it,” atsumu is the first to speak up, staunch and adamant. “i’m tired of baby sittin’ those two brats every time we go out. if they wanna down four drinks and end up suckin' each other’s faces off and bumpin' uglies in a nasty ol’ bathroom that’s their problem!” 

“but we’re the ones that have to deal with the fallout, ‘tsumu!” his brother argues. “suna’s gonna complain about her not replying to the stupid memes he sends like a lovesick idiot for the next two weeks, minimum. and she’s gonna blame us for not stopping her!”

“i agree with atsumu, we’ve been doing this for years. if they can’t admit they like each other that’s between them and god.” aran shrugs, equally exasperated with the foolishness. he’s been dealing with this for too damn long.

osamu tilts his head back and looks up at the ceiling, watching the way the club lights flicker across the black tiles overhead.

“if you guys help me figure out where they are, i’ll be the one to break ‘em apart.”

“deal.”

“fine.”

it doesn’t take them long really, once ginjima informs the three of them that he spotted you and suna slipping into an out of order washroom near coat check not fifteen minutes prior. suna’s hand had been, according to akagi’s chipper contribution, so far up your shirt it looked like ‘that scene in alien when the alien pops clear outta their chests!’

osamu stares at the out of order sign on the bathroom door for longer than he cares to admit; mustering his resolve, saying a prayer, lamenting the day of his own birth, etc. 

he casts a look down to the other end of the dimly lit hall (predominantly used by staff) to where atsumu, aran, and a few other of their friends are watching him like spectators standing on the dock to send ill fated soldiers off to war. atsumu waves him on encouragingly.

osamu sighs.

he pushes the door open.

“haa, please, rintar-MMPH!”

osamu fights back a gag as the door swings closed and the bathroom falls deathly silent.

he hears the drip of water from a leaking tap, the distant thrum of bass from the music outside.

“you two are gross, y’know that?”

osamu can see suna’s shoes under the door of the bathroom stall nearest to him. your shoes slowly appear on the ground just in front of suna’s, dropping down into view from above.

“i’m not leavin’ without the two of ya, so put yer junk away and get the hell out here,” osamu demands, crossing his arms over his chest.

“my junk’s not even out yet,” suna mutters sullenly from behind the door, and he hears a smack a moment later.

there’s a bit of shuffling that osamu doesn’t want to picture and the stall lock clicks open. 

well, at least you two had the decency to lock one door. 

the stall door opens a crack, only to slam closed again a moment later.

“hey!” osamu hears you complain.

“you know we don’t actually have to go out there, right? he’s not our boss.”

“get your grubby hands off of me,” you hiss, and there’s another audible scuffle. finally the door to the stall is wrenched open, and you step out.

your hair is a mess. your skirt is creased. your makeup is running. osamu doesn’t dwell too long on the way you’re walking like you’re weak-kneed in the interest of preserving his own sanity.

“god i can’t stand you,” you hiss over your shoulder towards the stall where suna is also emerging, looking equally dishevelled—though notably more smug than you do.

“i’ve got a seat i can offer if you’re looking for one,” suna says, a smirk tugging the corner of his swollen, rosy lips up. there's lipstick streaking across his mouth, jaw, and neck.

“i’m never doing this again,” you say adamantly, grabbing your purse off of the bathroom counter beside osamu, where you’d evidently hastily cast it aside, avoiding his judgemental gaze as you do so.

osamu wants to echo your statement. 

you tug the strap of your bag up over your arm and stomp towards the door of the bathroom with your lipstick still smeared down your chin. osamu turns to look at his friend, his expression flat and unimpressed, but suna’s preoccupied watching you go, eyes glued to the doorway until the door swings shut behind you—the ignored OUT OF ORDER sign fluttering sadly. 

it’s quiet again once you’re gone, and suna turns to look at osamu with a dopey, self-satisfied smile. he sighs happily.

“she says that every time.”

WAIT I KNOW WE ALL LOVE GIRL DAD SUNA…… but imagine suna with a little boy 😞😞😞 little suna that shares everything with his dad….. from the same eyes to personality 😞😞 you come home from work one day and the two are just sprawled on the couch watching recordings of volleyball games with the same deadpan expression while suki runs around in her little tutu and tiara offering them tea LOL 😞😞 THEY HAVE THE SAME POUTY EXPRESSION WHEN THEY FIGHT FOR CUDDLES FROM YOU !!!

please suna with a little boy who looks and acts exactly like him. who was probably the quietest baby ever and is probably the opposite of his sister. who people often see napping on your shoulder during late night, post-game interviews. who, like his father, you'll come home to find watching paw patrol while wearing a spare tutu and sipping apple juice out of a teacup bcs he can't say no to his big sister's shenanigans.

and if suki is a daddy's girl, then this one is a mama's boy for sure. the one who crawls into your bed and squishes himself between the both of you in the middle of the night, stepping on rin's face in the process. who rin has definitely given the side eye for taking up all the cuddle time while suki is at school (and gets the side eye right back)

「balsamic vinegar」

warnings: suna rintarou x f!reader. fluff. like two suggestive lines.

never would you have thought that there comes a day when you’d have the miya atsumu begging for your help.

“baby, please, make him stop. i can’t do this anymore.”

post practice, the national team’s setter had ambushed you outside the changing rooms in a desperate bid for social survival.

you ignore his pleading expression, adamantly focusing on the press release draft on your screen. “he’s your problem.”

“no, see, that’s the thing,” aran says with a shake his head. “he wants to make himself your problem.”

“i don’t even follow him!”

“why not? lord, queen, your majesty, the goddess of mercy herself,” the setter just about cries, “take pity on us mortals and just follow sunarin back!”

for once in his life, aran approves of his teammate’s overreaction. “it’d save everyone everywhere a whole lotta trouble. my soul’s like crushed from the secondhand embarrassment.”

you frown. “go ask his publicist.”

“you’re his publicist!”

“was,” you sniff, lowering your phone. “working for the adlers is doing wonders for my will to live.”

“what about my will to live?” the twenty-seven year old slides down the wall like a pile of gravy. “‘m your favourite setter!”

you stare at the blond. “moving on…” you clear your throat. atsumu glares up at you. “if nothing else works, email iwaizumi.”

his scowl turns into disbelief. “i can’t email iwa-chan ‘bout this! i hope to a nicer god than you that he doesn’t even see whatever the fuck sunarin’s doin’.”

you scoff. with oikawa tooru as a best friend and kuroo tetsurou as a colleague, there’s no way their athletic trainer hasn’t seen suna’s frequent updates.

“coach hibarida? management?” you list off. “ask tetsu to ask kenma to lock suna out of his ig account.”

“that’s not how rich works,” aran sighs. “and it’s not like you don’t know suna. he won’t stop ‘til he proves you wrong.” 

“there’s nothing to prove!”

Keep reading

sunarin + hiding their face in the other's neck 🙇‍♀️

you told him you didn't want to watch this movie. "but it'll be fine," he said. "you know it's fake blood, don't you?"

fake blood or not, the movie's 'killer' hopping out of the shadows was enough for you to hug rintaro against your chest, torso fully turned toward him instead of the tv. you clenched your jaw, heart racing, as you curled into his chest which, suspiciously...

"were you waiting for me to get scared?" you gasp.

you earned yourself a side-eye from your boyfriend. the very same boyfriend whose arm wrapped around you the second you shuffled closer, who rolled his shoulders until you leaned your head against him.

guilty is what that looks like to you, and his unwillingness to admit it convinces you.

"you were," you pressed, jabbing him in the side with your elbow. "you're so mean; scaring me just so i'd cuddle you."

"you're missing the movie," he complains half-heartedly, but he's already turning toward you to poke your nose. "and you're not that scared."

"i'm plenty scared."

"yeah? prove it then."

as if on queue, a character in the movie screams and you gasp again; this time, it's not to tease rintaro, but because your stomach jumps into your throat and you jump into your boyfriend's lap.

breathlessly, you swat at him. he dodges, because of course he does. "you planned this."

with his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, now, rintaro buries his face in your neck, and you feel a smile against your skin. "yes i did."

send an ask with a number from this list + a hq character and i’ll write a snippet!

summary: it’s the little things that make him realize he’s in love (alternatively: the four times suna pretended to be asleep and the one time he didn’t). 

pairing: suna x reader

genre/warnings: fluff, n/a

wc: 3.5k

i. 

( a blanket )

Despite the gray clouds overhead and the scent of lingering ochre, rain refused to fall. Hyogo was cast into a monochromatic haze, colors washed and worn away. Suna stares out the window in your living room instead of working on the next math problem, lethargy crawling into the hollows between his bones. His gaze flickers over to you where you’re sitting on the other side of the coffee table, chin propped in the palm of your hand, writing calmly in your workbook. 

Tutor turned friend, you’d been helping him with his homework since the middle of second year, and he’d grown used to your presence. Unlike his teammates, you didn’t require him to spend copious amounts of energy just to keep up with the conversation, and so at the start of third year he’d accepted your invitation to study on weekends together. 

He looks back down at the half-finished problem. He didn’t actually get much studying done, but the quiet ambiance of your house was preferable to the cluttered noise of his; having younger siblings and parents with naturally loud voices meant it was rarely silent.

Plus, Atsumu and Osamu didn’t know where you lived, so they couldn’t drag him into another one of their weekend adventures that would ultimately result in disaster. 

(He was still annoyed at narrowly escaping arrest. It took a lot of energy to jump a fence.)

Keep reading

thunderstorms and reheated prawns

pairing; suna x g/n!reader

genre; domestic, fluff

warnings; puking, lame jokes, suna endearingly calls reader "(y/n)-chan"

a/n: a fanfic inspired by all the rain ive had lately, and the fact that my Ma made me prawns yesterday 🤷🏽‍♀️

The rain is relentless today.

It comes down in buckets as it hammers mercilessly at your window, running down the glass in thick streaks and sending the trees outside into a violent flurry. The sight of it alone is enough to make you shiver.

Luckily, it's far warmer inside your bedroom.

You're sitting on your bed with a heavy duvet thrown over your head like a makeshift tipi. There's a chill lofi beat playing quietly in the background, a warm cup of hot chocolate sits deliciously between your hands and you have no chores to tend to, having already sought to them the day before.

To put it simply, it's bliss.

That is until you get a text and you turn your head towards your phone that buzzes twice against the bedside table. Leaning over to retrieve it, your brows furrow a little when an odd message pops up under Suna's ID.

2 messages from Sunarin <3

hello (y/n) can you come over today big brother has a tummy ake and mummy and daddy are out

please thank you

You blink upon realising it's Suna's little sister who has his phone and you can't help but laugh at her message. You don't know what's funnier; his little sister not knowing how to spell "tummy ache" or the fact that she actually had to reach out to you for something as trivial as that.

Either way, after finishing the rest of your hot chocolate, you reluctantly crawl out from your little den, slip on some comfy clothes and head out the door.

*

"Knock, knoock."

You smile as Suna's little sister opens the door for you, albeit with a struggle since the handle was still a little too high for her. Like you this morning she's wearing her PJ's, giving her an overall relaxed appearance, save for her face which looks rather distressed.

"You need to come quick, onee-san! I think big brother's dying!"

You snort as she ushers you into the house, barely giving you time to take off your shoes as she pulls you towards Suna's bedroom. As you walk up the stairs you begin to wonder just how sick her brother really is. He seemed fine the last time you saw him— then again, Suna did always have the pesky talent of fibbing when it benefits him, like how he sometimes lies to his teammates about needing to babysit his little sister on Fridays just so he can have a longer weekend, or when he tells the twins he's deleted the videos he takes of them, only to bring them up for blackmail purposes later on. You wonder if perhaps this was another one of these instances and he'd simply faked an illness just so his little sister would leave him alone for the afternoon. (You knew how clingy she could get, especially when their parents weren't home.)

Still, you decide to give him the benefit of the doubt as you push open his bedroom door, only to wince as your boyfriend promptly vomits into a sick bowl.

Oh.

This time he's definitely not lying.

"Perfect timing, lil sis. Make yourself useful would you and fetch me a— (y/n)?"

You're torn between bursting out laughing or coo-ing at the sad scene before you. Your attractive boyfriend, usually standing tall (sort of) and looking all slick and sexy is reduced to nothing but a lump hanging off his bed, hair disheveled and sticking slightly to his forehead, his head half in the sick bowl, looking at you with the most disheartened, most sullen face you've ever seen.

"Just end me now, I guess."

This time you do laugh when Suna rolls back onto his bed, pulling the covers over his head like a moody teen.

"Wow, you really are worse off than I thought," you say as you start to approach his bed. His bedsheets rustle however as you take another step closer and you stop in your tracks when he speaks from under the covers.

"Out. I don't want you to see me in my decomposing state."

"Oh, don't be silly, Sunarin. This is what partners do. I'm supposed to help nurse you back to health." You walk to the other side of Suna's bed where the sick bowl isn't lying on the floor and gently rock him against the mattress. "Plus, didn't you just say you wanted your sister to fetch me?" You add with a smirk.

You watch as Suna worms an arm out from the duvets, blindly grabbing your wrist to stop you from shaking him.

"Stop moving me, you sadist. Or next time I'll aim it at you," he says, making you scrunch up your nose in disgust. "And no I didn't call for you, you just so happened to waltz into my bedroom."

You roll your eyes at Suna's usual bite, knowing it's nothing but bark. "You rather I tango in here instead?"

You bite back a laugh as your terrible joke makes Suna emerge from his bedsheets, the green eyes that poke out looking truly disappointed. "You dare come into my room and sully it with jokes like that."

"I know, I know. Sorry," you lie, before a grin makes its way to your face. "No but seriously, should I? Might bring a smile back to your face."

"Please don't," is all he says as he finally fully comes out the covers, sitting up against the bedframe, and although you know he's trying his best to fight it, there's that telltale twitch of his lips that indicate your goofing around has actually effected him. "What you can do is fetch me that glass of water." There's a short pause. "Please."

You smile, relieved that he's finally letting you take care of him. Then you notice that the hand he'd grabbed you with earlier is still holding your wrist. Switching roles, you take his hand in yours and bring it up to your lips, planting a small kiss to his inner wrist.

"Coming right up."

*

A glass of water with ice later and it's Suna who decides to join you downstairs. You hear his almost cat-like footsteps pad down the stairs and as you turn around you notice that he's freshened up a bit. His hair's no longer the hot mess it was earlier, instead it remains neat and unstyled, he's also wearing different sweats from earlier, that is to say the black joggings with the red stripe down the side of the leg that you'd gotten him for Christmas, along with the black sweater that you always love to borrow.

"Oh look, it's alive," you tease.

"Only just," he sighs before flopping heavily on the couch. He busies himself by switching on the TV and opening Netflix, which you recognise by the familiar opening screen sound.

"How're you feeling?" You ask as you place the cold water on the coffee table. Suna utters a quiet 'thanks' as he leans over to grab it, bringing it to his lips before taking a few swigs.

"Could be better," he drawls after downing almost the entire glass. "'Least I'm not blowing chunks in front of my s/o anymore," he mutters, voice still carrying traces of previously felt embarassement.

You chuckle at that, watching as Suna lays down on the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes. "Don't worry, Sunarin. I'm sure other couple's have seen worse," you say as you take a seat beside his head.

He stays silent as you gently pull his arm off his face. At first he looks at you with a cocked eyebrow, most likely wondering what you were up to, but once you place the back of your hand against his forehead, he allows himself to relax and closes his eyes.

"What's the verdict, (y/n)-chan? Am I dying?"

You snort and roll your eyes at his theatrics. "You're not dying, you big baby. How did you even get sick anyway? You don't seem to have a fever."

After concluding that Suna's forehead wasn't any hotter than it should be, you gingerly brush a stray piece of his chestnut hair from his eyes, smiling when he exhales pleasantly at the gesture.

"I think it was the prawns I made yesterday. I was the only one who ate them and I'm the only one who's sick."

As Suna tells you this, you immediately start to see where this is going.

"Were they pre-cooked prawns?" You ask. "And did you reheat them more than once?"

"Yeah."

You sigh. Yup. "That'll do it." Shaking your head, you poke Suna's forehead as a scolding, making him squeeze his eyes shut and knit his brows together. "You're not supposed to do that, you know. You can get really sick."

"You don't say," he drones, shooing your hand off with his. "How did you know I was sick, anyway? If I didn't know any better I'd say you were stalking me."

Your nose scrunches up jokingly. "Ew, why would I do that? If I wanted to stalk someone I'd at least go for one of the twin—"

You're promptly cut off mid-sentence when a pillow collides into your face with a dull thud and you giggle when you're met with Suna's eyes narrowing warningly up at you. "I'm just messing with you, Sunarin. Your sister told me. She somehow got access to your phone."

"The little toe rag."

"You trying to say you're not grateful I came over?" You ask with a raised brow, crossing your arms defensively.

"Didn't say that now, did I," he replies cooly, sitting up to face you before a tiny smirk forms on his lips. "After all," you make a small yelp as Suna suddenly worms his way into your personal space, his long limbs wrapping around your body like a koala and purposely giving you no means of escape. "Now I have the perfect pillow to hold onto. One that'll nurse me back to health too."

You gawk, trying to wiggle out of his hold, only for him to pull you closer. "Hold on a minute— What if I need to pee?!" He ignores you completely and deliberately, and instead lazily nuzzles into the area between your chest and collarbone.

"Night night, pillow-chan."

You throw you head back against the couch.

Looks like you're not going anywhere.

[1:46 AM]

characters: suna rintarou x gn! reader

genre: fluff

wc: 1.2k

warnings: suna carries you, food, one curse word

a/n: this took a concerning amount of time to write, requested by @svnaskink :]

there’s no time to sleep; not when suna’s cravings have been a pain in his ass the entire day.

what exactly has he been craving for though? don’t ask him because he doesn’t know either. all he knows is that he wants to eat something and he wants it now. perhaps a trip to the store could lead him to the answer.

he props his body up with his elbows, half of his back on the bed, and glances over to his side to see you sleeping. you look very peaceful. time to ruin it.

he generously gives your arm quick, firm pokes, but receives no reaction. “babe, wake up. hey. hello?” he pauses. “if you love me you’ll wake up.”

his heart shatters when you don’t.

now fully sitting up, he cautiously grabs his pillow from behind him and he really hopes you’ll forgive him for this but he also thinks you deserve it for cuddling your pillow instead of him. he hasn’t taken his eyes off your figure for a second, looking for a sign that you’re actually conscious and he isn’t welcoming death with open arms.

yolo, he thinks, then he winds his arm up to gather momentum and slaps it down on your torso.

you wake with a startle, eyes darting around the room even though it’s too dark to see anything and you worry when you don’t feel a warm body in your arms. “rin, are you okay?” your voice is scratchy, laced with sleep, and it’s just how he likes it.

he’s touched that he’s the first thing on your mind; consider his heart repaired.

“did you just fucking hit me with a pillow?”

suna pretends he didn’t hear you. “no, i'm not okay. far from it.” his voice, too, is scratchy and it would have been really nice to hear if you weren’t woken up so rudely.

you’re half-dead right now, so your ability to differ between his serious voice and his joking voice is basically nonexistent. you decide to blame the surreal atmosphere of the night and whatever is going on with suna for his poor decision-making skills and roll on top of him, hugging him tight because maybe he’s just sad that he woke up without seeing your pretty face in front of him. he loosely wraps his arms around your waist and you find yourself on the brink of falling asleep again to the steady beat of his heart.

“i want to eat something,” suna admits, dipping his fingers underneath the bottom of your shirt then softly rubbing your lower back.

you sigh, satisfied. you think suna should quit volleyball and pursue a career as a masseuse. “go ahead, we have a kitchen two seconds away.”

“but there’s nothing to eat here,” he almost whines. “let’s go to the store.”

“that didn’t sound like a question.”

“‘cause it’s not.” suna opens his eyes wide and raises his eyebrows to emphasize the meaning of his words.

“it’s—” you try to reach for your phone on the bedside table, grabbing at air until you feel something solid. even on the dimmest brightness setting, you’re still blinded by the screen and you have to squint to make the numbers out clearly. “— two in the morning, rin. can’t this wait until the sun rises?”

suna rintarou (25) literary genius, replies with an eloquent “no. let’s go, time to wake up,” and rapidly taps your back.

you lift your head up to his ear to mumble “over my dead body,” then bury your face into the crook of his neck (it always fits perfectly and you and suna both think you were made for each other), and close your eyes.

—

it’s your fault honestly. you’ve known suna for nearly half of your life so you should know that if he really wants something, he’s getting it. that’s how you got stuck with him for the past few years.

you don’t even want to know how you slept through suna carrying you out of bed, into the car, out of the car, and into the cart of the convenience store. hopefully no one saw any of that happening, but the worker eyeing the two of you warily makes your face heat up in embarrassment.

no longer are you in the comfort of your warm home, in your warm bed, and in suna’s warm arms. instead, you’re met with the opposite as you watch suna open a door to the freezer and pick up something that looks strangely similar to the ice cream tub you have at home.

suna feels a pair of eyes gazing at him so he turns to look at you, on the verge of becoming single, and gives you his signature charming half-smile.

“good morning,” he waves to you. “you look beautiful and i love you.”

“good morning,” you say with a scowl on your face. “you look ugly and unlovable.” you cross your arms and turn away from him, finally realizing that in this very uncomfortable cart, you’re covered by the emergency blanket suna keeps in his car for late-night rendezvous.

suna chuckles as he places the ice cream in your lap, which sucks out all the little warmth in your body and you’re pretty sure he did this on purpose to give you frostbite. he starts to push the cart toward the checkout counter where the same employee you saw earlier is currently at and you instantly hide your face. you make a mental note to never come to this store ever again.

he’s quick though, using a tactic he’s perfected over the years: making the cashier feel awkward to make them rush through the scanning and payment process. if you weren’t in the store’s shopping cart sometime at two in the morning, you might have subtly intervened; for now, you make a valid point in your head that you can’t be a good person all the time.

sometime during your internal talk, suna had wheeled you out of the store and now, as he helps you get out of the hard, metal cage, you stumble a bit.

“don’t go falling for me, sweetheart,” he says as he steadies you, and you want to wipe that stupid smirk off his stupid(ly gorgeous) face. he reaches for the blanket hanging off the side of the cart and wraps it around your shoulders, and smoothly tugs you forward to land a peck on your forehead. “wouldn’t want that happening, now would we?”

he goes to put the cart away while you fawn over your boyfriend wait in the car with the ice cream in your hands, and you remember that you have a very important question for him.

when he comes back, you allow him to put on his seatbelt first and as he puts the car in reverse, you ask him, “did you forget that we have ice cream at home?”

he purses his lips for a second, then mutters, “i ate it when you fell asleep again.” he gently pinches your cheek when you laugh and you can spot the faintest pop of red appearing on the tips of his ears.

and as he exits the parking lot of the store, well-past two in the morning, you take his hand in yours and kiss the back of it and say, “i love you too.”

heaven can't help me now

summary: Suna x Reader. dating on a bet but it's ethical

word count: 4.4k

cw: a lot of kissing, cheating (not done to reader or by suna), humor to ??? to angst to ???, no joke this is all over the place, friends to dating the school player on a bet to fake dating to friends to

a/n: shh

“This is the stupidest situation I’ve ever been in,” you say, surveying the mostly-empty early morning grounds of Inarizaki High. The only noises are the breeze rustling through the trees, birds chirping musically, and the grunts of every student athlete running through their morning workout.

“No it’s not,” says your best friend, the demonic entity who put you in this mess.

“No, it’s not,” you agree sadly. “Alright. Let’s get this over with.”

Getting this over with actually entails waiting until the end of the school day, because you don’t want to face the consequences of your actions and would rather hide at home than suffer publicly in school.

One in thirteen people die via vending machine every year, you remind yourself as you approach the contraption warily. You should be so lucky.

Tragically, the vending machine doesn’t kill you; worse, everything goes according to plan. At 3:23 p.m., Suna Rintarō approaches for his pre-practice snack.

I’m gonna throw up, you text your friend. She leaves you on delivered. You hate her.

“Hey,” Suna says your name, effectively cutting off all trains of thought.

“Hi,” you say. You nearly chicken out, but your pride is on the line. You have to do this. You can do this. You are a badass.

“Thanks,” says Suna. Oops. Your mouth clamps shut involuntarily, so you stare mutely at him while he chuckles to himself, focused primarily on scanning the plethora of processed food the machine offers.

About three things you are absolutely positive. First, Suna is a heartbreaker of the highest degree. Second, you are trapped in a dare to prove otherwise. And third, the way his blazer drapes over his frame and he smiles at you like he’s letting you know a secret makes you feel like a dandelion being blown into the blue sky on a sunny summer day.

Like having butterflies, but instead of merely letting them flutter around your innards, you ascend into the weightlessness of fluttering flight.

Fucking insects.

“Funny story,” you say abruptly, making eye contact with Suna. “I was dared to date you. For over three months. I don’t think I was supposed to tell you but it didn’t seem ethical not to on the off chance that you would, y’know, say yes, against all known laws of physics and aviation—”

Suna laughs. His nose scrunches up when he does it, and his eyes nearly close, and the flush on his face is the same shade of pink all the French lovers wrote about, probably. You bounce on your toes in agitation.

“I know it sounds like a joke but I just really need you to give an answer so I can report back because if I don’t ask you they threatened to dye my cat purple.”

“Isn’t your cat black?”

“I have two cats,” you say. “I knew I shouldn’t have defended you. Asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he waves it off. “Let’s do it. Could be fun.”

“Are you joking?” It’s your turn to laugh.

“No,” he says simply, stepping just into your personal space so he can reach out and brush a piece of your hair back. “Not even a little.”

“Excuse me a moment,” you say, and turn your back to him to message FUCK in the groupchat with unsteady fingers. You are all too aware of his sharp eyes watching over your shoulder while you type the four-letter word three times until it’s spelled correctly. You tuck your phone back into your pocket and face him again with squared shoulders. “Cool. Sweet. Should we shake on it?”

He stretches out his hand. You take it, gripping it firmly to indicate that you will be a reliable and firm business partner.

“Is there money on this?”

“5000 yen from six people each if we last through the three month mark,” you say seriously. “I can give you fifteen percent of the winnings.”

“Fifty percent.”

“Twenty.”

“Thirty,” he says, and you shrug. “But I’m still gonna call it off if I get bored, just so you know.”

“Oh, I know,” you say. You’re still holding his hand.

He changes his grip so your fingertips are barely touching, drawing your hand up to brush a kiss over the knuckles. You want to punch him in the mouth a little bit. It’s not right for someone to be so romantic in an entirely unromantic situation. It’s confusing and upsetting.

“Signed and sealed,” he says. “Walk home with me on Friday, okay?”

Friday goes well. At first, you feel clumsy and stupid, your mind entirely consumed by the fact that you’re fake-dating him. Your friends hadn’t bought that he’d said yes (they didn’t know you’d told him about the bet) until he’d interrupted your morning briefing with them the next day, hair endearingly limp from volleyball-induced sweat and grin sharp and wide. He’d slung an arm around you while you shrieked and tried to get out from beneath him, aggravated by his moistness, and he’d finally put an end to your wriggling by spinning you face to face with him, brushing his nose against yours and telling you to be good.

That had shut you up for, like, ten minutes.

It’s easy to fake it around your friends, playing off an inside joke with him that reads as chemistry to outsiders. One on one, though, you panic.

“So...” Suna says, hands in his pockets and posture slouched while you stew in anticipatory embarrassment. “What do you think of Englebert Humperdink?”

“What?”

“What?”

“You’re weird, Suna,” you bump into him purposely, bouncing off with the efficacy of a tennis ball hitting a brick wall.

“I told you to call me Rintarō,” he bumps you back. “And you’re the one being weird.”

“It’s just weird,” you say indignantly. “Don’t you think it’s weird?”

“Well, I’m weird too,” he shrugs. “No big.”

Weirder, it’s like a ton lifts off your shoulders when he says that.

“At least you’re weird cool,” you offer. “People like your weird.”

“I don’t really care, though,” he says. “People like you, they don’t like you, it doesn’t matter. You’re still weird.”

“Are you talking about you or me? Or the ambiguous you?”

He only offers a mysterious smile in response.

Your first date with Suna — Rintarō — is five days of walking home with him plus the weekend later. He picks you up fifteen minutes late, has a toxic green energy drink in hand, and refuses to tell you where he’s taking you no matter how you beg, threaten, or bribe.

It’s a classic: the movie theater. By the time you’ve finished reading all the possible movie titles on show tonight, he’s brandishing two tickets to the latest in a series of corny action flicks, smirking lazily at you.

“I wanted to see the one with the assassin romance,” you say while he pays for movie snacks, mocking you relentlessly for your choice of filler food.

“The one who pays picks the movie,” he sing-songs.

“That’s not a rule. And I could’ve paid.”

“It is for me, and I wouldn’t let you do that, because I’m a gentleman and a great time.”

“You chose a movie with four prequels I haven’t seen. I don’t think you qualify for either of those.” He shrugs.

“The tickets are bought. No choice now.”

You get back at him by making snide comments throughout the movie, pointing out every plot hole and snickering at the saddest scenes.

“You are a demon and I never should have agreed to this,” he points at you once you’ve walked out of the theater.

“Aw, no, baby,” you say, pouting exaggeratedly at him. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“Not a chance,” he laughs. “No fucking way.”

It turns out that being in a couple can be really good for your social life. You get specials at restaurants, so you go out to eat more. You like pissing off your friends with your success, so you invite them to hang out and bring your boyfriend along. You get to know the infamous volleyball team, who are a lot less intimidating when they run around hitting each other with towels than they are on the court.

Sure, the Miyas seem like they’re constantly laughing behind your back, but you can tell they’re bouncing between making fun of Rintarō and of you equally.

“He’s gonna break up with you, ya know?” Says the gray-haired one to you one day, completely unprompted. You blink up at him, caught mid-soup sip.

“Don’t make fun, Samu,” says the blond. “He’s too in loveeeeee to do that.” He tilts his head coquettishly and flutters his fingers around his face. “He told us you’re not like his exes. He actually said that.”

“I think he says that to all his dates,” Osamu muses. “Male manipulator.”

“Male manipulator my ass,” snorts Atsumu. “Yesterday he saw one of his ex-girlfriends and hid behind me until she went away. The man is a simp.”

“Maybe he still has feelings for her,” muses Osamu, staring at you with laser focus. “Does that worry you?”

“No?” You say, then take a loud slurp of soup.

“You’re borin’,” says Atsumu. “Maybe s’why he likes you so much. Bye.”

“Bye,” says Osamu.

“Bye.”

You’re on your fifth date, getting a special two for the price of one taiyaki deal when you actually bump into his ex, standing behind you in line.

“Hi,” she grins at you. “You know he’s a piece of shit, right?”

“Yes,” you say confidently, at the same time Rintarō says her name pleadingly. You sense suddenly that there is history here you don’t want to make light of.

“As long as you’re clear,” she says, taking your hand and squeezing it. Her fingertips bite into your skin. You look at Rintarō, surprised he’s not making any smart quips, but the gray shade of his skin tells you everything you need to know about the situation.

“The vibes,” you say, suddenly. “They’re arsenic.”

“What?”

“Rintarō,” you grab his hand and tug on it. “We have to go.”

You pull him out of the line, stumbling as he goes and giving her a small, pathetic wave as you storm away.

He doesn’t regain his color until you’re in your room, sitting on your bed while he drapes himself over your desk chair.

“So is there a reason why your ex makes you catatonic or should I make one up?”

“She’s fine,” Rintarō says hoarsely.

“Yep,” you say. “She killed your childhood horse.”

“What? No, you’re insane. She cheated on me.”

“She cheated on you?” You launch yourself to your feet, suddenly filled with the power of a thousand burning suns to strike her down.

“No, no, no,” he says. “Sit down. Sit down. It was my fault, anyway.”

Rintarō’s not a particularly loud guy, but he sounds so quiet now that you nearly ask him to speak up.

“How can her cheating possibly be your fault?” You arch a brow.

“I wasn’t a good boyfriend,” he says. “I was really, uh, neglectful.” He holds a hand up when you open your mouth. “It was worse than you think. She tried to reason with me a bunch of times and I wouldn’t listen. We had a pretty big fight and didn’t talk for a couple days, and when we were talking again, she had... Well. And then it was over.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. So, I dunno, I don’t blame her or anything. Plus, I went on a streak of fucking, uh, flings afterwards so I’m not faultless, either.”

“Bullshit, but okay,” you snort. “None of that is grounds for sleeping with someone else as revenge for upsetting her.”

“It wasn’t revenge—”

“It kinda was,” you point out. “And I don’t think you hooking up with a bunch of people after she hit you in the heart with a golf club is really the same thing. If anything, it sounds like you were just... trying to get over her, which isn’t a crime in anyone’s book, really.”

“It wasn’t hooking up,” he protests weakly.

“You’re running out of arguments, Rintarō,” you say. “Anyway. Um. Sorry for being all in your business. Can I get you anything?”

“I don’t know,” he says vaguely, staring into space.

“Okay,” you say, shoulders dropping. “Sounds good to me.”

You spend the next hour with him in near silence. Halfway through, you ask if he wants to sit on the bed with you, which he gladly accepts. The only noise in the room is the sound of the both of you tapping at your phones and occasionally clicking on a video and playing it out loud. You wonder if your parents would be angry that you had a boy in your room if they walked in and saw the two of you doing absolutely nothing.

“Sorry,” you say, just before he leaves. “Again.”

“No, you’re good,” he responds. “It was nice. Really, really nice.”

Impulsively, you hug him. It takes a second for him to unfreeze, but you eventually feel hands patting your back.

“Night,” you say once you’ve pulled back. “Sleep tight.”

“Hope the vampires bite,” he says, smiling toothily at you.

That’s when you become best friends with your boyfriend.

You can recall the nearly physical feeling of the click of things into place, of the way the universe shifted just slightly so you could see so much more clearly. Dates blur into one long Suna session. Suddenly, you find your afternoons consumed with sitting on the bleachers, even if you're not actually watching practice. You no longer need to invite Rintarō to gatherings; he's there when the plans are made. You text incessantly during class and he sits in your desk chair, playing games on his phone, while you ponder your homework, waiting for you to finish so the two of you can binge dramas together.

"This means we probably would've had more fun if we'd watched the assassin romance instead of General Godzilla 5: Part 2," you say snidely.

"Fuck you," he responds eloquently.

He does the dishes for you when your parents ask you to, and you wash his laundry when you visit his house. This must be what it means to be in a partnership. The two of you encounter new problems and adapt, improvise, overcome.

"Have you and Suna... you know? Yet?" Asks one of your friends.

"No," laughs your best friend (the one you're not dating). "Have you two even kissed yet?"

"Yes, of course we have," you answer extremely truthfully. "Excuse me."

Rintarō opens his front door half an hour later. You promptly scream for fifteen straight seconds. He understands.

"We just need to orchestrate a kiss and get more comfortable with PDA," you reason later, sitting cross-legged across from him on your bed. He nods seriously, fingers steepled and expression wise.

"We can do that. Have you ever kissed someone before?" You throw a pillow at him.

"Of course I have. Just because it doesn't turn into schoolwide gossip doesn't mean it's not happening."

"Low blow, but okay."

"Wait," you pause. "Maybe you're right. Not factually, but spiritually. Do you think we should practice?"

"Maybe," you watch him swallow. "Yeah."

You both scoot slowly toward each other, laughing nervously every time the bed creaks.

"So are you..." You start, throat dry. "Um. Am I or are you gonna—"

Ungracefully, his lips land on yours. Your eyes slam shut and you reciprocate enthusiastically, cupping the back of his neck with one hand to brace yourself. Despite the jerky start, you can tell that he's a good kisser, a really good kisser. He sucks hard on your lower lip, drawing a noise you're embarrassed to hear out of your mouth, which prompts him to shift around and put a large hand on your back, kneeling so he has a few inches on you and can pull you closer. You kiss him harder, desperate to drown out the intensity of your own reaction.

Too hard. You think you black out.

When you come to, your hands have migrated into his black hair and he's pulling away from your neck, which you suspect is freshly marked. He stares down at you with wide eyes, and you suspect the expression is mirrored on your face.

"Do you think that was enough practice?" You ask carefully, unsure of what the correct answer is.

"Probably," he says, leaning back. "It'll be fine. Unless you get performance anxiety and drool on my face or something."

"You're so gross."

"You love me."

"Do I?"

You're half-asleep, walking out of your final period of the day when someone pulls you headlong into a dark classroom.

"Don't scream," Rintarō says. You scream. "Exactly. Thank you."

Then he's kissing you, barely brushing his lips against yours, smirking when you pinch his ribs. You chase him, kissing him fully and turning the both of you so that he's up against the wall, his hands loosely gripping your waist while your hands wander to his hair. He tastes sweet-and-sour, like home and like trouble, a contradiction wrapped in black hoodies and burning yellow eyes.

Someone's calling your name. Someone's calling your name, and the lights are on. You blink blearily at your best friend, who's laughing her ass off, and separate slowly from Rintarō. Your lips are wet and you can't seem to catch your breath.

"It's not what it looks like."

"God, imagine if I'd been a teacher," your friend howls and backs out of the classroom, beckoning you to follow. "Oh, the looks you guys gave me..."

"Remy," Rintarō whispers in your ear as he jogs to catch up with you, slinging his bag on. "You're like the rat in Ratatouille. Pulling me around by my hair."

"You are so, so bad at romance," you hiss. "See if I ever do it again."

"I mean, we weren't going to," he says. "But I'd like to."

You punch him lightly in the arm, but your heart's not in it.

Comparatively, PDA isn't hard after that. Your friends make fun of your hickey, which you shift up your collar to hide self-consciously (and which Rintarō pulls down constantly and secretly, for reasons unknown to you), and you hold hands without even thinking about it. You kiss him hello on the cheek and he hugs you goodbye, and you're starting to become hyperaware of the upcoming deadline.

Will everything change the way it did when you asked him to do this crazy, stupid thing with you? Will it all slip away, like a dream you can't quite remember by the time you wake up?

All these worries add up to something worse, you realize, lying in bed staring at the ceiling. You're not quite sure you can make it to the three month mark without wanting everything that's been smoke and mirrors and espionage to be real.

Only two weeks, you tell yourself, checking over your calendar again and again like it'll make the days pass faster. Fourteen days, three hundred thirty six hours, twenty thousand and one hundred sixty minutes. Everything is fine.

He takes you to the movies again.

He buys tickets for a movie from the fifties, buys you your favorite snacks without having to be asked, wraps his arm around you when you shiver from the air-conditioned interior. He likes the seats in the middle, but you nod toward the back.

"Really?" He asks, voice strangely high-pitched. "Oh. Sick."

You don't remember much of the movie.

Your last date with Suna Rintarō ends on the train. The world is a smear of blue and gray in front of you; behind you, arms embracing you almost too loosely is him. You turn your head to speak into his ear.

"It's been good," you tell him. "Happy three months."

"Happy three months," he repeats, the words nearly foreign in his mouth. "And one day. We're gonna be rich."

"And one day," you smile, and reach for his hand, his bony fingers cold to the touch. "Should we stage a big breakup?"

"I've had enough of big breakups for a lifetime," he laughs. "But if you want to, let's do it. Could be fun."

"No, it's okay," you shrug. "They're gonna know we gamed them, anyway. No need to lay it on anymore."

"Yeah," he replies. "Does that mean this is it?"

The conductor announces your stop, one neighborhood before his.

"I guess so," you feel strangely light, a little out of body. "See you tomorrow, Rintarō."

You should kiss him, maybe. Something dramatic should be happening right now; at least an emotional embrace. That's not how the two of you operate, though, and it wasn't anything real, anyway, you try to remind yourself. He won't be losing any sleep over this, so neither should you.

You lick your lips and smile at him, giving a little wave. He lifts a hand, head down while he looks at his phone. You can close the book on your relationship, and it feels just right. The train starts to move, and you turn around and walk home.

This is the stupidest situation he's ever been in, Rintarō thinks to himself.

It's been two weeks since what should have been the easiest breakup of his life, and things don't feel easy.

At first they were: your friends were annoyed but good natured, handing out the money reluctantly but with knowing expressions on their faces. He'd become too much a part of your life to simply pull out, and vice versa, so things had stayed similar.

But he felt so different, and he couldn't figure out why.

"Good one," Atsumu crows when he hears the truth of your relationship. "Really had me fooled. 'Samu, too."

"Was not!"

"Yes, you were. You thought he was playin' a fling again, not us."

"They were playin' their friends!"

"Are we not their friends, too?" Atsumu asks, wounded. "Hey, since Y/N is single now— or always was, whatever, could I—"

"Are you joking? No," Rintarō says. "What kind of question is that?"

"A perfectly valid one," sulks Atsumu. "Hey, mine!" He dives after a stray volleyball, and Rintarō stares after him distractedly.

It's almost metaphorical, the way Atsumu's easily pulled away from the topic of you by the game. Would that happen to Rintarō again? If he put in effort, and he could tell you how he felt— that he was miserable like this, that he'd gotten addicted to the way you tripped over your words because they came out too fast and the way your room smelled entirely like you and to your all-encompassing presence and touch, and he needed it, needed you back the way he'd had you and hadn't even known it— and by some miracle, you accepted, would he take it for granted? Would he ever be good enough for you?

Would he lose even the half of you he held in his palms now?

He's losing his mind, he realizes. Metaphor? In his volleyball? Unlikely.

He casts a longing look at the bleachers, then shakes his head. He needs to get his head in the game.

It's a Saturday night, and he misses you.

hey, he texts you, after forty-five minutes of agonizing deliberation. do u want to watch something? i think there's a ghibli showing at the theater but we can just stream if u want

sorry :( You respond three minutes later. can't.

rip, he sends. You don't answer. He slams his phone facedown on his comforter and lies on his back, his hands shaking. It's not until he rolls over and feels wet fabric against his cheek that he realizes he's been crying.

You feel so distant and only now he knows what he's doing wrong.

Rintarō's fallen in love with you.

"I don't know," you're saying. "I think I prefer the little jelly strawberries."

He can't focus. Every time he's around you, he nearly works up the courage to confess, to spill out every bloody, messy feeling he's had since you broke up and pray that you'll bear with him for it, but he always talks himself out of it. He can love you like this, he tells himself. His emotions aren't any less real for not being validated.

"What do you think? Rintarō?" You're snapping your fingers in front of his face. He hunches his shoulders and leans away.

"I think about your mom," he musters. You peer at him, your face far too close to his. He imagines bonking himself in the head with a thick textbook several times to remain stoic.

"You're being weird."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Walk home with me today."

"Are t— what?" He shrugs. "Okay."

He sits a little straighter. He can make it another few hours. You got this, man, be normal.

He's pretty sure he fails miserably in that regard, but he recalls you looking at him with sparkling eyes and telling him people liked his weird. He hopes you were talking about yourself.

The sky is clear and he's nearly too hot beneath his school blazer. Beside him, your steps are light, taken to the beat of a song he can't hear. Cars honk in the street and dogs bark in their backyards. He bites his lip.

"Is everything okay?" Is somehow the way he chooses to open the topic.

"Yes," you say. "But I don't think it is with you. Tell me." He crosses his arms, then uncrosses them. What is he doing? He's not sure.

"It's really stupid," he says. "Well, not really, I just think it's kind of weird, maybe, and you might not like it. Or me. I guess that's the gist of it. I like you. I think I love you. And it hurts like we broke up for real when we weren't even dating for real. You're a really good friend, and I don't want to lose that, but," he flounders. "If you wanted to try dating, again, for real, I would love to try dating, again, for real, because I think I could... I don't think I did badly, but I want to show you that I can do better." He laughs, quietly, self-deprecatingly, and slows to a stop, turning to face you.

You stare at him, lips parted and brows raised.

In the eternity stretching between the two of you, he feels something inside him crack. It's not a clean break, either. He can feel shards of himself falling to the sidewalk while you look on, his usually icy demeanor revealing the lovesick boy beneath.

You take a deep breath, and he swears he can feel it inflating his own lungs.

"Oh."

+

part two here