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after dinner protein shake and gym session because he woke up too late to do it in the morning and he can’t sleep through the night unless he’s exhausted beforehand anyway
suna looks at my listening activity all the time he’ll screenshot it and texting me like “u with hana?” if taylor is on or “why tf are u listening to the nausicaa soundtrack” or “you left stray kids on repeat by accident again” (it wasn’t an accident)
summary: you and suna both have secrets; you’ve been dancing around them for months. tonight, they dance together.
word count: 1.5k
cw: reader didn’t homewreck suna’s last relationship but she also didn’t not do that, alcohol, suna dds and he has a sexy car (don’t drink and drive kids), reader might be lowkey yandere, a cigarette, a cigarette-burn related metaphor, everybody has really bad communication skills and trust issues but they are also too in love to stop, openish/hopeful ending
a/n: look nothing in this fic is based on true events except that i got called pistachio and spit this out as a result. i found out the plot at the same time you did (as it hit the page). yikes xx
you call suna at three in the morning.
having just dropped a raving drunk pair of twins off at their apartment, he doesn’t let it ring more than once before clicking answer and connecting it to his car’s speaker.
“-lo? hello? hi,” you say, voice wobbly over the airwaves.
“hi,” he says, his own steadier but more uncertain.
“hi,” you say. a simple, happy word. a greeting, not a nicety. sometimes you have this way, he thinks, of glossing everything you do and say with a warmth so intoxicating it makes everyone you meet think you put it on because of them, for them. he fell for it once. twice. over and over.
he’s not sure you know you’re doing it. it’s just that sometimes you talk to him like he’s the only person you’ve ever trusted, a priest and a best friend and a lover in one. sometimes you talk to him like you’re sure he hates you. it fucks him up.
he stays silent until you explain why you’re calling.
“can you pick me up, please? i wouldn’t ask but you’re the only one i know in the area, i promise i wouldn’t bother you this late otherwise, i’m sorry. if you’re busy i totally understand, i’ll figure something out.”
“no, i’ll come,” he says. “send me your location?”
you could have just sent him the address, but if he’s lucky, you’ll forget to turn it off in the morning. if he knows where you are, it’s almost as good as trusting you.
he’s a hypocrite, he knows, spinning the wheel with one hand and scrubbing the other over his jaw roughly. you make it okay, though.
you’re standing next to some guy with his shirt unbuttoned, smoking a cigarette, when suna pulls up.
“that’s him,” he can hear you say, shouting even though you don’t need to. the music isn’t too loud with the club closed for the night. “that’s my boyfriend. isn’t his car cool?”
a sour look on his face, the guy holding the cigarette nods. suna rolls down the window and says, “thanks for watching my girl, man.” his smirk is greasier than it needs to be.
“anytime,” says the guy. suna gets the impression that he’d slash his tires if he could.
you, uncaring of the havoc you’re leaving behind, climb into suna’s car with a big smile and plant a sloppy kiss on his cheek before settling into your seat. when the window’s up and he’s peeled away from the curb, it slips a little.
“sorry,” you say, not exactly looking sorry. “i didn’t want him to hit on me.”
“i get it,” he says. “it’s okay.”
it’s not. he wants to be your real boyfriend. you want it too. for reasons both incomprehensible and perfectly understandable to both of you, it can’t happen.
“i’m sorry,” you say again. “did i wake you up?”
“nah,” he shakes his head. “i was already up. the twins,” he doesn’t have to finish his sentence.
“oh,” you say, “how are they?”
you and the twins don’t get along. the last time you’d met, atsumu had said you’re probably going to marry that witch, and i’m boycotting your bridal party.
“fine,” he says. “they were wasted. osamu tried to make me sing karaoke.”
“i think you have a nice voice,” you protest a contention he’d never made. he doesn’t respond, just watches the night lights of the city blur past him, the white lines guide his wheels straight and true. “i like it when you sing to me.”
“i’ve never sung for you.”
“you did! you sing in my shower, every time you stay over. you don’t do it when you’re home.”
“that’s not singing to you.”
you give him a look like, sure. he turns up the aux. you hum, a little out of tune with the bass.
“there are things i want to tell you,” you say, and when he glances at you out of the corner of his eye you’re staring straight ahead, carefully avoiding looking at him. “especially like this. for plausible deniability. but then i don’t want it to come out messy.”
“you can be messy,” he says, and watches you not believe him.
“but i want to be clean. for you. i want,” you grind out. this happens, sometimes, too. you sound like you’re going to tell him that you love him and your tones says that you hate him for it. “i want you to not have to take care of me. i want you to be happy. so happy.”
“i’m happy.”
“but—” the words choke and die in your throat. “like. um. you know what i mean.”
“i really don’t.”
you flinch into looking at him. he has an eye on the road, he swears, but your hair is plastered to your forehead in places and your mouth is bitten red and you look pale with terror, the prettiest thing he’s ever seen every time he sees you.
“i’m your pistachio,” you burst out, like that makes any sense at all. “did you—have you seen that?”
“huh?” is all he can really articulate. he’s scared, too, he hopes you know, it’s why he can’t put his hand on your knee and reassure you, why he can’t say he knows what you’re saying because you turn his world upside down, you make it so he doesn’t know anything he should.
“it’s like—” you press your palms to your eyes, your mouth moving but not making words for a second. “flavors. you want something classic and familiar like chocolate, but you kind of want to try something new like pistachio, and it turns out you like pistachio too, but you still wish you’d stuck with chocolate.”
“uh.”
“fuck, never mind,” you say. “fuck.”
“okay,” he says.
it’s just a few turns left before he’ll be at your place. he knows it like a homing beacon is lit up at the top, can find it from anywhere in the city. you lived a lot further away when you first met; you had to text, hey, i’m in your city, if you wanted to do this. he’s not totally sure you didn’t move to be closer to him.
“i mean,” you make a low noise in your throat. he hopes it’s not sore tomorrow. he hopes you didn’t smoke with that guy, because then it definitely will be. “i know you weren’t single when you met me.”
his foot comes off the gas for a second.
“it was already over,” he says. “it wasn’t, like, because of you. fuck. who told you?”
“she told me by the second time we saw each other. or, well. it doesn’t matter. she hadn’t moved out, though,” you point out. “it wasn’t—that was why—rintarō.”
there’s only one turn left. suna thinks wildly of turning the other way, of taking you back to his, of driving into the sunrise so you’ll never get out of his car.
“i’m sorry,” he says honestly. for what, he doesn’t know. he couldn’t atone if he spent the rest of his life doing it, so he doesn’t even want to list his sins.
you make a frustrated noise. “that’s the thing. i don’t care. i was mad—when i found out, because you didn’t tell me, because of course you didn’t tell me. but i don’t care. i wouldn’t have even if—i can’t even say it, but it’s true. isn’t that fucked up? aren’t i fucked?”
he shakes his head, pulling up to the curb a little harder than he needs to. the car jolts. his back hurts a little, a sparking pain like a bushel of lit cigarettes pressed into it.
“that’s why,” you say. you’re talking faster now. both of you know you have to go, but you don’t. “it’s bad, but i don’t care. i—please. do you get it?”
“i do,” he says, and every confession made tonight hangs between you like stars about to implode. “i—yeah.”
“yeah,” you exhale. “sorry. fuck. bye. i promise.”
you wobble as you step out of the car and he remembers that you’re drunk, that the cards are all here, spilled all over his lap and into the footwell. he puts the car in park and rushes to steady you before you can fall.
“it was worth it,” he says steadily. “if you remember this—i want you to remember that. i really—you made my life better, every time you touched it.”
“i’ll remember,” you say quietly, putting your hand on his face. “don’t worry.”
he gives you a look like, sure.
“come up,” you say. “if it doesn’t matter to you. it doesn’t matter to me.”
you turn his world upside down; this means that it matters more than anything else ever could.
“you can kick me out in the morning,” he says, voice a dry rasp.
“i won’t,” you promise, leading him by the hand up the steps already. for the first time, he believes you.
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summary: you and suna both have secrets; you’ve been dancing around them for months. tonight, they dance together.
word count: 1.5k
cw: reader didn’t homewreck suna’s last relationship but she also didn’t not do that, alcohol, suna dds and he has a sexy car (don’t drink and drive kids), reader might be lowkey yandere, a cigarette, a cigarette-burn related metaphor, everybody has really bad communication skills and trust issues but they are also too in love to stop, openish/hopeful ending
a/n: look nothing in this fic is based on true events except that i got called pistachio and spit this out as a result. i found out the plot at the same time you did (as it hit the page). yikes xx
you call suna at three in the morning.
having just dropped a raving drunk pair of twins off at their apartment, he doesn’t let it ring more than once before clicking answer and connecting it to his car’s speaker.
“-lo? hello? hi,” you say, voice wobbly over the airwaves.
“hi,” he says, his own steadier but more uncertain.
“hi,” you say. a simple, happy word. a greeting, not a nicety. sometimes you have this way, he thinks, of glossing everything you do and say with a warmth so intoxicating it makes everyone you meet think you put it on because of them, for them. he fell for it once. twice. over and over.
he’s not sure you know you’re doing it. it’s just that sometimes you talk to him like he’s the only person you’ve ever trusted, a priest and a best friend and a lover in one. sometimes you talk to him like you’re sure he hates you. it fucks him up.
he stays silent until you explain why you’re calling.
“can you pick me up, please? i wouldn’t ask but you’re the only one i know in the area, i promise i wouldn’t bother you this late otherwise, i’m sorry. if you’re busy i totally understand, i’ll figure something out.”
“no, i’ll come,” he says. “send me your location?”
you could have just sent him the address, but if he’s lucky, you’ll forget to turn it off in the morning. if he knows where you are, it’s almost as good as trusting you.
he’s a hypocrite, he knows, spinning the wheel with one hand and scrubbing the other over his jaw roughly. you make it okay, though.
you’re standing next to some guy with his shirt unbuttoned, smoking a cigarette, when suna pulls up.
“that’s him,” he can hear you say, shouting even though you don’t need to. the music isn’t too loud with the club closed for the night. “that’s my boyfriend. isn’t his car cool?”
a sour look on his face, the guy holding the cigarette nods. suna rolls down the window and says, “thanks for watching my girl, man.” his smirk is greasier than it needs to be.
“anytime,” says the guy. suna gets the impression that he’d slash his tires if he could.
you, uncaring of the havoc you’re leaving behind, climb into suna’s car with a big smile and plant a sloppy kiss on his cheek before settling into your seat. when the window’s up and he’s peeled away from the curb, it slips a little.
“sorry,” you say, not exactly looking sorry. “i didn’t want him to hit on me.”
“i get it,” he says. “it’s okay.”
it’s not. he wants to be your real boyfriend. you want it too. for reasons both incomprehensible and perfectly understandable to both of you, it can’t happen.
“i’m sorry,” you say again. “did i wake you up?”
“nah,” he shakes his head. “i was already up. the twins,” he doesn’t have to finish his sentence.
“oh,” you say, “how are they?”
you and the twins don’t get along. the last time you’d met, atsumu had said you’re probably going to marry that witch, and i’m boycotting your bridal party.
“fine,” he says. “they were wasted. osamu tried to make me sing karaoke.”
“i think you have a nice voice,” you protest a contention he’d never made. he doesn’t respond, just watches the night lights of the city blur past him, the white lines guide his wheels straight and true. “i like it when you sing to me.”
“i’ve never sung for you.”
“you did! you sing in my shower, every time you stay over. you don’t do it when you’re home.”
“that’s not singing to you.”
you give him a look like, sure. he turns up the aux. you hum, a little out of tune with the bass.
“there are things i want to tell you,” you say, and when he glances at you out of the corner of his eye you’re staring straight ahead, carefully avoiding looking at him. “especially like this. for plausible deniability. but then i don’t want it to come out messy.”
“you can be messy,” he says, and watches you not believe him.
“but i want to be clean. for you. i want,” you grind out. this happens, sometimes, too. you sound like you’re going to tell him that you love him and your tones says that you hate him for it. “i want you to not have to take care of me. i want you to be happy. so happy.”
“i’m happy.”
“but—” the words choke and die in your throat. “like. um. you know what i mean.”
“i really don’t.”
you flinch into looking at him. he has an eye on the road, he swears, but your hair is plastered to your forehead in places and your mouth is bitten red and you look pale with terror, the prettiest thing he’s ever seen every time he sees you.
“i’m your pistachio,” you burst out, like that makes any sense at all. “did you—have you seen that?”
“huh?” is all he can really articulate. he’s scared, too, he hopes you know, it’s why he can’t put his hand on your knee and reassure you, why he can’t say he knows what you’re saying because you turn his world upside down, you make it so he doesn’t know anything he should.
“it’s like—” you press your palms to your eyes, your mouth moving but not making words for a second. “flavors. you want something classic and familiar like chocolate, but you kind of want to try something new like pistachio, and it turns out you like pistachio too, but you still wish you’d stuck with chocolate.”
“uh.”
“fuck, never mind,” you say. “fuck.”
“okay,” he says.
it’s just a few turns left before he’ll be at your place. he knows it like a homing beacon is lit up at the top, can find it from anywhere in the city. you lived a lot further away when you first met; you had to text, hey, i’m in your city, if you wanted to do this. he’s not totally sure you didn’t move to be closer to him.
“i mean,” you make a low noise in your throat. he hopes it’s not sore tomorrow. he hopes you didn’t smoke with that guy, because then it definitely will be. “i know you weren’t single when you met me.”
his foot comes off the gas for a second.
“it was already over,” he says. “it wasn’t, like, because of you. fuck. who told you?”
“she told me by the second time we saw each other. or, well. it doesn’t matter. she hadn’t moved out, though,” you point out. “it wasn’t—that was why—rintarō.”
there’s only one turn left. suna thinks wildly of turning the other way, of taking you back to his, of driving into the sunrise so you’ll never get out of his car.
“i’m sorry,” he says honestly. for what, he doesn’t know. he couldn’t atone if he spent the rest of his life doing it, so he doesn’t even want to list his sins.
you make a frustrated noise. “that’s the thing. i don’t care. i was mad—when i found out, because you didn’t tell me, because of course you didn’t tell me. but i don’t care. i wouldn’t have even if—i can’t even say it, but it’s true. isn’t that fucked up? aren’t i fucked?”
he shakes his head, pulling up to the curb a little harder than he needs to. the car jolts. his back hurts a little, a sparking pain like a bushel of lit cigarettes pressed into it.
“that’s why,” you say. you’re talking faster now. both of you know you have to go, but you don’t. “it’s bad, but i don’t care. i—please. do you get it?”
“i do,” he says, and every confession made tonight hangs between you like stars about to implode. “i—yeah.”
“yeah,” you exhale. “sorry. fuck. bye. i promise.”
you wobble as you step out of the car and he remembers that you’re drunk, that the cards are all here, spilled all over his lap and into the footwell. he puts the car in park and rushes to steady you before you can fall.
“it was worth it,” he says steadily. “if you remember this—i want you to remember that. i really—you made my life better, every time you touched it.”
“i’ll remember,” you say quietly, putting your hand on his face. “don’t worry.”
he gives you a look like, sure.
“come up,” you say. “if it doesn’t matter to you. it doesn’t matter to me.”
you turn his world upside down; this means that it matters more than anything else ever could.
“you can kick me out in the morning,” he says, voice a dry rasp.
“i won’t,” you promise, leading him by the hand up the steps already. for the first time, he believes you.
not to sound like a medieval peasant but, cheese and bread. garlic and butter. a menagerie of spices. potatoes. that’s what life is all about right there.
i recently moved into my first ever apartment and i’m in love with how musical it is. you can always hear someone singing or listening to music. it’s never obtrusively loud, i have to sit really still to hear it. but it makes me think the city is singing to me
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i like the stories on games too but i don’t like the gaming part of games which defeats the purpose of games. like imagine doing the whole hard work….ONLY TO NOT GET WHAT YOU CAME FOR NOOOOOO
i think the cards for the characters are really cool and i’ve seen people rave about them but im not the most familiar with love and deep space specifically
also just read the suna fic and suddenly, i love pistachios
EXACTLY i am not willing to gamble for this reason … i am not strong enough… so i just binge fic and then make up my own storyline. i think im also not open enough to having an mc compared to just Imagining my own lololol. so basically i probably shouldnt try gacha
heheheh YAY im so glad u liked i scheduled a rb with responses to ur very kind tags <<333 thank u so much for reading i love u i love u. and thank u for noting the pistachios hehehe
saw your post about valko fanfic and the only thing i can say abt how gacha works is close your eyes and gamble
that’s def not what you were looking for
also hi i hope you’re well <333
see that’s what i’m confused by bc i am 1) afraid of and 2) bored by gambling so i just dont think gacha works for me… which is a shame bc i want the storyline i just dont want to do the card pulling (?) and all that other stuff. but i appreciate you in my inbox so i’m gonna keep standing by the gacha stalls in the app market looking confused until you come save me 😉😉😉😉
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
summary: you and suna both have secrets; you’ve been dancing around them for months. tonight, they dance together.
word count: 1.5k
cw: reader didn’t homewreck suna’s last relationship but she also didn’t not do that, alcohol, suna dds and he has a sexy car (don’t drink and drive kids), reader might be lowkey yandere, a cigarette, a cigarette-burn related metaphor, everybody has really bad communication skills and trust issues but they are also too in love to stop, openish/hopeful ending
a/n: look nothing in this fic is based on true events except that i got called pistachio and spit this out as a result. i found out the plot at the same time you did (as it hit the page). yikes xx
you call suna at three in the morning.
having just dropped a raving drunk pair of twins off at their apartment, he doesn’t let it ring more than once before clicking answer and connecting it to his car’s speaker.
“-lo? hello? hi,” you say, voice wobbly over the airwaves.
“hi,” he says, his own steadier but more uncertain.
“hi,” you say. a simple, happy word. a greeting, not a nicety. sometimes you have this way, he thinks, of glossing everything you do and say with a warmth so intoxicating it makes everyone you meet think you put it on because of them, for them. he fell for it once. twice. over and over.
he’s not sure you know you’re doing it. it’s just that sometimes you talk to him like he’s the only person you’ve ever trusted, a priest and a best friend and a lover in one. sometimes you talk to him like you’re sure he hates you. it fucks him up.
he stays silent until you explain why you’re calling.
“can you pick me up, please? i wouldn’t ask but you’re the only one i know in the area, i promise i wouldn’t bother you this late otherwise, i’m sorry. if you’re busy i totally understand, i’ll figure something out.”
“no, i’ll come,” he says. “send me your location?”
you could have just sent him the address, but if he’s lucky, you’ll forget to turn it off in the morning. if he knows where you are, it’s almost as good as trusting you.
he’s a hypocrite, he knows, spinning the wheel with one hand and scrubbing the other over his jaw roughly. you make it okay, though.
you’re standing next to some guy with his shirt unbuttoned, smoking a cigarette, when suna pulls up.
“that’s him,” he can hear you say, shouting even though you don’t need to. the music isn’t too loud with the club closed for the night. “that’s my boyfriend. isn’t his car cool?”
a sour look on his face, the guy holding the cigarette nods. suna rolls down the window and says, “thanks for watching my girl, man.” his smirk is greasier than it needs to be.
“anytime,” says the guy. suna gets the impression that he’d slash his tires if he could.
you, uncaring of the havoc you’re leaving behind, climb into suna’s car with a big smile and plant a sloppy kiss on his cheek before settling into your seat. when the window’s up and he’s peeled away from the curb, it slips a little.
“sorry,” you say, not exactly looking sorry. “i didn’t want him to hit on me.”
“i get it,” he says. “it’s okay.”
it’s not. he wants to be your real boyfriend. you want it too. for reasons both incomprehensible and perfectly understandable to both of you, it can’t happen.
“i’m sorry,” you say again. “did i wake you up?”
“nah,” he shakes his head. “i was already up. the twins,” he doesn’t have to finish his sentence.
“oh,” you say, “how are they?”
you and the twins don’t get along. the last time you’d met, atsumu had said you’re probably going to marry that witch, and i’m boycotting your bridal party.
“fine,” he says. “they were wasted. osamu tried to make me sing karaoke.”
“i think you have a nice voice,” you protest a contention he’d never made. he doesn’t respond, just watches the night lights of the city blur past him, the white lines guide his wheels straight and true. “i like it when you sing to me.”
“i’ve never sung for you.”
“you did! you sing in my shower, every time you stay over. you don’t do it when you’re home.”
“that’s not singing to you.”
you give him a look like, sure. he turns up the aux. you hum, a little out of tune with the bass.
“there are things i want to tell you,” you say, and when he glances at you out of the corner of his eye you’re staring straight ahead, carefully avoiding looking at him. “especially like this. for plausible deniability. but then i don’t want it to come out messy.”
“you can be messy,” he says, and watches you not believe him.
“but i want to be clean. for you. i want,” you grind out. this happens, sometimes, too. you sound like you’re going to tell him that you love him and your tones says that you hate him for it. “i want you to not have to take care of me. i want you to be happy. so happy.”
“i’m happy.”
“but—” the words choke and die in your throat. “like. um. you know what i mean.”
“i really don’t.”
you flinch into looking at him. he has an eye on the road, he swears, but your hair is plastered to your forehead in places and your mouth is bitten red and you look pale with terror, the prettiest thing he’s ever seen every time he sees you.
“i’m your pistachio,” you burst out, like that makes any sense at all. “did you—have you seen that?”
“huh?” is all he can really articulate. he’s scared, too, he hopes you know, it’s why he can’t put his hand on your knee and reassure you, why he can’t say he knows what you’re saying because you turn his world upside down, you make it so he doesn’t know anything he should.
“it’s like—” you press your palms to your eyes, your mouth moving but not making words for a second. “flavors. you want something classic and familiar like chocolate, but you kind of want to try something new like pistachio, and it turns out you like pistachio too, but you still wish you’d stuck with chocolate.”
“uh.”
“fuck, never mind,” you say. “fuck.”
“okay,” he says.
it’s just a few turns left before he’ll be at your place. he knows it like a homing beacon is lit up at the top, can find it from anywhere in the city. you lived a lot further away when you first met; you had to text, hey, i’m in your city, if you wanted to do this. he’s not totally sure you didn’t move to be closer to him.
“i mean,” you make a low noise in your throat. he hopes it’s not sore tomorrow. he hopes you didn’t smoke with that guy, because then it definitely will be. “i know you weren’t single when you met me.”
his foot comes off the gas for a second.
“it was already over,” he says. “it wasn’t, like, because of you. fuck. who told you?”
“she told me by the second time we saw each other. or, well. it doesn’t matter. she hadn’t moved out, though,” you point out. “it wasn’t—that was why—rintarō.”
there’s only one turn left. suna thinks wildly of turning the other way, of taking you back to his, of driving into the sunrise so you’ll never get out of his car.
“i’m sorry,” he says honestly. for what, he doesn’t know. he couldn’t atone if he spent the rest of his life doing it, so he doesn’t even want to list his sins.
you make a frustrated noise. “that’s the thing. i don’t care. i was mad—when i found out, because you didn’t tell me, because of course you didn’t tell me. but i don’t care. i wouldn’t have even if—i can’t even say it, but it’s true. isn’t that fucked up? aren’t i fucked?”
he shakes his head, pulling up to the curb a little harder than he needs to. the car jolts. his back hurts a little, a sparking pain like a bushel of lit cigarettes pressed into it.
“that’s why,” you say. you’re talking faster now. both of you know you have to go, but you don’t. “it’s bad, but i don’t care. i—please. do you get it?”
“i do,” he says, and every confession made tonight hangs between you like stars about to implode. “i—yeah.”
“yeah,” you exhale. “sorry. fuck. bye. i promise.”
you wobble as you step out of the car and he remembers that you’re drunk, that the cards are all here, spilled all over his lap and into the footwell. he puts the car in park and rushes to steady you before you can fall.
“it was worth it,” he says steadily. “if you remember this—i want you to remember that. i really—you made my life better, every time you touched it.”
“i’ll remember,” you say quietly, putting your hand on his face. “don’t worry.”
he gives you a look like, sure.
“come up,” you say. “if it doesn’t matter to you. it doesn’t matter to me.”
you turn his world upside down; this means that it matters more than anything else ever could.
“you can kick me out in the morning,” he says, voice a dry rasp.
“i won’t,” you promise, leading him by the hand up the steps already. for the first time, he believes you.
dededos
2087
dailybridgerton
theartofmadeline
