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[keeboismine]

into the spider-verse: nishinoya yuu

volume one, chapter one: emails

word count: 2.1k

masterlist | main masterlist | taglist

I know about him.

Teeth gnawing on the inside of her cheek, she stares down at her laptop screen. At the same email she’s been staring at for the last three days, ever since she first got the notification for it on her subway ride home. From ijs99ETJfdhsg@yahoo.com: I know about him. To anyone else, it might not bear the same weight. To her, it’s suffocating.

She’s done everything she can to try and trace it. Everything she can, of course, being Googling the address and enlisting the help of Yachi from the IT department at the Bugle. The outcome of the former being: Your search - ijs99ETJfdhsg@yahoo.com- did not match any documents, and the outcome of the latter being Yachi’s entire laptop getting infected with malware.

So, not great.

She shifts on the stiff stuffing of her couch, legs crossed under her and the heat from the bottom of her laptop on the bare skin of her thighs. I know about him. She hopes it’s a bluff. Realistically, she knows it’s not. But she’s still in the denial stage.

The screen goes dark, and she wiggles her mousepad to brighten it up once more, just so she can stare longer. She can’t tell him. Not yet. Ideally, not ever. But definitely not yet.

“What are you doing?”

She jolts, automatically slamming her laptop shut as she does so and jumping to face the source of the intrusion.

Spider-Man’s in her living room.

Which is fair. It’s his living room too, even if she does pay the lion’s share of the rent.

“Porn,” is her immediate response and the only thing she can think of to justify her reaction, even if it makes her cheeks burn. “Watching porn,” she doubles down, because she has to.

He reaches behind his head and grabs the end of his mask that sits at the back of his neck, pulling it off in one swift movement. Nishinoya looks at her with his hair flattened against his forehead, blond streak brushing against his brow, and a blossoming, deep purple purse spread across his cheek. “In the living room? Well, I guess I am home early, so can’t complain there.”

She pushes her the laptop off to the couch, and stalks towards him, eyes now fixed on the bruise that stains his features. “And what the fuck happened to you?”

Noya grins at her, bright and unfazed. Almost proud, like his injuries are a badge of honor. “Just ran into my good friend Alexei Sytsevich. He was super stoked to see me.”

Her hand shoots out and takes hold of his jaw, lightly squishing the soft flesh of his cheek together as she tilts his head to the side, trying to get a better look at the damage. Noya just stands there and lets her. “Thought that guy was in jail.”

“Broke out,” Noya says, words barely making it out between his smooshed-up lips. She releases him, and steps back. “He loves breaking out of jail. It’s like his favorite thing to do.”

Noya steps back, and retreats into his bedroom, closing the door with his foot as he does so. Still, she can hear his voice coming through their thin, plaster walls. “I don’t even know what that guy’s end game is anymore. I’m pretty sure he just wants me dead. It’s always like, ‘this is your end, Spider!’ when before he was a lot more focused on his personal goals, so.” 

She sighs and collapses back onto the couch again. Freak emails from freak strangers with untraceable email addresses and Sytsevich breaking out of jail for the thousandth-fucking-time to wreck his havoc on Noya’s face. Her hair is going to start turning gray. “You’d think they would’ve built a cell to hold him, by now,” she calls, and Noya is swinging open his bedroom door to saunter back out into living room, suit abandoned in favor of old gym shorts and a vintage looking Godilla t-shirt. “What do you think costs more taxpayer dollars, building a better cell, or paying all those cops to get him back in again?”

Noya rolls his eyes. “Well, I’m the one they call, and they don’t pay me, so.”

That she knows all too well. It’s hard, being a single-income home. Since Noya’s full time job is both incredibly demanding and also unpaid, rent and utilities and groceries mostly fall on her shoulders. Which, it’s not like she can complain or hold it against him. In exchange, he’s the one and only Spider-Man, and she could do worse for roommates.

And he helps when he can, selling candid photos of Spider-Man to the Bugle so they can use them to accompany their hit pieces on him (Noya, of course, finds it incredibly ironic every time they write out a check to him, gleefully paying him for photos of himself).

Noya flicks on the kitchen light, and as he’s lingering in the kitchen, popping open the fridge door with his hip to stare blankly at its contents, she grabs at her laptop once more, opening it back up so she can stare at the email once more. “Do you wanna get a pizza tonight? Some guy gave me a twenty for saving his car from the Rhino’s path.”

“Twenty?” she echoes back, fingers hovering over the reply button. Should she reply? What would she even say? Her Internet safety training at work taught her to never reply to spam emails, just to report it to the system administrator. But looping in the Bugle on an email like this is the last thing she wants. “Seems kinda cheap for saving his entire car.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Noya calls back, closing the fridge. He flicks his wrist in the direction of the living room, and string of white web following it. It attaches itself to the side of a crinkled up, plastic water bottle she was drinking, and before she can blink, the water bottle finds itself in Noya’s hand.

“Dick,” she says, without looking up from her computer. “I was drinking that.”

“Can you look at your porn later? Do you want the pizza or not?”

🕸 ｡𖦹°‧✩｡🕷˚⋆｡

Between them is a half-eaten box of pepperoni pizza, propped open on the fire escape. Noya chews loudly on a slice, his eyes on the city skyline, and hers on him. She watches the bruise on his cheek, and how it moves and shifts with each bite he takes. She reaches out and grazes her thumb against it. He swats her hand away. “Stop it, stop worrying.”

She frowns and slides her hand between her pressed-together knees, like she’s trying to hold it still. “Who the fuck said I’m worried?”

“You’re always worried,” he replies, dusting off the end of his pizza nad leaning up against the closed window behind him. “Every time I come home with so much as a papercut, you’re staring at me like there’s a bullet hole in my chest.”

Her eyes drops, and she looks at the greased-stained cardboard between them. “Well, you have come home with bullet holes before, so.”

He sleeps them off. He wraps up the wound in that fucking webbing of his and he just sleeps it off like it’s a headache or scratch or something most people wouldn’t even go to the doctor for. And then she’ll find dried, rusted bits of that webbing, littered around the house.

“Yeah, and I turned out fine,” he assures her, voice a bit softer now. She looks at him, brown eyes shining and slight grin unwavering. “A bruise isn’t gonna kill me. I don’t want you to waste your energy freaking out over me. You have better things to be freaking out over. I know how horrible your boss is.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, but I don’t really give a shit about him, to be honest.”

Her fingers fidget, and Noya reaches over, covering both of her hands with his. She looks up at him. “I’ll always take care of us both. Okay? Nothing can happen to me while I’m out there, because I know I gotta come back home and make sure you’re good. That’s my number one priority, and I’m not gonna break that promise. Alright?”

She nods her head. “Yeah, alright. I trust you.”

His grin brightens, and he leans forward to throw his arm over her shoulder, pulling her into his side. “See, that’s my girl. Complete and total faith in me. I love to see it.”

“Whatever,” she grumbles, but rests her head against his shoulder. It feels nice, in his arms. “I’m really the one who takes care of you, y’know. By like, paying the bills.”

“Oh, that reminds me. Can I borrow ten bucks? I bet Tanaka-“

He stops and straightens out. She peers up at him, at watches as his focus narrows in on something in the distance. By the time she catches up, and she can hear the sirens start to go off in the distance, Nishinoya is gone, leaving a slight breeze against the strands of her hair.

🕸 ｡𖦹°‧✩｡🕷˚⋆｡

On her desk are two rejections.

The first is on Spider-Man, a feature piece that details his symbolic value to the people of New York; how valuable his presence in the community is and just what he represents to the average New Yorker. It theorizes that identity of Spider-Man isn’t what matters, but the meaning of the mask itself. And it has a big, yellow sticky note on it with the word ‘WRONG!’ written out angrily in thick, black marker.

She sighs. She knew that one wasn’t gonna make it past Jameson. Hardly any of her Spider-Man pieces do. Noya told her to just start writing smear pieces on him, just to get more articles published. But she’s not willing to sacrifice her journalistic integrity to write a bunch of bullshit about how her best friend is ‘getting in the way of the NYPD.’

The second is on the recently passed Norman Osborn. Most obituaries have been fluffy love letters to the capitalist, and maybe Jameson was expecting more of that, rather than a scathing dissection of his life, including, but not limited to, his involvement in developing and selling weapons of war. The sticky note on this one reads, ‘what is this commie crap?’ which, in all honesty, she should’ve been expecting.

She sighs and falls back into her chair. She needs a new, better job. At a place that will publish her articles without twisting her words into nonsense propaganda. A place that will pay her properly, and not like it’s nineteen-eighty-five.

There’s only one silver lining to her job, and that’s the blonde-haired girl depositing a hot latte and everything bagel on her desk. “Rejected again?” Yachi asks, pulling up a chair from the empty desk beside her.

“Ugh, apparently billionaire, tax-evading war criminal Norman Osborn was a friend to the masses that needs to be celebrated, and the guy that says innocent lives every day for free is public enemy number one,” she rants at once, snatching that coffee up and immediately gulping it down, ignoring how it burns her tongue on the way down.

“Yeah,” Yachi agrees. “You didn’t know that?”

She rolls her eyes, wiggling her mouse to wake up her computer. “Shut up.”

Yachi leans back in her chair, and gestures towards the computer screen. “Any more emails from that anonymous guy?”

“No, and thank god for that.”

“It’s so weird,” Yachi notes. “’I know about him,’ is weird, but they’re not threatening you for like, money or information or like any other average email scam. And from what I could see that guy really did not want to be tracked down, and spent a lot of time making sure you couldn’t. And for what? To say something weird.”

Yachi doesn’t know the weight of it. Doesn’t even begin to understand the threat, the implication. Yachi doesn’t even know how the ‘him’ is supposed to be. So she really doesn’t get how disconcerting those facts are. She contemplates, for a moment, slamming her head into the keyboard in front of her.

“Whatever,” she decides ultimately. “I’m just going to ignore it and hopefully absolutely nothing will come of it. It’s how I deal with most of my problems.”

“Oh, what a coincidence, me too,” Yachi laughs, and then stands. “I gotta go. Jameson accidentally downloaded malware onto his computer trying to claim a Target gift card. Have fun rewriting your articles.”

“See you for lunch?” she calls after Yachi’s retreating form.

“Yep!” Yachi confirms with a wave of her hand, disappearing down the line of small, cramped cubicles.

With one, deep, calming breath, she returns her attention to the desktop in front of her. She stretches her neck to the left, and then to the right, and prepares for another day of endless bullshit.

Ding!

YOU HAVE ONE NEW MESSAGE.

taglist: @wyrcan @causenessus @seroh @19calicos @w4nyoung @soulfullystarry @chocolains @jaynawayna @baylz @vuntysharck @mollyrolls @boooolame @staileykout @angee444 @kameyyy @choerry-picking @giocriedpower @sunakeiji @sleepzyy @lunasfics @thecoolestlia @yoshit-he-dinosaur @bectoshi @thatonecroc @karasyuu @iatethemochi @itsdragonius @syverse @savemebrazilhinata @localgaytrainwreck @snail-squasher @atzixo @ahdbodhr @nbcvs @dailyakira @kasumiixs @s1ckntw1st3d @noble-17 @atsumuenthusiast @jino0ix @boobilater @keeboismine @scxrcherr @acowboykisser @impatienscush @loverlunaire @oneiratxxia10 @kattiscrying @dazqa @termite-joe @quikhs @cupidsblonde @izukuwus @greninjafan5000 @mplesyrup

[keeboismine]

thinking about shoyo's hands, needing to be put down

[keeboismine]

monday morning suga and shoyo margin doodles

[keeboismine]

wild youth

one | trash can

masterlist

track one . . . crystal

cw/notes : ignore timestamps, hurt/comfort (my bread and butter yum), anxiety attack, feelings of panic, feelings of nausea (no throwing up), someone get me a suga asap fuck I love him so bad, ignore any typos I tried my best

The swirling sensation in her stomach never stopped even after she had sent everyone on their way. In fact, it got worse as her eyes tracked over the calendar she had on her desk. Little boxes filled to the brim with colorful ink, each color holding a significance that was important to only her.

Red was urgent, meetings she couldn't miss, or she would never hear the end of it. Blue was content, what subject matter she should be on week by week - which she was behind on. Green was tasks listed out in bullet points for science and math - to make a study guide, to redo a failed worksheet, to get supplies together for an upcoming lab, to make calls regarding a field trip in the near future. 

Orange was personal. 

Orange ink littered every Friday - ‘after school w/ K.S.’ (Abbreviated in case anyone came up to her desk with prying eyes. Already learning the hard way - last month - when question upon question was asked of “oh my god what do you and Mr. Sugawara do after school?!?” And “is Mr. Suga your boyfriend?! Is that why you have that on your calendar?!”)

Orange ink that scrawled underneath every box labeled Friday made her heart squeeze but wrench all in the same breath. Holding onto the feeling so hard she felt it crush and shatter in between her fingers. She had the tendency to hold onto things too hard, and never did find it within herself to let go - fractured or not. Always finding herself picking up stray pieces that fell here and there, leaving a trail behind her wherever she went. 

The amount of colorful ink, some smeared and some barely legible, threw her into a spiral if she looked at it too long. Too many things to do, too many calls to make and meetings to attend, and simply not enough time in one school day to complete everything. The swirling feeling that started in her stomach began to move, forcing its way to her throat and she took a deep breath. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, fighting the nausea and overwhelming need to spill her guts right then and there. 

In through the nose, out through the mouth. 

She remained like that a moment, focusing on her breathing and taking deep inhales of air only to let it back out again. But she gripped the orange pen she had in her hand tightly when she heard someone step through the threshold of her door; the sickly feeling returned to her throat immediately. She kept her eyes closed and took a shaky breath, determined to focus herself onto one thing rather than the person who came in.

She knew it was Sugawara. 

Knew the moment she heard long, relaxed strides and the soft squeak of chucks onto the horribly waxed floor. Knew as soon as she heard him walk through the door without a word - silent and all too ready to listen, to help. She knew he looked at her in worry, brown eyes swimming with an emotion she had yet to pinpoint. She knew he wouldn't dare leave until he knew she was alright.

Sugawara knew that she was losing her grip on remaining calm.

“Do you need the trash can?” 

A simple question, asked in a soft voice near her. She only screwed her eyes shut tighter and shook her head. “I'm ok.” Lying through gritted teeth, hoping he would turn to leave, but to no avail. 

“No you're not.” Another whisper of a reply. 

“I'm fine.” 

She heard him hum before the screech of a chair hit her ears, making her flinch and a ‘sorry’ followed quickly after. 

And that's when she felt him. 

His presence radiated next to her that she couldn't ignore - warm, caring, and selfless. Not a single off hand comment to say as he pulled a chair next to her and sat down without a word. She could feel his arm brush against her own, a simple accident as he got comfortable in the plastic chair. But a tingling feeling that made her heart stop; a proximity she couldn't tell was intentional or not. 

“Then I'll be here to make sure you stay fine.” 

She hated that answer. 

Loathed it even, for the sole fact it caused the sickly feeling to arrange itself into a lump in her throat. A lump that made her swallow hard, as to try and fight it, but only made it worsen as it became bigger. Growing until the feeling hit her chest painfully, overwhelming her with a sense of panic. One hand still held onto the orange pen for dear life, and the other death gripped her pants leg. 

“Suga,” the name spoken in a whisper, but voice cracking all the same. It dawned on her she had no control over how the situation went anymore, realizing she would ultimately drop her façade in front of the man only made the burning pain in her chest worse. The mask would reluctantly be long gone if she started to cry; and it hit her hard as she became acutely aware of the fact she couldn't stop herself if she did.

Her face felt hot and her heart pumped violently in her chest, hearing every thump within her ear drums so loudly it drowned out the rest of the world. She took one last deep breath - but that was the start of the complete collapse of her mind.

The inhale was labored, fighting back every instinct to let tears flow freely - she couldn't, she wouldn't, not in front of him, anyone but the man beside her. 

But she did.

The exhale was a choked back sob, one of which made her drop the orange pen completely and cover her mouth to muffle the sound. A cry for help that sounded too desperate to let anyone else hear, too pained to allow the man next to her bear witness too, too raw for even herself. Even with her eyes screwed shut, squeezing them so tight the corners of her eyes began to hurt, the tears fell anyway. It wasn't gradual, it wasn't a wave that pulled her down slowly but surely - it was the sudden, violent collapse of an, otherwise fine, structure. The chaos of watching a building fall, watching as brick by brick it all came tumbling down on itself. 

She couldn't register what happened, as the time from his statement and her crying was nothing but a brief pause. She only knew she was crying, her fingers sore from grabbing at the fabric of her pants, that her throat felt hoarse, and the hand that covered her mouth was now wet with tears. But a new sensation was thrown into the mix that made her jump in her skin and hold tight to the last thread of sanity she still had. A warmth on the back of her hand completely sent her to the deep end and lurched her off.

His hand atop her own. 

She couldn't explain why she flipped her palm over in that moment, couldn't place why exactly she interlocked her fingers with his without a second thought, and she surely didn't know why she removed her hand from her mouth only to open it. “What the fuck is wrong with me, Suga?” A wrenching question asked through broken cries and hot tears, “why can't I think, for just one goddamn second, that I'm not drowning? Why can't I think I'm good enough? Why can't I think I'm not a complete failure with everything I do?”

There was a long pause, one that only made her tears flow a bit harder. Because his silence felt cold to her, his silence felt like an answer all in itself. But he squeezed her hand in his own and looked over to her; if she had glanced, even briefly, to him she would've realized she took his heart right out of his chest. Held it in her hands unknowingly and dug her fingers into it, leaving marks that would linger for the rest of his days. 

“You’re the farthest thing from a failure,” he whispered. "And I’ll tell you every day that you’re good enough, because you are. You’re more than enough - you’re perfect.”

She wished she had said yes to the trash can.

“I am failing miserably,” she choked. “They won’t fucking listen, they won’t stop talking, they keep asking me the dumbest things imaginable after I tell them what they’re doing, and they look at me like I’m stupid constantly. And I have to pretend that everything is okay, and smile and laugh. Even when I just want to slam my fucking head into the wall and cry. I-” 

“Hey.” She felt him squeeze her hand once more as he cut her words short. “Breathe.” Another squeeze, this one tighter than that last, and he kept the tension. He held her hand like her life depended on it, interlocking fingers between his own and remained firm. He refused to watch her drown - or at least, they'd drown together. 

She took an uneasy breath in, and hopelessly failed at holding it as another sob wracked her chest again. To this, he didn't say a word; only watched as she tried to inhale and hold it. Brown eyes swirled with a concern she wouldn't even bear witness to, holding her hand as it was the only thing he could do. Failed attempt after failed attempt until she was finally able to the fifth time around - holding it and releasing a shaky exhale. 

“It's ok to not be ok,” he assured, to which he squeezed her hand once again. 

She finally found it in herself to open her eyes, and she looked over to him in sorrow. Blurry, tear stained eyes locked with his own and he felt his heart sink even farther in his stomach. How long has she felt like this? Thinking himself an idiot for letting it get to a peak such as this one; ridiculing himself within the chasms of his mind for not noticing sooner. On the contrary, she felt her stomach surge upward. A squeamish feeling that made her swallow harshly, and a bitter taste at the back of her throat that made her look away from him completely. 

She most definitely should have said yes to the trash can.

Her eyes had only met his own for a fraction of a second, but that was enough for her to feel embarrassment wash over her. So she kept her eyes glued to the orange ink that littered the calendar on her desk. Orange was consistent, never changing, caring - adoring. And she watched as, now slowed, tears dripped onto the paper. Drops created small, circular splotches that bled through to the pages underneath. Watched as the ink started to scatter and feather out from hot, salty tears; and for once, she didn’t care. Didn’t care that her handwriting began to be illegible, didn’t care that red ink started to blend with green. As long as the orange ink was still there, if it still remained intact - it was fine. As long as the orange ink would always remain there, it was ok.

“But I have to be ok,” she whispered, negating his statement as she closed her eyes again. “If I’m not ok then everything will go to shit.”

“Says who?” 

“Says my brain.”

“Well,” he began, and she heard the faintest of a chuckle sound from beside her. “Don’t listen to your brain. You don’t have to be ok at all.” And in that moment, she became overly aware of the fact he was holding her hand, because he squeezed it again. Pale fingers locked with her own, holding tightly, and she felt a heat rise to her cheeks. Muddled with the already warm feeling of being overwhelmed, she felt herself thrown to the deep end all over again. “Honestly, we can not be ok together.”

Together. 

One singular word felt crushing, but relieving all in the same breath. While it took her by the ankles and yanked her downward, it also grabbed her by the wrists and surged her up. A head spinning feeling that didn’t help her nausea; it only made it worse as now she felt torn asunder. Friday after Friday of being together but so, god damn, far apart. Together felt like a curse. A god awful, caring, loveable curse she couldn't get enough of.

She kept her eyes closed and lips sealed shut at his words, humming them over in her mind as seconds passed. Burnt out, foolish, embarrassed, and hot, she still noticed the yearning feeling that pulled at the back of her mind. An ache that never went away, only nagged and pined as it only continued to grow as moments became minutes. And minutes became a crushing weight to finally say something - anything. 

Together. 

“Do you want to get hammered tonight?” An off kilter, frankly off color, question she blurted out to him as she reopened her eyes. Looking over to him in anticipation, but a deep rooted fear swimming in her eyes, and she finally squeezed his hand back in response. 

She saw the smile form on his lips the second the question was asked, watched as the smile turned to a chuckle, and the chuckle became a silly, joy bringing laugh. “What kind of question is that?” A rhetorical question asked between chuckles, “obviously I want to get hammered.” 

“I still don't want to go to the bar though,” tagging on the statement quieter than the last and she saw him shrug in response.

“My offer still stands. Do you like shitty, cranberry vodka?” 

“Yes?”

“My place it is then.”

taglist (open, send an ask)

@19calicos @yoshit-he-dinosaur @sandwhitches @bokutoko @wyrcan

@darling-eos @mitskicain @cherrypieyourface @eggyrocks

@yogurtkags @cupidsblonde @honeekyuu @s1ckntw1st3d @causenessus 

@maeflowers653 @crispchocolates @moucheslove @staygoldsquatchling02 @phoenix-eclipses 

@ji9sstar @zumicho @keeboismine @cloudybillows @kameyyy

@strawberryuri

[keeboismine]

wild youth

prologue | friday

masterlist

beginning track . . . dreams

cw/notes : allusion to dissociation, self deprecation, stress, anxiety, repetitive statements done on purpose

words to know/educational jargon :

Observed/observation - School administrators (principles or asst. principles) may observe teachers' performance (teaching) at regular intervals, often annually, as part of an evaluation. [ Taken from Google but edited for ease of understanding :) ]

She groaned as her eyes scanned over the room, assessing the damage done by the day that wreaked havoc on her nerves. The last student left for the day just moments before, their bus being, unfortunately, twenty minutes late; and she waved them off with a bright smile before it dropped - a false sense of joy washed away within seconds.

An entire week of stress, meetings, parent conferences - some better than others, lesson planning, and putting out fires that constantly seemed to pop up no matter how hard she tried. She was tired, riddled with exhaustion, as her eyes glanced over the mess that was made of her classroom.

Broken pencils littered the floor, a forgotten lunch box on a desk, colored pencil shavings on a table she had told a child to clean up that was obviously neglected, and crayons and markers strewn about a handful of desks. Her desk was a mess as well: papers, worksheets, sticky notes, dry erase markers, and ink pens scattered carelessly on the old wood tabletop - not an inch of it could be seen from how much stuff was on top of it. But worst of all, the unsavory muddled smells of crayons, sweat, and cheap perfume still lingered within the classroom. It didn't matter how many plug-ins she had, the smell was there to stay; sometimes she thought it was engraved within the walls.

"Fuck," a whisper of a curse to herself as she rose from her chair and stretched. A series of pops and cracks from her joints sounded as tired muscles pulled to release tension. Her eyes flickered towards the clock placed on the back wall, her arms still stretched above her head, and dropped them to her sides with a defeated sign upon seeing the time.

It was time to leave, yet she still had so much to do.

She couldn't help the thoughts that began to swirl in her mind; she let her thoughts run wild after every school day because that was the only sliver of peace she had. Not clouded by a million and one questions that she always, willingly, provided an answer to. Not disillusioned by worry of where, when, what, who, why, and how. After school was peaceful and still.

After school was all too quiet.

It was a silence that made her ears ring and her leg bounce. Silence that was willingly accepted without a second thought, but came with a dreadful price. It was Friday, the start of the weekend, yet all she could think about was how much she had to grade, how she had to clean up before she left, how she would waste the entire weekend doing nothing but plan. It was a silence welcomed with open arms and she felt it grab her, felt it hug her, until it pulled away and yanked her to the deep chasms of her mind where all that was depraved settled. Becoming so used to the unsettling feeling, she let it.

She didn't realize she had zoned out, didn't realize she placed a hand over her mouth in thought - made a mental checklist of all the things she needed to do - and she surely didn't realize the man who now leaned in the doorway to her classroom with hands shoved in his pockets. Tall and slender, with stark gray hair that other coworkers poked and prodded at; the distasteful comment of "you're too young to be gray already" would follow him relentlessly. He had rolled up sleeves that stopped at the elbow, albeit a bit jostled from the terror of a day he had as well, and he dressed comfortably but professionally. And dark brown eyes, weary and strained, that looked over her before a smile pulled onto his lips. Maybe he remained there relatively too long in silence, or maybe just enough in his mind; either way, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

"You look like you just came back from war," he chuckled. His voice caused her to take a sharp inhale; the stress that had her by the arms surged her right back up with one single sentence. Her eyes snapped over to the sound and she went rigid, body tensing at the thought of having to answer yet another stupid, god forsaken, ridiculous question. He couldn’t help but snort at her reaction as he took a step inside, brown eyes flickering over the room with a twinge of curiosity. “Damn, it looks like a war happened here too.” But just as soon as his eyes glanced over the room they returned to her. She was less rigid than before, but tense as he watched her take a deep breath and sit back down.

“Thanks, Suga. As always, you’re incredibly insightful.” Sarcasm riddled within her tone that made him chuckle again. He moved to sit on one of the many desks within the space, choosing one that, at least, looked clean and was cleared off. He took his hands out of his pockets once he sat down; the little desk looked even smaller under him, his feet still touching the floor. And watched as she slumped down in the chair, noticeably tired, her eyes dark and expression matching one of complete and utter woe.

“How was your day?” A halfhearted question he knew she didn't truly want him to answer, a pleasantry that was almost laughable to him. “I hope it was as good as mine was.” Another sardonic statement followed by a wry smile.

There it is, he thought to himself with a small smile. Placing his hands behind him, pale fingers slipping onto the group of desks connected to the one he sat on, he leaned back ever so slightly with a sigh. He hummed, tilted his head to the side as he thought for a moment, and wracked his brain over the hellish events of his own day. “Well, my room looked about the same as yours,” She rolled her eyes, which only furthered him to continue. “But wait there's more! I had to call someone’s mom because they told their friend to fuck off and tried to push them down the stairs after.” Spoken through a chuckle as he recalled the day, adding humor to the situation was the only way, for both parties, to make it manageable and stay afloat.

She laughed.

God. He always swore he felt the world stop spinning when she laughed. To him, it was the best sounding thing in his life, and at a moment like this - seeing her as tired as she was - he reveled in it. “Fair enough,” she shrugged with a small smile. She glided past the comment easily, though he still reeled over her laugh alone, and she smirked once she locked eyes with him. Her eyes boring into his own that made him swallow hard. “But I think I still have you beat, Suga.”

“Do you now?” It was a running competition, of sorts, where both tried to one up each other by means of fiendish anecdotes from their day. Either, one was deemed a winner or it got too frustrating to continue. The latter was the usual, rather predictable, ending; and they both would sit collectively in silence through grief upon hearing wretched story after story.

“I got observed today.”

“So did I.’ He leered, thinking he, again, had her at a stalemate. But his expression fell almost immediately as she continued.

“I know you did, your’s was in the morning. Mine was after recess.”

There was a small pause before he lifted a hand to his mouth, desperately trying to contain the laughter that wished to leave him. But to no avail, as it bubbled from his lips anyway, leaving muffled and broken through his palm. Deep down, he felt rather bad for laughing about a situation that gave her grief. However, if he didn’t laugh, he would surely fall into the deep pits of sorrow and tension; because only he knew just how truly gut wrenching a half baked observation was.

His choked back giggles made her groan and she picked up a stray dry erase marker off her desk. Looked at him through narrowed eyes before she ultimately decided to throw it at him. “I hope your next one is after a field trip, dickhead!”

He was quick to dodge the stray marker, shifted down to duck when he did, but it only made him laugh harder. He completely neglected covering his mouth, dropping his hand to the desk as his laughter rang through her classroom. It was refreshing to hear, palpable, and happy - a sound that, despite the reason, she was all too accepting to hear. “You're evil to wish that upon me."

If there was an award for how many times the woman rolled her eyes, she certainly would've won by now. However, her standoffishness was always met with a cheeky reply and a smile from him. Not once did he ever take such actions, and sometimes slick words, to heart as he knew the origin of them to a tee - fatigue. Knew first hand that she ripped herself open throughout the day only to be left with a gaping wound in the aftermath when everyone went home. Overstimulated, burnt out, and tired were the trifecta of moods he knew down to a science.

“How do you think it went?” Asking once his laughter had dwindled and he turned the conversation to that of sincerity. But the look she gave him in response to the question was telling; he felt his heart strings pull taut at the amount of despair in her eyes. Hidden unfathomably well, if anyone else were to look at her they wouldn't have realized - but he did. Swirled behind a front, buried deep within her mind, but as soon as he saw it he frowned. “Not well, huh?”

He watched as she closed her eyes with yet another sigh, this one deeper than the last, and rested her head against the back of the chair. “Not at all.” The former sarcastic, almost mischievous, voice scorned. “Sometimes I wonder if they think I'm a good teacher at all and not just some warm body as a placeholder.” Said quieter than her latter statement, as if she were too afraid to admit such self depreciation aloud.

“Don't say that.” The man decided to sit up straighter, realizing that the conversation wasn't comfortable anymore, wasn't playful banter as reality set in. He put his hands in his lap instead of on the desks behind him, and looked at her like she was a woman of significance - because, to him, she was. “Don’t beat yourself up about something you have no control over.”

“That’s the problem, Suga,” the once snappy defensiveness he knew, and loved, changed to that of vexation. “It didn’t look like I had control of a class full of fucking ten year olds.”

“Do you remember last year when a kid almost made me cry?” A rhetorical question, and she opened her eyes to look at him in annoyance. Lips parted to tell him that his question had no significance to the issue, that it didn't pertain, but he cut her off. “What about when I was ten minutes late picking up my class from art because I fell asleep? I have never heard the end of it from her by the way, she still tells me every art day that she’s surprised I'm on time. Or how about last week? When I accidentally said orgasm instead of organism, and had to tell every fucking parent in my class I did?”

There was a ghost of a smile on her lips as she remembered last week's events; how the man had to call and grovel over a silly slip of the tongue. But it fell almost as soon as it came, dropping once her thoughts continued to shatter her self confidence. “Well at least you have a hold of your class.” She often measured her own abilities according to his own and to her, she always fell short. Better classroom management, better content, better everything - she felt her heart sink once the words left her lips.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, brown eyes looking at the woman in near frustration. “Do I need to remind you about Valentine’s Day last year?” He watched as she grimaced shook her head. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. So before you keep on telling yourself things that aren’t true, remember that if you’re a bad teacher that makes me an even shittier one.”

She looked at him a moment, letting a silence pass them before she cast her eyes downward to her desk. A wave of foolishness struck her in the chest and made her breathing stagger. Not once did he ever allow her to undervalue herself or her abilities, she didn’t know why she thought he would do so now. Even still, whilst feeling dull, she locked eyes with him and fixated. A benevolence within him that made her take a deep breath, a seriousness in his eyes that ruffled the edges of her soul. “Alright,” she nodded, “you’re right.”

With a small breath, and once again breaking his eye contact, she began to arrange the scattered papers on her desk, hoping to start cleaning up the clutter of her space. But her thoughts continued on, swirled amongst the chasms and gullies in her mind. Twisted and turned until she felt dizzy, nauseous -  stupid. She didn’t notice her expression was so readable, anxious as she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. Felt the ripple of unease and daftness begin to sink its claws into her, creating indentations next to others from the past; she knew full well that she couldn’t pry it off, as it only resulted in tearing herself apart when she did.

Within her apprehensive mind, she heard him sigh and the legs of a desk screech from him getting up. She chose not to look up at him, as he would quickly become aware of how she felt - but he knew regardless. Knew that walls seemed to come crashing down on her, and the water was rising with every second that passed. The longer he watched her wade in it, the harder it became for her to make the decision of sink or swim. So he turned upon standing, and began picking up the loose papers, pencils, and miscellaneous items on desks and the floor. Not having been asked, but wished to help regardless, a silent agreement as their eyes met for a fraction of a second before she turned away again.

“Do you want to get a drink with me tonight?” Asked through a breath, a nervousness riddled within his words that was subtle. A subtly that she barely caught but made her stomach tie into knots when she did.

“A drink?”

“Yeah.” He smiled, one that she couldn’t find herself to look at. A restlessness swirled in her stomach once the question was asked, the sickly sensation lurching her from the waves of anxiety to the vice-like grip of timorousness. No longer being crushed by a weight of responsibilities but cracking under the pressure of minute advances - she would be lying if she said she didn’t like it. Couldn’t trick herself into believing she didn’t enjoy the coyish flirting, saccharine smiles given, or brown eyes that looked at her in sheer infatuation. “C’mon-” he coaxed. “You’re stressed out, and you deserve to not think about teaching for once in your life. Besides, we can disappoint parents by having lives outside of here.”

A breath of air passed through her nose at his latter statement, a small smile pulling at her lips at the thought. “I hope they see us there,” she mused, letting a gentle chuckle follow despite her disposition. “Let them call the principal and everything.” She saw him pause, holding a broken pencil in his hand as he turned to look over to her, and watched as his smile grew at her words.

“So you’re coming with me?”

Biting at her bottom lip to hide the smile that wanted to stretch at her lips, she locked eyes with him once more. “Are you paying?”

“If it gets you to say yes, then sure I’m paying.”

taglist (open, send an ASK)

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[keeboismine]

Figured I might as well post all my art from insta to my tumblr

[keeboismine]

im the number one keeboismine fan what about yall (crickets)

[keeboismine]

featuring @wisteriasymphony 's moodboard

[keeboismine]

Pizza party 🍕

[keeboismine]

hi! #71 (second list) with suna rintarou pls? thank you!

this one i am very very excited abt

500 followers special: #71 “Kiss me, quick!”

suna x gn reader, fake dating trope, parties, drinking, not smut but kinda slutty, suna is slightly possessive/possessive language is used, not proofread

written content masterlist

Suna's nursing a bottle of beer. He's leaned up against the living room wall at a stranger's house and he looks just as bored as he always does. "This is stupid."

They're in the middle of emptying a shot glass down their throat when he speaks, and once they straighten out, throat still burning, they say, voice thick with a slick coating of alcohol, "Well, you already agreed, so no backing out now."

On the opposite side of the room, stands their ex. Tall and handsome and a complete fucking dickhead. Just the sight of them makes their teeth grind together. The sound of their laughter ringing across the room is worse.

Suna notices this. He notices the way the tense up, lip furled up in disgust and frozen into place like a hissing cat. He takes a swig of his beer before he speaks. “I don’t know why you’re bothering to make him jealous if you hate him so much.”

They’re fidgety, smoothing out the front of their jeans with sweaty palms and trying not to look over in their ex’s direction. They give Suna a too-sweet-to-be-real smile. “Because. I don’t want to make him jealous so he wants me again. I want to make his jealous so it hurts his fucking feelings.”

He scoffs, and gives him a half-hearted eye roll, but offers nothing as a rebuttal, except another gulp of his beer as they lean against the wall beside him, closer than they usually would.

They blink up at him. "Is he looking? Can you tell?"

"Nope," he answers easily without having to turn his head. Suna'll know. He's felt those stares on the back of his head plenty of times before while they were dating.

It's obvious to Suna why it has to be him, out of all their friends. Because their shit ex (whose name he can't remember and never bothered to learn) never liked him, never trusted him, caused arguments over him. Their ex was obsessed with him, convinced that Suna wanted what was his.

And so what if he was right.

They groan, bottom lip out in a pout. "He was staring at me nonstop like twenty minutes ago."

"Cause you look good in that outfit," he says. "Probably planning on trying to get you back."

"Fat fuckin' chance," they chuckle.

They want to look over, want to see if he's looking yet, because they know he will be, eventually. Nervous energy has them bouncing on their heels. "Just relax," Suna tells them, leaning in closer, placing his free hand over the curve of their neck. The contact makes goosebumps erupt over their skin. "He's glanced over a couple times," he says, much softer now, "I'll tell you when he's looking."

Suna's close now, much closer than they're used to, intense eyes not leaving their face. The proximity makes their throat feel dry, and the nerves that bundle in their gut multiple.

His touch is light, and, for some reason, it makes their skin burn. His fingers on their neck and the intensity of his stare, for just a fraction of a second, makes them forget exactly what they're here at this stupid party to do.

Suna grins when he says, "He's looking now."

And it snaps them back into reality. "Fuck okay, kiss me, quick!" they command, trying to keep the panic they feel in their chest from leaking into their voice.

They can already feel the heat from Suna's breath fan across their face from how close he is, but when he lets his eyes flutter shut, they are frozen in place, eyes still wide open.

He leans in slowly, not at all rushing like they asked him to. His nose bumps into theirs, lightly knock their head back, giving him easier access to their lips. The lowest part of their gut clenches, and suddenly the noise in the room feels like a distant buzz.

Suna's eyes are still closed. His hand creeps up their neck to spread his fingers out among the roots of their hair. "You want me to?" he asks.

And they're not sure what exactly it is that Suna's asking. But they know that, no matter what the question really means, the answer is yes. They give him a nod in confirmation, not trusting their voice.

He is so agonizingly close it makes every inch of their skin radiate heat. "Not good enough," he whispers, just for them to hear. "Say it out loud for me, so I know you mean it."

They swallow. "I want you to kiss me," they manage without stuttering.

Suna's in no rush. He chuckles, eyes opening up for a second to take in their blown out pupils and slightly parted lips. And it's only after he takes a moment to savor that sight that he tightly grips at the roots of their hair, pulling their head back slightly, and leans in to kiss them.

Suna does not kiss them in a way that's meant to make someone else jealous. He kisses them in a way that's meant to mark his territory. In a way that lets everyone around them now, this person is his, no one else's.

It makes their head dizzy, like they've run out of blood, and now they're too weak in the knees to stand upright on their own, so they have to grip tightly onto the front of Suna's shirt, just so they don't collapse.

And maybe this was part of their ulterior motive, an outcome that they were silently hoping for when they asked Suna for help and begged him just to play along. But they were not expected it to be anything like this.

Suna pulls away, eliciting a small whine from them that makes him smirk. "Do you think it worked?" he asks, hand still tangled in the back of their hair.

They blink up at him, chest heaving and slightly breathless. "Did what work?"

an: hope u enjoy <3333

[keeboismine]

day 10, i can feel the tweak bubbling under my skin

day 7 with no tags in my inbox… i might start clawing at the walls…

[keeboismine]

day 7 with no tags in my inbox… i might start clawing at the walls…

[keeboismine]

if my lashes looked like they do today everyday then the world would be a better place

[keeboismine]

karasuno first years (aka my kids)

[keeboismine]

Something about rooftops and confessions...

[keeboismine]

Miraculous fans, come to me and EAT MY ARTS! 🦋 (idk why i imagined myself saying this with hawkmoth voice lol)

[keeboismine]

brazil hinata baby the things i would do to u