tetsustation

[tetsustation]

“April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Sensible Thing

[tetsustation]

i’ve never loved nikolai more

[tetsustation]

jouno really got bones syndrome

[tetsustation]

@hesthermay​

happy birthday pedro!

[tetsustation]

[ BREAKING THE ICE — PART I ]

pairing :: eren yeager x f!reader

synopsis :: eren’s partner is out on injury, or so you’ve heard from across the ice. it’s a shame, considering the fact that they were an award winning pair. for that reason alone, you’re not entirely sure how to react when you’re recruited as her replacement. eren does, however—and the emotion is anything but positive.

word count :: 3.4k

genre :: modern!au, figure skating!au, kind of e2l, kind of hurt/comfort

warnings :: swearing

notes :: i've been working on this for like two years now on and off so i'm posting the first half—there's more than this but I just want to gauge if this is something you guys are actually interested in. no better time than the present!

Where do you belong? That phrase has never been anything but foolish rhetoric to you, and at its core, easy to answer—no where, because no match is made in heaven, no shoe has ever been crafted for your foot, and your fate is nowhere near predetermined. That being said, the closest place you could rule as such is on the cool, shaved ice. 

Although right now, you wish to be anywhere but. Colliding with the sleet in a rather dramatic manner, you watch your useless limbs as you glide backwards—giving into gravity until your figure makes a full stop. Perhaps it’s time to throw in the towel after all, you flop onto your back and let the condensation soak your sweater.

“What do you think you're doing?” The exhaustion drips from his tongue, and yet he refuses to drop.

“Napping,” You remark sarcastically—clearly conscious. From a distance, you can hear the scratch of his skates as he glides over.

When coming to a stop, he makes a point of pivoting his feet to send loose snow directly into your face. Sputtering, you sit up—albeit, struggling slightly due to the lack of grip. He’s staring down at you, gloved hand on his hip, he strangely resembles your mother whenever she scolds you for something utterly ridiculous. 

Frankly, you have no interest in speaking first, and he catches onto that fact. He releases a sigh that holds the weight of a day's work, before looking around the empty rink, and back down to you. 

“Is this your way of telling me you're giving up?” 

You scoff, “The rink closes in forty minutes, Eren.” Gesturing to the red, ten foot clock behind him, masked as a scoreboard, “I think this matter might be beyond us.” 

And he rolls his eyes at you, the same way that makes your jaw crick uncomfortably. The green looks dull under the fluorescents, but piercing, nonetheless. Sinking to the floor with a steady knee, he leans into you, and as a result you lean back half-heartedly, “As soon the rink opens tomorrow, we’re trying again.”

You go to speak, retort that overworking yourselves would do no good, but as he skates away, he turns around and consequently halts your hesitant tongue, “No excuses!” With that, he’s gone. Hopping off the ice and into the locker rooms.

Flopping back down, you letting the chill soothe your aching calves, you wonder how persistent he’s going to be. Mentally, you curse Jean for convincing you to do this, but then again—if anyone’s going to push you to do your best it's him (and as reluctant as you are to admit it, so is Eren). 

A weak groan slips your lips as you use the energy you have left to curve your spine into an upwards position. In front of you, your legs are spread apart as you stretch—but it only sends the shooting pain back up to your hamstrings. These bruises might not ever go away, but a bath might make them feel better—or so you hope.

Mikasa Ackerman broke her ankle a week and a half ago, two weeks from tomorrow. When you heard the news while tying the laces on your skates, you scoffed, “Poor Eren—there goes their qualifier.” It was a little apathetic, you can admit that much now, yet the world loves to play its cruel hand with you because soon enough your own partner had offered you up as bait in her place.

“—She’s great, really! Adaptable and flexible.” Jean argued, pushing you forward by the shoulders to a miffed Eren, “The two of us aren’t going to make it this year, not with our fiasco of a choreographer—but you two, together? I can see the headlines already, man. Trust me.” A piece of meat up for auction, was the only way you could describe how you felt.

“Jean, quit it.” You turned your head to the side, and whispered through gritted teeth (as if Eren wasn’t right there, and couldn’t clearly hear the words as they left your mouth). 

“No. If you win with him it’ll be good coverage for the both of us.” Meanwhile, the man staring you down looked more disinterested by the second, most likely not interested in taking a fresh Senior skater in to replace his partner, two months before qualifiers. Honestly, you weren’t too sure why Jean tried so hard in the first place, it was a matter for your managers and sponsors. 

Still, he didn’t let up, “If you win this with her, you and Mikasa can take the win to the finals,” you wondered if he fact-checked that, most likely not. “A couple did it in the ‘80s, if you have a viable reason there's a loophole to switch partners between the competitions, so long as the male partner remains consistent.” He explained, rather adamantly. 

Eren nodded, not entirely convinced—yet, he didn’t not turn it down completely. Candidly, you weren’t sure which outcome you preferred. Yes, it would be a great opportunity, but then again, you weren’t entirely sure you could reach the bar set high by the skating enigma of Mikasa Ackerman. Eren’s death glare told you, you couldn’t—but Jean’s shook your shoulders so vigorously your vision got cloudy. 

“I’ll think about it,” Is all Eren said, and he did. 

The next day, Eren took you on as his partner, for the sole reason that he hates losing, especially after putting so much work into this program. Still, he vaguely insults your talent in comparison to his usual partner, which erupts a fire underneath your skating skirt. 

As the days pass, Eren only expects more of you, and you can’t blame him. It’s going well, but not as well as it would’ve gone with Mikasa. His coach notices, and so does the choreographer—still you don’t let up, not that he lets you, anyways. 

The connection that Eren and Mikasa have is almost telepathic. In all the times that you’ve watched them practice in your shared rink, not once have you heard them speak to each other on the ice. They communicate through eye contact, the occasional nod of a pointed chin—any verbal communication they do is reserved for behind closed doors.

Suspicion is what it arouses in you, but their scores are near perfect in the eyes of all the judges in the province, so there is no grounds to protrude on their methods. Yet, you never expect to take her place, to be forced to cooperate with the King of angry glances, meant to speak a thousand words. 

That’s why this is so difficult for you, or at least, that’s the conclusion you’ve come to. Mikasa has come to watch you practice, made notes on your technique and passed a sheet of crumpled note-paper to you after your daily practice, but not enough to make a dent in the supposedly flawless instruction of his—now your—coach. 

It’s difficult, and frankly, you miss the days where people just said what they meant. Jean was never like this, you can’t help but think. However, this isn’t Jean, and in a way you're happy it isn’t. An irritating challenge is a challenge nonetheless, and you’ll be damned if Eren Yeager blames his lost ticket to finals on you.

Especially after the number of bruises you’ve acquired, from all the times he’s dropped you.

Deep down, you believe there is a reason why Jean put you up for this program (aside from Mikasa’s obvious injury). Despite Eren’s reserved nature of fending for himself in the rink, the set was for the most part, separated. A collection moves that we're paralleled, adjacent to one another, instead of moves that lie in the hands of both.

That is, except for three instances within the seven minutes in which the classical hymn plays. These are virtually unavoidable. While you can perfect your own moves alone, and mirror Eren’s stature down to a ‘T,’ there’s only so much you can do for yourself when he’s lifting you up with a single hand, palm nearly shaking against his own. 

It’s not that you don’t trust Eren—although, it's kind of a stretch to say that you do—the problem at hand is that he doesn’t trust you, because you're not Mikasa and you can’t hold your own against the stiffness of his locked elbows. Or at least, you’ve explained that much to Jean and Sasha on the benches outside of the rink, while adjusting your shoes with vigor. 

“It’s gonna be a process to adjust to each other.” Your former partner reasons, stretching out the blades of his shoulders, “The jumps are going to take a while, I don’t suggest pushing it—or you’ll seriously get hurt.” 

His vague allude to Mikasa doesn’t slip your mind, but you give Eren the benefit of the doubt, there’s no way he actually would wish malice upon his partner of over a decade. You, however, are unfamiliar to him, he’s not used to your agility, and you're not used to his rigidity. There’s a frozen sea separating your techniques, but Jean is right, adjustment is everything.

“You should talk to him,” Sasha suggests, standing against the glass and watching Niccolo practice his triple axel for the umph time, “If he’s too stiff, of course you’re going to fall.” A hiss slips from her lips as the blonde in the rink misses his landing, wiping out not-so-gracefully. 

A yank of the wrist and the sound of strained laces is music to your ears, “I feel like everything I tell him goes in one ear and out the other.” You adjust, “He’s convinced his way is the only way, he’ll listen to me but the second it seems unnatural to him he shifts back to what he’s used to.” 

Standing up, you grunt, “When is he going to learn I’m not Mikasa?” It’s a bitter fallacy on your lips, but aggressive nonetheless. It could even pass as a growl, if you listen closely. However, when you hear the door open and close, and watch Eren walk past the bench you're standing in front of with a stoic expression—you hope it’s meek and unintelligible through the glass doors. 

Behind him is Eren’s coach—your coach—you stand a little straighter. Levi Ackerman is small, and not very menacing from afar, but he has the bite of a bark and the skills of a lion. In your core, you fear him, but out of respect more than anything else. The coach you and Jean shared was much nicer, but then again, you and him weren’t up for finals, now were you? 

“Stretch out, and on the ice in twenty.” He snaps a pointer finger to the rink where Niccolo is currently stepping out defeatedly, “We’re doing the lifts again today.” 

The bruise on your hip from yesterday aches at the mention, but alas, your work is cut out for you. Jeans sends a half hearted condolence your way, already marking up how much ice you’ll need for your bath tonight to soothe the pain. Stepping onto the ice is anything but unfamiliar, but today it feels distant—somehow, the momentary skate to Eren feels grueling as he waits for you with crossed arms.

“Play the track!” Levi yells elsewhere, where someone is waiting from the booth above the rink, “I want to see how much ground you covered without me.” 

The melody is crisp, and echoes through the rink with a boom. Sometimes you can’t help but like a bat in a cave, this climate isn’t welcoming to the typical person—but you’ve become adept at it after so many years that you can navigate it like the back of your hand. The ice is where you live and breathe, fly to the best of your capability against the push of gravity. It’s freedom, but at what cost? 

Eren nods you off, to which you follow him in a series of turns, he glides and you mimic, the two of you look as if you're attached by an invisible string that strains each time the direction of your skates change. The ice comes up in flakes of snow, and they sting your nasal cavity as you take a deep breath in, readying yourself for the upcoming lift.  

Levi is standing against the rink, his skates perpendicular to sustain balance, and his arms crossed in premeditated judgment. You’re painfully aware of the fact that he doesn’t expect much from either of you, the condescension of your ‘adjustment phase’ still at the forefront of your mind. Still, he’s there to guide you, you keep going.

“Start crouching! Give him room for the lift!” 

A good eye is what Levi has, he can tell you’re milliseconds out of sync, and that's all it takes to send you belly up to the unforgiving ice. Crouching, you make a straight line to Eren—his eyes don’t give you the confidence you need to latch onto his palms and lift yourself, but it’s too late to stop. 

Grasping his palm flat in yours, fingers outstretched and face one another, your grip and jump—to which Eren lifts you over his shoulder. The only thing holding you up is the grip on his hand, and he’s barely paying any attention to it, already attempting to move away from the spot in which you hopped from.

It becomes increasingly difficult to keep your legs still, as he moves quickly across the ice—you can feel your forearms shake slightly, and that's all it takes to come tumbling down. 

Eren barely has enough time to recapture your hand, before you slip behind him and onto the ice with what might as well be a splat. The blades of your skates clang, and you can feel a multitude of eyes stare down your splayed figure. Only taking a moment to take back your stolen breath, you sit up and brush off. 

Never is Eren entirely apathetic, as he skates over and leans down to your eye level, where you're just barely holding yourself up by the frozen heel of your hands, “Are you alright?” His eyes flick downward, falling on your hip, “Same spot as yesterday,” he looks up again, “Does it hurt?”

No shit, you think, ‘Course it hurts.

The nature of his question is polite, but you can tell by the way his hand is twitching that it wasn’t an invitation to rest—instead, he’s eager for you to get back up, refusing to be stopped by something as measly as a fall. Nodding, you grab his hand and hoist yourself back up. 

“My bad,” Is all you shout to the room. 

“Good.” Levi affirms, “Let’s keep moving.” 

The empathy that Eren shows you the first couple of times you fall dissipates as the day goes on. With each flop on ice, he becomes more irritated—clearly frustrated with evident roadblock you’ve seem to have placed in his otherwise ‘perfect program.’ When stepping off the rink, he doesn’t give you a goodbye. 

It’s grueling on you, honestly it is. To come in everyday and take his attitude along with Levi’s insistence on perfection. Perfection goes both ways, you believe, and Eren is hardly upholding his end of that promise. The only comfort you find on the rink is Levi, though he can only do so much for you, and you’re not sure if his mild surges of pity are endearing or degrading. 

Frankly, you can’t remember the last time you had this many bruises, up down the sides of your legs and alone the cranes of your pelvic bone. The locker room is the last place you want to be, although for the first time in a while you find yourself smiling upon entering,

“Long time no see.” 

Jean is propped against the lockers, Niccolo is next to him motioning about this and that while holding up a blunt skate. “You’re one to talk!” 

 You watch him stand up straight, striding towards you, but is cut off by Sasha who is closer by just a couple feet—having been seated on the bench untying skates of her own. She’s quick to come hug you, nearly knocking you off your feet, but it’s the last tumble you're worried about taking today and quickly reciprocate her affections. 

Once your autonomy was returned to you, you walked over the bench and threw a leg over the other end so that you were straddled—a stretch that always made you feel comfortable enough to sit for long periods of time. It all felt too familiar—the red plastic beneath you, and the friendship you seem to have neglected over the past couple of weeks—while training with Eren, he became your life, and the rest faded to fuzz and scratched ice. 

They smiled down at you like you were the face of the hour, an enigma, it wasn’t praise but from the people who established you at this rink—you couldn't help but feel some sense of gratitude as they spared you their silent approval.

“So,” Jean started, “How is training with Yeager?” 

The smile you wore dissipated to crumbs of false pride when you recalled just how awful you truly felt—how demeaned you felt beside Eren who stood tall despite his own shortcomings. And you hated how noticeable it all was, how your momentary joy fleeted and the exhaustion in your shoulders hit you like the initial fall, your shoulders slouching as you looked anywhere other than directly into their eyes. 

“Awful,” was all you said, “It’s awful.” 

Ever distasteful towards the awkwardness of competition Niccolo cleared the air with a clap, “That’s Yeager for you, he’s a real stiff one.” 

“You're telling me, he’s got a real stick up his ass. Just—shoup—right up there.” To which Jean had accompanied with a rather lewd hand gesture. 

This was news to you—yes, you had heard tales of Eren being a diva to some extent, but he was practically a god amongst others at this rink and in all the competition magazines. Him and Mikasa owned the region’s senior competition stats, it was impossible that sleazy locker room talk was enough to dethrone him of that.

Sasha, always blunt in her sentiments, places a hand on your own, “He’s nothing but a name without Mikasa, don’t take it to heart—do your best.”

Jean picks it up, “We recommended you for a reason, you’re the best of us without all the unnecessary press.” 

“Plus you challenge Yeager,” Niccolo chimes, “No one challenge’s Yeager.” 

“No one challenges him because he’s a fucking prick,” Jean couldn’t seem to help but blurt. 

His eyes swell like saucers when the locker room door hits the opposite wall with a slam, and none other than the subject-of-conversation himself briskly walks past you and Sasha, only to open his own locker with another slam. The room falls painfully silent, and Jean opens his mouth to speak only to subsequently close it—as rectifying the situation is really beyond him at this point.

Eren manhandles his duffle bag, slinging it over his shoulder. When he closes the locker he looks around the room, scanning for the eye contact that no one will make with him. He huffs, and mumbles something that vaguely resembles a bitter affirmation that you were indeed discussing him. Knowing the walls and the echo of the place better than anyone, it was unlikely he missed the comment that brought the conversation to a halt. He stormed out in the same fashion in which he came, and you were all left to your devices. 

Niccolo kicked Jean for his ignorance, to which he took with nothing more than a grimace. Sasha turned to you again, the color had faded from your face, and she didn’t quite have the words to console you, so she only said, “At least it wasn’t you.”

Though, it might have well been. Jean was your partner before you were Eren’s, just like he was bonded to Mikasa in such an all consuming way, something similar could be said about you and Jean. Thus, his sentiments were yours and vice versa. 

Yes, you missed your friends dearly, and for a moment it did feel nice to joke with them. Although, you knew that the consequences of such were only going to make practice that much more difficult for you tomorrow. Grabbing your belongings half heartedly, you said your salutations. The smile that sat on your face didn’t quite come back for the rest of the night.

[ TO BE CONTINUED ]

✿ TETSUSTATION — 2023; do not repost, translate, share without permission, or recycle my writing & layouts. this blog does not hesitate to hardblock in that instance!

[tetsustation]

HOW DID YOU KNOW THE FLOCH ONE WAS ME. IT WAS ANON.

why did you think you could hide from my clairvoyance 👁️👁️

[tetsustation]

can you write a floch fic

will you stop it with that

[tetsustation]

ello

THE BRITISH ARE COMING

[tetsustation]

ur a catfish

it’s not catfishing if i j forgot how to use carrd

[tetsustation]

[ BREAKING THE ICE — PART I ]

pairing :: eren yeager x f!reader

synopsis :: eren’s partner is out on injury, or so you’ve heard from across the ice. it’s a shame, considering the fact that they were an award winning pair. for that reason alone, you’re not entirely sure how to react when you’re recruited as her replacement. eren does, however—and the emotion is anything but positive.

word count :: 3.4k

genre :: modern!au, figure skating!au, kind of e2l, kind of hurt/comfort

warnings :: swearing

notes :: i've been working on this for like two years now on and off so i'm posting the first half—there's more than this but I just want to gauge if this is something you guys are actually interested in. no better time than the present!

Where do you belong? That phrase has never been anything but foolish rhetoric to you, and at its core, easy to answer—no where, because no match is made in heaven, no shoe has ever been crafted for your foot, and your fate is nowhere near predetermined. That being said, the closest place you could rule as such is on the cool, shaved ice. 

Although right now, you wish to be anywhere but. Colliding with the sleet in a rather dramatic manner, you watch your useless limbs as you glide backwards—giving into gravity until your figure makes a full stop. Perhaps it’s time to throw in the towel after all, you flop onto your back and let the condensation soak your sweater.

“What do you think you're doing?” The exhaustion drips from his tongue, and yet he refuses to drop.

“Napping,” You remark sarcastically—clearly conscious. From a distance, you can hear the scratch of his skates as he glides over.

When coming to a stop, he makes a point of pivoting his feet to send loose snow directly into your face. Sputtering, you sit up—albeit, struggling slightly due to the lack of grip. He’s staring down at you, gloved hand on his hip, he strangely resembles your mother whenever she scolds you for something utterly ridiculous. 

Frankly, you have no interest in speaking first, and he catches onto that fact. He releases a sigh that holds the weight of a day's work, before looking around the empty rink, and back down to you. 

“Is this your way of telling me you're giving up?” 

You scoff, “The rink closes in forty minutes, Eren.” Gesturing to the red, ten foot clock behind him, masked as a scoreboard, “I think this matter might be beyond us.” 

And he rolls his eyes at you, the same way that makes your jaw crick uncomfortably. The green looks dull under the fluorescents, but piercing, nonetheless. Sinking to the floor with a steady knee, he leans into you, and as a result you lean back half-heartedly, “As soon the rink opens tomorrow, we’re trying again.”

You go to speak, retort that overworking yourselves would do no good, but as he skates away, he turns around and consequently halts your hesitant tongue, “No excuses!” With that, he’s gone. Hopping off the ice and into the locker rooms.

Flopping back down, you letting the chill soothe your aching calves, you wonder how persistent he’s going to be. Mentally, you curse Jean for convincing you to do this, but then again—if anyone’s going to push you to do your best it's him (and as reluctant as you are to admit it, so is Eren). 

A weak groan slips your lips as you use the energy you have left to curve your spine into an upwards position. In front of you, your legs are spread apart as you stretch—but it only sends the shooting pain back up to your hamstrings. These bruises might not ever go away, but a bath might make them feel better—or so you hope.

Mikasa Ackerman broke her ankle a week and a half ago, two weeks from tomorrow. When you heard the news while tying the laces on your skates, you scoffed, “Poor Eren—there goes their qualifier.” It was a little apathetic, you can admit that much now, yet the world loves to play its cruel hand with you because soon enough your own partner had offered you up as bait in her place.

“—She’s great, really! Adaptable and flexible.” Jean argued, pushing you forward by the shoulders to a miffed Eren, “The two of us aren’t going to make it this year, not with our fiasco of a choreographer—but you two, together? I can see the headlines already, man. Trust me.” A piece of meat up for auction, was the only way you could describe how you felt.

“Jean, quit it.” You turned your head to the side, and whispered through gritted teeth (as if Eren wasn’t right there, and couldn’t clearly hear the words as they left your mouth). 

“No. If you win with him it’ll be good coverage for the both of us.” Meanwhile, the man staring you down looked more disinterested by the second, most likely not interested in taking a fresh Senior skater in to replace his partner, two months before qualifiers. Honestly, you weren’t too sure why Jean tried so hard in the first place, it was a matter for your managers and sponsors. 

Still, he didn’t let up, “If you win this with her, you and Mikasa can take the win to the finals,” you wondered if he fact-checked that, most likely not. “A couple did it in the ‘80s, if you have a viable reason there's a loophole to switch partners between the competitions, so long as the male partner remains consistent.” He explained, rather adamantly. 

Eren nodded, not entirely convinced—yet, he didn’t not turn it down completely. Candidly, you weren’t sure which outcome you preferred. Yes, it would be a great opportunity, but then again, you weren’t entirely sure you could reach the bar set high by the skating enigma of Mikasa Ackerman. Eren’s death glare told you, you couldn’t—but Jean’s shook your shoulders so vigorously your vision got cloudy. 

“I’ll think about it,” Is all Eren said, and he did. 

The next day, Eren took you on as his partner, for the sole reason that he hates losing, especially after putting so much work into this program. Still, he vaguely insults your talent in comparison to his usual partner, which erupts a fire underneath your skating skirt. 

As the days pass, Eren only expects more of you, and you can’t blame him. It’s going well, but not as well as it would’ve gone with Mikasa. His coach notices, and so does the choreographer—still you don’t let up, not that he lets you, anyways. 

The connection that Eren and Mikasa have is almost telepathic. In all the times that you’ve watched them practice in your shared rink, not once have you heard them speak to each other on the ice. They communicate through eye contact, the occasional nod of a pointed chin—any verbal communication they do is reserved for behind closed doors.

Suspicion is what it arouses in you, but their scores are near perfect in the eyes of all the judges in the province, so there is no grounds to protrude on their methods. Yet, you never expect to take her place, to be forced to cooperate with the King of angry glances, meant to speak a thousand words. 

That’s why this is so difficult for you, or at least, that’s the conclusion you’ve come to. Mikasa has come to watch you practice, made notes on your technique and passed a sheet of crumpled note-paper to you after your daily practice, but not enough to make a dent in the supposedly flawless instruction of his—now your—coach. 

It’s difficult, and frankly, you miss the days where people just said what they meant. Jean was never like this, you can’t help but think. However, this isn’t Jean, and in a way you're happy it isn’t. An irritating challenge is a challenge nonetheless, and you’ll be damned if Eren Yeager blames his lost ticket to finals on you.

Especially after the number of bruises you’ve acquired, from all the times he’s dropped you.

Deep down, you believe there is a reason why Jean put you up for this program (aside from Mikasa’s obvious injury). Despite Eren’s reserved nature of fending for himself in the rink, the set was for the most part, separated. A collection moves that we're paralleled, adjacent to one another, instead of moves that lie in the hands of both.

That is, except for three instances within the seven minutes in which the classical hymn plays. These are virtually unavoidable. While you can perfect your own moves alone, and mirror Eren’s stature down to a ‘T,’ there’s only so much you can do for yourself when he’s lifting you up with a single hand, palm nearly shaking against his own. 

It’s not that you don’t trust Eren—although, it's kind of a stretch to say that you do—the problem at hand is that he doesn’t trust you, because you're not Mikasa and you can’t hold your own against the stiffness of his locked elbows. Or at least, you’ve explained that much to Jean and Sasha on the benches outside of the rink, while adjusting your shoes with vigor. 

“It’s gonna be a process to adjust to each other.” Your former partner reasons, stretching out the blades of his shoulders, “The jumps are going to take a while, I don’t suggest pushing it—or you’ll seriously get hurt.” 

His vague allude to Mikasa doesn’t slip your mind, but you give Eren the benefit of the doubt, there’s no way he actually would wish malice upon his partner of over a decade. You, however, are unfamiliar to him, he’s not used to your agility, and you're not used to his rigidity. There’s a frozen sea separating your techniques, but Jean is right, adjustment is everything.

“You should talk to him,” Sasha suggests, standing against the glass and watching Niccolo practice his triple axel for the umph time, “If he’s too stiff, of course you’re going to fall.” A hiss slips from her lips as the blonde in the rink misses his landing, wiping out not-so-gracefully. 

A yank of the wrist and the sound of strained laces is music to your ears, “I feel like everything I tell him goes in one ear and out the other.” You adjust, “He’s convinced his way is the only way, he’ll listen to me but the second it seems unnatural to him he shifts back to what he’s used to.” 

Standing up, you grunt, “When is he going to learn I’m not Mikasa?” It’s a bitter fallacy on your lips, but aggressive nonetheless. It could even pass as a growl, if you listen closely. However, when you hear the door open and close, and watch Eren walk past the bench you're standing in front of with a stoic expression—you hope it’s meek and unintelligible through the glass doors. 

Behind him is Eren’s coach—your coach—you stand a little straighter. Levi Ackerman is small, and not very menacing from afar, but he has the bite of a bark and the skills of a lion. In your core, you fear him, but out of respect more than anything else. The coach you and Jean shared was much nicer, but then again, you and him weren’t up for finals, now were you? 

“Stretch out, and on the ice in twenty.” He snaps a pointer finger to the rink where Niccolo is currently stepping out defeatedly, “We’re doing the lifts again today.” 

The bruise on your hip from yesterday aches at the mention, but alas, your work is cut out for you. Jeans sends a half hearted condolence your way, already marking up how much ice you’ll need for your bath tonight to soothe the pain. Stepping onto the ice is anything but unfamiliar, but today it feels distant—somehow, the momentary skate to Eren feels grueling as he waits for you with crossed arms.

“Play the track!” Levi yells elsewhere, where someone is waiting from the booth above the rink, “I want to see how much ground you covered without me.” 

The melody is crisp, and echoes through the rink with a boom. Sometimes you can’t help but like a bat in a cave, this climate isn’t welcoming to the typical person—but you’ve become adept at it after so many years that you can navigate it like the back of your hand. The ice is where you live and breathe, fly to the best of your capability against the push of gravity. It’s freedom, but at what cost? 

Eren nods you off, to which you follow him in a series of turns, he glides and you mimic, the two of you look as if you're attached by an invisible string that strains each time the direction of your skates change. The ice comes up in flakes of snow, and they sting your nasal cavity as you take a deep breath in, readying yourself for the upcoming lift.  

Levi is standing against the rink, his skates perpendicular to sustain balance, and his arms crossed in premeditated judgment. You’re painfully aware of the fact that he doesn’t expect much from either of you, the condescension of your ‘adjustment phase’ still at the forefront of your mind. Still, he’s there to guide you, you keep going.

“Start crouching! Give him room for the lift!” 

A good eye is what Levi has, he can tell you’re milliseconds out of sync, and that's all it takes to send you belly up to the unforgiving ice. Crouching, you make a straight line to Eren—his eyes don’t give you the confidence you need to latch onto his palms and lift yourself, but it’s too late to stop. 

Grasping his palm flat in yours, fingers outstretched and face one another, your grip and jump—to which Eren lifts you over his shoulder. The only thing holding you up is the grip on his hand, and he’s barely paying any attention to it, already attempting to move away from the spot in which you hopped from.

It becomes increasingly difficult to keep your legs still, as he moves quickly across the ice—you can feel your forearms shake slightly, and that's all it takes to come tumbling down. 

Eren barely has enough time to recapture your hand, before you slip behind him and onto the ice with what might as well be a splat. The blades of your skates clang, and you can feel a multitude of eyes stare down your splayed figure. Only taking a moment to take back your stolen breath, you sit up and brush off. 

Never is Eren entirely apathetic, as he skates over and leans down to your eye level, where you're just barely holding yourself up by the frozen heel of your hands, “Are you alright?” His eyes flick downward, falling on your hip, “Same spot as yesterday,” he looks up again, “Does it hurt?”

No shit, you think, ‘Course it hurts.

The nature of his question is polite, but you can tell by the way his hand is twitching that it wasn’t an invitation to rest—instead, he’s eager for you to get back up, refusing to be stopped by something as measly as a fall. Nodding, you grab his hand and hoist yourself back up. 

“My bad,” Is all you shout to the room. 

“Good.” Levi affirms, “Let’s keep moving.” 

The empathy that Eren shows you the first couple of times you fall dissipates as the day goes on. With each flop on ice, he becomes more irritated—clearly frustrated with evident roadblock you’ve seem to have placed in his otherwise ‘perfect program.’ When stepping off the rink, he doesn’t give you a goodbye. 

It’s grueling on you, honestly it is. To come in everyday and take his attitude along with Levi’s insistence on perfection. Perfection goes both ways, you believe, and Eren is hardly upholding his end of that promise. The only comfort you find on the rink is Levi, though he can only do so much for you, and you’re not sure if his mild surges of pity are endearing or degrading. 

Frankly, you can’t remember the last time you had this many bruises, up down the sides of your legs and alone the cranes of your pelvic bone. The locker room is the last place you want to be, although for the first time in a while you find yourself smiling upon entering,

“Long time no see.” 

Jean is propped against the lockers, Niccolo is next to him motioning about this and that while holding up a blunt skate. “You’re one to talk!” 

 You watch him stand up straight, striding towards you, but is cut off by Sasha who is closer by just a couple feet—having been seated on the bench untying skates of her own. She’s quick to come hug you, nearly knocking you off your feet, but it’s the last tumble you're worried about taking today and quickly reciprocate her affections. 

Once your autonomy was returned to you, you walked over the bench and threw a leg over the other end so that you were straddled—a stretch that always made you feel comfortable enough to sit for long periods of time. It all felt too familiar—the red plastic beneath you, and the friendship you seem to have neglected over the past couple of weeks—while training with Eren, he became your life, and the rest faded to fuzz and scratched ice. 

They smiled down at you like you were the face of the hour, an enigma, it wasn’t praise but from the people who established you at this rink—you couldn't help but feel some sense of gratitude as they spared you their silent approval.

“So,” Jean started, “How is training with Yeager?” 

The smile you wore dissipated to crumbs of false pride when you recalled just how awful you truly felt—how demeaned you felt beside Eren who stood tall despite his own shortcomings. And you hated how noticeable it all was, how your momentary joy fleeted and the exhaustion in your shoulders hit you like the initial fall, your shoulders slouching as you looked anywhere other than directly into their eyes. 

“Awful,” was all you said, “It’s awful.” 

Ever distasteful towards the awkwardness of competition Niccolo cleared the air with a clap, “That’s Yeager for you, he’s a real stiff one.” 

“You're telling me, he’s got a real stick up his ass. Just—shoup—right up there.” To which Jean had accompanied with a rather lewd hand gesture. 

This was news to you—yes, you had heard tales of Eren being a diva to some extent, but he was practically a god amongst others at this rink and in all the competition magazines. Him and Mikasa owned the region’s senior competition stats, it was impossible that sleazy locker room talk was enough to dethrone him of that.

Sasha, always blunt in her sentiments, places a hand on your own, “He’s nothing but a name without Mikasa, don’t take it to heart—do your best.”

Jean picks it up, “We recommended you for a reason, you’re the best of us without all the unnecessary press.” 

“Plus you challenge Yeager,” Niccolo chimes, “No one challenge’s Yeager.” 

“No one challenges him because he’s a fucking prick,” Jean couldn’t seem to help but blurt. 

His eyes swell like saucers when the locker room door hits the opposite wall with a slam, and none other than the subject-of-conversation himself briskly walks past you and Sasha, only to open his own locker with another slam. The room falls painfully silent, and Jean opens his mouth to speak only to subsequently close it—as rectifying the situation is really beyond him at this point.

Eren manhandles his duffle bag, slinging it over his shoulder. When he closes the locker he looks around the room, scanning for the eye contact that no one will make with him. He huffs, and mumbles something that vaguely resembles a bitter affirmation that you were indeed discussing him. Knowing the walls and the echo of the place better than anyone, it was unlikely he missed the comment that brought the conversation to a halt. He stormed out in the same fashion in which he came, and you were all left to your devices. 

Niccolo kicked Jean for his ignorance, to which he took with nothing more than a grimace. Sasha turned to you again, the color had faded from your face, and she didn’t quite have the words to console you, so she only said, “At least it wasn’t you.”

Though, it might have well been. Jean was your partner before you were Eren’s, just like he was bonded to Mikasa in such an all consuming way, something similar could be said about you and Jean. Thus, his sentiments were yours and vice versa. 

Yes, you missed your friends dearly, and for a moment it did feel nice to joke with them. Although, you knew that the consequences of such were only going to make practice that much more difficult for you tomorrow. Grabbing your belongings half heartedly, you said your salutations. The smile that sat on your face didn’t quite come back for the rest of the night.

[ TO BE CONTINUED ]

✿ TETSUSTATION — 2023; do not repost, translate, share without permission, or recycle my writing & layouts. this blog does not hesitate to hardblock in that instance!

[tetsustation]

the way my carrd says 17 even tho i’m fully 19 now

[tetsustation]

Reading tsh be like:

[tetsustation]

countryhouse lazing

[tetsustation]

[tetsustation]

WHY ARE U BEING SO ACTIVE??? WHAT IS GOING ON AJSJSJJS

i’m waiting to leave for my vacation

[tetsustation]

not the old alias #canceled

OOPS.

[tetsustation]

( PINK LEMONADE )

pairing :: iwaizumi hajime x f!reader

synopsis :: your roommate is a player—in fact he is the player. unfortunately for you and your sweltering crush, the walls are very thin. the heart can only take so many blows before everything bubbles over, but who’s to say that hajime’s flings aren’t all artificial? 

word count :: 5.2k

genre :: roommates to lovers, pining, university au

warnings :: swearing, implied nsfw, innuendos & explicit conversation

notes :: since my old blog is deactivated i decided to throw one of my more popular pieces up on here for the masses. for those who have been here for a while—you know the song (thank you sav for giving me a reason to repost <3).

You need new headphones, not that yours are broken or anything—they just aren’t doing an adequate job of keeping out the antics in which your roommate has now subjected you too. There are no established rules, however you assumed common courtesy was a given when two are sharing a space.

Iwaizumi Hajime was not the roommate you expected to have in your second year of college, but sometimes things don’t work as initially planned. This was the only apartment on campus that held a reasonable distance from your frequented lecture hall, your job, and the local grocery store. 

With all the roommates on the roster taken, desperate times called for desperate measures, and a friend of a friend led you here, sharing a room with one of the most infamous boys on campus. Don’t be fooled, Iwaizumi was a very kind roommate; he cleaned up after himself, gave you space, even made dinner on some nights. It was surprisingly easy to live with someone who you presumed to be your complete opposite. 

Yet, all those redeeming qualities seemed to fly out the window every time you heard the unfamiliar giggles of Iwaizumi’s guests, the opening and closing of doors, the hushed whispers in the late hours of the night, and of course, the sounds of the forbidden dance being performed in the room directly next to your own.

It erupted an anger within you that couldn’t be smothered by a pre-made cup of coffee the next morning and an apologetic smile—no matter how adorning it was to you. For this reason, you continued to abuse the keys of your laptop, in a desperate attempt to get the volume of your music to surpass whatever was happening about twenty feet or so away. 

You weren’t one to shame someone for their body count—oftentimes you found yourself cheering on your friends in their romantic and sexual endeavors. However, something about having to hear it first hand made you itch—but Iwaizumi was your roommate, and therefore out of your control.

It would’ve been easy to ask him to stop, but who wants to be a killjoy? 

In short, you’ve since settled on dealing with it—but if you kept hearing the mattress squeak you might have to accidentally drop a glass on the ground or something. Turning on your playlist, which contained music that couldn't possibly be good for your ears, and utilizing the already high frequency—you tuned out what you could.

You had an essay due in thirty minutes, and unfortunately you could still hear Iwaizumi’s voice in the back of your mind, telling you that you should’ve started earlier. Scoffing at the recollection in your head, you turned back to your keyboard.

-

The bags under your eyes were a dramatic contrast to the whites of his smile, which shone bright even in the early hours of the morning—it was utterly infuriating. “Good morning, sunshine,” He beamed, showcasing the world renowned sarcasm which you’ve fostered a love-hate relationship with. “How’d that essay go?” 

“It went,” you trudged into your shared kitchen, grabbing the coffee from your self-proclaimed mug—that of which contained an obscure ratio only Iwaizumi could make for you. Taking a sip of it only reminded you of the day ahead, but it did taste really good, another sip. “I got it done on time, if that’s what you're asking.” 

Feigning shock, he leaned against the counter with a steady forearm and allowed a toned bicep to flex due to the weight. You tried not to stare—and failed miserably. His eyes narrowed at your distracted state, and the swelling under your sockets stretching at your unprompted focus. Looking back up at him again, you saw a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips. 

You’ve been up for maybe five minutes, how did he already have a one up on you? “You also had quite a busy night...no?” Clearing his throat, he turned to face the counter in an attempt to tidy something that didn’t matter—embarrassed at the fact that you could hear him. It was almost endearing how flustered the mention made him, and you felt bad before remembering the loaded repetition in which Iwaizumi was known. 

As if on cue, the facilitator of aforementioned events slugged out of his room in what looked to be one of his hoodies, and skirt that could only be fitting for a nightclub—you assumed she was a souvenir from his night out and took another nonchalant ship from your coffee. She approached him, a bag slung over her shoulder, before placing a chaste kiss to his lips—you cringed. 

She whispered something you couldn’t quite hear, before giving you a wave and letting herself out. You searched through the makeshift name-face database in your head, trying to distinguish her familiarity, but to no avail. “She’s cute.” You spat quickly and even laced with spite, if you looked at it a certain way, but there was no room for Iwaizumi to pick it apart because you were already making a B-line to the bathroom, mirror still steamy from his own shower.

-

It wasn’t that you were angry at the fact that Iwaizumi had an active social life— friends and girls alike lining up to see him most every night, it was the fact that yours was dulled in comparison. You wanted to suspect when he got his schoolwork done, but you frequently watched him study in your shared living room whenever he wasn’t in class or going out—he had the balance of his life down to a T.

On the other hand, you did not—because as you were walking out of the library with your study papers in hand, you bumped into someone and the illusion of organization you had created dissipated into thin air, you were back to square one. It was your own fault for not paying attention, you mumbled an apology while scrambling down to pick up your papers.

The girl you had slammed into was kind enough to lean down and help, feeling the stress radiating off your body. She told you it was no problem, and that these things happened, but it wasn’t until you stood up (somewhat) tall, with your papers in hand, that you realized who the voice belonged to. 

You recognized her fluffed black strands—the frame of her face was very distinct and rather beautiful, yet you instantly categorized her as part of the statistic you were building in your head—where she belonged to the majority of female students on campus that Iwaizumi had been involved with. 

She didn’t find you familiar in the slightest, because she wasn’t the one who had to see the instagram photos over dinner a month ago, when Iwaizumi rambled on about how he was serious about this one (spoiler alert, he wasn’t). Giving her a polite smile and a sincere thank you, you quickly concluded the interaction—it wasn’t her fault Iwaizumi had the charm of a charis reincarnate. 

The order that you had established for your freshly printed papers was long gone, as you started towards the science building, effectively catching your roommate before an afternoon lecture like you did everyday. Living with Iwaizumi was nice—but the part you enjoyed most was simply being his friend, because that meant there was one less stranger you had to avoid eye contact with—it was the little things. 

He walked out of a class you forgot the name of, but you knew it ended in an -ology, definitely a major requirement of some sorts. Iwaizumi’s neck was cranned down at his phone, thumbs twiddling away at the small screen, before he noticed you and a smile quickly overtook his face. “Told you to stop waiting for me,” he accompanied this with a small ruffle to the top of your head. 

“I didn’t wait for you—,” you giggled, swatting his hand away, “—just didn’t want to walk to my next class alone, don’t flatter yourself!” Stepping to the side, before swearing back towards him, the two of you settled into a comfortable pace, “So I’m just arm candy then?” He teased, lightheartedly, however the comment created a fluttering in your chest that you’d rather keep pushed down with an iron first.

“Keep dreaming!” Refusing to let the silence settle, and eager to move past the warmth in your chest at his proximity, you kept the conversation going. “Speaking of you being arm candy, you won’t believe who I bumped into just now.” You name-dropped the girl he dated for all of two weeks, and teased him for his short term tendencies, he was quick to defend himself— almost embarrassed by the mere allusion—despite his shamelessly spellbinding reputation.

It almost made you feel lucky, to witness Iwaizumi so bashful, when really you were just his roommate who somehow managed to nuzzle your way into his hyperactive, sociable heart. He was always physically close yet you still managed to feel a substantial distance between the two of you, as if you were a piece outside of his life, as opposed to a part of it.  

“To be fair, that breakup was mutual,” he reasoned. 

“Oh yeah? And what about the ones that weren’t?” You began counting off the girls he had brought home off the top of your head, missing many names, as you saw them in passing as opposed to having actual introductions. By the time you filled the capacity of your counting fingers, the two of you had reached your building.

Stopping at the door, you began to tune out his stutters as he tried to justify his actions—you played it off as typical college boy antics, something you were observing from afar or reading in a book. Waving him off, you interrupted his tangent, “Whatever Iwa, see you later.” 

You opened the door only to turn back around, a question prompting a furrow in your brows, “Are you going to be home tonight?” He thought for a moment, looking around before checking the time on his phone out of habit, and finally returning your gaze when he had an answer. “Not today, tomorrow though. Going out with some friends from highschool.” 

A nonchalant nod was thrown his way, as you ignored the subtle pang of disappointment in your chest, “Lock the door when you get back.” And with that, you left him under the scolding summer sun. You tried to shift your headspace away from your roommate and onto the lecture you were about to enter—still your mind lingered. It wasn’t a feeling of missing out, but rather a feeling of missing him.

But he wasn’t yours to miss. 

-

The cat—or rather, the dog, rolled in half past three. You would’ve remained asleep, had he not knocked over the coat rack when he came in—muttering curses that you miracuously heard from your bedroom down the hall. You came to learn early on that drunk Iwaizumi had no sense of volume control. 

Then, almost as if it never happened, he was up with the sun and ready for the day before you even got the chance to steal a shower. It was honestly infuriating, his biological clock was some sort of enigma and you wouldn’t be surprised if scientists made note of him to study in the future. ‘Hangover’ was not a word that existed in Iwaizumi Hajime’s vocabulary, only tolerable nausea, apparently.

That day, you didn’t cross paths again until seven, an evening at home seemed fitting for the melancholy of a Thursday evening—not like you had many other options. You found refuge in the hand-me-down couch that your dad had lent to you when moving into this apartment, surprisingly taking a quick liking to Iwaizumi during the process. 

On the other hand, Iwaizumi, allowed himself to melt into the armchair that had the faintest scent of dust lingering in its cushions. Neither of you we're in a position to complain about the furniture, as nights at home we're few and far inbetween, yet there was an itch in his brain, and it refused to let him rest his shoulders as he hoped.

His glance flickered across from him, having to manually pull his eyes away as he quickly became distracted from the game highlights on his phone. Your pants, abnormally short—but that was just lounge attire—which he had no right to a second glance at. He never wanted to inhibit you, you were his roommate and the last thing he wanted was to make you feel as though you couldn’t be comfortable in your own home.

A pit in his stomach threw a wrench into his sense of control, and it wasn’t until you dramatically fell back with a groan that he realized the direction his brain was leading him into, he pulled himself back to reality.

“This sucks.” You grouched. Questioning with a hum, Iwaizumi suddenly became very interested in the ball flying around his phone screen, “Dating. All my friends are out with their partners and I haven’t gotten an ounce or action since freshman year.” You jumped back up to drop your head in your hands, “Pathetic.” 

“Yeah, you are.” He chuckled, seizing the opportunity. “But y’know, I have quite the network.” Iwaizumi began to stretch, the strain of his muscles thickening the rasp of his voice, “I could always set you up.” Turning to look at him, and waiting for his gaze to land on you, you tilted your head in confusion in hopes of prompting an explanation.

“I mean, I know a close friend of mine is looking for something new—that’s what you're looking for right? A relationship?” You were surprised to find he was actually engaged in this conversation, quick to help you solve your unprompted problem. It would've been heartwarming, if it didn’t feel like a set up from your grandma who was desperate to marry you off.

“Uh, yeah. I don’t do flings anymore.” You trailed off, praying that your words didn’t carry any unintentional weight. He looked up from his phone, gaze narrowingly slightly, as your face gave him hints that you were aware of the implications of your comment. Iwaizumi wondered what experience you had that made you swear off casual relationships, he concluded that it wasn’t his business.

“Right.” He dropped his eyes back to his phone, before typing something you couldn’t see, “I’m going—to reach out to a friend of mine, you’ll know him.” It would’ve been fruitless to sweep your brain for the possible friend he was talking about, between his ever changing circle of drinking buddies and revolving door of girls covering all fields of the list would never end. 

-

About a week later, you concluded that maybe you shouldn’t have put so much trust in Iwaizumi—because while you were only passively involved in his life you didn’t expect to be whisked away on a date with Oikawa Tooru. The man across from you was Iwaizumi’s lockscreen for God’s sake, were there really no other options? 

You could sense the tension in Oikawa’s shoulders, and a nervous hand flung up to his face to readjust his glasses. He was probably just as uncomfortable as you were, only an acquaintance, but one with a weirdly complex understanding of the common thread you two held, nonetheless. 

However, it wasn’t just Iwaizumi’s lingering presence that made the date awkward. No, it was the fact that the poor brunette across from you was trying so desperately to outrun the awkwardness that he just ended up tripping, falling flat on his face. You didn’t initially take Oikawa for a talker—or a sweater, but his nervousness was unnerving and obviously got the better of him. 

“I’m sorry—,” he said, after coming to realize that he had been talking about his flopping major for the past five minutes or so, “I’m not usually this nervous, I wasn’t expecting someone I already knew.” You nodded, your lips forming a straight line, as you reminded yourself to pour cold water on your roommate tomorrow. 

“It's alright,” you reassured, “I’m surprised you're still dating in all honestly—’thought someone would’ve picked up the handsome-student-athlete package by now.” It was silent for a moment, as he examined your features for any traces of mockery. You began to do the same when he suddenly fell into a fit of chuckles, which you couldn’t help but feel alienated by. 

Looking around, and apologizing to the passing waiters with your eyes, you waited for Oikawa to cease his attack. Wiping a hand across his tearline, he pointed a finger your way, “Since we’re being honest,” he began earnestly, “I thought you and Iwaizumi we're definitely fucking on the down-low.” 

You choked on the cola you were nursing, trying to hold back the flush that spread across your face and realizing how grateful you were for the dim lights scattered above you. This insinuation did not make any sense to you, was Oikawa familiar with Iwaizumi at all? It was impossible for him to be ignorant to the girls in which his best friend cycled through on a weekly basis.

Were you supposed to be offended by the fact that he thought you were one of them? You condemned yourself at the thought, trying not to judge either party for the fact that they were getting laid and you, unfortunately, we're not. Then again, did he think you were charming enough to be one of those girls?

Confliction ran rampant in your brain, and you soon became lost in your thoughts. Oikawa pulled you out when he noticed the look in your eyes getting farther and farther away, “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to be vulgar or assume anything its just—”

“It’s fine, really!” You were a little too eager to reassure this time, as you took another sip out of your drink in embarrassment, it was a shame that this would go down as one of the worst dates you’ve ever been on, because Oikawa truly was sweet. If only your instagiator of a roommate hadn’t put you both in this position, maybe you would've actually enjoyed yourself. 

You and Oikawa split the bill. 

-

Iwaizumi didn’t ask any questions that night when you came home and immediately crashed onto the couch, throwing your purse somewhere unidentifiable. He simply sipped his drink, before returning to his room to study, without getting his hopes up at either outcome—at this point he wasn’t entirely sure which one he preferred. 

The conversation didn’t come up until you were out grocery shopping a few days later, and you muttered something almost incomprehensible while examining a stem of scallions. “You’re paying this week.” He followed up your declaration with a hum before deciding the greens were good enough and tossing them to him. “You owe me repercussions for that trainwreck of a date.” 

You continued walking down the vegetable aisle, and Iwaizumi was quick to trail after you despite the rusted wheels of the cart—he was suddenly very intrigued by what you had to say. “What do you mean?” He wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved, “I would be careful what you say, thats my best friend yo—” 

“It wasn’t Oikawa himself,” you emphasized, “It was the fact that he’s like—your brother—shit was weird. Never again.” You huffed, dropping some oranges you most likely weren’t going to eat in front of him. “I thought you said you had a network—I see him like once a week at least.” 

Iwaizumi pondered your analysis, he did say he had a network didn’t he? Pursing his lips, he wanted to offer another friend, but realized that when you said never again, you probably meant never again. He put the conversation to rest until you reached the next aisle, “I still don’t understand why I have to pay repercussions, it was kind of a pain in ass to get you that date.” 

You rolled your eyes at the ever difficult boy to your left, “Right, because a phone call is so much damn work.” He furrowed his eyes, opening his mouth to reply only to be cut off by your stern tone once again, “Reach up and grab that box, the red one.” Even in his irritated state, he complied, grabbing the box and passing it to you before throwing out his hands.

“I’m not a damn matchmatcher. The least I could get is a thank you.” He felt the frustration rising up his throat, words flying your way like sharp daggers,  “Not many people are looking for a whole fucking relationship, I did my best.” 

Maybe it was your lack of gratitude, but other than that, he really had no reason to be getting so worked up—Iwaizumi was always selfless, why now was he so insistent on gaining recognition for his efforts? It seemed far too trivial, and you felt yourself getting just as worked up as he was, “Not everyone wants to sleep around like you do, Iwa!” 

The eyes of the other patrons in the aisle fell on the two of you, and the stares directed at your back practically suffocated you. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He whispered, shooting those around his apologetic glances as you practically cowered in embarrassment, the gesture on his end almost felt condescending. “What, you’re going to slut-shame me now?” 

The ghostly asphyxiation had a hold on your throat, as you stuttered, “I just—no of course not—why would I— forget it.” You trudged out the aisle, leaving Iwaizumi alone to stare at the boxes of cereal. He quickly turned around to gather the cart, still embarrassed by the lingering energy you two managed to leave behind. 

Neither one of you spoke to one another for the rest of the outing.

-

Fights we're not good for the longevity of a living space, so you and Iwaizumi avoided them at all costs. If there was a disagreement with the utility bill, or a miscommunication that left one, the other, or both parties angry—the two of you would actually sit down and talk about it. Your arrangement was  healthier than most relationships, and the two of you were only tenants by chance.

This is why you were so shocked to see Iwaizumi giving you the cold shoulder, quite literally, as he passed you a cup of cold coffee the next morning with not nearly enough creamer. He then would make some comment under his breath before leaving abruptly, and not returning until the late hours of the night.

He even went as far as making a ruckus whenever he brought a guest over—which mind you—was a frequent occurrence. It was the uncharacteristic pettiness that hinted at the fact that this time you may have crossed a line. The last thing you intended to do was shame him, you didn’t feel morally superior to him, but you’d be lying to yourself by saying that you weren’t at least trying to act so in the heat of the moment.

Obviously, it failed—and now your apartment always feels ten degrees colder in the mornings, and ten times louder in the night. Your headphones were deemed useless a few days into this grudge he insisted on holding. 

Even Oikawa noticed, he had rolled in sometime around eleven the following Friday to pick up Iwaizumi—and as your roommate left he noticed how you remained unmoving against the kitchen counter, not even sparing one another so much as a glance. “Aren’t you going to say goodbye?” 

Iwaizumi scowled at him, and he couldn’t help but feel scolded under the gaze of his best friend. “No.” He snapped, titling his head down, his tone somehow insinuating that it should’ve been obvious, “Assholes don’t get goodbyes.” He ducked out the door, leaving Oikawa to bore holes into the back of your head with confused eyes, you didn’t spare him a glance either. 

You presumed Iwaizumi was angry because you judged his lifestyle, dabbling in his life where you didn’t belong and this was your payback. He was most likely waiting for you to apologize, and say that you were thankful for his help even if you didn’t have to be, and reassure him that there was no room for judgment behind your eyes.

Something you came to learn was that Iwaizumi was ridiculously stubborn, but so were you. 

There was a reason you told him to forget it, you didn’t mean it, and no matter how illogical it seemed, you felt it was his fault for taking it the wrong way. There was no need to prolong this squabble, and have it escalate until a full blown fight—if he wanted to be childish and refuse to swallow that horrendous pride of his, so be it. 

However, there was a point when things boiled over, especially when neither of you were well-versed in the ins and outs of quarreling with the one person you needed to get along with. You had to give yourself quite the pep talk, before putting your ego aside and taking a step into his bedroom, where he was hunched over a wide desk.

“Can I charge my phone in here? The outlets in the kitchen and my room are loose.” Iwaizumi pulled a headphone away from his ear, before turning to you with a furrowed brow. He was well aware of the fact that sometimes the outlets around the apartment didn’t hold, but the last thing he expected was for you to come to him with a favor amidst what he assumed to be a deadlock. 

Then again, he also saw an opening to crack a joke that was most certainly uncalled for. “Loose? Is that another dig at my sex life?” He tsked, before standing up and approaching the door, which you stood right outside of, refusing to enter the threshold of his bedroom—lord knows how many ghosts were in those walls. 

You took a step back, a little taken by his comment and unable to think of a quip in counter. His smirk was subtle, as he rested two arms above his head, leaning forward and allowing his weight to rest against the doorframe. “So judgemental.” The warmth of his breath gently grazed the tops of your cheeks, making it difficult to remember that the two of you were supposed to be fighting. 

“Will you just shut the fuck up and take my phone?” His eyebrow remained raised at your rude comment, before he dropped his arms and tore the device from your hands, the small veins on his knuckles growing at the tight grip. You turned on a heel to return to your room, but before you could make the full trip some words popped in your head that you couldn’t seem to push down fast enough.

“And by the way, Iwa?” He stuck his head out the door, “I didn’t mean it like that and you know it. You're acting like an immature jackass.” You paused, a sudden wave of courage overtaking you, “Cut the victim complex, you’re the one who called me a fucking prude for not being the campus wide slut, alright?” 

His eyes widened at your name calling, and he stepped out into the hallway to eye you down, your stature remained unmoved, but if he looked closely he could see your pupils double in size as he stood at his full height. “Woah, try uncalled for? If you have a problem with me bringing people over then say it to my face and let that be the end of it.” He pointed to himself, as his voice became rougher. 

The stiff tone of his words sliced your eardrums causing you to cringe. Your bravery flushed and went as quickly as it came now that he was the one shouting. Desperate to redeem yourself, you managed to push out a stuttered response, “I don’t care if you bring people over!” 

Iwaizumi was, at this point, beside himself—both of you had forgotten the root of this argument, the root of your anger, and yet there was a hole in the pit of your stomach propelling you forward. The floodgates had been opened, and neither of you were going to stop until everything was up in the air—even if that led to a less than favorable predicament. 

“Then what is the problem!” Iwaizumi hated to yell, but his voice had reached uncharacteristic height as he attuned himself to your volume, the two of you were now going in a circle and the brakes were out of reach, “I don’t know Iwa, what is the fucking problem?!” 

“The problem is that I’ve fucked most every girl on this campus and all I can think about is you!” The veins in his neck popped as the words flew well over your head, hitting the wall behind you, before ricocheting and stabbing you right in back—gracing your heart and making it bubble with fiery warmth.

“For months all I can seem to think about is your stupid fucking face, no matter how many girls I go out with I always come back to you and its so goddamn annoying!” He took a deep breath, leveling out his chest before taking a step back to watch you process. Your mouth was hung agape, and he couldn’t help but mimic it—a desperate attempt to form some reaction, any reaction, to the detrimental confession he just made. 

Mind running wild, debating back and forth whether or not what was happening was good—was what you wanted—and it was. It really was, despite how much you loathed his nature. The way your heart raced whenever he was around, the way it was racing now—feet moving on instinct towards his large and inviting body. 

His hands immediately found their place on your cheeks, cupping your jaw with force and pulling you as close as he possibly could as your lips came together in ecstasy. You could feel the blood rush to your head, flushing your skin whilst adrenaline pulsed through your veins—the energy alive and lustful, all of the tension you’d been holding for Iwaizumi flooding out of your heart. 

You grasped his hair, strands between your fingertips, yanking his head back and moving your mouth down to pepper sparse kisses down his face, sucking on the skin of his neck and leaving purple and brown bruises in its wake. The sounds of his moans encouraged you further, driving the need in the pit of your stomach—bodies having ached for each other for so long. 

“Let me see you,” he groaned, breathing out as he grabbed you by the jawline, guiding your lips back to his. He nipped at your lower lip, deepening the kiss with a little smirk growing on his sly expression. “You taste even better than I thought.”

“Good to know you’d been thinking about me.” You smirked, speaking between collisions, arms slung behind his head—pulling him closer, bodies pressed together, never wanting to let go. It was at this moment in which he knew that you’d been what he’d needed. You were the person he’d wanted all this time. “Might’ve been thinking about you,” he rasped.

“In between all the fuck buddies, right?” You couldn’t help but joke with him, even now—the smirk playing on your lips was a playful rendition of his own, which now blossomed to a full smile, gracing his face and allowing you to see the whites of his teeth.

“Shut up.” He groaned, rolling his eyes and loosening his grip slightly. Once again finding your opening, you slid in with your best quip yet. 

“Make me,” and with that, he pulled you back in. 

After that, the door to Iwaizumi’s bedroom closed for good—only the two of you remaining behind it. 

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