Big Yummy Biceps In Front Of Me - Tumblr Posts
chapter three: coawrd 𓂃🖊 𓂃🖊𓂃wc: 1321𓂃🖊𓂃 beam of fate masterlist
You are seriously starting to regret coming to this goddamn party. It’s stiflingly hot in this living room, bodies of people you don’t know pressed up against you at every angle. You lost Kiyoko the second you walked in, Tanaka’s arm wrapped firmly around her waist as they made their way around the overcrowded apartment. Nishinoya disappeared eighteen seconds later, no doubt off to get sloppy drunk and flirt with every single person in the room. Luckily, Yachi is still with you, chattering away happily as she sips on the abnormally lime-colored drink she brought with her, but you’ve completely lost track of Yachi’s stream of consciousness, too aware of the thin lines of sweat making their way down your back and the soreness from practice that pulls at your muscles uncomfortably.
There’s a little voice in the back of your head reminding you that this wouldn’t be nearly this miserable if you were not the most sober person here, but the knowledge that you have to be at the gym at seven am tomorrow is enough to stop yourself from drifting to the kitchen for a cup of whatever drink a group of college boys have managed to engineer.
You manage to return your attention to Yachi just long enough to let her know you're stepping outside before you start squeezing your way through the room to the porch door. The sliding door sticks a bit when you pull on the handle, but after a particularly aggressive pull it gives in quickly, sliding open with a low screech that makes you wince.
The chill of the night air is an instant relief, and you can feel the uncomfortable heat that had been building inside you since you arrived begin to dissipate. The crowd of people outside is sparser, and you are careful to avoid the groups of people scattered around as you pick your way across the porch, wanting to avoid any possibility of conversation as you cross to the railing.
The wood of the porch railing stings your elbow when you lean onto it for support, your other hand reaching into the small bag that rests at your hip to pull out the secret box of shame cigarettes you’ve tucked away in the hidden pocket of your purse and the atrociously patterned pink-and-yellow lighter Yachi got you for your birthday last year.
The coils of smoke have barely made their way into your lungs, the soreness in your shoulders from practice barely beginning to unwind, when someone settles to your right, their crossed arms resting on the railing next to your own.
The mystery figure speaks before you can even react to his presence, “Cigarettes are terrible for you, y’know.”
The words are barely out of his mouth but you’re already turning, ready to ask him what his problem is (or tell him to fuck off), but you find the words dying in your mouth as you register who exactly is giving you health advice at two am on the porch of the worst house party you’ve every been dragged to.
Fuck. Hot Clinic Guy.
You blanch, your brain going startlingly blank as you scramble to find something to say. Just as you think you’ve managed to collect yourself into something resembling a normal girl capable of holding a normal conversation with a normal man, your brain seems to clock out again, suddenly unable to focus on anything but strain of his biceps against the sleeves of his t-shirt. You’re starting to understand why it hurt so much when he punched you on Monday because holy shit he’s fucking ripped.
By the time your stupid, traitorous brain clocks back in and stops thinking about his goddamn arms, an uncomfortable silence has settled over the two of you.
Fuck. Say something.
“Arms,” your brain supplies unhelpfully.
“What the fuck?” your mouth supplies, equally as unhelpful.
His brow furrows when he replies, gesturing at the cigarette you’re holding like you don’t know what he’s talking about- “You shouldn’t smoke- it’s terrible for you.”
“That’s sort of the point.” you grumble in response.
He doesn’t reply.
You turn away from him again, but you can feel his eyes burning into the side of your head as you take a drag from your neglected cigarette.
“How’s your wrist?”
“Fine.”
“You could always come back to the clinic,” he offers, “if it’s bothering you. I work every day but Tuesday.”
You make a note in your head to only come to the clinic on Tuesdays. “Am I gonna get punched again if I come back?” you ask.
You turn to look at him just in time to see the tips of his ears flush red, a blush creeping its way onto his alarmingly sharp cheekbones.
“Sorry about that.” His reply is softer than you expected, missing the sharp edge you can usually hear in his tone. “I-”
“It’s fine,” you interrupt.
He opens his mouth to say something, but is cut off by the appearance of an oddly… sparkly brunette appearing behind him, slinging a lanky arm around his shoulders.
Fucking great. The twink’s here too.
You debate jumping off the porch. A three story fall can’t hurt that bad, can it? It would certainly be less painful than this.
The sparkly brunette extends his sparkly hand with an offer of his name.
Oikawa Tooru. Stupid fucking name.
You choose to ignore his hand, opting for a drag of the cigarette, though you do give him your name in return, your common manners overriding the strong urge you have to throw yourself off the fucking porch.
Hot clinic guy shoves his arm off with what sounds suspiciously like a murder threat, pushing him away from the two of you. Oikawa seems completely undeterred by this, turning back to you with a shit-eating grin and a sunny tone as he asks “Do you have an extra cigarette?”
Hot clinic guy swats his arm. “What the fuck?” he barks, “You don’t even smoke, shithead.”
Oikawa’s grin never falters as he replies, “I’m not gonna smoke it, Iwa. I just wanna look cool.”
Hot clinic guy hits him again, but it doesn’t deter Oikawa from holding his hand out expectantly to you.
You cannot believe you are about to waste a cigarette on Edward fucking Cullen but you truly do not see a better way out of this situation, so you extend a cigarette to him. “Do you need a light?” you offer.
“Nah,” he replies, “I just wanna hold it.”
Jesus.
You’re hoping that that’ll be the end of it, and the two of them will go back to the party, but Oikawa stays there, grinning like he’s having the time of his life standing on the porch with his newly acquired unlit cigarette. Hot clinic guy stands next to him, scowling like someone just pissed in his shoes.
Oikawa seems perfectly content to stand there grinning at you like a fat cat who just killed a mouse all night, but hot clinic guy swats at him between orders to fuck off until he finally slinks away.
Your cigarette is gone, burned into a nub that warms your fingers uncomfortably. You quickly grind it out in the ashtray on the railing near you.
Hot clinic guy is already speaking when you straighten back up. “Sorry about him.” he says, eyes fixed on your face, “He’s a dick.”
Against your will, you huff out a laugh. “It’s fine,” you assure him.
He starts to speak but hesitates, and you take the brief moment of silence to step back towards the door. “I have to go find my friends,” you lie, “they’ll start looking for me if I'm gone too long.” You don’t wait to hear him respond, turning away from him to make your way back into the party.
Even as you feel his sharp gaze burning into the back of your head, you don’t turn back.
more:
noya was banned from pregaming at kiyoko and yachis apartment after breaking two lamps and the coffee table trying to do a cartwheel 4 shots in
yn really genuinely believes that iwaizumi is not into her after their first interaction and thinks he just feels bad. she hates pity so she hates him but is also so into him it’s not even funny. </3 so she’s just avoiding the problem
iwaizumi was not wearing his name tag when yn came to the clinic and now she genuinely does not know his name
oikawa walked around all night with that damn cigarette. tucked it behind his ear and thought he was hot shit
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