medha

the hours between us

kageyama x reader

tw: angst

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you were never supposed to fall for tobio kageyama. that wasn’t the plan.

that’s what you told yourself, at least.

he was loud in the quietest ways possible. he was stoic to strangers, rudely blunt to friends, and only soft when it counted. the kind of soft that couldn’t be described as affection or comfort, but it proved itself in action. it always would.

you met kageyama in junior high, when he was gifted his famous nickname of the “king of the court.” you giggled at it, and his tendency to scowl—the kind that’d make high schoolers shake in fear—at possibly anything that seemed like a threat. or overanalyzed them. but you saw through it all. he would hesitate when raising his hand even when scribbling his notes at light speed. once, he had even handed you his umbrella on the first rainy day of spring without a word. and sometimes, when you’d tease him, he never got angry or yelled at you. just glared at you with red ears.

and, at first, it was funny. having this short-tempered setter follow you around like a lost puppy. but then, the line between an acquaintance and something more gradually blurred into something warmer, something more sincere.

he started waiting at the school gate to walk you home even though he lives nowhere near you. or buying you that exact drink you were complaining about craving that day. he’d say it was “on sale”, but you knew better. he sat closer at lunch, watching you when he thought you weren’t looking.

still, you had stayed friends. mostly.

late night study sessions turned into convenience store runs. calls that he claimed were “just to double check his notes” turned into rants about life. he wasn’t very good with words, but you’d learned his nature. when things dissipated into awkward silences, or he’d gently nudge you when you hesitated. sometimes, he would even blink at your lips then blush angrily when you caught him in the act with a teasing remark.

and, just taking a glimpse at his texts..

drink water. new curry place opened up. let’s go this weekend. brazil sucks at receiving. watched a match.

yeaah.. you’re not getting rid of him anytime soon.

but even then, it never became anything more than friends. not really.

you weren’t exactly dating. you weren’t not, either. you just hovered in the liminal spaces of almost.

but then, the announcement came.

“i’m leaving.”

pro volleyball team in argentina. it was a full offer, the full ride. a dream—you’d be crazy not to take that chance. and obviously, you were happy for him. except..

“i leave in two weeks.” he had said, blank and flat.

“ah,” your stomach twisted, “that’s.. pretty fast, no?”

he nodded, no excitement or anything. just his jaw clenched and a hard, complex look in his eyes.

the packing wasn’t easy either.

he barely looked at you, didn’t utter a word—nothing more than a mere grunt whenever you’d ask questions. still, that look wouldn’t go away.

“so.. you excited?”

“mmh.”

“visiting anything fun?”

“mhm.”

“kageyama.”

“yeah?”

“..never mind.” you replied, quiet. defeated. he didn’t look back. just kept packing with an undeniably reluctant hesitation.

when he finished, he let out a quiet, almost frustrated sigh. “i’ll.. miss you.” the words sounded forced. like he didn’t know if he meant it or not.

“yeah,” you say, trying your best not to let your voice shake. “i’ll—i’ll miss you too, kageyama.”

“tobio.”

“right.. tobio.”

you don’t say anything after that, just fall into an uncomfortable, tense silence. you shift on his bed, looking around. it’s mostly empty after packing, but the lingering feeling of nostalgia stays. and you remember everything.

all the hang outs and sleepovers. even that one, small, insignificant if you will, little kiss you swore you’d never speak of again. you remember.

all of it.

it comes faster than you think.

“call me.”

“i will.”

he stands there awkwardly, suitcase in hand, eyes darting everywhere but you. it’s loud—weeping mothers saying bye to their children in college, or the obnoxiously loud phone call once in a while. but it’s all tuned out when kageyama—tobio is here.

“have a safe flight, tobio.” you murmur, hands fidgeting.

he nodded curtly, fisting the handle of his suitcase. “i.. will miss you,” he chokes out once again, yet this time it’s a little less involuntary.

“i’ll miss you too.”

he doesn’t flinch, not inherently, but his eyes widen, almost in absolute disbelief that this really is happening. he’s leaving. leaving you. you take a few, hesitant steps towards him, arms awkwardly swinging by your sides like you’re not sure if you want to hug him or not. or maybe you’re just afraid of his reaction.

then sounds the soft beep before an announcement—“tobio kageyama at gate c24. boarding has ended.”

you blink, retreating back a few steps. “ah,” you force a smile, “guess that’s your cue.”

he nods curtly, “right.” he looks at you—really looks at you—before turning away without another word. you watch him leave, noticing the tension in his shoulders. you would a joke about how he needs to let loose, but he’s gone by the time you can even open your mouth.

you didn’t even get to hug him goodbye.

the first few days without him are dreadful. he claims to text you frequently, but you’re not so sure. said the “wifi is bad” on call with him. you try not to think much of it, but it’s hard when the one you love is across the goddamn earth.

he had even joked, or so you thought, about forgetting your face. you were on call:

“you know,” he hummed, “it’s like i almost forgot what you look like.”

you just laughed nervously. “well.. you’re not that forgettable.”

he chuckles, hollow. “i miss you.” the words come out hushed, as if he’s afraid to say them. you’ve been counting. this is the fifth time he’s said it.

“yeah, i.. i miss you too.”

you can’t remember much after the call, except the fact that he seemed almost distracted, in a way. like he wasn’t completely immersed in the conversation like he usually is. you brush it off—he must be stressed, right? he’s in a new country, it’s only normal.

yet, days blur into weeks of this “weirdly distant” phase. the time distance is cruel, and it’s chipping away at every opportunity you guys can get to call. texts are shorter, calls are once in a blue moon, and his replies only come hours after you’ve talked to him. when there is a good chance, he’ll promise “next time.”

except there is no next time.

when you do finally call, his voice is more hollow, thinner, a barrier between you two. he won’t laugh at your jokes, uncomfortable silence filled only with those half-hearted “mmh”s instead of his usual irritated grunts.

it’s late one night, you’re scrolling through his instagram page, feeding a desperate curiosity. you don’t expect to see anything new—maybe the typical blurry photo of him. but then, you see it. see her.

standing next to him, smiling brightly, an undeniably attractive woman holds a volleyball in her hands. camilla, the caption writes. she’s tagged in the photo. against better judgment, you click.

more photos of them spill through, one with them both on the bleachers way too close to just be teammates. is this why he’s been ignoring you? he can’t even tell you? then another: he’s holding up a reluctant peace sign while she’s tucked under his arm. a pit—heavy and uncomfortable—grows in your stomach, and you don’t know how to stop it.

then, your phone buzzes: a text from kageyama.

practice was tougher than usual today. met a new teammate btw. she’s cool.

you stare at the message for a few moments. do you answer? how would you answer without sounding dry? “oh, that’s cool.” are you kidding?

when you don’t answer, another notification from him vibrates through your phone.

i think you’d like her.

the words slowly blur as tears form. why are you crying over him anyway? you turn your phone off and shove it under your pillow, willing yourself to sleep.

the next morning, you wake up to two missed calls and another message from him—this time, an image. kageyama is wearing his usual scowl, while camilla is holding up his phone for the picture.

he wouldn’t even take pictures with you.

you stare at it until your eyes start to burn, you close your eyes, head tipping back with a sigh. you don’t know if you want to look at the photo again or throw your phone against the wall.

it shouldn’t matter, right? he’s allowed to make friends. of course he is. so why is he looking at her like that? the distance between you stretches more and more, until finally, he calls you.

“kageyama?” your voice is softer than usual, more hesitant.

“mmh,” he hums, the reply delayed. he’s clearly distracted. you hear faint chatter in the background.

“you’re busy.” it comes out more as a statement than question.

“no,” he replies, a little too quick. “i—uh, i’m just with some teammates.”

you want to ask if it’s camilla, but that unrelenting pit grows when you hear your doubts confirmed—a clear laugh right next to his mic. a girl.

“kageyama—“

“i’ll call you back. sorry.” he whispers, rushed and slightly guilty. then, the soft beep of the line ending. you stare at the screen, your phone gripped in your hand so tightly you think you might break it.

a notification. from him.

sorry. got a bit caught up. she says hi.

you don’t reply. then, an image attached.

it’s him and her again, sitting at a table. she’s mid-laugh, holding a fry to his face, while he’s smiling faintly at her.

not you. her.

before you can even think to reply, another few messages.

oh, i need to tell you something. me and camilla, we.. mvm. sorry, i’ll tell you later.

damnit.

guys i am soooo sorry for posting late ☹️ but anyways i hope u enjoy

statistically speaking, i’m yours

rei x reader

tw: none !!

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rei ryugazaki is the kind of guy who makes you nervous while handling your math homework. not because he’s judging—but, let’s be real, he totally is—but because he might actually cry when seeing how you’ve solved for x.

“you can’t just guess based on how numbers feel,” he’d sigh for the twentieth time this week.

you squint down at your notes, “but 7 felt right.”

rei set his pencil down and inhaled like it physically pained him to do so. “we are dealing with algebraic equations. not mood boards!”

it’s the second week of tutoring, and you can only pretend to understand like 57% of what he’s said. but, only because you like seeing him flustered. you can learn, you just.. choose not to. his rants come with those cute little hand gestures and that small furrow in his brows—and okay, maybe you’re a bit in love with him. or a lot. but who’s quantifying that? (rei would).

he’s strangely handsome in the “i read dictionaries for fun” kind of way. always tidy, always precise, and always shows up to your tutoring sessions 10 minutes early holding color-coded flash cards.

you rest your chin in your hand, “so you’re saying guessing is not the way to go?”

“absolutely not.”

“hm. weird.”

“what?! why?”

“because it got me a 64 on my last test.”

rei’s eye visibly twitches. “fine. we’re making a deal.”

you raise an eyebrow. “a deal?”

“you want to pass this class. i want.. assistance in a different department.”

“are you blackmailing me?”

“ah, no-! i.. i want you to teach me how to flirt.”

you pause. “sorry,” you say slowly, “come again..?”

“you seem quite comfortable with casual affection and verbal boldness,” he says, gaze flitting everywhere but your face. “i’m not strong in those areas.”

your brain malfunctions. rei freaking ryugazaki, the guy who calculates the optimum angle at which to close a damn binder. he wants you to teach him how to flirt??

“who’s the unlucky target?” you tease, trying not to sound heartbroken.

he hesitates, “that’s.. irrelevant to the deal.”

ouch?

you smile. “alright, professor ryugazaki. you’ll help me pass math, and i will help you with.. flirting.”

he nods resolutely and offers his hand. you shake it, trying not to notice how warm it is.

the next tutoring session, the flirting lessons begin.

“now,” you say, “you have to learn how to give compliments.”

“i do! i complimented you last week, didn’t i?”

“you said my handwriting is ‘surprisingly charming’. what the hell does that even mean?”

“i-“ he sighs, “okay, i get it. what should i do?”

“well, you could tell them they looked good today.” you tilt your head, “or, like.. their laugh is cute.”

he goes red. “that is.. incredibly vulnerable.”

“ha! that’s the point, isn’t it?” you snicker, leaning back in your chair. “trust me—they’ll like it.”

he nods that solemn nod he always does and scribbles in his notebook.

REMEMBER: compliments must be emotionally specific.

you sigh, “you’re writing notes?”

“i always write notes!”

“you’e lucky i find you cute.” oops. you didn’t mean to let that one slip.

he freezes, and you cough awkwardly. “..in a hypothetical way,” you add a little too quickly.

he just pushes his glasses up with two fingers. “understood.” you don’t miss the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, though.

over the next few “lessons”.. he seems to be making no progress.

“eye contact,” you nod, “hold their gaze.. then say something nice. try it.”

rei shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “you have.. nice posture?”

you huff out a laugh. “that’s the best you’ve got?”

“i-i don’t want to be inappropriate!”

“you’re not hitting on a teacher, ryugazaki. just.. pretend i’m them, then.”

he swallows, “..them?”

“yeah. that person you’re doing all this for? your.. crush?”

his ears go red. “i..”

this person is starting to feel more like a knife stabbing right through your chest. whoever they are, you envy them. you’ve spent weeks savoring those soft, rare moments when he smiles at you, or how his voice changes when he’s focused on tutoring you. ..but it’s not for you. you’re just the student in this dynamic. not the end goal.

it’s after your third test—one you’ve miraculously passed, things shift.

“ryugazaki!” you meet rei outside the library, waving your paper triumphantly with the biggest grin. “82%! i’m officially smarter than a baked potato.”

rei stares at you, then grins, and for the first time ever, he hugs you.

it’s brief. it was just a spur-of-the-moment decision. you feel his warmth and cologne pressed against you just for a split second, but it was enough to send you spiraling.

when he pulls back, he looks just about as shocked as you.

“i—apologies. that was.. impulsive.”

“no!” you say a little too quickly. “i.. didn’t mind.”

you’re both quiet for a beat before you softly add: “if it makes you feel any better, that was a good example of physical affection.”

he smiles, “noted.”

after that, the line between tutoring and something else has blurred.

he brings you snacks every now and then. you’d ‘accidentally’ bump knees under the table. you find excuses to compliment him now. real ones, not just for practice. and he’ll start smiling at them.

still, though, he hasn’t asked this mystery person out. you wonder why—and selfishly hope he doesn’t.

it happens on a rainy tuesday.

the sky is grey, and the soft patter of raindrops tap against the library window like a background noise for your tutoring session. you’re curled up across from rei, mindlessly doodling on your notebook as he goes on and on about the steps on how to solve an equation. or something else, you don’t know.

but he’s not really paying attention either. he’s tapping his pencil in that perfect rhythm he always does when he’s nervous.

“you okay?” you glance up at him.

rei jolts slightly, startled, eyes flicking to you like he forgot you were there. “oh, i—yes. apologies. i was.. distracted.”

you raise an eyebrow. “by math? or something else?”

he opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, then closes it, adjusting his glasses. “well, we have been doing this for.. quite a while now.”

“flirting lessons?”

“and tutoring.”

“right,” you force a small, tight smile. “almost forgot which was which.”

that makes him smile too, but there’s something sad about it. like he’s holding something back. like he’s about to say something important, but thinks better of it.

you decide to break the silence first. “y’know.. you’ve never told me about the progress you’ve made. with them.”

that makes him freeze.

“i’m assuming you’re waiting for the right time to ask them out, right?”

rei’s looking everywhere but you now. “yes, i.. correct.”

“figured. i hope they’re.. good for you.”

“they are.” he answers, almost immediately.

“they better be,” you say, trying to sound lighthearted. “they’ve got you practically writing poetry in your math notes.”

he chuckles, but it seems forced.

“you should tell them,” you add, “whoever they are. you’re kind, smart, and.. statistically speaking, anyone would be lucky.” you expect a thank-you. maybe another smile.

but you’re met with silence. “..ryugazaki?”

his eyes finally meet yours, “i haven’t told them.”

“why not?”

his lips part, “because i wasn’t sure how they felt.”

you’re about to retort a response, but seeing the way he’s looking at you—eyes wide and desperate, stops you. and then it clicks.

“ryugazaki..”

“i—i thought that if i said it directly, it would change everything.” he explains quietly, “i thought you would have pulled away. so i.. disguised it. pretending i needed help with something i only ever wanted to practice with.. you.”

you swallow. hard.

“and i tried convincing myself that these lessons were enough. just having you near me.”

you lean back in your seat, “you should’ve said something, ryugazaki.. i was sure you liked someone else.”

“i do. you.”

your breath catches at his words, “so all this time..”

“..it’s been you.” he finishes.

and you, having spent weeks bottling up all your feelings just to be a good friend, feel something blooming in your chest so warm it burns.

you manage a shaky laugh. “you idiot.”

“what?” he gapes.

“you could’ve kissed me three quizzes ago.”

his face burns. “i—that’s not-!”

you cut him off by launching yourself across the table, arms wrapping around his neck awkwardly. your knees bang against the table, his pencil case goes flying, but he catches you on instinct. like he’s been waiting for this moment.

you don’t kiss him right away. you just sit there, holding him close, listening to the sound of his heartbeat quickening with every second.

and then you kiss him.

it’s not perfect, but it’s more than you could ever ask for. his nose bumps yours, glasses askew, and he exhales a tiny gasp like he just can’t believe this is real. but it is. and it’s happening.

later, when you’re trying to get your legs to work again, rei scribbles something at the top of his notebook.

statistically speaking.. my favorite variable was always U.

you scoff, “is that your way of saying we’re done with tutoring?”

he leans in, lips brushing your temple. “no,” he says quietly, “i just need a new subject.”

does the free! fandom still exist ?? i haven’t seen many works related to it lol

table for two

pt. 2 osamu x reader

tw: suggestive

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he walks out.

and the door doesn’t quite close all the way.

you stare at it like it might give you answers. like maybe he’ll walk back through and explain everything.

but he doesn’t.

instead, you’re standing here in the dark, alone and confused, your heart slamming against your ribs. you don’t know how long you’ve standing there until your limbs start to ache, and the guilt settles into your skin.

you weren’t supposed to read it.

but when you did, you couldn’t forget a word.

you don’t see osamu again that night. he’s gone by the time your shift ends, disappeared somewhere in the backroom, the break room, maybe even behind the store for all you know. but you don’t ask, just clock out quietly, taking the long way home.

the next few days are brutal.

osamu is distant, in the most unbearable way.

he doesn’t avoid you outright—you work to close for that. instead, he’ll shorten his words, and move efficiently. even when he’s passing you knives for prep, muttering a small “careful”, his eyes never quite meet yours. when he talks to you, it’s strictly business. he won’t even flinch when you laugh at something dumb atsumu says.

like nothing ever happened.

like you hadn’t read the letter.

or like he never wrote it, and it’s driving you insane.

because it wasn’t nothing. it’s never been nothing. not even back then, when the two of you were tangled in bed and called it casual with your mouths but not with your hands.

not when he cooked for you and stayed up until you fell asleep in his arms. not when he pressed his mouth against your collarbone, whispering sweet nothings into your ear. not when he exhaled like he didn’t know how to say goodbye.

not now.

now, you can feel it.

when his hand brushes yours when he reaches for something, or when his voice goes tight while instructing you.

“new girl ‘s a fast learner, huh?” another employee—kaito, maybe? you don’t remember, says. he jokingly nudges osamu in the rib, and he merely grunts, not looking up.

“she’s cute, too,” the guy adds with a grin. “you two got history or somethin’? i mean, the way you act, even i—“

“drop it.” osamu says, voice flat.

he walks out without another word. and you? you pretend you didn’t hear it.

the tension continues to build. so does the silence.

until finally, it snaps.

or, you snap.

it’s after close, nearly midnight. neither of you still there, working on some last-minute prep for the next day. you volunteered to stay, hoping he’d maybe snap.

he hasn’t said a word. just the sound of chopping, or the hum of the fridge, or the marching band in your chest.

“i’m not sorry,” you suddenly blurt out.

he freezes—“what?”

you look up at him, “i’m not sorry i read it.”

he pauses, before setting down his knife and facing you. “that letter wasn’t meant for you.” he narrows his eyes.

“but you wrote it to me.”

“not for you to read.”

“you wrote it, osamu. you kept pictures. you still have the hoodie i left. don’t act like it didn’t mean anything!”

his eyes flash. “i never said it didn’t.”

you step forward, arms crossing like it’s the only thing that’s grounding you. “then why are you pretending like nothing happened?”

“because if i start takin’ about it, i won’t be able to stop.”

now it’s your turn to freeze.

he rakes a hand through his hair, fingers clenching in his scalp. “i really can’t afford to lose it right now, alright? you show up after months, read that goddamn letter, look at me like i’m the villain, and i’m supposed to pretend that everything’s fine?”

“i never said you were the villain.”

“you didn’t have to.”

another beat of silence before he adds: “you disappeared.”

your heart clenches, “so did you.”

he shakes his head. “i didn’t disappear. i waited. waited for you to come back. and then i stopped.”

“..you stoped caring,” you murmur, trying to find some high ground.

he looks at you, expression pained. “no,” he says. “i stopped hoping.”

that shuts you up. not because he was wrong, but because you were hoping too. a small part of you. and you didn’t say anything, either.

it’s quiet again. osamu is the first one to look away, shoulders slumped with exhaustion—but not from lack of sleep. he picks up the towel and wipes down the counter like that conversation never happened. and just like that, the moment passes.

you both go back to work.

but something’s different now.

and even if you’re not ready to pick up the pieces yet, you know one thing for sure—that this time, you’re not running.

not yet.

not again.

the kitchen is quiet again, but the silence feels different now—heavier. like the words you let slip are still echoing through the room, clinging to the walls.

you don’t speak. he doesn’t either.

you keep chopping green onions, and he’s at the sink washing something that probably doesn’t need it. the soft running of the water is the only thing grounding you to this moment. but you can still feel it.

the shift.

you finish prep and rub your sore wrist, eyes catching the familiar tension in his posture again. he’s thinking—you can tell. the water shuts off, and he finally speaks up: “you should head home.”

you tilt your head, “you kicking me out?”

“not exactly.”

you wait for him to turn around, but he doesn’t.

“you just want me gone, don’t you?” you say, quieter.

finally, he glances at you over his shoulder. pained. “i don’t trust myself not to say something i’ll regret.” that makes you flinch—not because it’s harsh, but because it’s true.

you cross your arms, leaning against the counter. “so that’s it, then? we’re just gonna pretend again?”

“no,” his jaw ticks, “i’m not pretending. not anymore.”

your eyes narrow, and you push further. maybe it is a bit much, maybe it’s just enough. “then say it. whatever you’re holding back.” he opens his mouth, then closes it. “right,” you nod, pushing off the counter. “that’s what i thought.” but before you could get any farther—

“don’t do that.”

you freeze, looking back. “do what?”

“shut down.”

you scoff, “that’s rich coming from you.”

osamu takes a step forward, closing the gap between you two. “i’m trying.” he says, voice cracking like it hurts.

“i don’t need you to try, osamu.” now it’s your turn to take a step forward, “i need you to be honest.”

he glances away, then back at you. “you don’t want that.”

“yes, i do.”

“you really don’t.”

you’re standing close now. close enough to count every eyelash if you wanted to. close enough to see the way his breath hitches when your hand faintly grazes his. on ‘accident.’ you don’t pull away, and neither does he.

he exhales sharply, “you think i don’t feel this?”

you falter, only subtly, but he catches it.

“i feel everything, damnit. every time you walk through that door like nothin’ happened, every time you brush past me, every time you’ll say my name like it doesn’t gut me just hearin’ it.”

“then why—“

“because i’m scared,” he cuts you off harshly. then, quieter. “i’m scared. if i let myself want this—want you again, and you disappear like last time, i don’t know if i’ll come back from it.”

your eyes widen, “you think i’ll disappear again?”

“won’t you?”

it’s silent again.

“..i don’t know what you want, y/n.”

“neither do i.” it slips out too fast. too.. real. you both go still.

and then, his hand hesitantly lifts towards your face. he doesn’t touch you. not yet. but he wants to, god, he wants to.

you inhale shakily, “osamu..” his name sounds like a plea on your lips.

and for one, aching second, he leans in, nose brushing yours. breath mingling together. so close your lips almost meet. but he stops just short of it. “i.. shouldn’t,” he whispers, “we shouldn’t.”

“i know.”

but neither of you take the initiative to move.

then, footsteps. probably somewhere outside. a voice calls out, knocking on the door. it’s the delivery guy. osamu pulls away like he’s been burned, running a hand through his hair. he turns his back on you, shoulders tense. “i’ll get it,” he mutters.

you don’t follow him. just stand there, right where he left you, wondering if this were the second time you let him slip away. the door shuts behind him, and you’re still frozen where he left you.

you press two fingers to your lips. not because he kissed you, but because he didn’t. it would’ve been easier if he kissed you, right? just to get it out of his system. but instead, he pulled away. again.

and now you’re left trembling in a silent kitchen, haunted by the ghost of something that didn’t even happen.

the walk home feels like punishment. neither of you got to say goodbye. he just handed you your bag and disappeared back into the kitchen. like nothing ever almost happened.

you don’t sleep that night. just lie awake, staring at the ceiling thinking of what could've been. maybe he’s thinking the same. maybe with someone else? the thought makes your heart clench.

two days pass, and the tension doesn’t dissipate. if anything, it’s gotten worse. osamu now avoids your gaze like the plague. nut you catch him sometimes, his eyes on you when he thinks no one is looking.

they’re softer now. you think maybe he regrets pulling away that night. maybe you regret not stopping him.

it’s late again. another shift ended, another night you both stubbornly stayed close. it’s becoming a pattern now—both of you lingering longer than you should, cleaning things that don’t need any more cleaning, all while pretending there’s nothing left to say.

tonight, the tension finally snaps. it starts with a spill. then a burn. you snap. he snaps back.

you just can’t take it anymore.

“you keep acting like i walked out for fun,” you hiss, slamming your knife onto the counter. “like i got bored and just vanished.”

his eyes darken. “didn’t you?”

that stings. you stare at him, stunned. “i left because i was scared,” you admit, voice shaky. “because we weren’t supposed to fall in love.”

his lips part, “you think i didn’t?”

“i didn’t know.”

“i showed you. i let you take up my space in my life and my bed and in my goddamn heart.. and you acted like it didn’t mean anything.”

“i was trying to protect myself.”

“so you ran?”

“you didn’t stop me.”

he doesn’t answer. just stares at you like your face might give answers. you slowly step forward, and he watches you like you’re dangerous. and maybe you are. “that night.. why didn’t you kiss me?” you whisper.

osamu swallow, his adam’s apple bobbing. “because i didn’t want it o be a mistake.”

“and if it wasn’t?”

he says nothing, again, gazing at you like he’s weighing a hundred unsaid things behind his eyes. he is.

and then, he finally moves. but it’s careful. he’s treating each step as if he could never come back from it. he stops, just a breath away from you. “this won’t fix anything.” he says, voice hoarse.

“i know.”

“might make it worse.”

“probably.”

a beat passes, then: “still want it?”

you don’t say anything, just reach for him.

the kiss isn’t gentle. it’s not perfect. but it’s messy, real, and long overdue. he kisses you like it’s the only language he remembers, one hand on your waist, the other gripping the back of your neck like you might disappear again. you kiss him back with the same intensity, with everything you’ve been holding back for months: pain and regret. so much regret.

when you finally break apart, both of you are breathing hard. foreheads pressed together, eyes closed. you both don’t speak. just exist in the moment. he hasn’t let go of you, and neither have you.

and maybe this isn’t a fix.

maybe this is the beginning of something harder.

but right now, in this moment, neither of you are pretending.

you don’t know what you’re doing to me

kita x f!reader oneshot

tw: none !!

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you don’t think much of him at first.

he’s quiet, intimidatingly so—but in the way old souls are. he’s always perfectly dressed, always prepared, always ready for whatever’s to come. he’s too calm to seem seventeen. you see him in the halls most mornings, standing just beyond the school gate in his pristine uniform, shoulders square, gaze straight. determined.

that’s kita shinsuke.

and he’s watching you like you’re something worth figuring out. it’s not rude, it’s not often either. but it’s enough for you to notice. and when you do notice—well, it’s hard not to see it everywhere.

how his gaze lingers when you’ll ask questions during class. or when he holds doors for you just a beat longer than others. how on rainy days, he’ll gaze down at your shoes like he’s contemplating whether or not to offer his umbrella.

he does, eventually.

because he’s kita shinsuke.

you’re new here. a foreign exchange student, to be exact. fresh out of your comfort zone and practically halfway across the world, but you recognize curiosity when you see it.

what you don’t know is why you’re receiving it.

kita doesn’t speak to you much. not directly, at least. you can feel him watching, though. when you laugh too loudly with classmates, when you struggle to read kanji on the chalkboard, or when you mutter apologies for accidentally knocking the lunch tray into the bin.

he’s always just a few steps away, always noticing, always.. quiet.

you don’t know he memorized your name the first time he heard it. or when he went home and wrote it out over and over in the corner of a scrap sheet until he perfected it.

you don’t know that he looked up how far your home country is from japan. that he wondered if maybe your family missed you. that he asked his grandmother what kind of foods were made where you came from, or how he tried (and unfortunately failed) to cook one of them himself.

you don’t know every time you smile at someone else, he feels a little sick and he’s not sure why. or that you’ve taken up so much space in his head he’s started to dream about you.

he doesn’t know what to do with it, so he does what he always does: observes.. silently. like you’re something fragile. or dangerous. or both?

on the afternoon of a chilly october, you’re walking home, bundled in all kinds of wool to keep you from freezing. you’re about to cross the street when you hear a soft, elderly voice behind you.

“dear? would you mind helping me cross?”

you turn around, gaze meeting a tiny old woman wrapped in a thick coat, squinting at the light. her cane trembles slightly in her grip.

“of course,” you say, immediately stepping forward to help. she takes your hand without hesitation, her fingers small and frail. as you help her cross, she talks about the weather, the rice harvest, and how her grandson always forgets to wear socks when it rains.

you smile through it all, nodding and listening. she doesn’t ask where you’re from, or fumble over your name. just.. chats.

once you reach the other side of the crosswalk, she reaches out to pat your head affectionately. “such good manners,” she coos, “you’ll make a fine wife someday.”

you laugh, cheeks warm—either from her compliment, or the chilly breeze. “that’s very sweet.”

and as she trots off down the sidewalk, you turn to keep walking as well, only to see a familiar figure standing just a few meters away.

kita—still, silent, his eyes wide. you freeze, and he doesn’t say anything. he just stares at you, at your hand, where the old woman had just held it. then back at your face. he looks almost stunned.

but then, he bows, turns, and walks away.

what was that about?

you don’t know it, but that was kita’s grandmother. and kita doesn’t know it yet, but that’s the moment he realizes—you’re it.

you’re the one. you’ve been the one.

and now, he needs to do something about it. quick.

he doesn’t sleep that night, but he tries. he goes through his normal routine: brushing his teeth, ironing and refolding his uniform, checking his alarm clock, but his thoughts keep circling.

he can’t forget how you smiled at his grandmother, how gently you held her arm, or how you nodded so patiently with every sentence she spoke.

then he starts to think of all the things he’s noticed about you the past few months after you joined. how you stack your notebooks in perfect order, how you always double-check the classroom trash bins before you leave, how you lend your eraser to other classmates who forget theirs without being asked.

you’re a good person.

really good.

he’s known for awhile, but seeing you like that—especially with someone he loves—made it real. you’re the kind of person he could trust with anything. the kind he could see beside him. the kind he could marry. the thought makes his ears burn, but he doesn’t laugh.

he doesn’t doubt.

he just lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, and quietly wonders: how do i tell her i want to marry her without sounding insane? he really doesn’t know. so instead, he decides to tell you anyway.

the next morning, you find him waiting outside the school gate. this time though, he doesn’t pretend to check his watch or fix his sleeve. his eyes are trained on you. your heart stutters a little, and you don’t know why.

“good morning,” you offer, trying not to sound as nervous as you feel.

“good morning,” he replies. then, a pause. “i saw you yesterday.”

your brows furrow, head tilting. “yesterday?” you try to recall, but nothing comes to mind.

he nods, “yesterday. i saw you helping that woman across the street.”

“ah,” you laugh nervously, “that? she was your grandmother, wasn’t she?”

he nods once again. “she likes you.”

you swallow. hard. you look up at him slowly, and this time, he doesn’t look away. even if his ears burn. he just looks nervous.

and then—“will you marry me?” he says it like he’s checking the weather or something.

you blink.

a beat passes, and you open your mouth. nothing comes out. “i..”

he clears his throat, gaze flitting away from you just for a moment. “i mean,” he starts quietly, “not now. we’re still in school. i’m not asking for anything serious. i just.. wanted to say it. i wanted you to know.”

“..know what?” you feel almost afraid to ask it, but you do.

he lets out a soft exhale, looking down at you. “that i’ve been watching you. that i admire you. that.. you’re someone i’d want to build a life with.”

you can feel your eyes starting to sting.

“that i think,” he adds, voice barely a whisper, “you might be the one.”

then, a long silence he doesn’t fill. he just stands there, the wind messing up his usually clean uniform, waiting for you to say something, anything.

you finally manage: “kita..”

he gives you the smallest, saddest smile you’ve ever seen. “it’s okay. you don’t have to make you’re mind up now.” then, as calmly as he arrived, he turns and walks into school.

and he leaves you standing there, your throat too constricted to speak, knees a little weak, wondering if maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

i really enjoyed making this one actually

table for two

osamu x reader

tw: none (??)

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ding!

the familiar sound of the door chime rings, followed by the comforting smell of rice and seaweed fills your nose, wrapping around you like a distant memory.

you try to ignore the flutter of nervousness in your stomach as you step inside, looking around the place—onigiri miya. the place is cozy, almost home-like. this isn’t the first job interview, and you sure as hell hope it’s your last.

your grip tightens on the resume when you hear the sound of footsteps walking closer. then, a voice—

“welcome. i’ll be right there, just gimme a sec.” he says it casually. too casually. but so familiar.

no.

it can’t be.

rounding the corner is osamu miya—his hair looks a bit shorter, dye faded out, and an apron clings to his figure. a bit of flour is dusted on it, his sleeves rolled up and his forearms flexing slightly.

he meets your eyes and.. everything just stops.

he blinks once, then his brows furrow in slight incredulity, almost like he can’t believe it’s you he’s seeing—something he tries his best not to thing about. (he fails most of the time).

“..y/n.”

your name leaves his lips in a familiar, breathless whisper.

“uh..” you swallow, stepping forward awkwardly, a polite smile on your face as you shift uncomfortably. “i didn’t know.. you owned this place.”

osamu says nothing, just takes a step forward and leans on the counter as if it were the only thing grounding him in this moment.

“well,” he drawls, “didn’t think i’d be seein’ you anytime soon.” his eyes linger on you, and a shiver runs up your spine. one that you’re well acquainted with.

your eyes dart around the room, everywhere but him. “i’m not here to bother you. i was looking for a job. just—didn’t expect..” you trail off, finally meeting his eyes.

“hm,” he tilts his head, sizing you up. “neither did i.”

he’s staring. really staring. trying to see if you’ve changed at all. if you still sleep with your socks on, or if you still had that same habit of picking at your nails when your nervous.

and he remembers.

all of it.

when you’d show up at his apartment claiming you were ‘just dropping by’, yet you’d stay until the next morning, sighing into his neck.

or when you’d trace small circles on his chest, whispering his name like it meant something. like he meant something to you.

you’d been to careful, though. insisting what you two had was ‘casual.’ (he didn’t think so). you were supposed to keep it simple, and then one of you caught feelings, and it was too late.

you just.. drifted.

or maybe it ended itself, but he didn’t chase you. he never does.

doesn’t mean he didn’t want to.

now, here you two were, standing awkwardly. you look tired. desperate. sends an unwanted pang through his heart.

he slowly leans forward, heart in his throat, but he doesn’t dare to show it. “still have that same habit of showing up at my door when ya need somethin’, huh?”

you flinch, “osamu—“

he sighs. not angry. just.. tired. he wordlessly slides a form towards you, not quite meeting your gaze.

“you’re lucky i need help,” he mutters, fingers brushing against yours as he hands you the paper. he doesn’t pull away. neither do you.

he watches you for a moment, quiet, long, unreadable. then he mutters, just loud enough for you to hear—

“don’t disappear this time.”

the next day passes in a rush—an awkward interview with osamu. who would’ve thought? (un)surprisingly enough, you actually got the job.

day 1:

the uniform makes you feel uncomfortably stiff, the collar weirdly hanging loose around your neck. and yet, osamu somehow makes it look good. of course he does.

walking into the restaurant, you take in the familiar setting, sending a pang through your heart. you remember it all—sitting on that exact stool, stealing grains of rice with a mischievous look on your face. and.. the other memories. when he’d lay you on the table and hold you so close, so tenderly, as if what you had wasn’t just.. casual.

you didn’t realize he owned onigiri miya. you thought maybe he’d been a loyal customer or something.

now here you are.

osamu walks out, wiping his hands with a small towel. “you’re here early,” he slings it over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

“yeah, well..” you shift your weight from one foot to another, “just thought i’d get a feel for the place.”

he doesn’t question it. just gives you a pointed look before waving you over. “you’re on prep.” he stifles a soft chuckle at your confused expression. “y’know. just prepare the ingredients.”

“okay,” you nod, shouldn’t be too hard, right?

“there’s coffee in the back,” he hums, turning away from you as if he were unsure where to look. “i made too much. y’can help yourself. unless you still hate the stuff.”

you clench your fists, “i’m fine. i’ll just.. see my way around.” making your way into the kitchen, you feel the warmth of the air. it smells like cleaning chemicals and starch as if someone had wiped down the counters in a rush.

snooping around, you spot a small closet. you glance back at osamu, seemingly immersed in whatever the hell he’s cooking up. after a moment of consideration, you decided to take a look inside. what’s the worst that could happen?

yeah, no. you wish you could take that back. stepping into the closet, your eyes slightly widen at the sight of it all. it’s.. normal. just brooms, a comically large rice bag, and extra food. why were you expecting anything different?

but, on top of a small box, is placed a letter.

you slowly approach it, almost as if it would attack if you’d go any faster. your hands tremble slightly when you open the box, and when you do, your eyes widen again.

it’s just.. polaroids of you and him, practically filled to the brim. some from your high school years, and other more recently, when you had something. your heart clenches, and you quickly put it away, not wanting to see more. then, your gaze sweeps over the letter, and your breath catches.

to: y/n—from: osamu

in that chicken scratch handwriting you’d always tease him about. you swallow hard before slowly opening the letter. it starts out practical: “if you’re reading this, you’re probably already gone again.”

you bite your lip.

“now, i don’t mean that in the bitter way. maybe a little. but i’m not sure where else i’d out these words, so here:

you’d always call me quiet, but.. it wasn’t true. not with you, at least. you just never stayed long enough to hear what i wanted to say. you would crash at my place like it was yours. maybe it was. yet, i didn’t mind. hell, i’d enjoy it. you’d complain about how ‘strong’ my rice smelled, but still ate two whole bowls of it. or you’d leave your socks in my bed. and i’d let you. every time. even when you said it was all casual. when you said “this doesn’t mean anything.” when you.. left. i didn’t stop you—not because i didn’t want to, but maybe i’d thought that if i’d acted like i didn’t care (i did), you’d come back.

you never did.

i guess i just wanna say this: you mattered. to me. all of you. i remember the way your eyes met mine when you had tried convincing yourself that it was ‘casual.’

i felt it all.

i didn’t say anything then because i knew you would run.

i loved you.

still do, most days. sometimes i’ll check the door like you’d walk in again. but, now i’m here, pathetically writing this and stuffing it in my closet. and even if you did come back.. i wasn’t sure if i could say it to your face. so, if you found this, then maybe i don’t have to.

— osamu”

..fuck.

you feel like your ribcage might cave in on you. you notice how much shakier his handwriting gets each word.

you’re so focused on the letter that you don’t hear the door creak softly.

“..the hell are you doin’ in here?”

you tense, head snapping up. osamu stands there, expression unreadable.

he’s not angry.

not surprised.

just.. quiet.

he takes a few steps forward, eyes on the letter. he plucks the paper from your hands—fingers brushing against yours.

you open your mouth, a million questions on your tongue. but he doesn’t give you the chance.

without meeting your gaze, “you weren’t supposed to read that.”

and then—

“hey! ‘samu!” it’s atsumu.

he freezes—just for a second.

his head tilts, like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. he never does.

he walks out.

and the door doesn’t quite close all the way.