sat

They wear suits, but they don't even know basic etiquette.

atsumu groans at his mother's comment. "ma," more meat lands in his bowl and he dodges her attempt to stick some kind of vegetable he's never liked into his bowl. "datin' ain't that important."

from across the table, osamu's eyes narrow. that doesn't sound anything like the atsumu who's been openly moping about some girl he's been pining over for the past few months— a far cry from how his brother acted in high school. things weren't lining up.

"what about that one girl?" osamu pipes up, mouth still half full of rice. chopsticks motion in the direction of the blonde, lazy and almost mocking, in a way. "the sports reporter? for the school newspaper?"

osamu knows he hit a nerve the second he sees the flush appear on the tips of atsumu's ears.

"shut up!" atsumu snaps, scowling as he smacks at osamu's chopsticks. he can feel his cheeks warming, his heart rate picking up— all the signs pointing towards embarrassment. it's not a feeling atsumu is fond of, so immediately he turns defensive. "there was never a thing with a sports reporter—"

"but you've been bitchin' and moanin' about some girl you couldn't get a date with!"

the embarrassment stings worse. atsumu's always had luck in that department— girls practically tripped over their feet in high school just to talk to him. he always had a steady line of admirers, and while it was true— dating wasn't that important to him— all of that flew out the window the second he met you.

atsumu never stumbled over his own words. always had a pick-up line (no matter how cheesy), could flash a little teeth and a wink and score himself a date. it was fairly easy. he knew he was attractive.

so why the hell did none of it work on you? was it the fact he couldn't get his own name out of his lips when you interviewed him court side after his college volleyball match? was it the way he couldn't stop staring at you like a deer in headlights when you complimented his plays? surely you were just doing your job and supporting the team, supporting the school— but was it the way he stood like an absolute idiot court side after you cut the cameras after such an embarrassing interview?

atsumu felt like all his luck drained the moment he met you. even osamu is getting laid more than him now— a fact that should bother him, but doesn't. it hardly feels like a competition anymore now that he's got his sights locked on you.

"i'm workin' on it," atsumu finally mumbles after a beat, ignoring the rush of warmth to the back of his neck. he scowls into his bowl, and pointedly ignores the way his mother lifts a questioning eyebrow towards him.

and because atsumu can never help but start shit with his own brother; "how was umi? thought you two were gettin' serious."

"who?"

"or was that kyojou?"

you’re the jack of all trades at onigiri miya, except in the kitchen

warnings; poor characterization, language, atsumu trigger warning (lmao), osamu has a crush and doesn’t know how to show it properly idk

WANNA RIDE?

claire redfield x f!reader

notes: mature language, modern au, smau & written, re2r adjacent | wc: 630 | m.list

“how do i do this?” your voice comes out as a low murmur, and you eye claire’s bike before you.

she’s sat on it with the kickstand down, one boot-clad foot on the asphalt. the visor of her helmet is flipped up, and bright blue eyes stare at you as you struggle to understand the odd complexities of a damn helmet. claire takes off her helmet, and a soft laugh elicits from her.

“have you seriously never put on a helmet?” she teases.

claire redfield

03/18/26

PLEASE LET HER OUT THE BASEMENT CAPCOM