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please pay attention to your hopelessly in love junior, atsumu
w/c: 1.4k, reader is slightly older than him, pop up event won by @f2lix
the first time atsumu laid eyes on you, his brain effectively short-circuited, exploded into a shower of glitter, and rebooted as a dedicated shrine to your existence.
it was the start of his freshman year at inarizaki. the gymnasium smelled of cheap floor wax and hundreds of sweating teenagers, and the principal was drone-reading through a speech that could cure insomnia. atsumu was busy picking at a loose thread on his uniform when you walked past his row to hand out the orientation packets.
you were a third-year. poised, wearing a cardigan that looked infinitely softer than anything he deserved to touch, and possessed the kind of casual grace that made atsumu feel like a farm animal trying to do ballet. when you handed him his packet, your thumbs brushed for half a second.
the universe tilted on its axis, and atsumu’s heart did a full gymnastics routine inside his ribs.
“thank ya,” he squeaked out. his voice cracked so hard osamu later claimed a bat flew out of his throat.
you had just smiled—a soft, blindingly pretty thing—and murmured, “you’re welcome. you’re one of the boys joining the volleyball club, huh? good luck.”
for the next two years, atsumu behaved like a golden retriever with a serious lack of self-preservation. he was a menace. every single afternoon after practice, he would somehow find a reason to linger near the third-year hallway. he’d present you with strawberry milk, half-crushed steamed buns, or whatever shiny object he thought might win a smile.
“atsumu, you’re years younger than me,” you had told him back then, leaning against your locker while he leaned against the wall next to it, attempting to look like a dangerous bad boy and failing miserably because his dyed blonde hair was sticking up in three different directions. “i’m old enough to do your taxes. go home and do your homework.”
“age is an illusion created by people who don’t understand true love!” he had yelled back, completely unbothered by the passing teachers. “i can be mature! i can be whatever ya want! tell me yer type!”
“my type is men who don’t get yelled at by coach kurosu five times a day,” you replied, nudging his shoulder with your binder.
he took that as a direct challenge. he spent the next thirty-six months engaging in a relentless campaign of self-improvement. he tried wearing fake glasses to look smart (he ran into a wall). he tried speaking in a lower, brooding register (osamu recorded it and threatened to play it at his funeral). he begged you for coffee dates, study sessions, or even just permission to carry your bag. you always laughed, gently ruffing his hair, teasing him about his little teenage crush, constantly reminding him that he was just a kid.
it drove him entirely up the wall. he didn’t want to be your cute little high school underclassman. he wanted to be the guy who got to hold your hand in public, kiss you until you couldn’t remember your own name, and brag about you to every living soul in hyogo.
the day he turned eighteen was marked in his calendar in bright red permanent marker, surrounded by violent doodles of hearts and lightning bolts.
he didn’t waste a single second.
you were currently twenty-one, working a part-time job at a cozy little cafe near the station while finishing up your university degree. it was a slow tuesday afternoon, the gentle hum of the espresso machine filling the quiet space, when the bell above the door chimed with terrifying enthusiasm.
in walked atsumu.
except he wasn’t wearing his messy track pants or his loud grin. he was wearing a sleek, perfectly tailored black coat over a cream sweater. his hair was styled—actually styled—and he carried himself with an utterly lethal blend of confidence and quiet intensity. the boyish, chaotic energy was still humming right beneath his skin, but it was wrapped in broad shoulders, a sharp jawline, and eyes that locked onto you.
you nearly dropped the mug you were wiping down.
he didn’t bounce over like he usually did. he strolled up to the counter, planted his forearms on the wood, and leaned in just enough that you could smell his cologne—something warm, woody, and outrageously handsome.
“afternoon,” he said, his voice dropping into that rich, smooth kansai drawl that usually made his fan club faint in the stands.
“atsumu?” you blinked, staring at him. “what... why are you dressed like an actor in a romance drama?”
he smirked, but his knuckles were white where he was gripping the edge of the counter, betrayal of the sheer panic churning in his gut. “i’m legal today.”
you stared at him blankly. “what?”
“i’m eighteen,” he declared, his gaze burning straight into yours, unfathomably intense. “i’m officially an adult. ya can’t use the ‘ya’re just a kid’ excuse ever again. it’s expired. tossed in the trash. dead an’ buried.”
a flush crept up your neck before you could stop it. “atsumu, you literally turned eighteen today and your first thought was to march in here dressed like a male model?”
“my first thought, my middle thought, an’ my last thought every single day for the past three years has been ya,” he said, completely deadpan, without a drop of hesitation. he reached across the counter, his large, warm hand covering yours, his fingers sliding between yours with a gentle, insistent pressure. “i mean it. i was patient. i waited until i was old enough so ya couldn’t brush me off. go on a date with me.”
your heart thumped against your ribs like a trapped bird. “you’re crazy.”
“i’m wildly, fatally sick over ya, actually,” he corrected softly, his eyes softening into something so breathtakingly tender it made your knees feel like melted gelatin. the cocky smirk dropped, leaving behind the raw, transparent face of a boy who had spent years pining for a single chance. “please. just one date. if ya hate it, if ya look at me an’ really, truly don’t feel anything, i’ll back off. i’ll just be yer loudest fan from afar. but give me a shot.”
he looked so handsome, so utterly devoted, his thumb tracing delicate circles over the back of your knuckles. the absurdity of him—this elite, national-level athlete, a guy who could have anyone he wanted, standing in a random cafe begging you for a chance—made your chest swell with an overwhelming wave of affection.
“fine,” you breathed out, a small, helpless smile tugging at your lips. “one date.”
atsumu’s eyes went wide. for a second, he froze, as if his brain was processing the fact that he hadn’t been immediately shut down. then, the smooth, cool-guy facade completely shattered into a million pieces.
“YES!” he shouted, throwing his hands in the air and nearly knocking over the display case of croissants. “YES! ’SAMU, YA OWE ME FIFTY YEN!”
“i’m working, keep your voice down!” you giggled, covering your face with your hands as your cheeks burned.
“i can’t! i’m takin’ ya out! it’s the greatest day in human history!” he scrambled around the side of the counter, not even caring that he wasn’t supposed to be back there, and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into a hug that practically lifted your feet off the ground.
he smelled so good, felt so solid and warm against you. you let out a soft laugh and wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder.
he squeezed you tight, resting his chin on top of your head, letting out a long, shuddering exhale that sounded like a man who had just survived a shipwreck. “i’m gonna make ya fall so hard for me,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his hands trembling slightly where they held your waist. “ya won’t even see it comin’. i’m gonna adore ya so bad it’s gonna ruin everyone else for ya.”
“you already ruin everything with how loud you are,” you joked, pulling back slightly to look up at him.
atsumu leaned down, his face inches from yours, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back to your eyes, asking for permission without words. when you didn’t pull away, he beamed—a bright, blindingly beautiful smile that melted every last bit of your defense.
“just wait,” he promised, pressing a soft, lingering, utterly reverent kiss to your cheek that made your soul attempt to exit your body. “i’m the best thing that’s ever gonna happen to ya.”
n: this took a lot of effort (i had to sit and not lay down, that’s all)
please pay attention to your hopelessly in love junior, atsumu
w/c: 1.4k, reader is slightly older than him, pop up event won by @f2lix
the first time atsumu laid eyes on you, his brain effectively short-circuited, exploded into a shower of glitter, and rebooted as a dedicated shrine to your existence.
it was the start of his freshman year at inarizaki. the gymnasium smelled of cheap floor wax and hundreds of sweating teenagers, and the principal was drone-reading through a speech that could cure insomnia. atsumu was busy picking at a loose thread on his uniform when you walked past his row to hand out the orientation packets.
you were a third-year. poised, wearing a cardigan that looked infinitely softer than anything he deserved to touch, and possessed the kind of casual grace that made atsumu feel like a farm animal trying to do ballet. when you handed him his packet, your thumbs brushed for half a second.
the universe tilted on its axis, and atsumu’s heart did a full gymnastics routine inside his ribs.
“thank ya,” he squeaked out. his voice cracked so hard osamu later claimed a bat flew out of his throat.
you had just smiled—a soft, blindingly pretty thing—and murmured, “you’re welcome. you’re one of the boys joining the volleyball club, huh? good luck.”
for the next two years, atsumu behaved like a golden retriever with a serious lack of self-preservation. he was a menace. every single afternoon after practice, he would somehow find a reason to linger near the third-year hallway. he’d present you with strawberry milk, half-crushed steamed buns, or whatever shiny object he thought might win a smile.
“atsumu, you’re years younger than me,” you had told him back then, leaning against your locker while he leaned against the wall next to it, attempting to look like a dangerous bad boy and failing miserably because his dyed blonde hair was sticking up in three different directions. “i’m old enough to do your taxes. go home and do your homework.”
“age is an illusion created by people who don’t understand true love!” he had yelled back, completely unbothered by the passing teachers. “i can be mature! i can be whatever ya want! tell me yer type!”
“my type is men who don’t get yelled at by coach kurosu five times a day,” you replied, nudging his shoulder with your binder.
he took that as a direct challenge. he spent the next thirty-six months engaging in a relentless campaign of self-improvement. he tried wearing fake glasses to look smart (he ran into a wall). he tried speaking in a lower, brooding register (osamu recorded it and threatened to play it at his funeral). he begged you for coffee dates, study sessions, or even just permission to carry your bag. you always laughed, gently ruffing his hair, teasing him about his little teenage crush, constantly reminding him that he was just a kid.
it drove him entirely up the wall. he didn’t want to be your cute little high school underclassman. he wanted to be the guy who got to hold your hand in public, kiss you until you couldn’t remember your own name, and brag about you to every living soul in hyogo.
the day he turned eighteen was marked in his calendar in bright red permanent marker, surrounded by violent doodles of hearts and lightning bolts.
he didn’t waste a single second.
you were currently twenty-one, working a part-time job at a cozy little cafe near the station while finishing up your university degree. it was a slow tuesday afternoon, the gentle hum of the espresso machine filling the quiet space, when the bell above the door chimed with terrifying enthusiasm.
in walked atsumu.
except he wasn’t wearing his messy track pants or his loud grin. he was wearing a sleek, perfectly tailored black coat over a cream sweater. his hair was styled—actually styled—and he carried himself with an utterly lethal blend of confidence and quiet intensity. the boyish, chaotic energy was still humming right beneath his skin, but it was wrapped in broad shoulders, a sharp jawline, and eyes that locked onto you.
you nearly dropped the mug you were wiping down.
he didn’t bounce over like he usually did. he strolled up to the counter, planted his forearms on the wood, and leaned in just enough that you could smell his cologne—something warm, woody, and outrageously handsome.
“afternoon,” he said, his voice dropping into that rich, smooth kansai drawl that usually made his fan club faint in the stands.
“atsumu?” you blinked, staring at him. “what... why are you dressed like an actor in a romance drama?”
he smirked, but his knuckles were white where he was gripping the edge of the counter, betrayal of the sheer panic churning in his gut. “i’m legal today.”
you stared at him blankly. “what?”
“i’m eighteen,” he declared, his gaze burning straight into yours, unfathomably intense. “i’m officially an adult. ya can’t use the ‘ya’re just a kid’ excuse ever again. it’s expired. tossed in the trash. dead an’ buried.”
a flush crept up your neck before you could stop it. “atsumu, you literally turned eighteen today and your first thought was to march in here dressed like a male model?”
“my first thought, my middle thought, an’ my last thought every single day for the past three years has been ya,” he said, completely deadpan, without a drop of hesitation. he reached across the counter, his large, warm hand covering yours, his fingers sliding between yours with a gentle, insistent pressure. “i mean it. i was patient. i waited until i was old enough so ya couldn’t brush me off. go on a date with me.”
your heart thumped against your ribs like a trapped bird. “you’re crazy.”
“i’m wildly, fatally sick over ya, actually,” he corrected softly, his eyes softening into something so breathtakingly tender it made your knees feel like melted gelatin. the cocky smirk dropped, leaving behind the raw, transparent face of a boy who had spent years pining for a single chance. “please. just one date. if ya hate it, if ya look at me an’ really, truly don’t feel anything, i’ll back off. i’ll just be yer loudest fan from afar. but give me a shot.”
he looked so handsome, so utterly devoted, his thumb tracing delicate circles over the back of your knuckles. the absurdity of him—this elite, national-level athlete, a guy who could have anyone he wanted, standing in a random cafe begging you for a chance—made your chest swell with an overwhelming wave of affection.
“fine,” you breathed out, a small, helpless smile tugging at your lips. “one date.”
atsumu’s eyes went wide. for a second, he froze, as if his brain was processing the fact that he hadn’t been immediately shut down. then, the smooth, cool-guy facade completely shattered into a million pieces.
“YES!” he shouted, throwing his hands in the air and nearly knocking over the display case of croissants. “YES! ’SAMU, YA OWE ME FIFTY YEN!”
“i’m working, keep your voice down!” you giggled, covering your face with your hands as your cheeks burned.
“i can’t! i’m takin’ ya out! it’s the greatest day in human history!” he scrambled around the side of the counter, not even caring that he wasn’t supposed to be back there, and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into a hug that practically lifted your feet off the ground.
he smelled so good, felt so solid and warm against you. you let out a soft laugh and wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder.
he squeezed you tight, resting his chin on top of your head, letting out a long, shuddering exhale that sounded like a man who had just survived a shipwreck. “i’m gonna make ya fall so hard for me,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his hands trembling slightly where they held your waist. “ya won’t even see it comin’. i’m gonna adore ya so bad it’s gonna ruin everyone else for ya.”
“you already ruin everything with how loud you are,” you joked, pulling back slightly to look up at him.
atsumu leaned down, his face inches from yours, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back to your eyes, asking for permission without words. when you didn’t pull away, he beamed—a bright, blindingly beautiful smile that melted every last bit of your defense.
“just wait,” he promised, pressing a soft, lingering, utterly reverent kiss to your cheek that made your soul attempt to exit your body. “i’m the best thing that’s ever gonna happen to ya.”
n: this took a lot of effort (i had to sit and not lay down, that’s all)
please pay attention to your hopelessly in love junior, atsumu
w/c: 1.4k, reader is slightly older than him, pop up event won by @f2lix
the first time atsumu laid eyes on you, his brain effectively short-circuited, exploded into a shower of glitter, and rebooted as a dedicated shrine to your existence.
it was the start of his freshman year at inarizaki. the gymnasium smelled of cheap floor wax and hundreds of sweating teenagers, and the principal was drone-reading through a speech that could cure insomnia. atsumu was busy picking at a loose thread on his uniform when you walked past his row to hand out the orientation packets.
you were a third-year. poised, wearing a cardigan that looked infinitely softer than anything he deserved to touch, and possessed the kind of casual grace that made atsumu feel like a farm animal trying to do ballet. when you handed him his packet, your thumbs brushed for half a second.
the universe tilted on its axis, and atsumu’s heart did a full gymnastics routine inside his ribs.
“thank ya,” he squeaked out. his voice cracked so hard osamu later claimed a bat flew out of his throat.
you had just smiled—a soft, blindingly pretty thing—and murmured, “you’re welcome. you’re one of the boys joining the volleyball club, huh? good luck.”
for the next two years, atsumu behaved like a golden retriever with a serious lack of self-preservation. he was a menace. every single afternoon after practice, he would somehow find a reason to linger near the third-year hallway. he’d present you with strawberry milk, half-crushed steamed buns, or whatever shiny object he thought might win a smile.
“atsumu, you’re years younger than me,” you had told him back then, leaning against your locker while he leaned against the wall next to it, attempting to look like a dangerous bad boy and failing miserably because his dyed blonde hair was sticking up in three different directions. “i’m old enough to do your taxes. go home and do your homework.”
“age is an illusion created by people who don’t understand true love!” he had yelled back, completely unbothered by the passing teachers. “i can be mature! i can be whatever ya want! tell me yer type!”
“my type is men who don’t get yelled at by coach kurosu five times a day,” you replied, nudging his shoulder with your binder.
he took that as a direct challenge. he spent the next thirty-six months engaging in a relentless campaign of self-improvement. he tried wearing fake glasses to look smart (he ran into a wall). he tried speaking in a lower, brooding register (osamu recorded it and threatened to play it at his funeral). he begged you for coffee dates, study sessions, or even just permission to carry your bag. you always laughed, gently ruffing his hair, teasing him about his little teenage crush, constantly reminding him that he was just a kid.
it drove him entirely up the wall. he didn’t want to be your cute little high school underclassman. he wanted to be the guy who got to hold your hand in public, kiss you until you couldn’t remember your own name, and brag about you to every living soul in hyogo.
the day he turned eighteen was marked in his calendar in bright red permanent marker, surrounded by violent doodles of hearts and lightning bolts.
he didn’t waste a single second.
you were currently twenty-one, working a part-time job at a cozy little cafe near the station while finishing up your university degree. it was a slow tuesday afternoon, the gentle hum of the espresso machine filling the quiet space, when the bell above the door chimed with terrifying enthusiasm.
in walked atsumu.
except he wasn’t wearing his messy track pants or his loud grin. he was wearing a sleek, perfectly tailored black coat over a cream sweater. his hair was styled—actually styled—and he carried himself with an utterly lethal blend of confidence and quiet intensity. the boyish, chaotic energy was still humming right beneath his skin, but it was wrapped in broad shoulders, a sharp jawline, and eyes that locked onto you.
you nearly dropped the mug you were wiping down.
he didn’t bounce over like he usually did. he strolled up to the counter, planted his forearms on the wood, and leaned in just enough that you could smell his cologne—something warm, woody, and outrageously handsome.
“afternoon,” he said, his voice dropping into that rich, smooth kansai drawl that usually made his fan club faint in the stands.
“atsumu?” you blinked, staring at him. “what... why are you dressed like an actor in a romance drama?”
he smirked, but his knuckles were white where he was gripping the edge of the counter, betrayal of the sheer panic churning in his gut. “i’m legal today.”
you stared at him blankly. “what?”
“i’m eighteen,” he declared, his gaze burning straight into yours, unfathomably intense. “i’m officially an adult. ya can’t use the ‘ya’re just a kid’ excuse ever again. it’s expired. tossed in the trash. dead an’ buried.”
a flush crept up your neck before you could stop it. “atsumu, you literally turned eighteen today and your first thought was to march in here dressed like a male model?”
“my first thought, my middle thought, an’ my last thought every single day for the past three years has been ya,” he said, completely deadpan, without a drop of hesitation. he reached across the counter, his large, warm hand covering yours, his fingers sliding between yours with a gentle, insistent pressure. “i mean it. i was patient. i waited until i was old enough so ya couldn’t brush me off. go on a date with me.”
your heart thumped against your ribs like a trapped bird. “you’re crazy.”
“i’m wildly, fatally sick over ya, actually,” he corrected softly, his eyes softening into something so breathtakingly tender it made your knees feel like melted gelatin. the cocky smirk dropped, leaving behind the raw, transparent face of a boy who had spent years pining for a single chance. “please. just one date. if ya hate it, if ya look at me an’ really, truly don’t feel anything, i’ll back off. i’ll just be yer loudest fan from afar. but give me a shot.”
he looked so handsome, so utterly devoted, his thumb tracing delicate circles over the back of your knuckles. the absurdity of him—this elite, national-level athlete, a guy who could have anyone he wanted, standing in a random cafe begging you for a chance—made your chest swell with an overwhelming wave of affection.
“fine,” you breathed out, a small, helpless smile tugging at your lips. “one date.”
atsumu’s eyes went wide. for a second, he froze, as if his brain was processing the fact that he hadn’t been immediately shut down. then, the smooth, cool-guy facade completely shattered into a million pieces.
“YES!” he shouted, throwing his hands in the air and nearly knocking over the display case of croissants. “YES! ’SAMU, YA OWE ME FIFTY YEN!”
“i’m working, keep your voice down!” you giggled, covering your face with your hands as your cheeks burned.
“i can’t! i’m takin’ ya out! it’s the greatest day in human history!” he scrambled around the side of the counter, not even caring that he wasn’t supposed to be back there, and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into a hug that practically lifted your feet off the ground.
he smelled so good, felt so solid and warm against you. you let out a soft laugh and wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder.
he squeezed you tight, resting his chin on top of your head, letting out a long, shuddering exhale that sounded like a man who had just survived a shipwreck. “i’m gonna make ya fall so hard for me,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his hands trembling slightly where they held your waist. “ya won’t even see it comin’. i’m gonna adore ya so bad it’s gonna ruin everyone else for ya.”
“you already ruin everything with how loud you are,” you joked, pulling back slightly to look up at him.
atsumu leaned down, his face inches from yours, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back to your eyes, asking for permission without words. when you didn’t pull away, he beamed—a bright, blindingly beautiful smile that melted every last bit of your defense.
“just wait,” he promised, pressing a soft, lingering, utterly reverent kiss to your cheek that made your soul attempt to exit your body. “i’m the best thing that’s ever gonna happen to ya.”
n: this took a lot of effort (i had to sit and not lay down, that’s all)
please pay attention to your hopelessly in love junior, atsumu
w/c: 1.4k, reader is slightly older than him, pop up event won by @f2lix
the first time atsumu laid eyes on you, his brain effectively short-circuited, exploded into a shower of glitter, and rebooted as a dedicated shrine to your existence.
it was the start of his freshman year at inarizaki. the gymnasium smelled of cheap floor wax and hundreds of sweating teenagers, and the principal was drone-reading through a speech that could cure insomnia. atsumu was busy picking at a loose thread on his uniform when you walked past his row to hand out the orientation packets.
you were a third-year. poised, wearing a cardigan that looked infinitely softer than anything he deserved to touch, and possessed the kind of casual grace that made atsumu feel like a farm animal trying to do ballet. when you handed him his packet, your thumbs brushed for half a second.
the universe tilted on its axis, and atsumu’s heart did a full gymnastics routine inside his ribs.
“thank ya,” he squeaked out. his voice cracked so hard osamu later claimed a bat flew out of his throat.
you had just smiled—a soft, blindingly pretty thing—and murmured, “you’re welcome. you’re one of the boys joining the volleyball club, huh? good luck.”
for the next two years, atsumu behaved like a golden retriever with a serious lack of self-preservation. he was a menace. every single afternoon after practice, he would somehow find a reason to linger near the third-year hallway. he’d present you with strawberry milk, half-crushed steamed buns, or whatever shiny object he thought might win a smile.
“atsumu, you’re years younger than me,” you had told him back then, leaning against your locker while he leaned against the wall next to it, attempting to look like a dangerous bad boy and failing miserably because his dyed blonde hair was sticking up in three different directions. “i’m old enough to do your taxes. go home and do your homework.”
“age is an illusion created by people who don’t understand true love!” he had yelled back, completely unbothered by the passing teachers. “i can be mature! i can be whatever ya want! tell me yer type!”
“my type is men who don’t get yelled at by coach kurosu five times a day,” you replied, nudging his shoulder with your binder.
he took that as a direct challenge. he spent the next thirty-six months engaging in a relentless campaign of self-improvement. he tried wearing fake glasses to look smart (he ran into a wall). he tried speaking in a lower, brooding register (osamu recorded it and threatened to play it at his funeral). he begged you for coffee dates, study sessions, or even just permission to carry your bag. you always laughed, gently ruffing his hair, teasing him about his little teenage crush, constantly reminding him that he was just a kid.
it drove him entirely up the wall. he didn’t want to be your cute little high school underclassman. he wanted to be the guy who got to hold your hand in public, kiss you until you couldn’t remember your own name, and brag about you to every living soul in hyogo.
the day he turned eighteen was marked in his calendar in bright red permanent marker, surrounded by violent doodles of hearts and lightning bolts.
he didn’t waste a single second.
you were currently twenty-one, working a part-time job at a cozy little cafe near the station while finishing up your university degree. it was a slow tuesday afternoon, the gentle hum of the espresso machine filling the quiet space, when the bell above the door chimed with terrifying enthusiasm.
in walked atsumu.
except he wasn’t wearing his messy track pants or his loud grin. he was wearing a sleek, perfectly tailored black coat over a cream sweater. his hair was styled—actually styled—and he carried himself with an utterly lethal blend of confidence and quiet intensity. the boyish, chaotic energy was still humming right beneath his skin, but it was wrapped in broad shoulders, a sharp jawline, and eyes that locked onto you.
you nearly dropped the mug you were wiping down.
he didn’t bounce over like he usually did. he strolled up to the counter, planted his forearms on the wood, and leaned in just enough that you could smell his cologne—something warm, woody, and outrageously handsome.
“afternoon,” he said, his voice dropping into that rich, smooth kansai drawl that usually made his fan club faint in the stands.
“atsumu?” you blinked, staring at him. “what... why are you dressed like an actor in a romance drama?”
he smirked, but his knuckles were white where he was gripping the edge of the counter, betrayal of the sheer panic churning in his gut. “i’m legal today.”
you stared at him blankly. “what?”
“i’m eighteen,” he declared, his gaze burning straight into yours, unfathomably intense. “i’m officially an adult. ya can’t use the ‘ya’re just a kid’ excuse ever again. it’s expired. tossed in the trash. dead an’ buried.”
a flush crept up your neck before you could stop it. “atsumu, you literally turned eighteen today and your first thought was to march in here dressed like a male model?”
“my first thought, my middle thought, an’ my last thought every single day for the past three years has been ya,” he said, completely deadpan, without a drop of hesitation. he reached across the counter, his large, warm hand covering yours, his fingers sliding between yours with a gentle, insistent pressure. “i mean it. i was patient. i waited until i was old enough so ya couldn’t brush me off. go on a date with me.”
your heart thumped against your ribs like a trapped bird. “you’re crazy.”
“i’m wildly, fatally sick over ya, actually,” he corrected softly, his eyes softening into something so breathtakingly tender it made your knees feel like melted gelatin. the cocky smirk dropped, leaving behind the raw, transparent face of a boy who had spent years pining for a single chance. “please. just one date. if ya hate it, if ya look at me an’ really, truly don’t feel anything, i’ll back off. i’ll just be yer loudest fan from afar. but give me a shot.”
he looked so handsome, so utterly devoted, his thumb tracing delicate circles over the back of your knuckles. the absurdity of him—this elite, national-level athlete, a guy who could have anyone he wanted, standing in a random cafe begging you for a chance—made your chest swell with an overwhelming wave of affection.
“fine,” you breathed out, a small, helpless smile tugging at your lips. “one date.”
atsumu’s eyes went wide. for a second, he froze, as if his brain was processing the fact that he hadn’t been immediately shut down. then, the smooth, cool-guy facade completely shattered into a million pieces.
“YES!” he shouted, throwing his hands in the air and nearly knocking over the display case of croissants. “YES! ’SAMU, YA OWE ME FIFTY YEN!”
“i’m working, keep your voice down!” you giggled, covering your face with your hands as your cheeks burned.
“i can’t! i’m takin’ ya out! it’s the greatest day in human history!” he scrambled around the side of the counter, not even caring that he wasn’t supposed to be back there, and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into a hug that practically lifted your feet off the ground.
he smelled so good, felt so solid and warm against you. you let out a soft laugh and wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder.
he squeezed you tight, resting his chin on top of your head, letting out a long, shuddering exhale that sounded like a man who had just survived a shipwreck. “i’m gonna make ya fall so hard for me,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his hands trembling slightly where they held your waist. “ya won’t even see it comin’. i’m gonna adore ya so bad it’s gonna ruin everyone else for ya.”
“you already ruin everything with how loud you are,” you joked, pulling back slightly to look up at him.
atsumu leaned down, his face inches from yours, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back to your eyes, asking for permission without words. when you didn’t pull away, he beamed—a bright, blindingly beautiful smile that melted every last bit of your defense.
“just wait,” he promised, pressing a soft, lingering, utterly reverent kiss to your cheek that made your soul attempt to exit your body. “i’m the best thing that’s ever gonna happen to ya.”
n: this took a lot of effort (i had to sit and not lay down, that’s all)
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please pay attention to your hopelessly in love junior, atsumu
w/c: 1.4k, reader is slightly older than him, pop up event won by @f2lix
the first time atsumu laid eyes on you, his brain effectively short-circuited, exploded into a shower of glitter, and rebooted as a dedicated shrine to your existence.
it was the start of his freshman year at inarizaki. the gymnasium smelled of cheap floor wax and hundreds of sweating teenagers, and the principal was drone-reading through a speech that could cure insomnia. atsumu was busy picking at a loose thread on his uniform when you walked past his row to hand out the orientation packets.
you were a third-year. poised, wearing a cardigan that looked infinitely softer than anything he deserved to touch, and possessed the kind of casual grace that made atsumu feel like a farm animal trying to do ballet. when you handed him his packet, your thumbs brushed for half a second.
the universe tilted on its axis, and atsumu’s heart did a full gymnastics routine inside his ribs.
“thank ya,” he squeaked out. his voice cracked so hard osamu later claimed a bat flew out of his throat.
you had just smiled—a soft, blindingly pretty thing—and murmured, “you’re welcome. you’re one of the boys joining the volleyball club, huh? good luck.”
for the next two years, atsumu behaved like a golden retriever with a serious lack of self-preservation. he was a menace. every single afternoon after practice, he would somehow find a reason to linger near the third-year hallway. he’d present you with strawberry milk, half-crushed steamed buns, or whatever shiny object he thought might win a smile.
“atsumu, you’re years younger than me,” you had told him back then, leaning against your locker while he leaned against the wall next to it, attempting to look like a dangerous bad boy and failing miserably because his dyed blonde hair was sticking up in three different directions. “i’m old enough to do your taxes. go home and do your homework.”
“age is an illusion created by people who don’t understand true love!” he had yelled back, completely unbothered by the passing teachers. “i can be mature! i can be whatever ya want! tell me yer type!”
“my type is men who don’t get yelled at by coach kurosu five times a day,” you replied, nudging his shoulder with your binder.
he took that as a direct challenge. he spent the next thirty-six months engaging in a relentless campaign of self-improvement. he tried wearing fake glasses to look smart (he ran into a wall). he tried speaking in a lower, brooding register (osamu recorded it and threatened to play it at his funeral). he begged you for coffee dates, study sessions, or even just permission to carry your bag. you always laughed, gently ruffing his hair, teasing him about his little teenage crush, constantly reminding him that he was just a kid.
it drove him entirely up the wall. he didn’t want to be your cute little high school underclassman. he wanted to be the guy who got to hold your hand in public, kiss you until you couldn’t remember your own name, and brag about you to every living soul in hyogo.
the day he turned eighteen was marked in his calendar in bright red permanent marker, surrounded by violent doodles of hearts and lightning bolts.
he didn’t waste a single second.
you were currently twenty-one, working a part-time job at a cozy little cafe near the station while finishing up your university degree. it was a slow tuesday afternoon, the gentle hum of the espresso machine filling the quiet space, when the bell above the door chimed with terrifying enthusiasm.
in walked atsumu.
except he wasn’t wearing his messy track pants or his loud grin. he was wearing a sleek, perfectly tailored black coat over a cream sweater. his hair was styled—actually styled—and he carried himself with an utterly lethal blend of confidence and quiet intensity. the boyish, chaotic energy was still humming right beneath his skin, but it was wrapped in broad shoulders, a sharp jawline, and eyes that locked onto you.
you nearly dropped the mug you were wiping down.
he didn’t bounce over like he usually did. he strolled up to the counter, planted his forearms on the wood, and leaned in just enough that you could smell his cologne—something warm, woody, and outrageously handsome.
“afternoon,” he said, his voice dropping into that rich, smooth kansai drawl that usually made his fan club faint in the stands.
“atsumu?” you blinked, staring at him. “what... why are you dressed like an actor in a romance drama?”
he smirked, but his knuckles were white where he was gripping the edge of the counter, betrayal of the sheer panic churning in his gut. “i’m legal today.”
you stared at him blankly. “what?”
“i’m eighteen,” he declared, his gaze burning straight into yours, unfathomably intense. “i’m officially an adult. ya can’t use the ‘ya’re just a kid’ excuse ever again. it’s expired. tossed in the trash. dead an’ buried.”
a flush crept up your neck before you could stop it. “atsumu, you literally turned eighteen today and your first thought was to march in here dressed like a male model?”
“my first thought, my middle thought, an’ my last thought every single day for the past three years has been ya,” he said, completely deadpan, without a drop of hesitation. he reached across the counter, his large, warm hand covering yours, his fingers sliding between yours with a gentle, insistent pressure. “i mean it. i was patient. i waited until i was old enough so ya couldn’t brush me off. go on a date with me.”
your heart thumped against your ribs like a trapped bird. “you’re crazy.”
“i’m wildly, fatally sick over ya, actually,” he corrected softly, his eyes softening into something so breathtakingly tender it made your knees feel like melted gelatin. the cocky smirk dropped, leaving behind the raw, transparent face of a boy who had spent years pining for a single chance. “please. just one date. if ya hate it, if ya look at me an’ really, truly don’t feel anything, i’ll back off. i’ll just be yer loudest fan from afar. but give me a shot.”
he looked so handsome, so utterly devoted, his thumb tracing delicate circles over the back of your knuckles. the absurdity of him—this elite, national-level athlete, a guy who could have anyone he wanted, standing in a random cafe begging you for a chance—made your chest swell with an overwhelming wave of affection.
“fine,” you breathed out, a small, helpless smile tugging at your lips. “one date.”
atsumu’s eyes went wide. for a second, he froze, as if his brain was processing the fact that he hadn’t been immediately shut down. then, the smooth, cool-guy facade completely shattered into a million pieces.
“YES!” he shouted, throwing his hands in the air and nearly knocking over the display case of croissants. “YES! ’SAMU, YA OWE ME FIFTY YEN!”
“i’m working, keep your voice down!” you giggled, covering your face with your hands as your cheeks burned.
“i can’t! i’m takin’ ya out! it’s the greatest day in human history!” he scrambled around the side of the counter, not even caring that he wasn’t supposed to be back there, and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into a hug that practically lifted your feet off the ground.
he smelled so good, felt so solid and warm against you. you let out a soft laugh and wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder.
he squeezed you tight, resting his chin on top of your head, letting out a long, shuddering exhale that sounded like a man who had just survived a shipwreck. “i’m gonna make ya fall so hard for me,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his hands trembling slightly where they held your waist. “ya won’t even see it comin’. i’m gonna adore ya so bad it’s gonna ruin everyone else for ya.”
“you already ruin everything with how loud you are,” you joked, pulling back slightly to look up at him.
atsumu leaned down, his face inches from yours, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back to your eyes, asking for permission without words. when you didn’t pull away, he beamed—a bright, blindingly beautiful smile that melted every last bit of your defense.
“just wait,” he promised, pressing a soft, lingering, utterly reverent kiss to your cheek that made your soul attempt to exit your body. “i’m the best thing that’s ever gonna happen to ya.”
n: this took a lot of effort (i had to sit and not lay down, that’s all)
osamu has a fat crush on you, even if you insist that you’re older than him.
w/c: 2.1k, reader is a few years older than osamu, inspired by the song “replay” by SHINee, a random pop up game won by @brooksviolin :3
the exact moment osamu decided he was going to marry you, he was nine years old and covered in dirt from getting thrown into a bush by his twin brother.
you had been sitting on the porch of his family house, nineteen inches away, wearing a bright t-shirt and chewing on a strawberry popsicle like a normal person. then you looked down at his scraped knees, sighed with the profound, heavy wisdom of an eleven-year-old elder statesman, and handed him half of your frozen juice stick.
it was over. instantly. finished. his soul left his body, flew straight into your pocket, and took up permanent residence next to your spare lip balm your mom got you since you kept licking your lips.
now, nearly a decade later, the situation had escalated from a minor neighborhood nuisance to a structural hazard for your sanity.
“you’re looking at me like you want to chew off my arm,” you said, not taking your eyes off your laptop screen.
you were sitting at the miya family kitchen table, surrounded by three different highlighters, a binder full of university notes on microeconomics, and a lukewarm mug of hot chocolate. your mom was outside chatting with osamu’s mom over gossip and chopped radishes, which meant you were trapped upstairs in the line of fire.
“i don’t want to chew your arm,” osamu said smoothly. he was leaning against the doorframe, wearing his inarizaki jersey, looking far too large for the doorway. he had a damp towel hanging around his neck and his hair was still sticking up in dark, spiky clumps from the shower. “i just want to hold your hand while you read that boring stuff. gives my fingers something useful to do.”
“this is not boring stuff, this is supply and demand,” you muttered, tapping your pencil against the desk. “and you have a math test on thursday that you haven’t opened a book for.”
“i know everything about supply and demand,” he declared, taking three massive, deliberate strides across the floor. he pulled up a wooden chair, spun it around backward, and dropped his chin onto the top rail, sitting so close that his knees pressed against the outside of your thigh. “you’re the supply. i’m the overwhelming, desperate, bottomless demand.”
you closed your eyes for a long, quiet three seconds, breathing through your nose. “osamu.”
“y/n.”
“you’re eighteen years old as of four days ago.”
“legal,” he pointed out instantly, his eyes gleaming with the terrifying, razor-sharp focus of an eagle targeting a field mouse. “which means you can stop using the ‘you’re just a kid’ defense. it’s dead. buried in the backyard next to atsumu’s dignity.”
“you’re still in high school!” you dragged a hand down your face, feeling the familiar warmth creeping up the back of your neck. it was infuriating how good he looked now. at twelve, he was a loud, rice-obsessed little gremlin who followed you around like a duckling. at fifteen, he had sprouted five inches overnight and started looking at you with this intense quietness that made your pulse jump out of its skin. now, at eighteen, he was basically a brick wall with a jawline, sitting two inches away from you and radiating heat like a freshly stoked woodstove. “i have midterms! i have adult problems! i’m older than you!”
“two years,” osamu said, completely unfazed. he reached out, his thick, calloused fingers gently wrapping around the wrist of the hand you were holding your pencil with. he didn’t pull, just held it, his thumb sliding back and forth over your pulse point with a steady rhythm. “two years is nothing. in twenty years you’ll be forty and i’ll be thirty-eight and we’ll still be eating dinner together every night, so you might as well get used to it now.”
your breath hitched, a tiny, embarrassing sound in the quiet kitchen. “you’re ridiculously confident for someone who got a twelve on his last english essay.”
“atsumu got an eight,” he countered seamlessly. “and english doesn’t matter. i know how to say ‘i adore you’ in three different dialects, and i know how to feed you until you make that stupid little sound in the back of your throat when something tastes good. what else do we need?”
“a license to keep you fifty feet away from me,” you grumbled, though you didn’t pull your hand away. you couldn’t. his thumb was so warm, his hand so large and grounding against your desk-stiffened joints, that moving felt like a crime against your own physical comfort.
osamu noticed. of course he noticed. his mouth twitched up at the corner, a tiny, rare smirk that made his dark eyes crinkle at the edges.
without breaking eye contact, he leaned forward, dragging his chair an inch closer. the scent of his soap—something clean and sharp like cedar and fresh rain—flooded your lungs, instantly rendering your brain into a bowl of lukewarm porridge.
“i brought you something,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave into that low, rumble-in-the-chest tone that made your face feel hotter than ever.
he reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped piece of plastic film. inside was a perfectly shaped, gleaming triangular rice ball, wrapped in crisp sea kelp and dusted with sesame seeds.
“i made it twenty minutes ago,” osamu whispered, setting it down gently right on top of your open economics textbook, directly over a graph about marginal utility. “spicy tuna. the kind you like with the extra pickled radish inside.”
you stared at the rice ball. then you stared at him. “are you bribing me?”
“i’m courting you,” he corrected, absolutely zero shame in his voice. he leaned his chin down onto his arm, looking up at you through his long, dark eyelashes like a massive, six-foot golden retriever begging for a piece of steak. “there’s a difference. bribes are temporary. courting means i’m gonna keep making these for you until we’re eighty.”
“osamu, i swear to god—”
“eat it,” he coaxed gently, taking your pencil out of your hand and replacing it with the warm, heavy weight of the rice ball. “you’ve been studying for three hours. your face is pale and your shoulders are up by your ears. eat it or i’ll feed it to you myself.”
“you wouldn’t dare.”
“try me,” he said softly, a dangerous, dark little spark flashing in his eyes. “i’ve got no manners when it comes to you. you know that.”
he wasn’t lying. osamu was usually the quiet twin, the sensible (🤔) one, the one who kept his head down and cooked his food and ignored his brother’s theatrical meltdowns. but when it came to you, every ounce of his restraint melted straight into a thick, gooey puddle of devotion. he was a guy who would burn down a building with no remorse if you mentioned you were chilly, then offer you his jacket like he hadn’t just committed a felony for your comfort.
you took a small bite of the rice ball.
it was, predictably, the best thing you had ever put in your mouth. the rice was perfect, the spice hit the back of your throat just right, and the crunchy radish added a bright, salty burst that made your whole face relax. you let out a soft, involuntary sigh, sinking back into your chair.
osamu watched you with a expression so sickeningly sweet it could have given a dentist a heart attack on the spot. he looked like he had just been handed the keys to the entire universe.
“good?” he asked, his voice soft as velvet.
“it’s fine,” you lied terribly, taking another, much larger bite.
“liar. you love it.” osamu stood up, but instead of walking away, he moved around behind your chair. you froze as his large, heavy hands settled onto your shoulders, his thumbs immediately finding the knot of tension right at the base of your neck and pressing down with absolute, professional precision.
you let out a whimper before you could stop yourself.
“jesus,” you gasped, your head dropping forward. “where did you learn to do that?”
“practiced on myself after volleyball,” he muttered, digging his thumbs deep into your trapezius muscles, working out the stiffness from hours of slouching over textbooks. “but mostly i just thought about how tight your shoulders get when you study. you hold all your stress right here. it drives me crazy.”
his breath was warm against the top of your head. every touch was heavy, deliberate, and so dripping with quiet affection that you felt like you were drowning in syrup.
“osamu,” you breathed, closing your eyes as he moved his hands down to the small of your back, pressing through the fabric of your clothes. “this is unfair.”
“what’s unfair?”
“you. coming in here with food and massages while i’m trying to fail my classes in peace.”
“you’re not gonna fail,” he whispered. he leaned down, his chest pressing against the back of your head, his face burying right into the curve where your neck met your shoulder. he took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. “and even if you do, i’ll build us a little shop by the train station. you can sit at the register and tell me i’m annoying, and i’ll make rice balls for you all day.”
your heart gave a violent, terrible thud against your ribs. “that sounds like a terrible business model.”
“it’s a great business model,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin just below your ear. a wild, electic shiver shot straight down your spine, making your hands twitch on your lap. “i don’t care about the money. i just want you in the room.”
you turned your head slightly, catching his eye. he was looking at you from inches away, his dark grey eyes completely clear, completely devoid of any joking or teenage bravado. he meant every single syllable. he had meant it when he was nine, he meant it now, and he would mean it when he was gray and senile.
“you’re absolutely rotten,” you said, your voice softening.
“i know,” osamu agreed instantly, his thumb reaching out to gently wipe a tiny grain of rice from the corner of your lower lip. he didn’t pull his hand back; instead, his thumb lingered, softly resting against your chin, tilting your face up toward his. “so give in. i’ve been waiting six years. i’m polite, but i’m running out of patience.”
“you were twelve six years ago!”
“and i was right then, too,” he said softly.
and then, he finally leaned down the remaining two inches and pressed his mouth to yours.
osamu kissed the way he ate—completely devoted, thorough, and with consuming hunger that made your brain short-circuit instantly. his mouth was warm, soft, and tasted faintly of sweet rice and chocolate. his hand slid around from your shoulder to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair to hold you right where he wanted you, pulling you up until you were practically standing out of your chair just to meet him halfway.
you let out a tiny, breathless gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to grip the fabric of his athletic jersey, crumpling the smooth polyester in your fists.
when he finally pulled back, just half an inch, his forehead rested against yours. his breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling against your chest, his dark eyes wide and bright with a frantic, triumphant joy.
“there,” osamu whispered, his mouth curling into a broad, stupid, utterly helpless grin that made him look like the happiest idiot on the planet. “now you’re my girlfriend. you can’t undo it, it’s a binding verbal contract.”
you stared at him, your lips tingling, your face burning hot enough to fry an egg, your mind completely cleared of all microeconomics equations.
“i didn’t agree to anything,” you stammered, though your hands were still tightly clenched in his shirt.
osamu leaned down and kissed you again, short and hard on the mouth, making a satisfying little sound. “you held onto my shirt. that counts as signing in ink.”
he let go of your neck, pulled your chair back out, and sat down on the floor right beside your legs, resting his chin on your knee and looking up at you like you had personally hung the moon in the sky just for him.
“now finish your rice,” he ordered gently, settling his large hands over your ankles like heavy anchors. “i’m gonna sit right here and watch you study until our moms calls us down.”
osamu has a fat crush on you, even if you insist that you’re older than him.
w/c: 2.1k, reader is a few years older than osamu, inspired by the song “replay” by SHINee, a random pop up game won by @brooksviolin :3
the exact moment osamu decided he was going to marry you, he was nine years old and covered in dirt from getting thrown into a bush by his twin brother.
you had been sitting on the porch of his family house, nineteen inches away, wearing a bright t-shirt and chewing on a strawberry popsicle like a normal person. then you looked down at his scraped knees, sighed with the profound, heavy wisdom of an eleven-year-old elder statesman, and handed him half of your frozen juice stick.
it was over. instantly. finished. his soul left his body, flew straight into your pocket, and took up permanent residence next to your spare lip balm your mom got you since you kept licking your lips.
now, nearly a decade later, the situation had escalated from a minor neighborhood nuisance to a structural hazard for your sanity.
“you’re looking at me like you want to chew off my arm,” you said, not taking your eyes off your laptop screen.
you were sitting at the miya family kitchen table, surrounded by three different highlighters, a binder full of university notes on microeconomics, and a lukewarm mug of hot chocolate. your mom was outside chatting with osamu’s mom over gossip and chopped radishes, which meant you were trapped upstairs in the line of fire.
“i don’t want to chew your arm,” osamu said smoothly. he was leaning against the doorframe, wearing his inarizaki jersey, looking far too large for the doorway. he had a damp towel hanging around his neck and his hair was still sticking up in dark, spiky clumps from the shower. “i just want to hold your hand while you read that boring stuff. gives my fingers something useful to do.”
“this is not boring stuff, this is supply and demand,” you muttered, tapping your pencil against the desk. “and you have a math test on thursday that you haven’t opened a book for.”
“i know everything about supply and demand,” he declared, taking three massive, deliberate strides across the floor. he pulled up a wooden chair, spun it around backward, and dropped his chin onto the top rail, sitting so close that his knees pressed against the outside of your thigh. “you’re the supply. i’m the overwhelming, desperate, bottomless demand.”
you closed your eyes for a long, quiet three seconds, breathing through your nose. “osamu.”
“y/n.”
“you’re eighteen years old as of four days ago.”
“legal,” he pointed out instantly, his eyes gleaming with the terrifying, razor-sharp focus of an eagle targeting a field mouse. “which means you can stop using the ‘you’re just a kid’ defense. it’s dead. buried in the backyard next to atsumu’s dignity.”
“you’re still in high school!” you dragged a hand down your face, feeling the familiar warmth creeping up the back of your neck. it was infuriating how good he looked now. at twelve, he was a loud, rice-obsessed little gremlin who followed you around like a duckling. at fifteen, he had sprouted five inches overnight and started looking at you with this intense quietness that made your pulse jump out of its skin. now, at eighteen, he was basically a brick wall with a jawline, sitting two inches away from you and radiating heat like a freshly stoked woodstove. “i have midterms! i have adult problems! i’m older than you!”
“two years,” osamu said, completely unfazed. he reached out, his thick, calloused fingers gently wrapping around the wrist of the hand you were holding your pencil with. he didn’t pull, just held it, his thumb sliding back and forth over your pulse point with a steady rhythm. “two years is nothing. in twenty years you’ll be forty and i’ll be thirty-eight and we’ll still be eating dinner together every night, so you might as well get used to it now.”
your breath hitched, a tiny, embarrassing sound in the quiet kitchen. “you’re ridiculously confident for someone who got a twelve on his last english essay.”
“atsumu got an eight,” he countered seamlessly. “and english doesn’t matter. i know how to say ‘i adore you’ in three different dialects, and i know how to feed you until you make that stupid little sound in the back of your throat when something tastes good. what else do we need?”
“a license to keep you fifty feet away from me,” you grumbled, though you didn’t pull your hand away. you couldn’t. his thumb was so warm, his hand so large and grounding against your desk-stiffened joints, that moving felt like a crime against your own physical comfort.
osamu noticed. of course he noticed. his mouth twitched up at the corner, a tiny, rare smirk that made his dark eyes crinkle at the edges.
without breaking eye contact, he leaned forward, dragging his chair an inch closer. the scent of his soap—something clean and sharp like cedar and fresh rain—flooded your lungs, instantly rendering your brain into a bowl of lukewarm porridge.
“i brought you something,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave into that low, rumble-in-the-chest tone that made your face feel hotter than ever.
he reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped piece of plastic film. inside was a perfectly shaped, gleaming triangular rice ball, wrapped in crisp sea kelp and dusted with sesame seeds.
“i made it twenty minutes ago,” osamu whispered, setting it down gently right on top of your open economics textbook, directly over a graph about marginal utility. “spicy tuna. the kind you like with the extra pickled radish inside.”
you stared at the rice ball. then you stared at him. “are you bribing me?”
“i’m courting you,” he corrected, absolutely zero shame in his voice. he leaned his chin down onto his arm, looking up at you through his long, dark eyelashes like a massive, six-foot golden retriever begging for a piece of steak. “there’s a difference. bribes are temporary. courting means i’m gonna keep making these for you until we’re eighty.”
“osamu, i swear to god—”
“eat it,” he coaxed gently, taking your pencil out of your hand and replacing it with the warm, heavy weight of the rice ball. “you’ve been studying for three hours. your face is pale and your shoulders are up by your ears. eat it or i’ll feed it to you myself.”
“you wouldn’t dare.”
“try me,” he said softly, a dangerous, dark little spark flashing in his eyes. “i’ve got no manners when it comes to you. you know that.”
he wasn’t lying. osamu was usually the quiet twin, the sensible (🤔) one, the one who kept his head down and cooked his food and ignored his brother’s theatrical meltdowns. but when it came to you, every ounce of his restraint melted straight into a thick, gooey puddle of devotion. he was a guy who would burn down a building with no remorse if you mentioned you were chilly, then offer you his jacket like he hadn’t just committed a felony for your comfort.
you took a small bite of the rice ball.
it was, predictably, the best thing you had ever put in your mouth. the rice was perfect, the spice hit the back of your throat just right, and the crunchy radish added a bright, salty burst that made your whole face relax. you let out a soft, involuntary sigh, sinking back into your chair.
osamu watched you with a expression so sickeningly sweet it could have given a dentist a heart attack on the spot. he looked like he had just been handed the keys to the entire universe.
“good?” he asked, his voice soft as velvet.
“it’s fine,” you lied terribly, taking another, much larger bite.
“liar. you love it.” osamu stood up, but instead of walking away, he moved around behind your chair. you froze as his large, heavy hands settled onto your shoulders, his thumbs immediately finding the knot of tension right at the base of your neck and pressing down with absolute, professional precision.
you let out a whimper before you could stop yourself.
“jesus,” you gasped, your head dropping forward. “where did you learn to do that?”
“practiced on myself after volleyball,” he muttered, digging his thumbs deep into your trapezius muscles, working out the stiffness from hours of slouching over textbooks. “but mostly i just thought about how tight your shoulders get when you study. you hold all your stress right here. it drives me crazy.”
his breath was warm against the top of your head. every touch was heavy, deliberate, and so dripping with quiet affection that you felt like you were drowning in syrup.
“osamu,” you breathed, closing your eyes as he moved his hands down to the small of your back, pressing through the fabric of your clothes. “this is unfair.”
“what’s unfair?”
“you. coming in here with food and massages while i’m trying to fail my classes in peace.”
“you’re not gonna fail,” he whispered. he leaned down, his chest pressing against the back of your head, his face burying right into the curve where your neck met your shoulder. he took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. “and even if you do, i’ll build us a little shop by the train station. you can sit at the register and tell me i’m annoying, and i’ll make rice balls for you all day.”
your heart gave a violent, terrible thud against your ribs. “that sounds like a terrible business model.”
“it’s a great business model,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin just below your ear. a wild, electic shiver shot straight down your spine, making your hands twitch on your lap. “i don’t care about the money. i just want you in the room.”
you turned your head slightly, catching his eye. he was looking at you from inches away, his dark grey eyes completely clear, completely devoid of any joking or teenage bravado. he meant every single syllable. he had meant it when he was nine, he meant it now, and he would mean it when he was gray and senile.
“you’re absolutely rotten,” you said, your voice softening.
“i know,” osamu agreed instantly, his thumb reaching out to gently wipe a tiny grain of rice from the corner of your lower lip. he didn’t pull his hand back; instead, his thumb lingered, softly resting against your chin, tilting your face up toward his. “so give in. i’ve been waiting six years. i’m polite, but i’m running out of patience.”
“you were twelve six years ago!”
“and i was right then, too,” he said softly.
and then, he finally leaned down the remaining two inches and pressed his mouth to yours.
osamu kissed the way he ate—completely devoted, thorough, and with consuming hunger that made your brain short-circuit instantly. his mouth was warm, soft, and tasted faintly of sweet rice and chocolate. his hand slid around from your shoulder to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair to hold you right where he wanted you, pulling you up until you were practically standing out of your chair just to meet him halfway.
you let out a tiny, breathless gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to grip the fabric of his athletic jersey, crumpling the smooth polyester in your fists.
when he finally pulled back, just half an inch, his forehead rested against yours. his breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling against your chest, his dark eyes wide and bright with a frantic, triumphant joy.
“there,” osamu whispered, his mouth curling into a broad, stupid, utterly helpless grin that made him look like the happiest idiot on the planet. “now you’re my girlfriend. you can’t undo it, it’s a binding verbal contract.”
you stared at him, your lips tingling, your face burning hot enough to fry an egg, your mind completely cleared of all microeconomics equations.
“i didn’t agree to anything,” you stammered, though your hands were still tightly clenched in his shirt.
osamu leaned down and kissed you again, short and hard on the mouth, making a satisfying little sound. “you held onto my shirt. that counts as signing in ink.”
he let go of your neck, pulled your chair back out, and sat down on the floor right beside your legs, resting his chin on your knee and looking up at you like you had personally hung the moon in the sky just for him.
“now finish your rice,” he ordered gently, settling his large hands over your ankles like heavy anchors. “i’m gonna sit right here and watch you study until our moms calls us down.”
osamu has a fat crush on you, even if you insist that you’re older than him.
w/c: 2.1k, reader is a few years older than osamu, inspired by the song “replay” by SHINee, a random pop up game won by @brooksviolin :3
the exact moment osamu decided he was going to marry you, he was nine years old and covered in dirt from getting thrown into a bush by his twin brother.
you had been sitting on the porch of his family house, nineteen inches away, wearing a bright t-shirt and chewing on a strawberry popsicle like a normal person. then you looked down at his scraped knees, sighed with the profound, heavy wisdom of an eleven-year-old elder statesman, and handed him half of your frozen juice stick.
it was over. instantly. finished. his soul left his body, flew straight into your pocket, and took up permanent residence next to your spare lip balm your mom got you since you kept licking your lips.
now, nearly a decade later, the situation had escalated from a minor neighborhood nuisance to a structural hazard for your sanity.
“you’re looking at me like you want to chew off my arm,” you said, not taking your eyes off your laptop screen.
you were sitting at the miya family kitchen table, surrounded by three different highlighters, a binder full of university notes on microeconomics, and a lukewarm mug of hot chocolate. your mom was outside chatting with osamu’s mom over gossip and chopped radishes, which meant you were trapped upstairs in the line of fire.
“i don’t want to chew your arm,” osamu said smoothly. he was leaning against the doorframe, wearing his inarizaki jersey, looking far too large for the doorway. he had a damp towel hanging around his neck and his hair was still sticking up in dark, spiky clumps from the shower. “i just want to hold your hand while you read that boring stuff. gives my fingers something useful to do.”
“this is not boring stuff, this is supply and demand,” you muttered, tapping your pencil against the desk. “and you have a math test on thursday that you haven’t opened a book for.”
“i know everything about supply and demand,” he declared, taking three massive, deliberate strides across the floor. he pulled up a wooden chair, spun it around backward, and dropped his chin onto the top rail, sitting so close that his knees pressed against the outside of your thigh. “you’re the supply. i’m the overwhelming, desperate, bottomless demand.”
you closed your eyes for a long, quiet three seconds, breathing through your nose. “osamu.”
“y/n.”
“you’re eighteen years old as of four days ago.”
“legal,” he pointed out instantly, his eyes gleaming with the terrifying, razor-sharp focus of an eagle targeting a field mouse. “which means you can stop using the ‘you’re just a kid’ defense. it’s dead. buried in the backyard next to atsumu’s dignity.”
“you’re still in high school!” you dragged a hand down your face, feeling the familiar warmth creeping up the back of your neck. it was infuriating how good he looked now. at twelve, he was a loud, rice-obsessed little gremlin who followed you around like a duckling. at fifteen, he had sprouted five inches overnight and started looking at you with this intense quietness that made your pulse jump out of its skin. now, at eighteen, he was basically a brick wall with a jawline, sitting two inches away from you and radiating heat like a freshly stoked woodstove. “i have midterms! i have adult problems! i’m older than you!”
“two years,” osamu said, completely unfazed. he reached out, his thick, calloused fingers gently wrapping around the wrist of the hand you were holding your pencil with. he didn’t pull, just held it, his thumb sliding back and forth over your pulse point with a steady rhythm. “two years is nothing. in twenty years you’ll be forty and i’ll be thirty-eight and we’ll still be eating dinner together every night, so you might as well get used to it now.”
your breath hitched, a tiny, embarrassing sound in the quiet kitchen. “you’re ridiculously confident for someone who got a twelve on his last english essay.”
“atsumu got an eight,” he countered seamlessly. “and english doesn’t matter. i know how to say ‘i adore you’ in three different dialects, and i know how to feed you until you make that stupid little sound in the back of your throat when something tastes good. what else do we need?”
“a license to keep you fifty feet away from me,” you grumbled, though you didn’t pull your hand away. you couldn’t. his thumb was so warm, his hand so large and grounding against your desk-stiffened joints, that moving felt like a crime against your own physical comfort.
osamu noticed. of course he noticed. his mouth twitched up at the corner, a tiny, rare smirk that made his dark eyes crinkle at the edges.
without breaking eye contact, he leaned forward, dragging his chair an inch closer. the scent of his soap—something clean and sharp like cedar and fresh rain—flooded your lungs, instantly rendering your brain into a bowl of lukewarm porridge.
“i brought you something,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave into that low, rumble-in-the-chest tone that made your face feel hotter than ever.
he reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped piece of plastic film. inside was a perfectly shaped, gleaming triangular rice ball, wrapped in crisp sea kelp and dusted with sesame seeds.
“i made it twenty minutes ago,” osamu whispered, setting it down gently right on top of your open economics textbook, directly over a graph about marginal utility. “spicy tuna. the kind you like with the extra pickled radish inside.”
you stared at the rice ball. then you stared at him. “are you bribing me?”
“i’m courting you,” he corrected, absolutely zero shame in his voice. he leaned his chin down onto his arm, looking up at you through his long, dark eyelashes like a massive, six-foot golden retriever begging for a piece of steak. “there’s a difference. bribes are temporary. courting means i’m gonna keep making these for you until we’re eighty.”
“osamu, i swear to god—”
“eat it,” he coaxed gently, taking your pencil out of your hand and replacing it with the warm, heavy weight of the rice ball. “you’ve been studying for three hours. your face is pale and your shoulders are up by your ears. eat it or i’ll feed it to you myself.”
“you wouldn’t dare.”
“try me,” he said softly, a dangerous, dark little spark flashing in his eyes. “i’ve got no manners when it comes to you. you know that.”
he wasn’t lying. osamu was usually the quiet twin, the sensible (🤔) one, the one who kept his head down and cooked his food and ignored his brother’s theatrical meltdowns. but when it came to you, every ounce of his restraint melted straight into a thick, gooey puddle of devotion. he was a guy who would burn down a building with no remorse if you mentioned you were chilly, then offer you his jacket like he hadn’t just committed a felony for your comfort.
you took a small bite of the rice ball.
it was, predictably, the best thing you had ever put in your mouth. the rice was perfect, the spice hit the back of your throat just right, and the crunchy radish added a bright, salty burst that made your whole face relax. you let out a soft, involuntary sigh, sinking back into your chair.
osamu watched you with a expression so sickeningly sweet it could have given a dentist a heart attack on the spot. he looked like he had just been handed the keys to the entire universe.
“good?” he asked, his voice soft as velvet.
“it’s fine,” you lied terribly, taking another, much larger bite.
“liar. you love it.” osamu stood up, but instead of walking away, he moved around behind your chair. you froze as his large, heavy hands settled onto your shoulders, his thumbs immediately finding the knot of tension right at the base of your neck and pressing down with absolute, professional precision.
you let out a whimper before you could stop yourself.
“jesus,” you gasped, your head dropping forward. “where did you learn to do that?”
“practiced on myself after volleyball,” he muttered, digging his thumbs deep into your trapezius muscles, working out the stiffness from hours of slouching over textbooks. “but mostly i just thought about how tight your shoulders get when you study. you hold all your stress right here. it drives me crazy.”
his breath was warm against the top of your head. every touch was heavy, deliberate, and so dripping with quiet affection that you felt like you were drowning in syrup.
“osamu,” you breathed, closing your eyes as he moved his hands down to the small of your back, pressing through the fabric of your clothes. “this is unfair.”
“what’s unfair?”
“you. coming in here with food and massages while i’m trying to fail my classes in peace.”
“you’re not gonna fail,” he whispered. he leaned down, his chest pressing against the back of your head, his face burying right into the curve where your neck met your shoulder. he took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. “and even if you do, i’ll build us a little shop by the train station. you can sit at the register and tell me i’m annoying, and i’ll make rice balls for you all day.”
your heart gave a violent, terrible thud against your ribs. “that sounds like a terrible business model.”
“it’s a great business model,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin just below your ear. a wild, electic shiver shot straight down your spine, making your hands twitch on your lap. “i don’t care about the money. i just want you in the room.”
you turned your head slightly, catching his eye. he was looking at you from inches away, his dark grey eyes completely clear, completely devoid of any joking or teenage bravado. he meant every single syllable. he had meant it when he was nine, he meant it now, and he would mean it when he was gray and senile.
“you’re absolutely rotten,” you said, your voice softening.
“i know,” osamu agreed instantly, his thumb reaching out to gently wipe a tiny grain of rice from the corner of your lower lip. he didn’t pull his hand back; instead, his thumb lingered, softly resting against your chin, tilting your face up toward his. “so give in. i’ve been waiting six years. i’m polite, but i’m running out of patience.”
“you were twelve six years ago!”
“and i was right then, too,” he said softly.
and then, he finally leaned down the remaining two inches and pressed his mouth to yours.
osamu kissed the way he ate—completely devoted, thorough, and with consuming hunger that made your brain short-circuit instantly. his mouth was warm, soft, and tasted faintly of sweet rice and chocolate. his hand slid around from your shoulder to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair to hold you right where he wanted you, pulling you up until you were practically standing out of your chair just to meet him halfway.
you let out a tiny, breathless gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to grip the fabric of his athletic jersey, crumpling the smooth polyester in your fists.
when he finally pulled back, just half an inch, his forehead rested against yours. his breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling against your chest, his dark eyes wide and bright with a frantic, triumphant joy.
“there,” osamu whispered, his mouth curling into a broad, stupid, utterly helpless grin that made him look like the happiest idiot on the planet. “now you’re my girlfriend. you can’t undo it, it’s a binding verbal contract.”
you stared at him, your lips tingling, your face burning hot enough to fry an egg, your mind completely cleared of all microeconomics equations.
“i didn’t agree to anything,” you stammered, though your hands were still tightly clenched in his shirt.
osamu leaned down and kissed you again, short and hard on the mouth, making a satisfying little sound. “you held onto my shirt. that counts as signing in ink.”
he let go of your neck, pulled your chair back out, and sat down on the floor right beside your legs, resting his chin on your knee and looking up at you like you had personally hung the moon in the sky just for him.
“now finish your rice,” he ordered gently, settling his large hands over your ankles like heavy anchors. “i’m gonna sit right here and watch you study until our moms calls us down.”
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osamu has a fat crush on you, even if you insist that you’re older than him.
w/c: 2.1k, reader is a few years older than osamu, inspired by the song “replay” by SHINee, a random pop up game won by @brooksviolin :3
the exact moment osamu decided he was going to marry you, he was nine years old and covered in dirt from getting thrown into a bush by his twin brother.
you had been sitting on the porch of his family house, nineteen inches away, wearing a bright t-shirt and chewing on a strawberry popsicle like a normal person. then you looked down at his scraped knees, sighed with the profound, heavy wisdom of an eleven-year-old elder statesman, and handed him half of your frozen juice stick.
it was over. instantly. finished. his soul left his body, flew straight into your pocket, and took up permanent residence next to your spare lip balm your mom got you since you kept licking your lips.
now, nearly a decade later, the situation had escalated from a minor neighborhood nuisance to a structural hazard for your sanity.
“you’re looking at me like you want to chew off my arm,” you said, not taking your eyes off your laptop screen.
you were sitting at the miya family kitchen table, surrounded by three different highlighters, a binder full of university notes on microeconomics, and a lukewarm mug of hot chocolate. your mom was outside chatting with osamu’s mom over gossip and chopped radishes, which meant you were trapped upstairs in the line of fire.
“i don’t want to chew your arm,” osamu said smoothly. he was leaning against the doorframe, wearing his inarizaki jersey, looking far too large for the doorway. he had a damp towel hanging around his neck and his hair was still sticking up in dark, spiky clumps from the shower. “i just want to hold your hand while you read that boring stuff. gives my fingers something useful to do.”
“this is not boring stuff, this is supply and demand,” you muttered, tapping your pencil against the desk. “and you have a math test on thursday that you haven’t opened a book for.”
“i know everything about supply and demand,” he declared, taking three massive, deliberate strides across the floor. he pulled up a wooden chair, spun it around backward, and dropped his chin onto the top rail, sitting so close that his knees pressed against the outside of your thigh. “you’re the supply. i’m the overwhelming, desperate, bottomless demand.”
you closed your eyes for a long, quiet three seconds, breathing through your nose. “osamu.”
“y/n.”
“you’re eighteen years old as of four days ago.”
“legal,” he pointed out instantly, his eyes gleaming with the terrifying, razor-sharp focus of an eagle targeting a field mouse. “which means you can stop using the ‘you’re just a kid’ defense. it’s dead. buried in the backyard next to atsumu’s dignity.”
“you’re still in high school!” you dragged a hand down your face, feeling the familiar warmth creeping up the back of your neck. it was infuriating how good he looked now. at twelve, he was a loud, rice-obsessed little gremlin who followed you around like a duckling. at fifteen, he had sprouted five inches overnight and started looking at you with this intense quietness that made your pulse jump out of its skin. now, at eighteen, he was basically a brick wall with a jawline, sitting two inches away from you and radiating heat like a freshly stoked woodstove. “i have midterms! i have adult problems! i’m older than you!”
“two years,” osamu said, completely unfazed. he reached out, his thick, calloused fingers gently wrapping around the wrist of the hand you were holding your pencil with. he didn’t pull, just held it, his thumb sliding back and forth over your pulse point with a steady rhythm. “two years is nothing. in twenty years you’ll be forty and i’ll be thirty-eight and we’ll still be eating dinner together every night, so you might as well get used to it now.”
your breath hitched, a tiny, embarrassing sound in the quiet kitchen. “you’re ridiculously confident for someone who got a twelve on his last english essay.”
“atsumu got an eight,” he countered seamlessly. “and english doesn’t matter. i know how to say ‘i adore you’ in three different dialects, and i know how to feed you until you make that stupid little sound in the back of your throat when something tastes good. what else do we need?”
“a license to keep you fifty feet away from me,” you grumbled, though you didn’t pull your hand away. you couldn’t. his thumb was so warm, his hand so large and grounding against your desk-stiffened joints, that moving felt like a crime against your own physical comfort.
osamu noticed. of course he noticed. his mouth twitched up at the corner, a tiny, rare smirk that made his dark eyes crinkle at the edges.
without breaking eye contact, he leaned forward, dragging his chair an inch closer. the scent of his soap—something clean and sharp like cedar and fresh rain—flooded your lungs, instantly rendering your brain into a bowl of lukewarm porridge.
“i brought you something,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave into that low, rumble-in-the-chest tone that made your face feel hotter than ever.
he reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped piece of plastic film. inside was a perfectly shaped, gleaming triangular rice ball, wrapped in crisp sea kelp and dusted with sesame seeds.
“i made it twenty minutes ago,” osamu whispered, setting it down gently right on top of your open economics textbook, directly over a graph about marginal utility. “spicy tuna. the kind you like with the extra pickled radish inside.”
you stared at the rice ball. then you stared at him. “are you bribing me?”
“i’m courting you,” he corrected, absolutely zero shame in his voice. he leaned his chin down onto his arm, looking up at you through his long, dark eyelashes like a massive, six-foot golden retriever begging for a piece of steak. “there’s a difference. bribes are temporary. courting means i’m gonna keep making these for you until we’re eighty.”
“osamu, i swear to god—”
“eat it,” he coaxed gently, taking your pencil out of your hand and replacing it with the warm, heavy weight of the rice ball. “you’ve been studying for three hours. your face is pale and your shoulders are up by your ears. eat it or i’ll feed it to you myself.”
“you wouldn’t dare.”
“try me,” he said softly, a dangerous, dark little spark flashing in his eyes. “i’ve got no manners when it comes to you. you know that.”
he wasn’t lying. osamu was usually the quiet twin, the sensible (🤔) one, the one who kept his head down and cooked his food and ignored his brother’s theatrical meltdowns. but when it came to you, every ounce of his restraint melted straight into a thick, gooey puddle of devotion. he was a guy who would burn down a building with no remorse if you mentioned you were chilly, then offer you his jacket like he hadn’t just committed a felony for your comfort.
you took a small bite of the rice ball.
it was, predictably, the best thing you had ever put in your mouth. the rice was perfect, the spice hit the back of your throat just right, and the crunchy radish added a bright, salty burst that made your whole face relax. you let out a soft, involuntary sigh, sinking back into your chair.
osamu watched you with a expression so sickeningly sweet it could have given a dentist a heart attack on the spot. he looked like he had just been handed the keys to the entire universe.
“good?” he asked, his voice soft as velvet.
“it’s fine,” you lied terribly, taking another, much larger bite.
“liar. you love it.” osamu stood up, but instead of walking away, he moved around behind your chair. you froze as his large, heavy hands settled onto your shoulders, his thumbs immediately finding the knot of tension right at the base of your neck and pressing down with absolute, professional precision.
you let out a whimper before you could stop yourself.
“jesus,” you gasped, your head dropping forward. “where did you learn to do that?”
“practiced on myself after volleyball,” he muttered, digging his thumbs deep into your trapezius muscles, working out the stiffness from hours of slouching over textbooks. “but mostly i just thought about how tight your shoulders get when you study. you hold all your stress right here. it drives me crazy.”
his breath was warm against the top of your head. every touch was heavy, deliberate, and so dripping with quiet affection that you felt like you were drowning in syrup.
“osamu,” you breathed, closing your eyes as he moved his hands down to the small of your back, pressing through the fabric of your clothes. “this is unfair.”
“what’s unfair?”
“you. coming in here with food and massages while i’m trying to fail my classes in peace.”
“you’re not gonna fail,” he whispered. he leaned down, his chest pressing against the back of your head, his face burying right into the curve where your neck met your shoulder. he took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. “and even if you do, i’ll build us a little shop by the train station. you can sit at the register and tell me i’m annoying, and i’ll make rice balls for you all day.”
your heart gave a violent, terrible thud against your ribs. “that sounds like a terrible business model.”
“it’s a great business model,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin just below your ear. a wild, electic shiver shot straight down your spine, making your hands twitch on your lap. “i don’t care about the money. i just want you in the room.”
you turned your head slightly, catching his eye. he was looking at you from inches away, his dark grey eyes completely clear, completely devoid of any joking or teenage bravado. he meant every single syllable. he had meant it when he was nine, he meant it now, and he would mean it when he was gray and senile.
“you’re absolutely rotten,” you said, your voice softening.
“i know,” osamu agreed instantly, his thumb reaching out to gently wipe a tiny grain of rice from the corner of your lower lip. he didn’t pull his hand back; instead, his thumb lingered, softly resting against your chin, tilting your face up toward his. “so give in. i’ve been waiting six years. i’m polite, but i’m running out of patience.”
“you were twelve six years ago!”
“and i was right then, too,” he said softly.
and then, he finally leaned down the remaining two inches and pressed his mouth to yours.
osamu kissed the way he ate—completely devoted, thorough, and with consuming hunger that made your brain short-circuit instantly. his mouth was warm, soft, and tasted faintly of sweet rice and chocolate. his hand slid around from your shoulder to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair to hold you right where he wanted you, pulling you up until you were practically standing out of your chair just to meet him halfway.
you let out a tiny, breathless gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to grip the fabric of his athletic jersey, crumpling the smooth polyester in your fists.
when he finally pulled back, just half an inch, his forehead rested against yours. his breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling against your chest, his dark eyes wide and bright with a frantic, triumphant joy.
“there,” osamu whispered, his mouth curling into a broad, stupid, utterly helpless grin that made him look like the happiest idiot on the planet. “now you’re my girlfriend. you can’t undo it, it’s a binding verbal contract.”
you stared at him, your lips tingling, your face burning hot enough to fry an egg, your mind completely cleared of all microeconomics equations.
“i didn’t agree to anything,” you stammered, though your hands were still tightly clenched in his shirt.
osamu leaned down and kissed you again, short and hard on the mouth, making a satisfying little sound. “you held onto my shirt. that counts as signing in ink.”
he let go of your neck, pulled your chair back out, and sat down on the floor right beside your legs, resting his chin on your knee and looking up at you like you had personally hung the moon in the sky just for him.
“now finish your rice,” he ordered gently, settling his large hands over your ankles like heavy anchors. “i’m gonna sit right here and watch you study until our moms calls us down.”
osamu has a fat crush on you, even if you insist that you’re older than him.
w/c: 2.1k, reader is a few years older than osamu, inspired by the song “replay” by SHINee, a random pop up game won by @brooksviolin :3
the exact moment osamu decided he was going to marry you, he was nine years old and covered in dirt from getting thrown into a bush by his twin brother.
you had been sitting on the porch of his family house, nineteen inches away, wearing a bright t-shirt and chewing on a strawberry popsicle like a normal person. then you looked down at his scraped knees, sighed with the profound, heavy wisdom of an eleven-year-old elder statesman, and handed him half of your frozen juice stick.
it was over. instantly. finished. his soul left his body, flew straight into your pocket, and took up permanent residence next to your spare lip balm your mom got you since you kept licking your lips.
now, nearly a decade later, the situation had escalated from a minor neighborhood nuisance to a structural hazard for your sanity.
“you’re looking at me like you want to chew off my arm,” you said, not taking your eyes off your laptop screen.
you were sitting at the miya family kitchen table, surrounded by three different highlighters, a binder full of university notes on microeconomics, and a lukewarm mug of hot chocolate. your mom was outside chatting with osamu’s mom over gossip and chopped radishes, which meant you were trapped upstairs in the line of fire.
“i don’t want to chew your arm,” osamu said smoothly. he was leaning against the doorframe, wearing his inarizaki jersey, looking far too large for the doorway. he had a damp towel hanging around his neck and his hair was still sticking up in dark, spiky clumps from the shower. “i just want to hold your hand while you read that boring stuff. gives my fingers something useful to do.”
“this is not boring stuff, this is supply and demand,” you muttered, tapping your pencil against the desk. “and you have a math test on thursday that you haven’t opened a book for.”
“i know everything about supply and demand,” he declared, taking three massive, deliberate strides across the floor. he pulled up a wooden chair, spun it around backward, and dropped his chin onto the top rail, sitting so close that his knees pressed against the outside of your thigh. “you’re the supply. i’m the overwhelming, desperate, bottomless demand.”
you closed your eyes for a long, quiet three seconds, breathing through your nose. “osamu.”
“y/n.”
“you’re eighteen years old as of four days ago.”
“legal,” he pointed out instantly, his eyes gleaming with the terrifying, razor-sharp focus of an eagle targeting a field mouse. “which means you can stop using the ‘you’re just a kid’ defense. it’s dead. buried in the backyard next to atsumu’s dignity.”
“you’re still in high school!” you dragged a hand down your face, feeling the familiar warmth creeping up the back of your neck. it was infuriating how good he looked now. at twelve, he was a loud, rice-obsessed little gremlin who followed you around like a duckling. at fifteen, he had sprouted five inches overnight and started looking at you with this intense quietness that made your pulse jump out of its skin. now, at eighteen, he was basically a brick wall with a jawline, sitting two inches away from you and radiating heat like a freshly stoked woodstove. “i have midterms! i have adult problems! i’m older than you!”
“two years,” osamu said, completely unfazed. he reached out, his thick, calloused fingers gently wrapping around the wrist of the hand you were holding your pencil with. he didn’t pull, just held it, his thumb sliding back and forth over your pulse point with a steady rhythm. “two years is nothing. in twenty years you’ll be forty and i’ll be thirty-eight and we’ll still be eating dinner together every night, so you might as well get used to it now.”
your breath hitched, a tiny, embarrassing sound in the quiet kitchen. “you’re ridiculously confident for someone who got a twelve on his last english essay.”
“atsumu got an eight,” he countered seamlessly. “and english doesn’t matter. i know how to say ‘i adore you’ in three different dialects, and i know how to feed you until you make that stupid little sound in the back of your throat when something tastes good. what else do we need?”
“a license to keep you fifty feet away from me,” you grumbled, though you didn’t pull your hand away. you couldn’t. his thumb was so warm, his hand so large and grounding against your desk-stiffened joints, that moving felt like a crime against your own physical comfort.
osamu noticed. of course he noticed. his mouth twitched up at the corner, a tiny, rare smirk that made his dark eyes crinkle at the edges.
without breaking eye contact, he leaned forward, dragging his chair an inch closer. the scent of his soap—something clean and sharp like cedar and fresh rain—flooded your lungs, instantly rendering your brain into a bowl of lukewarm porridge.
“i brought you something,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave into that low, rumble-in-the-chest tone that made your face feel hotter than ever.
he reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped piece of plastic film. inside was a perfectly shaped, gleaming triangular rice ball, wrapped in crisp sea kelp and dusted with sesame seeds.
“i made it twenty minutes ago,” osamu whispered, setting it down gently right on top of your open economics textbook, directly over a graph about marginal utility. “spicy tuna. the kind you like with the extra pickled radish inside.”
you stared at the rice ball. then you stared at him. “are you bribing me?”
“i’m courting you,” he corrected, absolutely zero shame in his voice. he leaned his chin down onto his arm, looking up at you through his long, dark eyelashes like a massive, six-foot golden retriever begging for a piece of steak. “there’s a difference. bribes are temporary. courting means i’m gonna keep making these for you until we’re eighty.”
“osamu, i swear to god—”
“eat it,” he coaxed gently, taking your pencil out of your hand and replacing it with the warm, heavy weight of the rice ball. “you’ve been studying for three hours. your face is pale and your shoulders are up by your ears. eat it or i’ll feed it to you myself.”
“you wouldn’t dare.”
“try me,” he said softly, a dangerous, dark little spark flashing in his eyes. “i’ve got no manners when it comes to you. you know that.”
he wasn’t lying. osamu was usually the quiet twin, the sensible (🤔) one, the one who kept his head down and cooked his food and ignored his brother’s theatrical meltdowns. but when it came to you, every ounce of his restraint melted straight into a thick, gooey puddle of devotion. he was a guy who would burn down a building with no remorse if you mentioned you were chilly, then offer you his jacket like he hadn’t just committed a felony for your comfort.
you took a small bite of the rice ball.
it was, predictably, the best thing you had ever put in your mouth. the rice was perfect, the spice hit the back of your throat just right, and the crunchy radish added a bright, salty burst that made your whole face relax. you let out a soft, involuntary sigh, sinking back into your chair.
osamu watched you with a expression so sickeningly sweet it could have given a dentist a heart attack on the spot. he looked like he had just been handed the keys to the entire universe.
“good?” he asked, his voice soft as velvet.
“it’s fine,” you lied terribly, taking another, much larger bite.
“liar. you love it.” osamu stood up, but instead of walking away, he moved around behind your chair. you froze as his large, heavy hands settled onto your shoulders, his thumbs immediately finding the knot of tension right at the base of your neck and pressing down with absolute, professional precision.
you let out a whimper before you could stop yourself.
“jesus,” you gasped, your head dropping forward. “where did you learn to do that?”
“practiced on myself after volleyball,” he muttered, digging his thumbs deep into your trapezius muscles, working out the stiffness from hours of slouching over textbooks. “but mostly i just thought about how tight your shoulders get when you study. you hold all your stress right here. it drives me crazy.”
his breath was warm against the top of your head. every touch was heavy, deliberate, and so dripping with quiet affection that you felt like you were drowning in syrup.
“osamu,” you breathed, closing your eyes as he moved his hands down to the small of your back, pressing through the fabric of your clothes. “this is unfair.”
“what’s unfair?”
“you. coming in here with food and massages while i’m trying to fail my classes in peace.”
“you’re not gonna fail,” he whispered. he leaned down, his chest pressing against the back of your head, his face burying right into the curve where your neck met your shoulder. he took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. “and even if you do, i’ll build us a little shop by the train station. you can sit at the register and tell me i’m annoying, and i’ll make rice balls for you all day.”
your heart gave a violent, terrible thud against your ribs. “that sounds like a terrible business model.”
“it’s a great business model,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin just below your ear. a wild, electic shiver shot straight down your spine, making your hands twitch on your lap. “i don’t care about the money. i just want you in the room.”
you turned your head slightly, catching his eye. he was looking at you from inches away, his dark grey eyes completely clear, completely devoid of any joking or teenage bravado. he meant every single syllable. he had meant it when he was nine, he meant it now, and he would mean it when he was gray and senile.
“you’re absolutely rotten,” you said, your voice softening.
“i know,” osamu agreed instantly, his thumb reaching out to gently wipe a tiny grain of rice from the corner of your lower lip. he didn’t pull his hand back; instead, his thumb lingered, softly resting against your chin, tilting your face up toward his. “so give in. i’ve been waiting six years. i’m polite, but i’m running out of patience.”
“you were twelve six years ago!”
“and i was right then, too,” he said softly.
and then, he finally leaned down the remaining two inches and pressed his mouth to yours.
osamu kissed the way he ate—completely devoted, thorough, and with consuming hunger that made your brain short-circuit instantly. his mouth was warm, soft, and tasted faintly of sweet rice and chocolate. his hand slid around from your shoulder to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair to hold you right where he wanted you, pulling you up until you were practically standing out of your chair just to meet him halfway.
you let out a tiny, breathless gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to grip the fabric of his athletic jersey, crumpling the smooth polyester in your fists.
when he finally pulled back, just half an inch, his forehead rested against yours. his breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling against your chest, his dark eyes wide and bright with a frantic, triumphant joy.
“there,” osamu whispered, his mouth curling into a broad, stupid, utterly helpless grin that made him look like the happiest idiot on the planet. “now you’re my girlfriend. you can’t undo it, it’s a binding verbal contract.”
you stared at him, your lips tingling, your face burning hot enough to fry an egg, your mind completely cleared of all microeconomics equations.
“i didn’t agree to anything,” you stammered, though your hands were still tightly clenched in his shirt.
osamu leaned down and kissed you again, short and hard on the mouth, making a satisfying little sound. “you held onto my shirt. that counts as signing in ink.”
he let go of your neck, pulled your chair back out, and sat down on the floor right beside your legs, resting his chin on your knee and looking up at you like you had personally hung the moon in the sky just for him.
“now finish your rice,” he ordered gently, settling his large hands over your ankles like heavy anchors. “i’m gonna sit right here and watch you study until our moms calls us down.”
osamu has a fat crush on you, even if you insist that you’re older than him.
w/c: 2.1k, reader is a few years older than osamu, inspired by the song “replay” by SHINee, a random pop up game won by @brooksviolin :3
the exact moment osamu decided he was going to marry you, he was nine years old and covered in dirt from getting thrown into a bush by his twin brother.
you had been sitting on the porch of his family house, nineteen inches away, wearing a bright t-shirt and chewing on a strawberry popsicle like a normal person. then you looked down at his scraped knees, sighed with the profound, heavy wisdom of an eleven-year-old elder statesman, and handed him half of your frozen juice stick.
it was over. instantly. finished. his soul left his body, flew straight into your pocket, and took up permanent residence next to your spare lip balm your mom got you since you kept licking your lips.
now, nearly a decade later, the situation had escalated from a minor neighborhood nuisance to a structural hazard for your sanity.
“you’re looking at me like you want to chew off my arm,” you said, not taking your eyes off your laptop screen.
you were sitting at the miya family kitchen table, surrounded by three different highlighters, a binder full of university notes on microeconomics, and a lukewarm mug of hot chocolate. your mom was outside chatting with osamu’s mom over gossip and chopped radishes, which meant you were trapped upstairs in the line of fire.
“i don’t want to chew your arm,” osamu said smoothly. he was leaning against the doorframe, wearing his inarizaki jersey, looking far too large for the doorway. he had a damp towel hanging around his neck and his hair was still sticking up in dark, spiky clumps from the shower. “i just want to hold your hand while you read that boring stuff. gives my fingers something useful to do.”
“this is not boring stuff, this is supply and demand,” you muttered, tapping your pencil against the desk. “and you have a math test on thursday that you haven’t opened a book for.”
“i know everything about supply and demand,” he declared, taking three massive, deliberate strides across the floor. he pulled up a wooden chair, spun it around backward, and dropped his chin onto the top rail, sitting so close that his knees pressed against the outside of your thigh. “you’re the supply. i’m the overwhelming, desperate, bottomless demand.”
you closed your eyes for a long, quiet three seconds, breathing through your nose. “osamu.”
“y/n.”
“you’re eighteen years old as of four days ago.”
“legal,” he pointed out instantly, his eyes gleaming with the terrifying, razor-sharp focus of an eagle targeting a field mouse. “which means you can stop using the ‘you’re just a kid’ defense. it’s dead. buried in the backyard next to atsumu’s dignity.”
“you’re still in high school!” you dragged a hand down your face, feeling the familiar warmth creeping up the back of your neck. it was infuriating how good he looked now. at twelve, he was a loud, rice-obsessed little gremlin who followed you around like a duckling. at fifteen, he had sprouted five inches overnight and started looking at you with this intense quietness that made your pulse jump out of its skin. now, at eighteen, he was basically a brick wall with a jawline, sitting two inches away from you and radiating heat like a freshly stoked woodstove. “i have midterms! i have adult problems! i’m older than you!”
“two years,” osamu said, completely unfazed. he reached out, his thick, calloused fingers gently wrapping around the wrist of the hand you were holding your pencil with. he didn’t pull, just held it, his thumb sliding back and forth over your pulse point with a steady rhythm. “two years is nothing. in twenty years you’ll be forty and i’ll be thirty-eight and we’ll still be eating dinner together every night, so you might as well get used to it now.”
your breath hitched, a tiny, embarrassing sound in the quiet kitchen. “you’re ridiculously confident for someone who got a twelve on his last english essay.”
“atsumu got an eight,” he countered seamlessly. “and english doesn’t matter. i know how to say ‘i adore you’ in three different dialects, and i know how to feed you until you make that stupid little sound in the back of your throat when something tastes good. what else do we need?”
“a license to keep you fifty feet away from me,” you grumbled, though you didn’t pull your hand away. you couldn’t. his thumb was so warm, his hand so large and grounding against your desk-stiffened joints, that moving felt like a crime against your own physical comfort.
osamu noticed. of course he noticed. his mouth twitched up at the corner, a tiny, rare smirk that made his dark eyes crinkle at the edges.
without breaking eye contact, he leaned forward, dragging his chair an inch closer. the scent of his soap—something clean and sharp like cedar and fresh rain—flooded your lungs, instantly rendering your brain into a bowl of lukewarm porridge.
“i brought you something,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave into that low, rumble-in-the-chest tone that made your face feel hotter than ever.
he reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped piece of plastic film. inside was a perfectly shaped, gleaming triangular rice ball, wrapped in crisp sea kelp and dusted with sesame seeds.
“i made it twenty minutes ago,” osamu whispered, setting it down gently right on top of your open economics textbook, directly over a graph about marginal utility. “spicy tuna. the kind you like with the extra pickled radish inside.”
you stared at the rice ball. then you stared at him. “are you bribing me?”
“i’m courting you,” he corrected, absolutely zero shame in his voice. he leaned his chin down onto his arm, looking up at you through his long, dark eyelashes like a massive, six-foot golden retriever begging for a piece of steak. “there’s a difference. bribes are temporary. courting means i’m gonna keep making these for you until we’re eighty.”
“osamu, i swear to god—”
“eat it,” he coaxed gently, taking your pencil out of your hand and replacing it with the warm, heavy weight of the rice ball. “you’ve been studying for three hours. your face is pale and your shoulders are up by your ears. eat it or i’ll feed it to you myself.”
“you wouldn’t dare.”
“try me,” he said softly, a dangerous, dark little spark flashing in his eyes. “i’ve got no manners when it comes to you. you know that.”
he wasn’t lying. osamu was usually the quiet twin, the sensible (🤔) one, the one who kept his head down and cooked his food and ignored his brother’s theatrical meltdowns. but when it came to you, every ounce of his restraint melted straight into a thick, gooey puddle of devotion. he was a guy who would burn down a building with no remorse if you mentioned you were chilly, then offer you his jacket like he hadn’t just committed a felony for your comfort.
you took a small bite of the rice ball.
it was, predictably, the best thing you had ever put in your mouth. the rice was perfect, the spice hit the back of your throat just right, and the crunchy radish added a bright, salty burst that made your whole face relax. you let out a soft, involuntary sigh, sinking back into your chair.
osamu watched you with a expression so sickeningly sweet it could have given a dentist a heart attack on the spot. he looked like he had just been handed the keys to the entire universe.
“good?” he asked, his voice soft as velvet.
“it’s fine,” you lied terribly, taking another, much larger bite.
“liar. you love it.” osamu stood up, but instead of walking away, he moved around behind your chair. you froze as his large, heavy hands settled onto your shoulders, his thumbs immediately finding the knot of tension right at the base of your neck and pressing down with absolute, professional precision.
you let out a whimper before you could stop yourself.
“jesus,” you gasped, your head dropping forward. “where did you learn to do that?”
“practiced on myself after volleyball,” he muttered, digging his thumbs deep into your trapezius muscles, working out the stiffness from hours of slouching over textbooks. “but mostly i just thought about how tight your shoulders get when you study. you hold all your stress right here. it drives me crazy.”
his breath was warm against the top of your head. every touch was heavy, deliberate, and so dripping with quiet affection that you felt like you were drowning in syrup.
“osamu,” you breathed, closing your eyes as he moved his hands down to the small of your back, pressing through the fabric of your clothes. “this is unfair.”
“what’s unfair?”
“you. coming in here with food and massages while i’m trying to fail my classes in peace.”
“you’re not gonna fail,” he whispered. he leaned down, his chest pressing against the back of your head, his face burying right into the curve where your neck met your shoulder. he took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. “and even if you do, i’ll build us a little shop by the train station. you can sit at the register and tell me i’m annoying, and i’ll make rice balls for you all day.”
your heart gave a violent, terrible thud against your ribs. “that sounds like a terrible business model.”
“it’s a great business model,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin just below your ear. a wild, electic shiver shot straight down your spine, making your hands twitch on your lap. “i don’t care about the money. i just want you in the room.”
you turned your head slightly, catching his eye. he was looking at you from inches away, his dark grey eyes completely clear, completely devoid of any joking or teenage bravado. he meant every single syllable. he had meant it when he was nine, he meant it now, and he would mean it when he was gray and senile.
“you’re absolutely rotten,” you said, your voice softening.
“i know,” osamu agreed instantly, his thumb reaching out to gently wipe a tiny grain of rice from the corner of your lower lip. he didn’t pull his hand back; instead, his thumb lingered, softly resting against your chin, tilting your face up toward his. “so give in. i’ve been waiting six years. i’m polite, but i’m running out of patience.”
“you were twelve six years ago!”
“and i was right then, too,” he said softly.
and then, he finally leaned down the remaining two inches and pressed his mouth to yours.
osamu kissed the way he ate—completely devoted, thorough, and with consuming hunger that made your brain short-circuit instantly. his mouth was warm, soft, and tasted faintly of sweet rice and chocolate. his hand slid around from your shoulder to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair to hold you right where he wanted you, pulling you up until you were practically standing out of your chair just to meet him halfway.
you let out a tiny, breathless gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to grip the fabric of his athletic jersey, crumpling the smooth polyester in your fists.
when he finally pulled back, just half an inch, his forehead rested against yours. his breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling against your chest, his dark eyes wide and bright with a frantic, triumphant joy.
“there,” osamu whispered, his mouth curling into a broad, stupid, utterly helpless grin that made him look like the happiest idiot on the planet. “now you’re my girlfriend. you can’t undo it, it’s a binding verbal contract.”
you stared at him, your lips tingling, your face burning hot enough to fry an egg, your mind completely cleared of all microeconomics equations.
“i didn’t agree to anything,” you stammered, though your hands were still tightly clenched in his shirt.
osamu leaned down and kissed you again, short and hard on the mouth, making a satisfying little sound. “you held onto my shirt. that counts as signing in ink.”
he let go of your neck, pulled your chair back out, and sat down on the floor right beside your legs, resting his chin on your knee and looking up at you like you had personally hung the moon in the sky just for him.
“now finish your rice,” he ordered gently, settling his large hands over your ankles like heavy anchors. “i’m gonna sit right here and watch you study until our moms calls us down.”
the rain was coming down in relentless sheets, turning the streets of tokyo into a blurred canvas of neon and concrete. you and kenma were huddled beneath the narrow awning of a convenience store, sharing a single, lukewarm canned coffee that you’d bought with his spare change.
you were shivering, your shoulders pulled up to your ears. without a word, kenma shifted his shoulder, slipping his arm around your back to pull you closer against his side. the sudden, uncharacteristic gesture made your heart give a hard, erratic thud.
“you’re freezing,” he said quietly, his eyes fixed on the rain splashing against the pavement.
“i’m fine,” you lied, though your teeth gave a tiny, betraying chatter.
kenma didn’t push it. instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his worn-out visor, and gently placed it onto your head, pulling it low over your eyes to shield your face from the stray wind-blown raindrops. the inside of the band was warm, carrying the distinct, comforting scent of his shampoo and late-night gaming sessions.
you looked up at him, your breath catching. beneath the brim of the hat, your vision was narrowed to just him—his sharp profile, the soft golden hue of his eyes, the subtle tension in his jaw.
he caught you staring and tilted his head down, his fringe falling forward. “what?”
“nothing,” you whispered, reaching out to wrap your fingers around the hem of his sleeve. “just... thanks, kenma.”
a tiny, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips. he didn’t pull away. instead, he leaned down, pulling up your visor for a bit and pressing his forehead gently against yours for a brief, quiet second, letting the rest of the world blur into background noise.
“don’t get sick,” he murmured softly. “i’m not sharing my hot tea with you tomorrow.”
“liar,” you laughed, leaning into his warmth. “you definitely will.”
the rain was coming down in relentless sheets, turning the streets of tokyo into a blurred canvas of neon and concrete. you and kenma were huddled beneath the narrow awning of a convenience store, sharing a single, lukewarm canned coffee that you’d bought with his spare change.
you were shivering, your shoulders pulled up to your ears. without a word, kenma shifted his shoulder, slipping his arm around your back to pull you closer against his side. the sudden, uncharacteristic gesture made your heart give a hard, erratic thud.
“you’re freezing,” he said quietly, his eyes fixed on the rain splashing against the pavement.
“i’m fine,” you lied, though your teeth gave a tiny, betraying chatter.
kenma didn’t push it. instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his worn-out visor, and gently placed it onto your head, pulling it low over your eyes to shield your face from the stray wind-blown raindrops. the inside of the band was warm, carrying the distinct, comforting scent of his shampoo and late-night gaming sessions.
you looked up at him, your breath catching. beneath the brim of the hat, your vision was narrowed to just him—his sharp profile, the soft golden hue of his eyes, the subtle tension in his jaw.
he caught you staring and tilted his head down, his fringe falling forward. “what?”
“nothing,” you whispered, reaching out to wrap your fingers around the hem of his sleeve. “just... thanks, kenma.”
a tiny, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips. he didn’t pull away. instead, he leaned down, pulling up your visor for a bit and pressing his forehead gently against yours for a brief, quiet second, letting the rest of the world blur into background noise.
“don’t get sick,” he murmured softly. “i’m not sharing my hot tea with you tomorrow.”
“liar,” you laughed, leaning into his warmth. “you definitely will.”
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the rain was coming down in relentless sheets, turning the streets of tokyo into a blurred canvas of neon and concrete. you and kenma were huddled beneath the narrow awning of a convenience store, sharing a single, lukewarm canned coffee that you’d bought with his spare change.
you were shivering, your shoulders pulled up to your ears. without a word, kenma shifted his shoulder, slipping his arm around your back to pull you closer against his side. the sudden, uncharacteristic gesture made your heart give a hard, erratic thud.
“you’re freezing,” he said quietly, his eyes fixed on the rain splashing against the pavement.
“i’m fine,” you lied, though your teeth gave a tiny, betraying chatter.
kenma didn’t push it. instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his worn-out visor, and gently placed it onto your head, pulling it low over your eyes to shield your face from the stray wind-blown raindrops. the inside of the band was warm, carrying the distinct, comforting scent of his shampoo and late-night gaming sessions.
you looked up at him, your breath catching. beneath the brim of the hat, your vision was narrowed to just him—his sharp profile, the soft golden hue of his eyes, the subtle tension in his jaw.
he caught you staring and tilted his head down, his fringe falling forward. “what?”
“nothing,” you whispered, reaching out to wrap your fingers around the hem of his sleeve. “just... thanks, kenma.”
a tiny, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips. he didn’t pull away. instead, he leaned down, pulling up your visor for a bit and pressing his forehead gently against yours for a brief, quiet second, letting the rest of the world blur into background noise.
“don’t get sick,” he murmured softly. “i’m not sharing my hot tea with you tomorrow.”
“liar,” you laughed, leaning into his warmth. “you definitely will.”
the rain was coming down in relentless sheets, turning the streets of tokyo into a blurred canvas of neon and concrete. you and kenma were huddled beneath the narrow awning of a convenience store, sharing a single, lukewarm canned coffee that you’d bought with his spare change.
you were shivering, your shoulders pulled up to your ears. without a word, kenma shifted his shoulder, slipping his arm around your back to pull you closer against his side. the sudden, uncharacteristic gesture made your heart give a hard, erratic thud.
“you’re freezing,” he said quietly, his eyes fixed on the rain splashing against the pavement.
“i’m fine,” you lied, though your teeth gave a tiny, betraying chatter.
kenma didn’t push it. instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his worn-out visor, and gently placed it onto your head, pulling it low over your eyes to shield your face from the stray wind-blown raindrops. the inside of the band was warm, carrying the distinct, comforting scent of his shampoo and late-night gaming sessions.
you looked up at him, your breath catching. beneath the brim of the hat, your vision was narrowed to just him—his sharp profile, the soft golden hue of his eyes, the subtle tension in his jaw.
he caught you staring and tilted his head down, his fringe falling forward. “what?”
“nothing,” you whispered, reaching out to wrap your fingers around the hem of his sleeve. “just... thanks, kenma.”
a tiny, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips. he didn’t pull away. instead, he leaned down, pulling up your visor for a bit and pressing his forehead gently against yours for a brief, quiet second, letting the rest of the world blur into background noise.
“don’t get sick,” he murmured softly. “i’m not sharing my hot tea with you tomorrow.”
“liar,” you laughed, leaning into his warmth. “you definitely will.”
