miruac

[miruac]

my baby fran bow 🫶🫶🫶

[miruac]

yearner!jean who looks at you with the softest eyes and a slight smile while you speak, tucking back strands of hair ever so delicately when it dares to cover your beautiful face.

yearner!jean who collects everything that reminds him of you, whether it be a receipt from a restaurant he took you to even if you were just "friends", or a daisy he found in a field that represents love.

yearner!jean who loves to draw you, making sure to get every feature that makes you unique. sometimes he'd absentmindedly draw you when he was bored, other times he'd have a clear picture of you in his head and draw fantasies he wished were real.

yearner!jean who constantly replays subtle intimate moments between you two in his mind. not a day goes by without him thinking about the time where you adjusted his crooked tie during a formal event, secretly wishing you'd tug it down and plant a loving kiss on his lips.

yearner!jean whose heart sinks lower than his stomach when he hears you talking about how cute that guy was who just passed by, wishing you said those words about him instead of strangers.

yearner!jean who will always be there when you need a shoulder to cry on. he'll place his hands on your cheek and wipe your tears with his thumbs, looking at you with an empathetic expression. pulling you closer, he'll hold you deep into his chest as he listens to your sobs and kisses the crown of your head in reassurance. he won't leave your side until he knows you're feeling better.

yearner!jean who's constantly watching you and wondering what's going on in your head. he notices small things you do that he's not even sure if you know about it. sometimes, he'll watch your pupils dilate and a subtle smile creep up on your face as you eye something you like at the store. after not purchasing it, he'll go back later and buy it to surprise you.

yearner!jean who picks up on your newfound constant flirting, but doesn't want to jump to conclusions because he's scared that he's wrong and will lose you. he'd rather be by your side and silently yearn for a future together than speak up and leave him.

yearner!jean who nearly faints when you ask him out on a date, his heart racing at an alarming rate, and cheeks heating up instantly. after stuttering out a yes, you smiled and placed a quick peck on his cheek. all he could think about until said date was how your lips felt on his cheek, and wondered how they'd feel on his lips; what would they taste like?

yearner!jean who showed up to your house with a bouquet of wax flowers that were silently depicting his love towards you. as soon as you opened the door, he couldn't help but call you radiant.

yearner!jean who melts into your touch as you kiss him deeply after the amazing date. he'd place his palm on the nape of your neck, bring you closer as his other hand rested on the small of your back. left breathless after the first kiss, he'll go back for a quick second, wanting more even though he knows he should stop. before pulling away completely, he whispers how much tonight meant to him and that he'd never let you down.

yearner!jean who didn't know it was possible to love someone even more. after becoming an official couple, he always made sure you knew how beautiful you were and was the wind beneath his wings.

yearner!jean who has never been happier knowing that he doesn't have to be trapped in his fantasies anymore. you were finally his, and he was finally yours.

[miruac]

smooth operator - j. kirstein

navigation | masterlist synopsis: stumbling into a random bar and getting drunk isn't so bad when you're doing it with a really hot guy. genre: romance, modern au, songfic warnings: intoxication, alcohol consumption, shameless flirting, not proofread, fem reader, lowercase intended word count: 965 a/n: i'm back? art creds @/gundo_49 | first songfic ever. pls dont flop. ill cry. i also love this song so much i performed it so much in highschool EHEHEHEHEHEH song to listen to: smooth operator - sade

maybe you wanted to go out. for a drink? no. for some time with your friends? yeah. but what do you do when they ALL coincidentally cancel at the same time? are you gonna get those 2 hours you spent getting ready back? no. are you gonna go back home and get your money back from your overpriced uber fare? no. so may as well make the most of your time.

LXXX: hey, gotta cancel. something came up at work

AXXXXX: fiancee got his toe stuck in the washing machine. cant come, going to hospital with him

RXXX: my mom came down with a case of straw-itis. gotta take care of her! xoxo have fun.

you looked at the text messages, your heart churning with confusion and disappointment. these three were your only reason for going to school, and now that you're all on your own paths it's like they've dumped you. they've been getting more and more distant, and kept cancelling plans when you suggest them. but on social media, they all seem to be having so much fun with each other.

after getting out of the car, you looked up at the dimly lit establishment in front of you. your head cocked up, looking at the sign.

NICO'S

the sign flickered, as if welcoming you. a sigh escaped your lungs as you pushed the door open, to be hit with a whole new atmosphere. the air smelled of smoked meats and herbs from the numerous plates of food served, accompanied by the sweet tangs of various cocktail syrups. the walls were plastered with patterned wallpaper that made you feel like you just stepped into the most luxurious speakeasy. right along the back corner, a band was onstage serenading the customers with their melodious harmonics. a smooth bassline and simple drum beat echoed through the room, creating a sultry and seductive ambience. the singer stepped up to the mic stand, swaying her body to the beat.

diamond life, lover boy

you took a seat at the bar, flashing a small smile to the bartender as you ordered a drink. the stranger on your left glanced at you from the corner of his eye, before going back to his half-filled glass of whiskey. you returned the action, your eyes fleeting over his figure. his features were so defined, it was as if you were in a museum staring straight at a statue. his jaw was extremely sharp, little speckles of stubble from each cheek meeting in the middle of his chin. his hair was a light ash mahogany, the back strands scratching the scruff of his neck while his bangs were neatly pushed aside. he donned a black dress shirt where the top buttons were undone, the fabric clinging onto his muscles. a thin silver chained slinked down his neck, shining in the light when he moved. his sleeves were rolled up past his forearms, the cuff almost suffocating his biceps. and boy, he was TALL.

city lights, and business nights.

the streetlamps outside flickered on in unison, as if encouraging you to take your chanced with this man. a wave of businessmen and women crowded into the restaurant, pushing you and jean together. someone behind you accidentally pushed your stool, causing you to topple over. luckily, the man caught you by your shoulder and helped steady you. a chuckle rumbled from his chest as he gently pushed you back into your seat.

"having a pretty girl fall on me wasn't on the agenda tonight. i'm jean."

he said, extending his hand out. his fingers were long, knuckles covered in faded scars. you slid your hand in his, shaking it. his digits wrapped around your entire hand, shaking it firmly.

"y/n. you're a bold one."

the corner of his lip twitched into a smirk, as he retracted his hand.

"speaking the truth. how'd you end up here?"

he asked, swirling the ice in his glass around. you inhaled sharply, taking a shot of liquid courage before speaking. you shivered as the liquid made its way down, shaking the taste off of your toungue.

"well, um. my friends all cancelled. the one time they actually say yes to plans i make, they pull out last minute. what about you?"

the corner of his lips drooped into a small frown.

"sorry to hear that. i'm a friend of the owner. just came to give him some company, but the dinner rush hit him."

he cocked his head at the kitchen door, where you could see a tall male with wavy blond hair manning the kitchen. he seemed to be barking out orders at his staff, but maintained a calm manner while doing it.

"wow. business is booming here, he must be really proud of himself."

you chirped, looking around at the restaurant. almost every table was full, even the private rooms. waiters and waitressess walked up and down each aisle in a coordinated manner as if they had practiced before.

no place to be ending but somewhere to, start.

jean slowly got up, brushing at the wrinkles of his clothes. he extended his hand out to you, his hazel eyes staring into yours with a boyish smile on his face.

"dance with me. c'mon, we can't waste the night."

you took his hand and he pulled you in, his other hand resting on the small of your back as he leaned down by your ear. the faint scent of his cologne surrounded your sense of smell, detecing hints of cedarwood, mint, and natural musk.

"your friends lost a fine one. but how about we start a new friendship?"

he muttered, moving you along to the music.

no need to ask, he's a smooth operator.

going out by yourself tonight was the best choice you could've ever made.

[miruac]

AOT MASTERLIST

JEAN KIRSTEIN

smooth operator (songfic)

[miruac]

yearning with jean kirstein

yearner!jean isn’t remotely as suave and smooth as he portrays himself, not with his friends, not with giggling, blushing girls who approach him and ask for his number, and certainly not with you

yearner!jean whose honeyed eyes shot open wide, blinked rapidly, and nearly watered when he saw you for the first time, across the room, almost infuriatingly unaware of how pretty you were. so pretty it almost made him sick, like eating a much too sweet dessert far too quickly.

yearner!jean who tries to be the cool guy, because that’s what pretty girls like, right?

yearner!jean glides over to you, hands ‘casually’ shoved in his pocket, when he was really just attempting to hide the nervous tremors of his hands. boyish grin on his face, lips tugged upwards as he dropped the most cliché lines possible

yearner!jean stood by your side, yapping away whilst simultaneously withering away into dust the more his mouth moves because every word he says comes out a mess, idiotic, and maybe even unintentionally insulting because of his nerves

yearner!jean mentally curses himself every time he sees your face drop more and more and more. fuck, maybe he should give up.

yearner!jean scratching the back of his neck, pausing, his smile turns more bashful, maybe he should try being more earnest.

yearner!jean whose compliments turn sweeter, more real and kind, but his dulcet voice still cracks and shakes, his Adam’s apple still bobs nervously, and his eyes are still unable to meet yours for longer than a few mere seconds

yearner!jean was confused, utterly befuddled and perplexed that his pathetic attempt at being a playboy didn’t work, yet swallowing thickly before profusely apologising after accidentally calling you ‘urethral’ instead of ‘ethereal’ caused you to giggle so much you teared up

‘just shut up, here’s my number, ‘kay?’ you smile, still recovering from your laughter at his expense

yearner!jean who walks away, fist pumping the air when he gets your number before he looks around him to make sure no one saw (eren and connie did, much to his dismay).

yearner!jean who overthinks a little too much, connie jokes that his good looks are going to waste considering he seemed to turn girls off the moment he starts running his mouth

yearner!jean spends far too long debating on how long he should wait to text you, an hour? no, too early. what about later tonight? no, that might make it seem like a booty call. a few days? no, that’s too long, what if you forget about him before then? fuck, he’s losing it

yearner!jean when he finally decides to text you he types out around fifty trial messages, deleting each one because they’re either too dry and boring or concerningly eager

‘hey’ that’s lame

‘heyyy wydd’ sounds like a frat boy

‘hiiii!!! :)’ he’s texting like sasha

‘hey, it’s jean from earlier’ that’ll do, he guesses

yearner!jean loses the plot when you take too long to respond, he probably came off weird and too excited, now he’s scared you off. he’s rapidly texting connie, and that’s how jean knows he’s off in the deep end because when has he ever gone to connie for advice?

yearner!jean you’re just so pretty, those gorgeous, bright eyes of yours, not in colour specifically, but the sweet gleam in them is impossible to ignore. your hair, how do you get it so fucking perfect? and your smile, your laugh? god, your smile. he wishes he could immortalise it, but his sketches would never do it justice. do you justice in general.

yearner!jean scrambles for his phone any time he hears a notification come through and rolls onto his stomach, like a teen girl in a 80’s rom-com, twirling the phone cord around her finger when on the phone with her crush.

yearner!jean fuck it’s you, it’s actually you. and in fact, he hadn’t scared you off, you were just at work. god, he’s a loser. who even panics this much over a girl they just met? jean kirstein apperently

yearner!jean screams into his pillow, rubs his hands down his face and sighs in relief when he managed to get a date with you

yearner!jean who much to his disliking is now forced to ask his idiot friends for advice again because he needs to take you on the date of a life time

[miruac]

dating suna rintarou - a moodboard(timeskip)

sunas an ass. he's an annoying tease, but he's always so AWFULLY observant. he loves annoying you and sending you little snarky texts, but he knows when to stop. you don't even have to say anything, he can just tell by how you breathe, how your stance gets stiffer. it's nice not having to talk sometimes. from an outsider's glance, suna seems very stoic. nonchalant and silent but strong. however, in private he gets EXTREMELY clingy. i'm talking about whining when you have to get up, pouting when you push his hand off of you, and he'll even get progressively upset the entire day if you forget to give him his morning kiss. he loves you, what can i say? suna's so chronically online. he's making you do almost every couples trend he sees on tiktok, but he wont't post it publicly and saves it to his drafts all the time. and yeah, HE'S the one asking you if you'll still love him if he turned into a worm. as his partner, you're always granted a special seat at his games. he knows when you're watching, even from home. you've always wanted someone who matches your freak, and boom. here he is.

masterlist

navigation

(character belongs to haruichu furudate. pictures belong to op on pinterest. apologies if ooc.)

[miruac]

how i feel opening up tumblr to read x reader ffs at my big age

[miruac]

: ̗̀➛ puppy love

includes: teenage sorcerer nanami x teenage sorcerer reader

genre: fluff

summary: you’re not quite dating yet, and nanami seems to be a little stand-off ish but he’s defiantly warming up

cw: nanami might be a little ooc it’s my first time writing for teenage nanami lol

geto’s version | gojo’s version

[miruac]

Every time a write makes a childhood bsf to lovers story an angel gains its wings

[miruac]

I LOVE U JEAN KIRSTEIN!!!

BF JEAN HC'S🎀

as requested by @luvingjeanie <3 i hope you enjoy!! 💘 (sorry for the wait honey) (jeans so precious omg)

general jeanie hc's🪷

🐇: right off the bat, you'd be jeanie's first romantic partner. he can come off a little strong to people, but you most likely had a friends to lovers romance — because he's just that insane.

🐇: jean made it SOOOOO obvious he had a thing for you, like so obvious. he'd always tell you how pretty you were, he'd constantly buy you "just because" gifts and he'd always stare at you like you were the prettiest person in the world.

🐇: once you're actually in a relationship, jean is so so gentle. he's always taking care of you and treating you like a literal princess.

🐇: jean luvs buying you flowers. your house is constantly filled with flowers that jean has bought you — because he just luvs seeing your face light up — it means everything to him.

🐇: this guy is such a charmer, it's SICKENING. whenever you yap and ramble on and on and onnnnnn incessantly, he listens to every single word, nodding and going "mhm, mhm..." he's such an active listener, it's so relieving.

🐇: like bertholdt he definitely has a playlist dedicated to you that he listens to when he misses u. filled with old love songs and cheesy songs that make him think of your laugh.

🐇: jean is amazing at noticing things. he always notices. it's like a talent. you're frowning a little? he's immediately on your case, asking if you're okay and being present with you.

🐇: jean loves playing with your hair. i mean, the boy loves his own hair enough, but he loves twiddling with yours and braiding it.

🐇: if you're having a rough night where sleep seems unachievable, all you gotta do is ring him up and he's there at your door with some sleep tea he flew to the store for, and he is READY to play around with your hair. best sleep you've ever had btw.

🐇: jean is so good at taking care of you, he prides himself on it. seeing as he's extremely perceptive, he knows immediately when you're not feeling well, and he's at your door with a pot of soup he cooked.

🐇: if he even hears a SNIFFLE come from you, he's got a box of tissues, cough sweets, medicine and an apron and gloves on. he refuses to let you get out of bed, claiming you need to "preserve your energy to get better"

🐇: in all honesty, he just loves nursing you. you do so much for him, and sometimes he feels like he doesn't do enough. so, this is a perfect opportunity for him to showcase his love and adoration!

🐇: another thing, this man is an AMAZING cook. his mama taught him all these amazing recipes, that you just adore. he's especially amazing at pasta, he's constantly showing off new recipes he came up with. it's cute, really.

🐇: absolute boss at mario kart btw. he always gets first place. you're not sure if it's his competitive nature or if he's genuinely just good at the game — but it pissed you OFF how he always wins that godforsaken game.

🐇: he lowk finds it hot when ur pissed off sauuuurrr sometimes he does it just to spite you.

🐇: u rage quit.

🐇: jean is such a yapper it's actually crazy like this guy does NOT stop talking once he's comfortable with you. even at like 3am he'll lay on your chest and have you play with his hair while he rambles on about how connie pissed off a teacher or something of the like.

🐇: on the topic of sleeping — this man refuses to go to bed angry at you, like straight up even if he didn’t start the argument, he’s ending it. he’ll always cuddle up to you and mumble soft apologies whilst tracing circles on your hip.

🐇: i dont even know whether he’d be a cat or dog person, shit he probably has both 😭

🐇: SUCH A YEARNER HOLY SHIYYYT. like, even though you’re dating, sometimes he’ll just stare at you with love filled eyes wondering how he got so lucky.

🐇: he sends u the stupidest videos and just says “thought of u” “i thought you’d find this funny” (u don’t tell him how cute u find it…)

🐇: jean needs physical touch like he needs air, so he’s always gently touching you. his favourite for when you’re in public is linking your pinkies together.

🐇: speaking of pinkies, this man is BIG on keeping promises. he refuses to break your trust like that, so if he promises something to you he delivers 110%

🐇: okay he’s so jealous. he can’t help it, he’s a jealous guy; but he’s not suffocating or overbearing at all. (in-fact he’d rather die than be that guy)

🐇: jean is big on communication. if there’s any issues he will sit down and talk it out with you until you both feel content. he’d never want you to keep things from him, he wants you to trust him like he trusts you.

🐇: jean can be an anxious boy, and that anxiety tends to make him overthink a lot. he can’t help get overwhelmed easily, and when he does — you’re the only one he wants. he just buries himself into your chest and he lets you rake your fingers through his soft hair.

🐇: speaking of hair this guy is so meticulous with his its comedic. he refuses to leave the house until its “sitting right” (and that can take hours) butttt you love him so you cope!

🐇: artsy jean, artsy jean. he is always drawing or painting and you’re 9 times out of 10 his muse. he paints you presents, giving you them spontaneously and you hang them up in your bedroom (he may have cried over that once.) but its so cute and hes genuinely so so talented and you ALWAYS remind him of that !!!

physical jeanie hc’s 🌊

🎆: he has stubble, mainly around his jaw, going down to his neck just a little. (like a sexy goatee thing going on)

🎆: he has quite a slender yet sharp nose. it’s quite flat and straight but it harmonises perfectly with his features.

🎆: prettiest light brown eyes that have flecks of amber in it when the sun shines down on them. his eyes are almond shaped and sharp, but they’re always soft when he looks at you

🎆: he’s got a long face duh, but its hot as fuck. his features are quite slender generally, all harmonising together.

🎆: dimples. DIMPLESSSSSS. cutest little dimples ever when he smiles, like his smile is like sunshine embodied. he has such a boyish grin its impossible not to love.

🎆: he’s quite a muscular boy, and i’m a believer he has a bit of a sleeper build. like, you don’t realise how strong he is until he’s flexing and working out (🤤)

🎆: tall, obvi. i think its the main reason i’d be partial to believing he’d have a sleeper build because of his height/weight distribution. (he lowkey loves teasing you by resting his arm on ur head lmfao)

🎆: his hair is ashy blonde and SO SOFT. he takes care of his hair more than u do lowkey. has a whole haircare routine. hair masks, hair oil, allat. he uses it religiously and it pays off.

🎆: thin-ish lips. but they’re so so soft, it’s like kissing a cloud. he probably uses fucking berts bees or smt😭

🎆: i lowkey think he’d have crooked teeth. not crazy crooked, but not perfectly straight. he’s a little insecure about it but you think they’re so… cute and perfect and they just suit him so so well.

🎆: really super duper long luscious eyelashes that lowkey piss u off. they’re so full and pretty (hes a pretty boy ok.)

🎆: he has pretty veiny hands. also fucking large hands hello. his hands aren’t too veiny but they’re definitely veiny enough to get u going 🫡

🎆: i am a FIRMMMMM believed of jean having an earring okay (trust me and rock w me.) just a little stud in his ear and its so so hot.

🎆: on the topic of jewellery, i think jean would definitely wear a watch and rings, maybe even a chain. (he doesn’t actually use the watch to tell the time it was his fathers😭)

🎆: he always smells BOMB. he loves colognes and he has so many. i can imagine him wearing something like paco rabanne one million. definitely more of a spicy/woody man when it comes to scents.

🎆: i think he’d have freckles that only come out when its sunny. they gently brush over his nose and cheeks in the summer.

🎆: jean is always dressed well. especially when you have dates he WILL make that effort to look good for you, because you’re the love of his life, duh.

🎆: he loves a good hat it has to be said. though, he’s one of those people that surprisingly look good in them.

🎆: he most likely bites his nails. he’s an anxious guy, and its like second nature for him to chew on his nails when he gets like that.

🎆: morning voice.

jeanies fav dates 🎞️

🌙: he loves picnics. he just thinks they’re so romantic and simple. sitting somewhere scenic with his love, eating good food? he’s sold.

🌙: because this man is such an art geek, he loves going to art museums, analysing all of the paintings whilst you listen to him yap about the importance of the… whatever he was saying.

🌙: jean LOVES stargazing with you. specifically because he actually knows the constellations, and he points them out to you whilst you both talk under the beautiful night sky.

🌙: presence is such a big thing for jean, so even just video game dates or movie dates are enough for him. as long as he’s with you, it doesn’t matter.

🌙: if you have any specific interests or hobbies, he will always try his absolute hardest to find date ideas that can accommodate those interests. (because its all worth it to see your smile.)

🌙: that being said, if you both dabble in a more expensive date, he goes all out. he buys you a beautiful outfit, making sure to spoil you the entire night.

🌙: no matter the date, or even when you aren’t going on a date, he always shows up at your door with flowers. whether it be a bouquet, or wildflowers he picked himself, it doesn’t matter.

🌙: he is a sucker for cosy nights in though. curling up on the couch with the fire going, a cup of hot chocolate in hand whilst you laugh your asses off at shitty hallmark movies.

🌙: firm believer he’d have self care days with you. if you’re feeling like shit, he’ll show up with face masks and snacks, laying on your bed with you whilst you put a sheet mask on his face and cucumbers on his eyes. (and he will never admit it felt nice)

🌙: he loves baking, so he’d definitely making a date around it. to be honest, you’d mostly be yapping his ear of whilst he does all the work… butttttt he honestly prefers it that way😭

hope you liked this, lovely🩷

[miruac]

[10:55 PM]—mine to cherish

—pairing: miya osamu x gender neutral! reader; genre: hurt/comfort, light angst, fullf, established relationship au! collegeau!; wc: 1.5k+; warnings: body issues

haikyuu masterlist

It was one of those nights. 

You stared at yourself in the mirror, eyes hazy, lost in your thoughts. The shirt you were wearing wore a little tighter on your skin. Have you gained weight? 

You touch and squish around your body, feeling the way it spills in between your fingers. Every inch and crevice of your body suddenly felt foreign to you. The person in the mirror is unfamiliar. How have you changed so much in such a short span of time? Had you really let go of yourself that bad?

There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, one that grows the more you prod and stare yourself down. Maybe it’s because you’ve been eating too much lately. More than you should. Three meals a day, all heavy, laden with carbs and muscle-building protein. Your stomach protruded, and you swear you look almost pregnant. 

You should definitely go on a diet. You can’t lose yourself any more than you have. You need to lose it all, return to your prime. After all, if you don’t, maybe your boyfriend will leave you. Maybe he wouldn’t love you anymore–

“Baby?”

The door opens. Miya Osamu, your boyfriend of 6 months enters your bedroom. You quickly cover up with a towel, a rush of adrenaline fueling you. He shouldn’t have to see the state you were in. What if that turned him off? Pushed him away? Stupid you. Why did you have to dwell on something like this when you were supposed to get ready for your date?

Osamu had been planning this date the whole week. He wouldn’t tell you where the two of you were going, insisting that all you had to do was dress up all nice and pretty and wait for him to pick you up. He had been excited for this date. He always was. In the past 6 months you’ve come to realize that your boyfriend had a thing for planning dates. It was one of his favorite things to do. 

But everything seemed to be going wrong today. You not only woke up late only to realize that you had fallen asleep in the midst of doing an assignment that was due last midnight. You were also unable to submit it. And worst of all it was for a subject that had a strict professor– one who accepted no excuses when it came to late outputs. As if your grades weren’t suffering already. 

It didn’t help that when you went to heat up leftovers for your late brunch, your microwave decided that it was the perfect time to malfunction. Rendering you no choice but to eat the last, measly pack of crackers that you had in your pantry. 

You didn’t even know what you wanted to wear for the date. All Osamu told you was to wear whatever made you feel good. But it had been an hour, and 5 outfit combinations later, you were still stumped on what to wear… leading to your predicament now. 

Osamu had let himself in with the spare key hidden underneath your porch’s plant. He had gotten here about an hour ago, and figured he would let you take your time to get ready, opting to watch one of his favorite cooking shows on your TV instead. But a couple of minutes ago, he had begun to get worried. He called your name, but to no response. 

In his worry, he had gone up to check on you, only to feel his heart breaking at the sight that greeted him. 

There you were, half naked in front of your full-body mirror, looking at yourself with disdain raging through your eyes. The way you immediately covered up and tried to hide the insecurity that was buried deep within your heart made him want to cry. 

He didn’t like seeing you so… gone. 

“Samu!” You say, voice chirpy in a fake way. “Sorry, was I taking too long? I’ll be done in a few minutes. Can’t seem to decide what to wear.” You try to laugh it off, but you can’t really hide from Osamu. 

Annoyingly enough, Osamu was one of the most perceptive men you’ve ever met in your life. Even without you saying anything, he just somehow knew when you were feeling sad, unworthy, pissed, happy. It was as if he was just in-tune with your every being. 

So it shouldn't have come as a surprise for you, when he could see right through your insecurities too. 

Osamu slowly walks towards you, gently grabbing your hand in his, simultaneously making you drop the towel you were holding on top of your form as a shield. You felt like you were baring yourself to him. You hadn’t really gone that far into intimacy with Osamu yet, but he never held that against you. But something about this moment felt so incredibly raw. A connection that went deeper than anything you had ever gone through with him before, 

Amidst the silence, Osamu holds your hand gently, guiding you back in front of the mirror. You look at him through the reflection, eyes full of fear bridled with miniscule hope. You weren’t sure what he was going to do. You try to avoid looking at yourself, not wanting to deal with the fact that you– imperfect, tragic you– was being held in his arms. 

But he wouldn’t let you.

With a gentle but firm touch, he grabs hold of your jaw, slowly running his fingers through the tapestry of your neck. His other arm finds itself curled around your stomach, pulling you in, flush against his body. You’re caged in his embrace, and the tension surrounding the two of you makes your breath hitch. 

“Look at you, baby.” He says, voice low and raspy. You try to look away, but he doesn’t let you, his calm aura encouraging you to look. To see what he sees. “So pretty for me…” 

There’s a glassy look in his eyes. And honestly Osamu finds himself completely enamored by the sight of you, so pliant in his arms. It’s the first time he’s seeing you like this. He feels like he’s just unraveled a new layer to both you and himself. You were so ethereal. And you were his. His to love. His to cherish. He would be damned if he continued to let your depreciating thoughts plague you deep. 

“Samu..” you’re breathless, completely overwhelmed by the pure devotion he was showering you with. There was no doubt in his eyes. He loved you. He didn’t have to say it because the way he was holding you, amidst all the things you seemed to hate about yourself, and was still able to look at you like you were someone straight from his wildest dreams, made you feel it. Clear as day. 

“Those thoughts that plague your pretty little mind aren’t true, baby,” He kisses your head softly, running his hand through your hair, consoling you. “You’re beautiful no matter what. All mine to love. I love seeing you so cared for. You’re so precious to me.”

Nothing but sincerity bled through his words. You’ve never felt so seen and cared for, the worries washing away. It was silly to worry so much when Osamu never cared about how you looked or whether you fit in with what society thought was beautiful. He cared about you. He cared about whether you felt loved. He cared about you being happy. Fed. Content. Cared for.

All Osamu cared for was making you the happiest in the world. 

So when you look back at him, eyes watery, tears threatening to fall from how touched you were, all he does is turn you around in his hold, hugging you as tightly as he could, grounding you. Comfort. Safety. 

“Hey,” he says, calmly rocking the two of you where you stand. “Please don’t cry, baby. You’re breaking my heart here.” It’s lighthearted the way he talks, and you can’t help but giggle as the tears fall, smiling into his chest. “We’re still going to go out on our date, y’know?”

Feeling a lot better, you look up at him, arms wrapped around his waist. You stare into his eyes, seeing nothing but love staring back. 

“I still don’t know what to wear.”

Osamu chuckles. “You could wear a trash bag for all I care, baby. I just want to be with you.” 

“Then let me grab a trash bag then–”

Osamu laughs, happy that you’re feeling a lot better than you were a while ago. He holds you in his arms, spinning you around until you fall flat on your back atop your bed. 

“Samu! Hey! I’ve got to get dressed,” you try to seem annoyed, but terribly, you fail to cover up your laughter.

“Just a little longer,” he says, going all soft, relaxing on top of you. “Let me hold you for a bit longer.” 

And you smile softly, running your hands through his hair. This was what you needed. Everything you could have ever asked for and more. Osamu brought you laughter and joy, silence and serenity. He was your pillar. A love so gentle, yet deep. And you were thankful to whatever god existed that you were his just as much as he was yours. 

finally got to upload something!!! school's been pretty hectic (rip, it's only the second week) but i'm trying my best to write as much as i can! lmk what u thing, would love to interact with everyone!

©rosiestdreams 2025. All rights reserved. Copying, reposting, translating, and modifying in any platform aside from a03 and tumblr or by any means is NOT permitted and will be dealt with accordingly.

[miruac]

you like to watch nanami around yuuji.

you never mention it out loud, but it warms something in your chest every time you catch nanami standing with his arms crossed, brows drawn, voice even but firm as he lectures yuuji about the importance of time management, or proper fighting technique, or how emotions shouldn’t cloud your judgment on the field. it’s usually met with yuuji nodding enthusiastically, eyes wide and sparkling, practically radiating awe.

it’s just that something about them together makes you ache in a warm way, like curling up in the corner of a sunlit room, like watching something bloom in slow motion.

yuuji looks up to nanami. that’s obvious to anyone with a pair of eyes. and more than that, he trusts him — fully, blindly, in the way only teenagers and saints can manage. and you think nanami sees it too, even if he pretends not to. even if he still answers yuuji’s endless questions with a sigh or a roll of the eyes, even if he still says “i’m not your therapist.” when yuuji rambles about his day, even if he keeps up that very nanami-like air of reluctant patience and ironclad boundaries.

but you see the way nanami lets yuuji talk, no matter how long he goes. the way he always answers, even if it’s dry or sarcastic. the way he remembers the little things — what yuuji likes in his convenience store lunches, that he doesn’t like the texture of mushrooms, that he’s trying to learn how to cook better, even though he once lit a pot of rice on fire.

you’ve watched nanami drag yuuji by the collar away from danger, watched him keep a firm hand on the boy’s back when they walk into tense situations, like he’s always half-ready to shield him with his own body. you’ve seen the bruises nanami takes in his place. the way he pretends it’s nothing.

yuuji’s affection is transparent. he calls nanami “nanamin,” teases him, clings to him when he’s tired, leans on him without hesitation, like he knows nanami will always catch him. and nanami. . . well.

he doesn’t exactly smile, but he lets him.

nowadays, he only sighs when yuuji flings an arm around his shoulders, shakes his head when the boy insists on walking with him after a mission, tolerates the nickname with little more than a grumble. and if his hand sometimes finds yuuji’s head and ruffles his hair without thinking, well. you don’t say anything. neither does yuuji, who practically glows when it happens.

you remember the first time you noticed it.

yuuji had thrown his arms around nanami after a particularly rough mission, blood on his clothes and mud on his boots, relief etched into every line of his young face. “we did it!” he’d shouted, beaming. “thanks, nanamin!”

and nanami—your dear, repressed, overworked nanami—had gone very still, like a cat trying to decide whether it was being hugged or attacked. “please,” he’d said stiffly, “don’t call me that.”

but he didn’t push him away.

you catch them in quiet moments sometimes. like when yuuji’s fallen asleep in the common area after training too hard, and nanami walks by, notices, and then, without a word, shrugs off his blazer and drapes it over him. you’d watched him do it once from the hallway, hidden from view, and something about the soft exhale nanami let out before walking away stuck with you for the rest of the day.

he’s not trying to be a father, he’d never call it that, but he’s being one, in all the ways that count.

yuuji brings out something in him that you’re not sure nanami knew he still had—patience, gentleness, protectiveness that runs so deep it borders on instinct. you can see it in the way nanami watches him spar, correcting his form, offering quiet encouragement, giving praise without fluff but never without sincerity.

you bring it up one evening, half-laughing as you sit together on the apartment floor, a bottle of sake open between you and his tie long forgotten on the armrest of the couch. “you know he adores you, right?”

nanami doesn’t look up immediately. he’s swirling the drink in his glass, lips parted slightly like he’s lost in thought.

“i’ve noticed,” he says eventually, with that calm tone he always uses when he’s trying to hide how deeply something affects him.

you smile, nudging his knee with your own. “you let him.”

he raises an eyebrow. “should i not?”

“no,” you say. “i think it’s good. i think he needs it.”

nanami’s eyes soften at that. just a fraction. but enough. “he shouldn’t have to,” he murmurs. “he’s… he’s still a child.”

you reach over and rest your hand over his. “maybe. but he still chose to care about you. and you’re not pushing him away.”

he exhales slowly through his nose, thumb brushing lightly against your fingers. “it’s not always easy,” he admits, voice lower now, almost sheepish. “i don’t… know how to be what he sees me as.”

“you don’t have to know,” you say. “you’re already doing it. you show up. you teach him. you protect him. you listen.”

he’s quiet for a long time. then: “i suppose… that’s what i would’ve wanted, too. when i was his age.”

your heart tugs at that, and you lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

—

sometimes you catch yuuji following nanami around like a duckling. it’s especially bad on bad days — when the missions were rough, or the decisions heavier than a kid his age should carry.

he doesn’t always say it aloud, but you know when he’s struggling. and you know nanami knows too, because those are the days he stays a little closer, speaks a little softer, doesn’t swat yuuji away when he starts talking nonsense just to fill the silence.

you’ve even seen nanami put a hand on yuuji’s shoulder, brief and firm, grounding. not a hug, not quite, but something like it, something enough.

yuuji glows under that kind of attention. you think it’s because he misses being clueless, misses being a kid, misses being taken care of. and nanami — though he might not admit it — is good at taking care.

one evening, you catch yuuji passed out on in the living room couch.

you were coming home late from a mission, not expecting to find yuuji curled up on the sofa, hoodie pulled over his head, a soft snore escaping him every few seconds. nanami was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, boiling water for tea.

“he was falling asleep on the train,” he said simply, when he saw you looking. “i didn’t want him wandering home like that.”

you smiled. “so you brought him home and gave him a blanket?”

“i’m not heartless,” he muttered, but you could see the careful way he’d tucked the blanket around yuuji, could see the convenience store snack bag left on the coffee table — a familiar juice box and onigiri yuuji always picked.

you didn’t say anything, just reached up and brushed a hand through nanami’s hair as you passed him, fingers warm against his scalp. he leaned into the touch, barely.

he talks to you about him sometimes, when it’s late and he’s tired, when the walls of his reserve fall a little lower.

“he reminds me of people i used to know,” he’ll say. “of how i used to be.”

there’s something unreadable in his eyes as he looks sideways and you catch a glimpse of the picture frame on a shelf near the window with him and haibara.

“hopeful?” you tease.

“reckless,” he replies, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

and then quieter, “he deserves better.”

you always wrap your arms around him when he says things like that. kiss his shoulder. “he’s got you. that’s something.”

he never says it aloud, but you can tell it matters to him.

so yes, you like to watch nanami around yuuji.

you like the way nanami softens, little by little, even when he doesn’t realize it. the way he tolerates the noise, the chaos, the affection, even when he swears it annoys him. you like the way yuuji brightens whenever nanami praises him, even if it’s just a grunt or a nod of approval.

you like that they have each other. you see the way nanami keeps yuuji grounded, gives him something solid to lean on, a presence he can count on no matter what. and in return, yuuji gives nanami something just as precious: hope. a reason to believe in the next generation, in people, in himself.

you like that, in a world as cruel and heavy as this one, they’ve made something safe together. even if it’s quiet. even if it’s imperfect.

it’s enough.

and you think nanami’s starting to believe that too.

[miruac]

onigiris and confessions

wherein you were inarizaki’s manager, standing up to osamu’s twin during practice, and he thanks you with an onigiri—an unassuming gesture that quietly blossoms into something more.

starring. miya osamu x fem!reader

genre. fluff, romance, slow burn.

wc. 6.3k

author's note: slowly reposting my recent works (╥﹏╥)

It was the first semester of spring. The air was crisp but gentle, the trees outside starting to blush pink with the first touch of sakura. You walked beside Kita, your school bags slung over your shoulders as he guided you through the path toward Inarizaki’s gym.

He didn’t say much—not that he ever did—but his presence was steady, comforting. Familiar.

You’d grown up next door to him. Your families had always been close; your parents practically considered his grandmother their own mother, and you’d spent more summers than you could count inside the Kita household, learning patience and tea etiquette before you ever learned how to curse. So when he brought up the idea of you becoming the volleyball team’s new manager, it didn’t feel like a favor. Not even a suggestion. More like… inevitability.

“You’re organized, sharp, and you don’t take crap from anyone,” he said plainly the night before, while you were pulling weeds out of his grandmother’s garden. “You’ll be good at it.”

You didn’t argue. If Kita thought you’d be good at something, you probably would be. Besides, it wasn’t like you could say no when he looked at you like he already saw it happening.

So here you were, walking beside him as the gym doors came into view, your folder pressed against your chest and your school ID tucked into the front pocket of your uniform.

When you stepped inside, the sharp scent of varnished wood and sweat hit you first. Volleyballs echoed across the floor, thudding against polished hardwood and open palms. Laughter, shouting, sneakers squeaking—organized chaos.

Kita didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, his voice calm but commanding. “Gather up.”

The players immediately began converging near the center of the gym, jogging toward him, wiping sweat from their necks and pushing up sleeves. You could already see the difference—these boys respected him. Feared him a little, maybe, but trusted him too.

“This is our new first-year manager,” Kita said, glancing briefly in your direction. “She’s starting today. Treat her with respect.”

A few of them gave casual nods. One of the third-years murmured a polite, “Nice to meet you.” Another waved lazily from where he was stretching.

Then, of course, came the blonde.

You spotted him the moment he broke away from the group, all swagger and mischief, a cocky grin spread across his face. Miya Atsumu.

“Well, well,” he said, striding up with far too much confidence for someone still dripping sweat. “Didn’t know we were getting lucky this semester. You single?”

You didn’t even look at him.

Still flipping through the forms tucked neatly in your folder, you said without hesitation, “Atsumu-san, asking about my relationship status isn’t very professional.”

Your voice wasn’t raised, wasn’t biting—just cool and matter-of-fact, like you were pointing out an error on a form.

Then, just as calmly, you added, “If you’re finished with the unnecessary commentary, you still haven’t submitted your physical form or your updated dietary report. I’ll be expecting both by the end of today. I don’t plan on chasing you for them.”

That did it.

The entire gym went still. A few heads turned. Someone stifled a laugh that slipped out anyway, loud in the quiet.

Atsumu blinked at you, stunned, his mouth parted slightly like he wasn’t sure what just hit him. The grin he’d approached with faltered—not out of offense, but confusion. Like no one had ever just… told him off like that. Cleanly. Without blinking.

You finally looked up and met his gaze.

Unbothered. Unimpressed.

He blinked again. “...Right.”

Behind him, a low snort slipped from someone’s throat. You didn’t have to turn around to know it was Osamu.

Kita said nothing, but his faint nod beside you was all the confirmation you needed.

You turned and walked past Atsumu to set your things on the bench, flipping open your clipboard to get started.

By the time practice resumed, it was clear to everyone in the gym—especially Atsumu—that you weren’t here to play games.

And Osamu?

He was still watching.

Just… quietly.

That continued on for days, and before anyone realized it, you weren’t just part of the team—you were the team. The rhythm adjusted around you. The atmosphere, the routine, even the way the boys carried themselves.

They knew better than to mess with you.

You were sweet—always had been. You brought towels to the bench before they needed asking, sometimes even adjusting the fold for whoever liked it on their neck or their knees. You offered them snacks after drills, water during stretches, a cold pack when someone twisted wrong and tried to pretend it didn’t hurt. Off practice, you were just as warm. Passing by them in the hallway between classes, you’d offer a quiet smile, sometimes a chocolate bar, sometimes an energy drink if someone looked too pale to have eaten.

You’d bring extra snacks for everyone after exams, or when the weather changed and moods dipped, or on game days. Once, after a particularly hard-fought victory, you baked them cookies shaped like tiny volleyballs, and left them stacked in a tin by the door with a note that said, Good work. You earned this.

You were kind.

But you weren’t soft.

You knew when to draw the line—and you knew how to hold it.

The boys learned that quickly. The clipboard became your unspoken weapon. When the twins started bickering, which they always did, you didn’t bother raising your voice. You’d march over, swing the clipboard with practiced ease, and smack one on the shoulder and the other on the arm, expression calm as water. It always shut them up.

Once, a second-year made a stupid joke about stretching and ended up doing cooldowns twice over because you turned, clipboard in hand, and gave him a look that could’ve stopped a rally in mid-air.

Somehow, over time, the team came to fear your clipboard more than Kita’s silent disapproval—which said a lot, considering how terrifying silence from Kita could be. But even he didn’t argue with your methods. In fact, he stood beside you with a quiet pride you never mentioned, watching the way you carried them all like it was second nature.

The boys still teased you—when you were in a good mood. They called you Clipboard Queen, asked what you were baking next, joked that you ran the gym more than the coaches. But they never crossed the line. Not once.

Because they adored you.

And you weren’t the new manager.

You were the manager.

Their manager.

Even Osamu noticed.

He hadn’t said much since the first week, not like his brother who’d tried—and failed—to charm you with a pick-up line and got humbled so fast the entire team still laughed about it behind his back. No, Osamu was quieter. He watched. He took in the way you organized, the way you moved, the way you handled things so effortlessly without needing praise or attention.

You were interesting. That’s what he told himself.

Not romantically. Not like that.

He just found himself noticing you more often than not. The way you stood off to the side during drills, making silent notes with a furrowed brow. The way your hair framed your face when you leaned forward to speak to Kita. The way you snapped the cap back onto your pen when you were annoyed.

It wasn’t serious. It wasn’t a crush.

He just… noticed.

At least, that’s what he believed.

Until the day nothing went right.

It started with warmups—he felt off. Not tired, not sore, just off. His shoes felt too heavy. His body wouldn’t move the way he wanted it to. The more he tried to shake it off, the worse it got. It was like his own rhythm had left the gym without him.

Then came drills.

Set after set, and no matter how sharp Atsumu’s tosses were, Osamu couldn’t land a clean spike. His timing was off. His body wasn’t listening. Everything was half a beat too slow or a split second too fast.

And Atsumu noticed.

“Oi!” Atsumu snapped mid-play. “That was dead on! Ya even watchin’ the ball?”

Osamu exhaled sharply. “That one was behind me, dumbass.”

“I gave you a perfect toss!”

“Then maybe your ‘perfect’ toss needs fixing.”

Their voices cut through the gym like the snap of a ball against wood. Practice paused. Several of the first-years turned nervously. Kita was watching, arms crossed. Silent.

Osamu ran a hand through his hair, sweat clinging to his skin. His chest ached—not from exertion, but from something worse. Frustration.

He hated this. Hated how nothing was clicking. Hated how Atsumu’s tone was only making it worse. Hated how everyone was watching now.

Then came the sound.

A sharp, clean snap.

The clipboard.

You hadn’t even raised your voice.

“Atsumu-san,” you said.

The way his name left your mouth was clean and final. Not angry. Not sharp. Just firm. Level. Like a door being shut.

Everyone stilled.

Atsumu flinched before turning toward you, sweat clinging to his temples.

You didn’t look up from your clipboard yet, pen poised over the stat sheet you’d been writing on. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped shouting at your brother like he’s the only one on this court.”

Silence.

“You’re frustrated. So is he. But if your set was really perfect,” you paused, finally lifting your gaze to meet his, “then it would’ve been where it needed to be. Half a step matters, especially at this level.”

Atsumu opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Not even his pride could argue with that.

You held his eyes for one more beat, then turned to Osamu, eyes softer now—just a flicker. Just enough.

You didn’t say anything to him, didn’t pat his shoulder or coddle him or even try to comfort him. You just met his gaze. Quiet. Certain. Like you saw the weight he was carrying. Like you understood.

Then you looked back down and returned to writing.

Atsumu didn’t speak again for the rest of practice.

Osamu didn’t either—not because he was sulking or too proud to admit you’d caught him off guard. It was something else. Something heavier. Something that lingered long after the drills were done, long after he peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt and packed up his bag, long after he watched you walk ahead with Kita into the staff hall, the edge of your clipboard peeking out of your side tote.

He didn’t sleep easy that night.

Not because of guilt. Not because of his off game.

But because he couldn’t stop thinking about how you looked at him—not with judgment, not with pity, but like someone who was already on his side without needing a reason.

So the next day, he got to school early.

Too early. The gym was still locked. His bag hung from one shoulder, and in his hand was a neatly wrapped triangle of rice wrapped in foil and sealed with a strip of paper tape.

He’d made it that morning—still half-asleep, hair damp from his shower, lips chewing the inside of his cheek while his hands moved by muscle memory. Salmon. Seasoned lightly, like how he made it for himself. It was simple. But it was careful.

And when he stepped into the gym and found the bench where you always sat—your clipboard usually resting there, your tote bag slung behind it—he crouched down and set the onigiri right in the center of the bench.

No note.

Just your name, handwritten in permanent marker across the tape.

He didn’t stick around.

He didn’t have to.

Later that day, when you arrived—five minutes early as usual—you stopped when you saw it. The foil glinted faintly under the gym lights. Your name stared back at you, scrawled in neat, slanted handwriting that definitely wasn’t Kita’s.

And across the court, already stretching with the rest of the team, Osamu kept his eyes on his shoelaces and pretended like he hadn’t done anything at all.

But when you sat down and took a bite halfway through warm-ups, you didn’t look at him.

You smiled, barely.

And Osamu felt it from across the room.

Something in his chest tightened again—no longer frustration, not quite confusion. Just heat. Quiet and steady.

He didn’t know what to call it yet.

But that was fine.

He had time.

And he knew now—you were worth slowing down for.

You already had a hunch who gave it to you.

No one said anything, and he didn’t look your way once, but you knew. The writing on the tape was familiar—slanted, steady, no frills. The way the rice was packed, shaped just a little tighter on one side like it was pressed by someone with muscle memory. The seasoning, the filling—salmon, not too salty, not too plain. It wasn’t flashy, but it was thoughtful. Meant to be eaten, not just gifted.

That alone told you everything.

Osamu.

So during their water break, you didn’t say anything at first. You walked across the gym like you always did, clipboard tucked under your arm, towel slung over your shoulder. You passed out the water bottles one by one, and when you stopped in front of him, he didn’t glance up—at least not right away.

But he reached for the bottle you handed him, fingers brushing yours for half a second longer than they had to.

And that’s when he noticed it.

A folded scrap of paper, neatly wedged beneath the elastic holding the bottle’s cap. Small. Private.

He blinked. Pulled it free when you moved on without a word.

In your handwriting:

"Thank you. It tasted good, Osamu-san."

No hearts. No smiley face. Just a clean, quiet note.

He read it once. Twice.

Then tucked it inside his pocket like it meant more than it should.

And for the rest of the day, even through drills and cooldowns and Atsumu’s usual loudness, there was a strange calm that settled over him—like something soft had unknotted itself in his chest. Like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t just noticing him back.

You already had.

Something shifted in Osamu as he found himself always giving you onigiri every now and then.

It wasn’t loud or sudden—just small, quiet moments strung together until it became part of how he moved. How he thought. How his day began and ended.

It was never planned, never announced. It simply became a rhythm—a quiet exchange woven into the time between drills and water breaks, like an invisible thread tethering you both closer with each handmade bite. Sometimes they were savory. Sometimes simple. Sometimes he wrapped them with little strips of patterned paper, once even tying one with a red string because he claimed he couldn’t find tape.

You didn’t believe him. But you didn’t call him out on it, either.

You never asked for them. Never hinted. But he gave them anyway. And you never said much about it, not after the first note, not after the soft thank-yous. Still, he noticed how you always ate them first—even when you brought your own snacks. How you started bringing green tea in a thermos and sliding the cap toward him during breaks when he looked tired.

He noticed. And he liked noticing.

It wasn’t a confession. Not yet. But you both knew what it meant, even if no one else did.

And somehow, in the hush of routine, that was enough.

Until one afternoon.

You were sitting near the open window, tallying up stats with your pencil tapping against your lips, and Osamu was perched on the edge of a bench nearby, chewing slowly through a rice ball he’d made for himself. You didn’t look up when you said it, just scribbled another number down like it was nothing.

“You know, you could sell these.”

He blinked. “Huh?”

“Your onigiri. For the school festival. The team doesn’t have a booth yet. You could lead it.”

There was a pause. He stared at you like you’d just asked him to run for office.

“…A food stall?”

“You already make them,” you replied, eyes still on your clipboard. “You’re good at it. The team listens to you when you talk food. Plus, who better to run a stand than someone who feeds the manager before every practice?”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “…You sayin’ I bribe ya?”

You didn’t smile—at least, not fully. But your eyes softened when you met his gaze. “I’m saying you have good taste.”

The suggestion must’ve stuck, because later that week, while the third-years were reviewing festival duties, Osamu cleared his throat and said—not too loud, but just enough—“I got an idea.”

By the next day, “Inarizaki’s Onigiri Stand” was penciled in as the volleyball team’s official booth.

Atsumu groaned immediately. “We could’ve done somethin’ cool! Like a haunted house or dunk booth or somethin’—”

“You can stand in the corner and be scary if you want,” you deadpanned, flipping your clipboard closed.

Osamu snorted.

Planning the booth turned into late afternoons in the gym after everyone left. You and Osamu stayed behind—first just to sketch out flavor ideas and price points, then to plan packaging, sourcing ingredients, designing signs. He got passionate fast. Talked about rice blends, grilling techniques, even which condiments the first-years liked best.

You listened. Took notes. Hummed when something sounded good. Suggested which ingredients the cafeteria might have and which he’d need to bring from home.

And somewhere between choosing toppings and booth colors, something quiet bloomed.

One afternoon, you sat cross-legged on the court floor, Osamu seated across from you with a notebook balanced on his knee.

“We’ll need a name,” he muttered. “Somethin’ catchy.”

“‘Onigiri Miya’ has a nice ring to it,” you said casually.

His pen froze. Eyes flicked up to yours. “That’s…”

You tilted your head. “Too obvious?”

He blinked. “No. Just… you really think it sounds good?”

You shrugged. “It sounds like a place I’d line up for.”

And he looked at you then—really looked. Like he was memorizing the moment. The lighting. The way your voice curled so casually around something that meant more than either of you dared say aloud.

When he nodded, it wasn’t about the name anymore.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I think it does too.”

After that, you worked closer than ever. You tested flavors together after school, standing side by side at his kitchen counter. Your fingers brushed when reaching for the same seasoning, but neither of you said a word. Sometimes you’d sit on his porch afterward, eating the test batches, arguing about which would sell best.

He always gave you the first bite.

The booth came together in bits—lists, sketches, prep charts. You handled logistics, clipboard in hand, schedules laminated and taped to the inside of the club room wall. Osamu handled the menu—four flavors tested twice, then added a fifth after you offhandedly mentioned konbu.

Somewhere between flavor testing and shift delegations, the team began to notice things.

You and Osamu stood closer now—shoulders brushing when you leaned over the same checklist, arms brushing when you both reached for the rice paddle. Your voices, when directed at each other, were a little quieter. Gentler. There were glances exchanged that weren’t about prep work. There were small hesitations, like the way Osamu lingered when you tied back your hair, and how your fingers slowed when you packed away the rice mold he liked using best.

They didn’t say anything at first. Just watched.

Until one evening, after practice ran late and the clouds cracked open over Hyogo in one long, endless downpour.

Everyone scattered, umbrellas popped open, jackets pulled overhead, bikes kicked into motion.

You stood just outside the gym’s overhang, bag in hand, watching the sheets of rain crash against the pavement. You’d forgotten your umbrella. Of course you had. And with your phone battery nearly dead and no one else around who lived nearby, you were already thinking of just sprinting through it.

Then—quiet footsteps behind you.

You turned, surprised.

Osamu stood there, holding a dark green umbrella over both your heads. His uniform was damp at the collar. His hair was a little messy. But his eyes were steady.

“I’ll walk ya,” he said.

You blinked. “You don’t have to. I know your house is the other way.”

Behind him, Atsumu’s voice rang out from under a cluster of teammates by the lockers. “‘Samu, what the hell? Yer gonna walk her home in this storm? That’s, like, twenty minutes in the wrong direction!”

“It’s fine,” Osamu said, not even glancing back.

And that was that.

You didn’t protest again. You just stepped into the umbrella’s shadow beside him.

The walk was quiet—just the hum of rainfall and the occasional splash from puddles. He held the umbrella with one hand and kept his other in his pocket, steps matching yours exactly. You didn’t talk. Didn’t need to. But after a while, you noticed something.

He was getting wet.

Despite holding the umbrella, the slope of it leaned just slightly toward you, and the edge of his shoulder—his right arm—was already soaked. The rain had started seeping down his back, water trailing the curve of his collarbone.

You hesitated for just a breath, then reached out and tugged at his arm gently—pulling him in closer beneath the center of the umbrella.

His steps paused, then resumed, this time just barely brushing your own.

Still, he didn’t say anything.

And neither did you.

But what you didn’t know—what neither of you saw—were two dark figures trailing from half a block back, ducked beneath another umbrella.

Suna, phone in hand, camera angled steady and low.

And Atsumu beside him, whispering loud enough to hear over the rain, “You recordin’? You better be recordin’. This is gold. Look at ‘em! Shoulder to shoulder—oh my god, they’re walking in sync!”

“Quiet,” Suna muttered, deadpan. “You’ll ruin the audio.”

They followed until the edge of your street, before veering off into the side path with matching grins.

The next day, Suna sent a five-second clip to the group chat titled: Rain Scene, Episode One.

And the night before the festival, when the team was setting up the booth, you stayed late. No one expected you to—but no one was surprised either. You were always the last to leave anyway.

You were carrying two boxes—small baskets, folded towels—when Osamu stepped beside you and, without a word, took them from your arms.

“I had that,” you said, surprised.

“You’ve been carryin’ stuff since we started.” He glanced at you, brows slightly drawn. “S’nothin’ heavy.”

You walked beside him to the back of the booth. When he turned around, you were still looking at him, lips parted like you had something else to say.

But you didn’t.

You just handed him the tape roll and said, softly, “Thanks.”

And for Osamu, that was enough.

For now.

The festival opened the next morning beneath a sky as clear as glass, with sunlight spilling over the campus like something out of a movie. Streamers flapped in the wind. Music from the stage in the main courtyard blended with the laughter of students and visitors weaving between booths and attractions. It was louder than usual, busier than usual. Energy crackled in the air like the edge of summer—restless, electric, full of something blooming.

And right in the corner of the courtyard—strategically chosen by none other than Kita himself—stood Inarizaki Volleyball Team’s Onigiri Stand.

You had no doubt Kita’s precision had something to do with how successful your spot turned out to be. The booth sat in the perfect position: near the food strip, beside the drink station, and just close enough to the center stage that anyone lingering nearby had to pass through. Osamu had raised an eyebrow when Kita first pointed to the map, but no one questioned him after the line started forming twenty minutes before opening. Not even Atsumu dared.

The handmade banner, Onigiri Miya, stretched wide over the top of the booth, painted in clean brushstrokes by Ginjima the night before. The table was spotless, arranged with stacked baskets of rice balls wrapped in branded parchment paper—your idea. Neat chalkboards labeled each flavor with hand-drawn doodles beside them. Osamu’s calligraphy, your handwriting. Everything was personal, yet professional. Thoughtful in the smallest ways.

The sun hadn’t even hit noon and there was already a soft glisten at everyone’s hairlines from working under the canopy. The air smelled like grilled food and fresh batter, sweet and savory mixing with steam and sweat and festival charm. And your booth? Your booth was winning.

Suna leaned against the front post, handing out fliers with his usual blank expression. He barely said a word, just stared at people long enough for them to awkwardly take the flyer out of his hand. Somehow, that worked better than any actual sales pitch. Students—especially the girls—were lining up before they even knew what the booth was selling.

“You’re a menace,” you muttered as you passed him with another refill of napkins.

He blinked slowly. “They like mysterious guys.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t deny it was working.

Atsumu, of course, was a walking spotlight. He charmed everyone who stopped by, laughed loud enough to draw attention, and leaned far too close when handing out orders.

“Oh? You want seconds? Or my number too?” he teased a group of girls from another school with a wink so practiced it could’ve been a commercial.

You didn’t even look up from organizing the sauce trays. You just calmly raised your clipboard and smacked his arm without a word.

“Focus on folding the wrappers, Miya.”

The girls burst into laughter. Atsumu made a show of pouting, rubbing his arm like you'd broken it. “You’re cruel,” he muttered dramatically.

“You’re annoying,” you muttered back.

Behind the counter, Osamu bit back a grin.

He liked watching you in this environment—organized and capable, the clipboard tucked under your arm like an extension of yourself. Even when flustered, even when you were exhausted, you kept everyone on pace. You handled the money box, the schedules, the cleanup, and the boys all in one breath. And the way you moved—quick, sharp, purposeful—somehow still gentle underneath, like you genuinely cared about how the booth ran, how the food looked, how each person was treated.

Osamu liked that. Maybe more than he should’ve.

Earlier that morning, before the customers started flooding in, you’d tugged on your apron in a rush while trying to balance the coin box and stock notes in the same hand. Your strings were uneven, the knot loose. You hadn’t even noticed. But Osamu had.

Without a word, he stepped behind you and gently gathered the ends of your apron.

“Hold still.”

You froze, startled by his closeness. His voice wasn’t sharp like Atsumu’s or teasing like Suna’s. It was low. Steady. Careful.

He tied the strings with practiced fingers—firm but light, like he didn’t want to startle you. His knuckles brushed your lower back, and your breath caught without permission. You turned slightly to look at him, but he only murmured:

“Don’t want it falling off in the middle of rush hour.”

That was all. Then he stepped back, smooth and quiet, like it hadn’t made your pulse hitch.

Now, hours later, with your voice growing hoarse and your posture tired but unshaken, Osamu finally took a breath and walked over to the back corner of the booth—where you stood reorganizing supply trays without asking anyone for help.

He watched you for a second before calling out softly, “Oi.”

You turned, confused.

He held out a single onigiri, wrapped in parchment with your name written across the top.

You blinked. “What’s this?”

“Try it,” he said. “Made it with the konbu you liked.”

You stared at him for a second too long. Then looked down.

You could feel the faint warmth still trapped inside. The scent—familiar, comforting—rose gently through the wrap. The paper was folded differently. The tape wasn’t the usual label. It was soft gold and white. Patterned. Clean.

Your name.

Your flavor.

And you realized—he didn’t sell it. He made it for you. Remembered something you said weeks ago. Saved it.

You looked up again.

His eyes weren’t on the onigiri.

They were on you.

Waiting.

You didn’t speak. You just smiled—small, real, and the softest you’d been all day. The kind of smile you only gave when you felt safe.

From a few feet away, the rest of the team noticed.

Suna, half-lidded as ever, tilted his head just enough to nudge Ginjima, who made a low “huh” sound under his breath.

Atsumu stopped mid-wink. His head turned, watching as your shoulders dropped an inch like the tension had melted off you. Like that smile you gave wasn’t something you gave to just anyone.

Even Kita, from behind the booth where he was quietly counting the extra change box, paused—just for a breath—before returning to his clipboard.

None of them said anything.

But they knew.

They’d seen the shift.

And Osamu, standing there with his hand still open and rice between his fingers, knew it too.

This was no longer just about food. Not about school festivals or team obligations. Something in the way you looked at him told him you felt it now, too.

And quietly—certainly—he began to hope.

Then came the crash of reality—Atsumu.

He slid over with the subtlety of a brick, grinning way too wide. “Ya two look like a married couple,” he said casually.

You choked.

Osamu flushed.

And without thinking—without even looking—you both smacked him on opposite arms at the same time.

“OW—!!”

Osamu muttered, “Shut up.”

“You’re insufferable,” you added, voice strangled from fluster.

Atsumu rubbed his arms dramatically. “See? Already married.”

Even Kita cracked a faint smile. Ginjima just sighed into his water bottle.

But before you could properly recover, a group of girls walked past the booth—this time not looking at Atsumu.

Their eyes were fixed on Osamu.

“Ahh, that one’s the quieter Miya twin, right?”

“He’s so serious. I like it.”

“Right? His hands look strong.”

You didn’t say a word.

You just went very, very still.

Didn’t roll your eyes. Didn’t scoff. Just…silent.

And Suna, of all people, noticed immediately.

He smirked from his usual lean and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Oi, Samu. The wife’s quiet.”

You nearly dropped the sauce tray.

Your head snapped toward him with a death glare so sharp even Atsumu looked impressed.

“What did you just call me?”

Osamu choked.

Atsumu howled with laughter. “Holy sh—Suna, you’re dead—!”

But Suna just shrugged. “I only said what we’re all thinking.”

Osamu turned red from the ears down. You looked seconds from tackling someone.

But deep down, buried somewhere beneath the burning of your cheeks and the chaos of the moment—you didn’t mind.

Not really.

Because if you were honest with yourself, the wife didn’t sound so bad when it was about him.

The festival had started like a wave—loud, colorful, electric. But now it had mellowed into something quieter, something softer.

The last of the booths were being packed down, including yours, and the sky above Inarizaki was painted in streaks of rose-gold and sleepy peach. The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the field, while laughter from the bonfire echoed through the gentle hush of a day nearing its end.

You were still at the booth.

Everyone else had drifted off. Ginjima and Aran had left together after encouraging the team to make it to the bonfire at least once. Suna had wandered off with a camera and suspicious intentions. Even Atsumu—no doubt already twirling someone to the beat of the music—had left his post hours ago.

You were alone, wiping down trays that didn’t need wiping, stacking supply boxes that were already stacked.

You hadn’t planned on joining.

Not because you didn’t want to. But because the idea of standing there in a crowd of paired-up dancers and warm laughter, unnoticed… it stung a little more than you cared to admit.

You laughed to yourself as you closed the lid on the last box. “Not like anyone would’ve asked me anyway.”

“You sure about that?”

You turned.

Osamu stood at the edge of the booth, the last light of the sun slipping behind him, his hands tucked into his pockets and a subtle expression on his face—somewhere between annoyed and fond. That expression he wore when Atsumu did something loud and dumb and he couldn’t not care.

You tilted your head. “What?”

“I said—” he stepped closer “—you sure about that?”

“I mean…” You waved vaguely. “You’re all busy over there. I figured I’d stay out of the way.”

Osamu stared for a moment. Then, without a word, he stepped forward and grabbed the strap of your bag, slinging it over his own shoulder. “You’re comin’ with me.”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

“We’re goin’. Aran told us to stop actin’ like ghosts and show up.”

You laughed, but something caught in your throat when his hand brushed your elbow, steering you toward the field.

And just like that—you went.

The bonfire was already burning bright by the time you arrived.

Golden light washed over the crowd like honey, flickering in the wind as classmates danced, swayed, and laughed beneath strings of fairy lights. The music had softened now, drifting into slower, sweeter territory—the kind that filled your chest and made your feet itch to move.

The moment Osamu stepped into the circle, the team noticed.

Atsumu spun a girl from your class with an exaggerated grin and pointed immediately. “OH LOOK, THE LOVE BIRDS HAVE LANDED.”

Suna turned from where he was crouched near the edge of the circle, camera already out. “I told you. They’d show up right after sunset. Very cinematic.”

Kita, seated quietly with a cup of tea near the bench, gave one approving nod.

You felt the weight of everyone’s eyes. Osamu seemed entirely unaffected.

He leaned in, voice low enough for just you. “They’re loud, huh.”

“They’re staring.”

“They’ve been doin’ that all day.”

Before you could reply, the music shifted again. Slower. Sweeter.

Around you, classmates began pairing off—some pulled in by friends, others by hopeful strangers. Ginjima already had a second partner. Aran was dancing with a girl from his class. Even Suna had recruited a phone-holding second-year to help him film angles.

You shifted awkwardly on your feet, hands behind your back, heart in your throat.

And that was when Osamu turned toward you again.

“You said earlier,” he began, his voice still calm, “no one was gonna ask you.”

You blinked.

“So,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’m askin’ you now.”

His hand was open. Waiting.

Your breath hitched, eyes flicking to the fire, the crowd, then back to his hand.

You didn’t speak.

You just placed yours in his.

His fingers curled slowly around yours—warm, steady, and a little hesitant. He stepped in, his other hand hovering above your waist like he wasn’t sure if it belonged there—until you nodded, just enough, and he let it settle gently.

You began to move.

It wasn’t a perfect dance. It wasn’t even practiced. But Osamu was solid beneath your fingers, guiding you through the slow rhythm with a quiet sort of confidence. You could hear the soft shift of his breath. You could feel the warmth of his palm against your back.

Your heart beat too fast.

And then—he leaned down.

Not too close. Just enough that his voice brushed your ear like a secret.

“I need to tell you somethin’.”

You froze.

His hand didn’t let go.

“I thought it was just a little crush at first,” he said, quietly, almost like he was afraid someone might overhear. “The way you yelled at Atsumu. The way you take care of everyone without askin’. You’re always stayin’ late. Always cleanin’ up. Always lookin’ out for the team like it’s nothin’. And I…”

You looked up, eyes wide, breath stuck in your lungs.

He swallowed.

“I like you.”

Silence.

Only the fire crackled, and somewhere in the background, a camera clicked.

“I’ve liked you for a while,” he continued, softly. “I didn’t say anythin’ ‘cause I didn’t wanna make things weird. You’re important. To the team. To me.”

You blinked hard—once, twice.

“I didn’t think you liked me back,” he said. “But I kept hopin’. And maybe that’s stupid, but—”

“It’s not stupid,” you whispered, cutting him off.

He blinked.

“I like you too.”

His breath caught.

And just for a second—his hand tightened on your back. His eyes flicked over your face, searching, like he couldn’t quite believe it. You felt him lean in again, this time slower, as if the world might shatter if he rushed it.

Your face tipped up.

And then—

You kissed him.

It wasn’t bold. It wasn’t dramatic. Just the lightest press of your lips against his cheek, shy and warm and so full of feeling it nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

But it was enough.

Because from behind you—

“OH MY GOD,” Atsumu screeched. “THEY’RE KISSIN’. THEY’RE ACTUALLY—”

“Shut up,” Suna hissed, still filming, whispering like it was a nature documentary. “This is the confession scene. We don’t interrupt the confession scene.”

Aran gave a soft “finally” under his breath. Ginjima clapped once. Even Kita looked… pleased.

You pulled back from Osamu’s cheek, suddenly aware of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

His gaze didn’t leave yours.

He smiled—soft, small, but completely, completely real.

And he whispered again—just for you:

“Told you someone would ask you.”

And he didn’t let go. Not through the end of the song. Not through the teasing. Not even as the bonfire burned on and the festival faded into memory.

You danced.

Together.

With your fingers laced in his, hearts on your sleeves, and the rest of the world slowly, quietly falling away.

© 2025 yukkigiri ☾ creations by luna — please do not repost, copy, or translate without permission.

[miruac]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍˚◞♡ ⃗ kento nanami

𝜗𝜚₊˚ MOVIE DESCRIPTION┊you’re roommates by necessity—just two college students just trying to get by. conversation is minimal, and interactions are mostly awkward hellos and quiet goodbyes. but at night, the sounds of your separate lives fill the space between you. it’s an unexpected comfort. then one night, everything changes when a simple note under the door opens the door to truly hearing each other for the first time.

CONTENT ┊ 1.2k words. college!au. a beloved universe with no curses. tw: mentions of academic stress 💔💔

AUTHORS NOTE ┊( berry divider from @bbyg4rlhelps )

the apartment is always quiet during the day.

kento nanami understood that. you yourself understood and were okay with that. the lack of urge to form a relationship beyond shallow depths was a mutual understanding. unspoken, but never questioned.

throughout the day, you both come and go. you pass each other in the narrow kitchen, nodding over the weather or campus drama while holding chipped coffee mugs. you mumble “morning” when it’s way past noon. he whispers “goodnight” when it’s barely dusk.

it works.

it works in the way two people who don’t want to be roommates—yet can’t afford not to—make it work.

the apartment always comes alive at night.

not in the traditional way. there’s no partying or chaos; the both of you are far too deep in school work to host. theres no wild stories or tangled limbs on the couch. out of respect, not wanting to teeter over someone else’s privacy, you both keep your respective distance from one another.

beyond the thin walls, the presence of life stirs softly.

in kento’s room, music hums faintly through the plaster. its soft but impossible to ignore. it’s usually something old-school, either consisting of the most aching, heart-wrenching lyrics or brimming with a deep, passionate joy. you could ask him to turn it down so you could study—he would, without a word. he’s always been that way, unfailingly considerate. even now, you can tell he’s careful with the volume.

but every so often, you steal a song from him, quietly slipping it into your own playlist.

on rare nights, he sings along, voice low and unguarded. those are the moments when you press your ear to the wall between you, smiling before you even realize you are.

every night, like clockwork, you call your best friend. kento can hear satoru’s voice through the wall, and then, your laughter. you try to stifle it, pressing a hand over your mouth so you won’t disturb him. you don’t realize how much he hates that. all day, he watches you keep pieces of yourself hidden—partly on purpose, partly because of circumstance. but at night? you should feel free to be yourself. laugh as loudly as you want. allow the energy spill over. instead, you smother it, and he wishes you wouldn’t.

it’s strange, how much comfort a person can find in sounds that aren’t theirs.

until tonight.

tonight, the music doesn’t play.

that’s the first crack in the routine. kento doesn’t notice it at first, seeing how he’s too wrapped in scribbling notes at his desk. but when the usual sound of anything fails to reach his ears, he pauses and takes a look up. the wall between your rooms is never silent—there’s always something filtering through: the faint hum of some old vinyl on his side, or your muffled call with satoru.

tonight, there’s neither.

he tells himself it’s none of his business. that you probably went out. that the quiet shouldn’t matter.

after all, it’s not strange for you to skip calling satoru. every now and then, life happens and gets it the way. yet, the absence of it feels heavier than it should. his evenings are built on habit. on rhythm, and without it, the quiet feels unnatural.

he doesn’t realize he’s listening for you until he hears it.

it’s soft. shaky. almost fragile in the way it slips through the wall.

you’re crying.

worst of all, you’re quiet. smothering your tears as best as you can.

the blanket slips from his lap, sliding down in a sluggish wave until it pools around his ankles. he doesn’t move to pick it up. the faint warmth it once held bleeds away into the air, though he barely registers it. his attention is locked on the weight pressing into his chest.

what is he supposed to do?

he’s your roommate, nothing more. not the person you’d seek out when your voice shakes and you can’t catch your breath. if it were the opposite, you wouldn’t try so hard to cover up your cries. the truth of that sits between you like the wall itself—thick enough to keep you apart, thin enough to let your trembling breaths bleed through.

he can picture what lies behind it too easily: you curled in bed, face hidden in the crook of your arm or buried in a pillow.

he doesn’t know your middle name. hell, he never even thought to ask. the conversations you’ve shared wouldn’t even fill a page. what you share is thin, brittle, and frayed. would going to your room break that entirely? would it turn whatever quiet truce you’ve built into something unfixable?

the questions circle in his mind, looping without end. his better judgment tells him to leave it alone. that not finding out the answer is safer. that the decent thing—the polite thing—is to grant you the privacy you clearly want.

and yet, it’s already too late to convince himself he hasn’t heard you. the sound clings to him, driving his mind through endless options of how to handle this.

his body doesn’t wait for a final decision.

before he realizes it, he’s already standing. the cool floor meets the bare soles of his feet, squeaking beneath the weight.

he looks across his desk, taking hold of a small pad of post-its. his hand hovers over the pen for a moment too long. the tip clicks against the paper once, then twice, before he finally writes.

you okay?

for the first time, he finds his handwriting strange. the words look too neat, too deliberate for what they mean. he stares at them for a minute. then two, debating whether this is too much or not enough.

finally, he sighs, folding the note in half without giving it another thought and steps into the hall. your door is only a few steps away, but each one lands heavier than the last. when he reaches it, he crouches down, slipping the post-it under the narrow gap. your room swallows it whole. all that’s left for him to do, is wait.

one minute passes. then three.

and still nothing.

tension coils in his chest, and he tells himself it’s fine. you don’t owe him an answer. maybe you didn’t even see it. maybe you did and just didn’t want to answer.

he turns away, ready to retreat back to the safety of his own room.

but then—

the soft click of a doorknob reaches his ears.

it’s not loud, but in the quiet of the hallway, it’s enough to stop him mid-step. he glances over his shoulder, and there you are—half-hidden in the doorway, sniffing as you ask, “…can i talk to you?”

your voice is stripped bare of whatever brightness you usually keep on display, but it’s steady now. and for the first time since you moved in, he hears you more fully without anything in the way. no walls, no polite masks, no drama, no weather or muffled distance.

“of course.”

you slowly open the door, each movement peeling back a little more of yourself for kento to see. your eyes are slightly red, hair tousled and undone. you stand there, trying your best to keep steady and tall in the doorway.

you step aside, silently inviting him into your space. the room is mostly neat overall; a few stray water bottles and scattered clothes, but overall, it’s kept with care.

he hesitates, unsure how far he’s invited, until you silently motion toward the bed. he nods and lowers himself onto the edge.

“i didn’t mean to—”

“you’re fine,” he gently interrupts. “you don’t owe me an explanation.”

you hesitantly sink down beside him, eyes fixed somewhere between the floor and the space ahead of you. there’s a thick silence that follows.

“i just… it’s stupid, really—” you laugh softly, the words catching in your throat before you can finish.

he waits—kento’s good at that. patience isn’t something he has to force. he hopes that when you finally learn something firm, worth caring about when referring to him? that’s the first.

“i—” you breathe out. “school’s been… really hard. more than usual.”

he watches you intently, taking in every subtle shift, every uneven breath.

“it’s like,” you say, fingers now fisting your sleeve. “i’m drowning in deadlines and expectations. classes, papers, exams. i can’t stop thinking about all the things i haven’t done yet. it’s exhausting.”

you look up at him, eyes searching—whether it’s for acceptance, or just someone who won’t turn away—he’s not sure. so he says the next best thing. one that fits all situations.

“you’re carrying a lot. that kind of pressure can crush anyone.”

you nod slowly, biting your lip. “yeah. i feel like if i stop, even for a moment, i’ll fall behind forever.”

he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees.

“but you don’t have to carry it alone,” he reassures. “even if i’m not good at showing it, i’m here. you don’t have to pretend everything’s fine.“

you let out a breath. the line differentiating whether it’s relief or frustration blurs.

“if not me, you have satoru.”

“it’s just hard,” you groan into your hands. “i’m used to hiding how overwhelmed i am. at, with everyone. even with you.”

he wants to say something more. words that could make it all better, but there’s nothing he’s able to fix here.

so instead, he reaches out, weaving his fingers through yours. your hand twitches beneath his touch before finally relaxing.

when he feels you stay, he tells you, “it’s okay. i’m here. you’re not alone.”

for a long moment, you sit like that. his thumb moves to gently massage your palm, tracing the delicate lines as if memorizing their path.

your shoulders loosen, and you lean in, resting your head on his shoulder. he doesn’t pull away. you whisper your thanks, and he hums softly in response.

“would you like me to put some music on?”

you look at him from your place on his shoulder. “what?”

“sometimes,” he explains, “it’s easier when there’s something to fill the silence.”

your lips twitch into the faintest smile, the first of the night. “maybe later.”

[miruac]

imagine one of your faves sighing really deeply when you reach over with your glasses in hand, giving it to them so they can clean it.

I mean, imagine you went to the movies and, obviously, you wore your glasses. It was late, and contacts give you a headache if you wear them for too long. so as the previews are playing and you both are stuffing your hands in the popcorn bucket, you realize your glasses could use some cleaning. however, you're lazy, and you have an amazing significant other who has done it plenty of times. so you hand them your glasses without a word, they sigh (jokingly ofc), but still gently take them and grab their shirt to clean the lenses carefully. when they turn over to give them back, your cheeks are stuffed with kernels, and you wear a cheeky smile. they can't help the soft smile, placing the glasses softly onto your face.

[miruac]

onigiris and confessions

introduced as inarizaki’s new manager, you caught osamu’s eye the moment you put his loudmouth twin in his place—and from that day on, through quiet teamwork, lingering glances, and moments that had the whole team whispering “they act like a married couple,” something between you began to slowly, quietly grow.

starring. miya osamu x fem!reader

genre. fluff, romance.

wc. 6.3k

It was the first semester of spring. The air was crisp but gentle, the trees outside starting to blush pink with the first touch of sakura. You walked beside Kita, your school bags slung over your shoulders as he guided you through the path toward Inarizaki’s gym.

He didn’t say much—not that he ever did—but his presence was steady, comforting. Familiar.

You’d grown up next door to him. Your families had always been close; your parents practically considered his grandmother their own mother, and you’d spent more summers than you could count inside the Kita household, learning patience and tea etiquette before you ever learned how to curse. So when he brought up the idea of you becoming the volleyball team’s new manager, it didn’t feel like a favor. Not even a suggestion. More like… inevitability.

“You’re organized, sharp, and you don’t take crap from anyone,” he said plainly the night before, while you were pulling weeds out of his grandmother’s garden. “You’ll be good at it.”

You didn’t argue. If Kita thought you’d be good at something, you probably would be. Besides, it wasn’t like you could say no when he looked at you like he already saw it happening.

So here you were, walking beside him as the gym doors came into view, your folder pressed against your chest and your school ID tucked into the front pocket of your uniform.

When you stepped inside, the sharp scent of varnished wood and sweat hit you first. Volleyballs echoed across the floor, thudding against polished hardwood and open palms. Laughter, shouting, sneakers squeaking—organized chaos.

Kita didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, his voice calm but commanding. “Gather up.”

The players immediately began converging near the center of the gym, jogging toward him, wiping sweat from their necks and pushing up sleeves. You could already see the difference—these boys respected him. Feared him a little, maybe, but trusted him too.

“This is our new first-year manager,” Kita said, glancing briefly in your direction. “She’s starting today. Treat her with respect.”

A few of them gave casual nods. One of the third-years murmured a polite, “Nice to meet you.” Another waved lazily from where he was stretching.

Then, of course, came the blonde.

You spotted him the moment he broke away from the group, all swagger and mischief, a cocky grin spread across his face. Miya Atsumu.

“Well, well,” he said, striding up with far too much confidence for someone still dripping sweat. “Didn’t know we were getting lucky this semester. You single?”

You didn’t even look at him.

Still flipping through the forms tucked neatly in your folder, you said without hesitation, “Atsumu-san, asking about my relationship status isn’t very professional.”

Your voice wasn’t raised, wasn’t biting—just cool and matter-of-fact, like you were pointing out an error on a form.

Then, just as calmly, you added, “If you’re finished with the unnecessary commentary, you still haven’t submitted your physical form or your updated dietary report. I’ll be expecting both by the end of today. I don’t plan on chasing you for them.”

That did it.

The entire gym went still. A few heads turned. Someone stifled a laugh that slipped out anyway, loud in the quiet.

Atsumu blinked at you, stunned, his mouth parted slightly like he wasn’t sure what just hit him. The grin he’d approached with faltered—not out of offense, but confusion. Like no one had ever just… told him off like that. Cleanly. Without blinking.

You finally looked up and met his gaze.

Unbothered. Unimpressed.

He blinked again. “...Right.”

Behind him, a low snort slipped from someone’s throat. You didn’t have to turn around to know it was Osamu.

Kita said nothing, but his faint nod beside you was all the confirmation you needed.

You turned and walked past Atsumu to set your things on the bench, flipping open your clipboard to get started.

By the time practice resumed, it was clear to everyone in the gym—especially Atsumu—that you weren’t here to play games.

And Osamu?

He was still watching.

Just… quietly.

That continued on for days, and before anyone realized it, you weren’t just part of the team—you were the team. The rhythm adjusted around you. The atmosphere, the routine, even the way the boys carried themselves.

They knew better than to mess with you.

You were sweet—always had been. You brought towels to the bench before they needed asking, sometimes even adjusting the fold for whoever liked it on their neck or their knees. You offered them snacks after drills, water during stretches, a cold pack when someone twisted wrong and tried to pretend it didn’t hurt. Off practice, you were just as warm. Passing by them in the hallway between classes, you’d offer a quiet smile, sometimes a chocolate bar, sometimes an energy drink if someone looked too pale to have eaten.

You’d bring extra snacks for everyone after exams, or when the weather changed and moods dipped, or on game days. Once, after a particularly hard-fought victory, you baked them cookies shaped like tiny volleyballs, and left them stacked in a tin by the door with a note that said, Good work. You earned this.

You were kind.

But you weren’t soft.

You knew when to draw the line—and you knew how to hold it.

The boys learned that quickly. The clipboard became your unspoken weapon. When the twins started bickering, which they always did, you didn’t bother raising your voice. You’d march over, swing the clipboard with practiced ease, and smack one on the shoulder and the other on the arm, expression calm as water. It always shut them up.

Once, a second-year made a stupid joke about stretching and ended up doing cooldowns twice over because you turned, clipboard in hand, and gave him a look that could’ve stopped a rally in mid-air.

Somehow, over time, the team came to fear your clipboard more than Kita’s silent disapproval—which said a lot, considering how terrifying silence from Kita could be. But even he didn’t argue with your methods. In fact, he stood beside you with a quiet pride you never mentioned, watching the way you carried them all like it was second nature.

The boys still teased you—when you were in a good mood. They called you Clipboard Queen, asked what you were baking next, joked that you ran the gym more than the coaches. But they never crossed the line. Not once.

Because they adored you.

And you weren’t the new manager.

You were the manager.

Their manager.

Even Osamu noticed.

He hadn’t said much since the first week, not like his brother who’d tried—and failed—to charm you with a pick-up line and got humbled so fast the entire team still laughed about it behind his back. No, Osamu was quieter. He watched. He took in the way you organized, the way you moved, the way you handled things so effortlessly without needing praise or attention.

You were interesting. That’s what he told himself.

Not romantically. Not like that.

He just found himself noticing you more often than not. The way you stood off to the side during drills, making silent notes with a furrowed brow. The way your hair framed your face when you leaned forward to speak to Kita. The way you snapped the cap back onto your pen when you were annoyed.

It wasn’t serious. It wasn’t a crush.

He just… noticed.

At least, that’s what he believed.

Until the day nothing went right.

It started with warmups—he felt off. Not tired, not sore, just off. His shoes felt too heavy. His body wouldn’t move the way he wanted it to. The more he tried to shake it off, the worse it got. It was like his own rhythm had left the gym without him.

Then came drills.

Set after set, and no matter how sharp Atsumu’s tosses were, Osamu couldn’t land a clean spike. His timing was off. His body wasn’t listening. Everything was half a beat too slow or a split second too fast.

And Atsumu noticed.

“Oi!” Atsumu snapped mid-play. “That was dead on! Ya even watchin’ the ball?”

Osamu exhaled sharply. “That one was behind me, dumbass.”

“I gave you a perfect toss!”

“Then maybe your ‘perfect’ toss needs fixing.”

Their voices cut through the gym like the snap of a ball against wood. Practice paused. Several of the first-years turned nervously. Kita was watching, arms crossed. Silent.

Osamu ran a hand through his hair, sweat clinging to his skin. His chest ached—not from exertion, but from something worse. Frustration.

He hated this. Hated how nothing was clicking. Hated how Atsumu’s tone was only making it worse. Hated how everyone was watching now.

Then came the sound.

A sharp, clean snap.

The clipboard.

You hadn’t even raised your voice.

“Atsumu-san,” you said.

The way his name left your mouth was clean and final. Not angry. Not sharp. Just firm. Level. Like a door being shut.

Everyone stilled.

Atsumu flinched before turning toward you, sweat clinging to his temples.

You didn’t look up from your clipboard yet, pen poised over the stat sheet you’d been writing on. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped shouting at your brother like he’s the only one on this court.”

Silence.

“You’re frustrated. So is he. But if your set was really perfect,” you paused, finally lifting your gaze to meet his, “then it would’ve been where it needed to be. Half a step matters, especially at this level.”

Atsumu opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Not even his pride could argue with that.

You held his eyes for one more beat, then turned to Osamu, eyes softer now—just a flicker. Just enough.

You didn’t say anything to him, didn’t pat his shoulder or coddle him or even try to comfort him. You just met his gaze. Quiet. Certain. Like you saw the weight he was carrying. Like you understood.

Then you looked back down and returned to writing.

Atsumu didn’t speak again for the rest of practice.

Osamu didn’t either—not because he was sulking or too proud to admit you’d caught him off guard. It was something else. Something heavier. Something that lingered long after the drills were done, long after he peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt and packed up his bag, long after he watched you walk ahead with Kita into the staff hall, the edge of your clipboard peeking out of your side tote.

He didn’t sleep easy that night.

Not because of guilt. Not because of his off game.

But because he couldn’t stop thinking about how you looked at him—not with judgment, not with pity, but like someone who was already on his side without needing a reason.

So the next day, he got to school early.

Too early. The gym was still locked. His bag hung from one shoulder, and in his hand was a neatly wrapped triangle of rice wrapped in foil and sealed with a strip of paper tape.

He’d made it that morning—still half-asleep, hair damp from his shower, lips chewing the inside of his cheek while his hands moved by muscle memory. Salmon. Seasoned lightly, like how he made it for himself. It was simple. But it was careful.

And when he stepped into the gym and found the bench where you always sat—your clipboard usually resting there, your tote bag slung behind it—he crouched down and set the onigiri right in the center of the bench.

No note.

Just your name, handwritten in permanent marker across the tape.

He didn’t stick around.

He didn’t have to.

Later that day, when you arrived—five minutes early as usual—you stopped when you saw it. The foil glinted faintly under the gym lights. Your name stared back at you, scrawled in neat, slanted handwriting that definitely wasn’t Kita’s.

And across the court, already stretching with the rest of the team, Osamu kept his eyes on his shoelaces and pretended like he hadn’t done anything at all.

But when you sat down and took a bite halfway through warm-ups, you didn’t look at him.

You smiled, barely.

And Osamu felt it from across the room.

Something in his chest tightened again—no longer frustration, not quite confusion. Just heat. Quiet and steady.

He didn’t know what to call it yet.

But that was fine.

He had time.

And he knew now—you were worth slowing down for.

You already had a hunch who gave it to you.

No one said anything, and he didn’t look your way once, but you knew. The writing on the tape was familiar—slanted, steady, no frills. The way the rice was packed, shaped just a little tighter on one side like it was pressed by someone with muscle memory. The seasoning, the filling—salmon, not too salty, not too plain. It wasn’t flashy, but it was thoughtful. Meant to be eaten, not just gifted.

That alone told you everything.

Osamu.

So during their water break, you didn’t say anything at first. You walked across the gym like you always did, clipboard tucked under your arm, towel slung over your shoulder. You passed out the water bottles one by one, and when you stopped in front of him, he didn’t glance up—at least not right away.

But he reached for the bottle you handed him, fingers brushing yours for half a second longer than they had to.

And that’s when he noticed it.

A folded scrap of paper, neatly wedged beneath the elastic holding the bottle’s cap. Small. Private.

He blinked. Pulled it free when you moved on without a word.

In your handwriting:

"Thank you. It tasted good, Osamu-san."

No hearts. No smiley face. Just a clean, quiet note.

He read it once. Twice.

Then tucked it inside his pocket like it meant more than it should.

And for the rest of the day, even through drills and cooldowns and Atsumu’s usual loudness, there was a strange calm that settled over him—like something soft had unknotted itself in his chest. Like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t just noticing him back.

You already had.

Something shifted in Osamu as he found himself always giving you onigiri every now and then.

It wasn’t loud or sudden—just small, quiet moments strung together until it became part of how he moved. How he thought. How his day began and ended.

It was never planned, never announced. It simply became a rhythm—a quiet exchange woven into the time between drills and water breaks, like an invisible thread tethering you both closer with each handmade bite. Sometimes they were savory. Sometimes simple. Sometimes he wrapped them with little strips of patterned paper, once even tying one with a red string because he claimed he couldn’t find tape.

You didn’t believe him. But you didn’t call him out on it, either.

You never asked for them. Never hinted. But he gave them anyway. And you never said much about it, not after the first note, not after the soft thank-yous. Still, he noticed how you always ate them first—even when you brought your own snacks. How you started bringing green tea in a thermos and sliding the cap toward him during breaks when he looked tired.

He noticed. And he liked noticing.

It wasn’t a confession. Not yet. But you both knew what it meant, even if no one else did.

And somehow, in the hush of routine, that was enough.

Until one afternoon.

You were sitting near the open window, tallying up stats with your pencil tapping against your lips, and Osamu was perched on the edge of a bench nearby, chewing slowly through a rice ball he’d made for himself. You didn’t look up when you said it, just scribbled another number down like it was nothing.

“You know, you could sell these.”

He blinked. “Huh?”

“Your onigiri. For the school festival. The team doesn’t have a booth yet. You could lead it.”

There was a pause. He stared at you like you’d just asked him to run for office.

“…A food stall?”

“You already make them,” you replied, eyes still on your clipboard. “You’re good at it. The team listens to you when you talk food. Plus, who better to run a stand than someone who feeds the manager before every practice?”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “…You sayin’ I bribe ya?”

You didn’t smile—at least, not fully. But your eyes softened when you met his gaze. “I’m saying you have good taste.”

The suggestion must’ve stuck, because later that week, while the third-years were reviewing festival duties, Osamu cleared his throat and said—not too loud, but just enough—“I got an idea.”

By the next day, “Inarizaki’s Onigiri Stand” was penciled in as the volleyball team’s official booth.

Atsumu groaned immediately. “We could’ve done somethin’ cool! Like a haunted house or dunk booth or somethin’—”

“You can stand in the corner and be scary if you want,” you deadpanned, flipping your clipboard closed.

Osamu snorted.

Planning the booth turned into late afternoons in the gym after everyone left. You and Osamu stayed behind—first just to sketch out flavor ideas and price points, then to plan packaging, sourcing ingredients, designing signs. He got passionate fast. Talked about rice blends, grilling techniques, even which condiments the first-years liked best.

You listened. Took notes. Hummed when something sounded good. Suggested which ingredients the cafeteria might have and which he’d need to bring from home.

And somewhere between choosing toppings and booth colors, something quiet bloomed.

One afternoon, you sat cross-legged on the court floor, Osamu seated across from you with a notebook balanced on his knee.

“We’ll need a name,” he muttered. “Somethin’ catchy.”

“‘Onigiri Miya’ has a nice ring to it,” you said casually.

His pen froze. Eyes flicked up to yours. “That’s…”

You tilted your head. “Too obvious?”

He blinked. “No. Just… you really think it sounds good?”

You shrugged. “It sounds like a place I’d line up for.”

And he looked at you then—really looked. Like he was memorizing the moment. The lighting. The way your voice curled so casually around something that meant more than either of you dared say aloud.

When he nodded, it wasn’t about the name anymore.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I think it does too.”

After that, you worked closer than ever. You tested flavors together after school, standing side by side at his kitchen counter. Your fingers brushed when reaching for the same seasoning, but neither of you said a word. Sometimes you’d sit on his porch afterward, eating the test batches, arguing about which would sell best.

He always gave you the first bite.

The booth came together in bits—lists, sketches, prep charts. You handled logistics, clipboard in hand, schedules laminated and taped to the inside of the club room wall. Osamu handled the menu—four flavors tested twice, then added a fifth after you offhandedly mentioned konbu.

Somewhere between flavor testing and shift delegations, the team began to notice things.

You and Osamu stood closer now—shoulders brushing when you leaned over the same checklist, arms brushing when you both reached for the rice paddle. Your voices, when directed at each other, were a little quieter. Gentler. There were glances exchanged that weren’t about prep work. There were small hesitations, like the way Osamu lingered when you tied back your hair, and how your fingers slowed when you packed away the rice mold he liked using best.

They didn’t say anything at first. Just watched.

Until one evening, after practice ran late and the clouds cracked open over Hyogo in one long, endless downpour.

Everyone scattered, umbrellas popped open, jackets pulled overhead, bikes kicked into motion.

You stood just outside the gym’s overhang, bag in hand, watching the sheets of rain crash against the pavement. You’d forgotten your umbrella. Of course you had. And with your phone battery nearly dead and no one else around who lived nearby, you were already thinking of just sprinting through it.

Then—quiet footsteps behind you.

You turned, surprised.

Osamu stood there, holding a dark green umbrella over both your heads. His uniform was damp at the collar. His hair was a little messy. But his eyes were steady.

“I’ll walk ya,” he said.

You blinked. “You don’t have to. I know your house is the other way.”

Behind him, Atsumu’s voice rang out from under a cluster of teammates by the lockers. “‘Samu, what the hell? Yer gonna walk her home in this storm? That’s, like, twenty minutes in the wrong direction!”

“It’s fine,” Osamu said, not even glancing back.

And that was that.

You didn’t protest again. You just stepped into the umbrella’s shadow beside him.

The walk was quiet—just the hum of rainfall and the occasional splash from puddles. He held the umbrella with one hand and kept his other in his pocket, steps matching yours exactly. You didn’t talk. Didn’t need to. But after a while, you noticed something.

He was getting wet.

Despite holding the umbrella, the slope of it leaned just slightly toward you, and the edge of his shoulder—his right arm—was already soaked. The rain had started seeping down his back, water trailing the curve of his collarbone.

You hesitated for just a breath, then reached out and tugged at his arm gently—pulling him in closer beneath the center of the umbrella.

His steps paused, then resumed, this time just barely brushing your own.

Still, he didn’t say anything.

And neither did you.

But what you didn’t know—what neither of you saw—were two dark figures trailing from half a block back, ducked beneath another umbrella.

Suna, phone in hand, camera angled steady and low.

And Atsumu beside him, whispering loud enough to hear over the rain, “You recordin’? You better be recordin’. This is gold. Look at ‘em! Shoulder to shoulder—oh my god, they’re walking in sync!”

“Quiet,” Suna muttered, deadpan. “You’ll ruin the audio.”

They followed until the edge of your street, before veering off into the side path with matching grins.

The next day, Suna sent a five-second clip to the group chat titled: Rain Scene, Episode One.

And the night before the festival, when the team was setting up the booth, you stayed late. No one expected you to—but no one was surprised either. You were always the last to leave anyway.

You were carrying two boxes—small baskets, folded towels—when Osamu stepped beside you and, without a word, took them from your arms.

“I had that,” you said, surprised.

“You’ve been carryin’ stuff since we started.” He glanced at you, brows slightly drawn. “S’nothin’ heavy.”

You walked beside him to the back of the booth. When he turned around, you were still looking at him, lips parted like you had something else to say.

But you didn’t.

You just handed him the tape roll and said, softly, “Thanks.”

And for Osamu, that was enough.

For now.

The festival opened the next morning beneath a sky as clear as glass, with sunlight spilling over the campus like something out of a movie. Streamers flapped in the wind. Music from the stage in the main courtyard blended with the laughter of students and visitors weaving between booths and attractions. It was louder than usual, busier than usual. Energy crackled in the air like the edge of summer—restless, electric, full of something blooming.

And right in the corner of the courtyard—strategically chosen by none other than Kita himself—stood Inarizaki Volleyball Team’s Onigiri Stand.

You had no doubt Kita’s precision had something to do with how successful your spot turned out to be. The booth sat in the perfect position: near the food strip, beside the drink station, and just close enough to the center stage that anyone lingering nearby had to pass through. Osamu had raised an eyebrow when Kita first pointed to the map, but no one questioned him after the line started forming twenty minutes before opening. Not even Atsumu dared.

The handmade banner, Onigiri Miya, stretched wide over the top of the booth, painted in clean brushstrokes by Ginjima the night before. The table was spotless, arranged with stacked baskets of rice balls wrapped in branded parchment paper—your idea. Neat chalkboards labeled each flavor with hand-drawn doodles beside them. Osamu’s calligraphy, your handwriting. Everything was personal, yet professional. Thoughtful in the smallest ways.

The sun hadn’t even hit noon and there was already a soft glisten at everyone’s hairlines from working under the canopy. The air smelled like grilled food and fresh batter, sweet and savory mixing with steam and sweat and festival charm. And your booth? Your booth was winning.

Suna leaned against the front post, handing out fliers with his usual blank expression. He barely said a word, just stared at people long enough for them to awkwardly take the flyer out of his hand. Somehow, that worked better than any actual sales pitch. Students—especially the girls—were lining up before they even knew what the booth was selling.

“You’re a menace,” you muttered as you passed him with another refill of napkins.

He blinked slowly. “They like mysterious guys.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t deny it was working.

Atsumu, of course, was a walking spotlight. He charmed everyone who stopped by, laughed loud enough to draw attention, and leaned far too close when handing out orders.

“Oh? You want seconds? Or my number too?” he teased a group of girls from another school with a wink so practiced it could’ve been a commercial.

You didn’t even look up from organizing the sauce trays. You just calmly raised your clipboard and smacked his arm without a word.

“Focus on folding the wrappers, Miya.”

The girls burst into laughter. Atsumu made a show of pouting, rubbing his arm like you'd broken it. “You’re cruel,” he muttered dramatically.

“You’re annoying,” you muttered back.

Behind the counter, Osamu bit back a grin.

He liked watching you in this environment—organized and capable, the clipboard tucked under your arm like an extension of yourself. Even when flustered, even when you were exhausted, you kept everyone on pace. You handled the money box, the schedules, the cleanup, and the boys all in one breath. And the way you moved—quick, sharp, purposeful—somehow still gentle underneath, like you genuinely cared about how the booth ran, how the food looked, how each person was treated.

Osamu liked that. Maybe more than he should’ve.

Earlier that morning, before the customers started flooding in, you’d tugged on your apron in a rush while trying to balance the coin box and stock notes in the same hand. Your strings were uneven, the knot loose. You hadn’t even noticed. But Osamu had.

Without a word, he stepped behind you and gently gathered the ends of your apron.

“Hold still.”

You froze, startled by his closeness. His voice wasn’t sharp like Atsumu’s or teasing like Suna’s. It was low. Steady. Careful.

He tied the strings with practiced fingers—firm but light, like he didn’t want to startle you. His knuckles brushed your lower back, and your breath caught without permission. You turned slightly to look at him, but he only murmured:

“Don’t want it falling off in the middle of rush hour.”

That was all. Then he stepped back, smooth and quiet, like it hadn’t made your pulse hitch.

Now, hours later, with your voice growing hoarse and your posture tired but unshaken, Osamu finally took a breath and walked over to the back corner of the booth—where you stood reorganizing supply trays without asking anyone for help.

He watched you for a second before calling out softly, “Oi.”

You turned, confused.

He held out a single onigiri, wrapped in parchment with your name written across the top.

You blinked. “What’s this?”

“Try it,” he said. “Made it with the konbu you liked.”

You stared at him for a second too long. Then looked down.

You could feel the faint warmth still trapped inside. The scent—familiar, comforting—rose gently through the wrap. The paper was folded differently. The tape wasn’t the usual label. It was soft gold and white. Patterned. Clean.

Your name.

Your flavor.

And you realized—he didn’t sell it. He made it for you. Remembered something you said weeks ago. Saved it.

You looked up again.

His eyes weren’t on the onigiri.

They were on you.

Waiting.

Osamu stared for a moment. Then, without a word, he stepped forward and grabbed the strap of your bag, slinging it over his own shoulder. “You’re comin’ with me.”

You didn’t speak. You just smiled—small, real, and the softest you’d been all day. The kind of smile you only gave when you felt safe.

From a few feet away, the rest of the team noticed.

Suna, half-lidded as ever, tilted his head just enough to nudge Ginjima, who made a low “huh” sound under his breath.

Atsumu stopped mid-wink. His head turned, watching as your shoulders dropped an inch like the tension had melted off you. Like that smile you gave wasn’t something you gave to just anyone.

Even Kita, from behind the booth where he was quietly counting the extra change box, paused—just for a breath—before returning to his clipboard.

None of them said anything.

But they knew.

They’d seen the shift.

And Osamu, standing there with his hand still open and rice between his fingers, knew it too.

This was no longer just about food. Not about school festivals or team obligations. Something in the way you looked at him told him you felt it now, too.

And quietly—certainly—he began to hope.

Then came the crash of reality—Atsumu.

He slid over with the subtlety of a brick, grinning way too wide. “Ya two look like a married couple,” he said casually.

You choked.

Osamu flushed.

And without thinking—without even looking—you both smacked him on opposite arms at the same time.

“OW—!!”

Osamu muttered, “Shut up.”

“You’re insufferable,” you added, voice strangled from fluster.

Atsumu rubbed his arms dramatically. “See? Already married.”

Even Kita cracked a faint smile. Ginjima just sighed into his water bottle.

But before you could properly recover, a group of girls walked past the booth—this time not looking at Atsumu.

Their eyes were fixed on Osamu.

“Ahh, that one’s the quieter Miya twin, right?”

“He’s so serious. I like it.”

“Right? His hands look strong.”

You didn’t say a word.

You just went very, very still.

Didn’t roll your eyes. Didn’t scoff. Just…silent.

And Suna, of all people, noticed immediately.

He smirked from his usual lean and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Oi, Samu. The wife’s quiet.”

You nearly dropped the sauce tray.

Your head snapped toward him with a death glare so sharp even Atsumu looked impressed.

“What did you just call me?”

Osamu choked.

Atsumu howled with laughter. “Holy sh—Suna, you’re dead—!”

But Suna just shrugged. “I only said what we’re all thinking.”

Osamu turned red from the ears down. You looked seconds from tackling someone.

But deep down, buried somewhere beneath the burning of your cheeks and the chaos of the moment—you didn’t mind.

Not really.

Because if you were honest with yourself, the wife didn’t sound so bad when it was about him.

The festival had started like a wave—loud, colorful, electric. But now it had mellowed into something quieter, something softer.

The last of the booths were being packed down, including yours, and the sky above Inarizaki was painted in streaks of rose-gold and sleepy peach. The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the field, while laughter from the bonfire echoed through the gentle hush of a day nearing its end.

You were still at the booth.

Everyone else had drifted off. Ginjima and Aran had left together after encouraging the team to make it to the bonfire at least once. Suna had wandered off with a camera and suspicious intentions. Even Atsumu—no doubt already twirling someone to the beat of the music—had left his post hours ago.

You were alone, wiping down trays that didn’t need wiping, stacking supply boxes that were already stacked.

You hadn’t planned on joining.

Not because you didn’t want to. But because the idea of standing there in a crowd of paired-up dancers and warm laughter, unnoticed… it stung a little more than you cared to admit.

You laughed to yourself as you closed the lid on the last box. “Not like anyone would’ve asked me anyway.”

“You sure about that?”

You turned.

Osamu stood at the edge of the booth, the last light of the sun slipping behind him, his hands tucked into his pockets and a subtle expression on his face—somewhere between annoyed and fond. That expression he wore when Atsumu did something loud and dumb and he couldn’t not care.

You tilted your head. “What?”

“I said—” he stepped closer “—you sure about that?”

“I mean…” You waved vaguely. “You’re all busy over there. I figured I’d stay out of the way.”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

“We’re goin’. Aran told us to stop actin’ like ghosts and show up.”

You laughed, but something caught in your throat when his hand brushed your elbow, steering you toward the field.

And just like that—you went.

The bonfire was already burning bright by the time you arrived.

Golden light washed over the crowd like honey, flickering in the wind as classmates danced, swayed, and laughed beneath strings of fairy lights. The music had softened now, drifting into slower, sweeter territory—the kind that filled your chest and made your feet itch to move.

The moment Osamu stepped into the circle, the team noticed.

Atsumu spun a girl from your class with an exaggerated grin and pointed immediately. “OH LOOK, THE LOVE BIRDS HAVE LANDED.”

Suna turned from where he was crouched near the edge of the circle, camera already out. “I told you. They’d show up right after sunset. Very cinematic.”

Kita, seated quietly with a cup of tea near the bench, gave one approving nod.

You felt the weight of everyone’s eyes. Osamu seemed entirely unaffected.

He leaned in, voice low enough for just you. “They’re loud, huh.”

“They’re staring.”

“They’ve been doin’ that all day.”

Before you could reply, the music shifted again. Slower. Sweeter.

Around you, classmates began pairing off—some pulled in by friends, others by hopeful strangers. Ginjima already had a second partner. Aran was dancing with a girl from his class. Even Suna had recruited a phone-holding second-year to help him film angles.

You shifted awkwardly on your feet, hands behind your back, heart in your throat.

And that was when Osamu turned toward you again.

“You said earlier,” he began, his voice still calm, “no one was gonna ask you.”

You blinked.

“So,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’m askin’ you now.”

His hand was open. Waiting.

Your breath hitched, eyes flicking to the fire, the crowd, then back to his hand.

You didn’t speak.

You just placed yours in his.

His fingers curled slowly around yours—warm, steady, and a little hesitant. He stepped in, his other hand hovering above your waist like he wasn’t sure if it belonged there—until you nodded, just enough, and he let it settle gently.

You began to move.

It wasn’t a perfect dance. It wasn’t even practiced. But Osamu was solid beneath your fingers, guiding you through the slow rhythm with a quiet sort of confidence. You could hear the soft shift of his breath. You could feel the warmth of his palm against your back.

Your heart beat too fast.

And then—he leaned down.

Not too close. Just enough that his voice brushed your ear like a secret.

“I need to tell you somethin’.”

You froze.

His hand didn’t let go.

“I thought it was just a little crush at first,” he said, quietly, almost like he was afraid someone might overhear. “The way you yelled at Atsumu. The way you take care of everyone without askin’. You’re always stayin’ late. Always cleanin’ up. Always lookin’ out for the team like it’s nothin’. And I…”

You looked up, eyes wide, breath stuck in your lungs.

He swallowed.

“I like you.”

Silence.

Only the fire crackled, and somewhere in the background, a camera clicked.

“I’ve liked you for a while,” he continued, softly. “I didn’t say anythin’ ‘cause I didn’t wanna make things weird. You’re important. To the team. To me.”

You blinked hard—once, twice.

“I didn’t think you liked me back,” he said. “But I kept hopin’. And maybe that’s stupid, but—”

“It’s not stupid,” you whispered, cutting him off.

He blinked.

“I like you too.”

His breath caught.

And just for a second—his hand tightened on your back. His eyes flicked over your face, searching, like he couldn’t quite believe it. You felt him lean in again, this time slower, as if the world might shatter if he rushed it.

Your face tipped up.

And then—

You kissed him.

It wasn’t bold. It wasn’t dramatic. Just the lightest press of your lips against his cheek, shy and warm and so full of feeling it nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

But it was enough.

Because from behind you—

“OH MY GOD,” Atsumu screeched. “THEY’RE KISSIN’. THEY’RE ACTUALLY—”

“Shut up,” Suna hissed, still filming, whispering like it was a nature documentary. “This is the confession scene. We don’t interrupt the confession scene.”

Aran gave a soft “finally” under his breath. Ginjima clapped once. Even Kita looked… pleased.

You pulled back from Osamu’s cheek, suddenly aware of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

His gaze didn’t leave yours.

He smiled—soft, small, but completely, completely real.

And he whispered again—just for you:

“Told you someone would ask you.”

And he didn’t let go. Not through the end of the song. Not through the teasing. Not even as the bonfire burned on and the festival faded into memory.

You danced.

Together.

With your fingers laced in his, hearts on your sleeves, and the rest of the world slowly, quietly falling away.

© 2025 yukkiji ☾ creations by yukkiji — please do not repost, copy, or translate without permission.

[miruac]

JJK MASTERLIST

THE JJK MEN like staring at you when you speak. or, if they're not directing their gaze at you, they give you small signs to show you they're still paying attention <3 part 2 coming soon!

SATORU GOJO is, unsurprisingly, the least subtle when it comes to just looking at you, in general. because, how can he, when he has the most piercing blue eyes in existence? it's filled with so much unabashed and genuine interest. he'd be the kind of guy to perch his head on his hands and hold the look of extreme dreaminess as he traces the outline of your face, and it doesn't look like it's getting through to him half the time. but the truth is, he's storing all that information in a little folder in his brain titled "you <3"

but during the quiet moments, the sharpness of his blue eyes soften. reminiscent of a cloudless blue sky on a sunny day. when your gaze wanders someplace else, he'll give himself a few moments to look at your candid expression, before he squeezes any part of your body he's holding and his hand comes up to guide your gaze back onto him. he just wants to stare at your lips. "i want the best view of what i'm listening to."

KENTO NANAMI is more subtle. usually, he keeps you a comfortable distance away and lets you drone on about your interests while he finishes other tasks. but he always makes sure to direct half of his attention to the things you're saying, like nodding along even when he's looking at paperwork, or humming when he's reading. honestly, though, he's much more interested in your hyper-fixation of the day than whatever report he's supposed to finish. and while kento doesn't engage in gossip, he furrows his brow at the incredulous details you give him, momentarily pausing his work to look up at you and question the less than stellar mindset of whoever it is you're talking about.

and when he's not working, he takes off. does not let anything from the outside world distract him but you. in bed, settling down for the night, he has an arm around you, and the usual strictness dancing before his eyes disappear. he looks so soft out of his suit, in a simple shirt and his glasses perched on his nose. he stares at how your hands move around, and when you look back up at him, he takes one of your hands, bringing it up to give it a light peck. "you were saying, darling?"

SUGURU GETO is a combination of satoru and kento. out of the three, he has the softest and most adoring gaze. it never leaves your face, and he always gives you a small hum after every other sentence. after a long day of meddlesome people, all he would like to do is tune out everything when he gets home. he'll ask you about your day, and you swear when he sits across from you, it's the most unobstructed view of his pupils dilating. the sinister, almost ominous gaze he reserves for his subjects, is replaced by the nurturing part of him that wishes this is all he would rather be doing.

he'll treat your long talks like lullabies. when he puts the girls to sleep, it's his turn to lay on his side while you do on yours, eyes hazy with exhaustion, but still so intent to pay attention because you aren't finished yet. his fingers drum against your side as he holds you, when he's too tired to even force out a hum from his throat, and when you're too sleepy to be talking anymore, it simply turns into a staring contest to see who falls asleep faster. you usually lose, but it gives him all the more reason to stay awake and watch your lightly mushed lips mutter things in your sleep. it's his favorite view. "i know...i know, i hear you."