Osamu + “we’re Fake Dating! Why Did You Tell Them We Were Engaged?!” For @amarinthe Thanks For

gojo gets so lost in your deep, slow kisses that he doesn’t even realise he’s stopped thrusting into you until you’re knocking at his chest and grumbling about how you were so close a second ago until he stopped

i love greek mythology

greek mythology | cursed images

NEW MATCH FOR @whorefornoodles

suna wants to message you. . .

netflix watch party? i'll doordash you concessions

leave the light on - miya osamu/f!reader (haikyuu!) part 10 in the bff!osamu series tags: childhood friends to lovers, tw instant coffee mention, miscommunication, confessions, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!

Onigiri Miya closes early on Sunday nights.

It’s not for lack of business—the shop would certainly take in enough revenue to justify staying open regular hours an extra day per week, especially on a weekend. But in the early days of Onigiri Miya, when it was just a one-man show, Osamu needed at least one night that he could count on having off. The workweek business—office workers and students going through their routine hustle and bustle—kept him going, enough so that Sunday nights weren’t a make or break for him, and he was able to start shuttering in the early afternoon once per week.

He remembers those early days. Sweet talking vendors to bring down the cost of produce and haggling with the grubby, bleary eyed men at fish market stalls at the crack of dawn for a deal on the catch of the day. Promising suppliers that he’d be able to get them their money in a couple of weeks if they’d just give him some more time. Standing on the road, because Onigiri Miya was just a street stall back then, trying to coax people in and try his food. To convince them to take a chance on him. He remembers burns on his hands and cuts on his fingers and an ache in his bones that ran so marrow-deep he forgot what it felt like to not be so sore. Sunday nights were the only night he had to relax. The only night he had to sit down, to take off his hat, and to have a beer—or, even more frequently, pass out on his couch in his uniform at 8pm and sleep right through to his alarm the next morning.

Closing early on Sundays had been your idea, way back when— suggested to him gently while he rested with his head in your lap in your tiny student apartment after another 16 hour workday. He still remembers the worry in your eyes as you brushed his hair back from his tired face.

Nowadays things aren’t so hectic. Osamu’s got a good team of people around him to help Onigiri Miya run smoothly—a team who he trusts and values. It doesn’t all fall onto his shoulders in the same way that it used to: he doesn’t have to be there for every open and every close, his bills are paid, he’s not fighting to lure people in off the street just in the hope that he can scrape by for another week.

Now when he closes early on Sunday, it’s more for the sake of his staff than anything else. Occasionally Osamu will take the night off, too; he’ll go home and catch up on housework, run an errand or two, or even grab dinner—usually with you, though evidently not so much lately. But most Sundays he stays behind after his last employee heads out for the night; locking up behind them, switching off the sign in the window to tell the world the shop is closed, and then holing himself up in his office to do some admin. He’ll grab a plate of whatever’s leftover from the day’s service and a cold can of beer from the fridge, put on a rerun of Atsumu’s game from the night before, and get to work shuffling through the paperwork that he’s left to pile up over the past seven days.

Osamu hates paperwork.

It’s not that it’s particularly challenging work—the really hard stuff is left to his bookkeeper after all. It’s just tedious, a mindless task in many ways, and he always finds his thoughts drifting as he sorts through invoices and inventory registers: catching himself being inattentive halfway through a spreadsheet, and having to force himself to go back to the beginning just to make sure he hasn’t missed anything in his carelessness. 

You used to help him with this kind of work, or at least keep him company while he got through it—sitting on the lumpy couch crammed into one corner of his little office and pretending like you weren’t asleep each time Osamu caught you with your eyes closed. More often than not, he’d throw his jacket over you to keep you warm while you napped and then rush through the last of his work so that he could wake you up and get you home. But just having you there on those late nights was enough for him; your presence was the thing that helped.

Coffee is his only saving grace, these days.

Samu shuffles out to the front of the shop on one such Sunday evening, taking off his baseball cap and ruffling the hair underneath tiredly. He’d finally gotten a trim, and he’s glad that things feel a bit more normal again as he rakes his fingers through it—his mother had been right when she remarked that it was getting too long the week before. He tosses his hat down on the front counter of Onigiri Miya, rounding the end to grab a sachet of instant coffee from behind the bar where he keeps his emergency stash.

The overhead lights in the shop are off, but there’s enough brightness filtering out from the still-lit kitchen that he doesn’t need to struggle to see as he prepares himself some hot water to add to the mug in front of him. He tips the granulated contents of his instant coffee sachet into the bottom after ripping it open with his teeth, tapping the empty plastic packaging against the edge of the cup to make sure it all comes out. The kettle behind him hums quietly as it heats to boiling, and Osamu sighs, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest.

He stares out at the restaurant—his restaurant, as hard as he still finds it to believe some days—his gaze sweeping over the tables with their corresponding chairs resting atop them. One of the staff had mopped the floors at the end of the night, which left them still slightly wet and glistening. There’s light filtering in through the front windows from the streetlights and the other shops that line the Osaka street outside, and their glow catches in the water that hasn’t yet dried from the tile.

Osamu’s eyes suddenly snap up to the glass that lines the front of the restaurant.

There’s a silhouetted figure—so familiar he could trace it even with his eyes closed, from memory alone—standing on the other side of the door.

Osamu blinks, thinking that the paperwork must have finally gotten the best of him, or maybe that the beer he’d had earlier is inexplicably hitting him too hard. But no matter how many times he squeezes his eyes shut, the familiar shape stays where it is on the other side of the glass each time he opens them again.

His heartbeat thumps, loud and wet, in his ears.

Like the shot of a gun, the man stumbles gracelessly into action: loping around the end of the bar and slipping slightly on the wet tile as he heads towards the door. He fiddles with the lock as he struggles to unlatch it, accidentally trying to force it the wrong way in his haste before eventually getting it right. When he finally throws open the door, a gust of cool night air flooding into the restaurant along with it, he takes in a deep, gasping breath.

“Hey.”

His voice is shaky when he greets you—mostly air and very little shape to the word.

You stare at him from a few paces away, your arms crossed firmly over your chest and a frown tugging down the corners of your mouth. Osamu thinks you look pretty when you’re mad. He always has. But it’s worse now because he knows all too well that he shouldn’t—because he knows you’re mad at him. 

You seem to have something to say, he can tell as much from the almost spiteful glint in your eyes, but you stay tightlipped as you simply stare at him.

“D’ya… wanna come in?” Osamu asks, still holding the door open. He nods his head back into the shop. “Still got some stuff prepped, I could make ya—“

“You’re a jerk.”

Osamu blinks, taken aback.

“Yeah,” he agrees plainly after a moment, thinking it’s only fair of you to say given then circumstances. 

His concurrence only seems to upset you more.

“Like, you’re a real asshole, y’know that?” You’re nearly spitting you’re so angry, your features twisted up in contempt. Your arms uncross and drop down to your sides, and Osamu watches as your hands ball into fists. He’s the one who taught you how to throw a punch, years and years ago now, and he’s wondering if he’s about to experience a practical demonstration of his teaching abilities firsthand.

“I don’t necessarily disagree.” He nods, agreeing with you once more, though this time his response is slower, more hesitant—not because he doesn’t mean it, but because he’s not sure that it’s what you want to hear.

“Ugh!” Your following exclamation is loud, and palpably frustrated, all but confirming his suspicions. “You…!”

Your tone is climbing with every passing second, and Osamu looks furtively up and down the road around the two of you. It’s late in the evening but there are still a few people out, and he sees heads turning in your direction at the commotion.

“Hey,” he says, his own voice dropping in volume but still pleading all the same. “My name’s on the door and we’re gettin’ some weird looks. I wanna hear everythin’ you have to say, but could you please just say it to me inside?”

You look at him blankly, your lips puckering into a petulant, unhappy pout. You seem like you want to say no, to keep causing a scene, and for a second Osamu really thinks you’re about to round in on him again. Instead you trudge forward, stomping past him over the threshold of Onigiri Miya.

Osamu hesitates for a moment after you pass, half in shock and half in relief, and then he lets the door swing closed and locks it behind him for good measure—he’s not sure he wants any unsuspecting people coming in search of onigiri and stumbling upon a brawl.

It’s dim in the restaurant when he turns to face you, but he can still see your fury burning in the dark.

Neither of you say anything.

“You can keep goin’ if you want,” Osamu is eventually the first to speak, and he means what he says. This is the least of the punishment he deserves, after all. And hearing you yell at him is markedly better than the silence.

“Martyrdom doesn’t suit you at all,” you mutter sullenly.

Osamu sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face. “I just wantcha to say whatcha came here to say.”

You begin to pace as you work through your thoughts, slowly walking back and forth in front of the counter, picking at your cuticles. You’d put a fair amount of distance between the two of you, and he’s sure it was intentional. Osamu keeps himself confined to the entryway near the door, while you walk a path back and forth along the length of the service counter. His eyes follow every step you take, like a captivated child watching fish at the aquarium.

“I had a terrible dream last night,—” you finally force the words out, your feet stilling against the shiny tile as your pacing comes to a sudden halt.

Osamu decides to just do the right thing and shut the hell up for once, giving you the floor.

“—I was going to buy 30 kilos of rice from Kita-san’s farm—”

That’s a lot of rice, Osamu wants to note, but his lips part to let the words through and then he decides better of it.

“—and I was there, at the farm, and then Kita-san started telling me that you got married and had a baby. A baby, Samu! Kita-san standing there telling me all these terrible things with that big bag of rice in my hands, and I couldn’t even get mad at him because he’s Kita! So I just had to listen to him go on and on and on about the venue and the flowers and the baby name that you picked out. And the more he’d tell me the worse it was, and the bag of rice just kept getting heavier.” Your teeth bite down so hard into your lip as you suck in a breath that Osamu's amazed he doesn’t see blood. “I was hearing all of these things—terrible things—and all I could think was that I should have been there to see all of that for myself. I shouldn’t have been hearing about it from someone else. And I realized that you were living a whole life apart from me, a life that I didn’t know about or get to be a part of, and it just kept getting worse and worse and I woke up and I felt like I was going to scream.”

You’re out of breath by the time you finish your rambling thought, your chest heaving and your eyes wild and your mouth faintly wet. You look to him, and Osamu doesn’t see that same indignation in your eyes anymore, only hurt. He watches as the expression hardens again, whets itself like a blade—sharpened not in anger, but rather in resolve. In resignation.

“That day. I looked for you first.”

Osamu feels lost now. Are you still talking about that dream?

You understand without him saying it, and explain yourself further. “In high school. The day that I kissed Suna.”

Osamu’s stomach drops, all of the blood rushing to his head so quickly that the shop begins to spin a little around him. He can hear his pulse in his ears. He can feel it in his throat. He can’t help the twist of jealousy in the pit of his stomach, writhing and ugly though it may be, at the mere mention of his friend’s name. He doesn’t have the right to feel the way he feels, but it happens all the same.

“I looked for you,” you keep going, like you’ve broken a seal and have to let it all out. Osamu doesn’t dare try to stop you. He couldn’t even if he wanted to. He watches on like it’s a conversation that’s happening not with him but rather to him. “You were eating lunch with Tsumu in your classroom. I realized he would have had a fit if he knew that I was asking you and not him. I thought about asking him but…”

Osamu can’t feel his fingers from how tightly his hands are balled into fists at his side. His lungs burn in his chest—the breath he’s holding having long since lost the oxygen his body needs, though he can’t seem to draw in another.

“If it wasn’t you, I didn’t care who it was. So I asked Suna.”

The young man processes your words slowly. Incompletely. Like only every third word seems to register.

“Ya wanted me to be yer first kiss?” It’s not the question he ought to ask you but it’s the one his brain chooses to spit out.

Your reply is frustrated, but with an unmistakably melancholic rasp running through it. “Yeah. I did.”

Somewhere distantly, Osamu recognizes a sharp, stinging pain. An ache as part of him realizes that it could have been him. All along. All this time. Him. But the pain is muted, because part of him—most of him—still doesn’t quite understand.

“I think that was the first time I realized it.” 

Osamu watches your face, maps the achingly familiar lines and dips and curves of your features as he tries to read meaning in the space between your words. But he still finds nothing.

“I liked you, Samu. More than I should have. Differently than I liked Tsumu, or Suna, or any other guy.” You laugh, but it’s a hollow, watery sound. “I realized it and it was awful.”

You’re waiting for him to say something, but Osamu is at a loss for words. No, that’s not quite it either. It’s not that he has nothing to say, but that he has everything he wants to say to you. To ask you. But he doesn’t know where to start, or how to sort through them, or even how to will his lips, teeth, and tongue to shape any of them.

“You… Y’know ya don’t have to say this,” his voice is tight, like a rope drawn to secure a knot not unlike the one in his throat, when he finally manages to speak. “Ya don’t have to pretend or convince yourself that you… felt the same as me. I care about ya too much to ever ask that.”

You laugh—a single, sharp, distinctly mirthless ha!—as you throw your hands up in exasperation. “There you go again not letting me have any say, Samu!” You punctuate your exclamation with a frustrated little sound. “Stop deciding things all on your own and just listen to me.”

That shuts him up again.

“I thought I was over it,”—you begin to pace once more, your steps slow and measured—“I really did. I told myself it would never happen and moved on because I never ever wanted to fuck things up between us. Between any of us.

“You told me that you’ve loved me your whole life, but you don’t know if or when something changed. I do. I had a singular moment that I could point to where I realized that if I did or said the wrong thing after that, I could fuck up something that meant more to me than anything else in the world. Even if you felt the same way I did, there’s no guarantee that something like that would work out. But if we tried and it didn’t work, we wouldn’t be able to just go back to how things were. So I told myself that no matter what I wouldn’t. No matter how hard it was or how awful it felt. I could get over it if it meant I never had to lose you. And it was fine. For years it was fine. We were fine. Everything was fine. And then I lost you anyway.”

You suddenly stop pacing and crouch down, your arms winding themselves around your knees as if to comfort yourself. 

“That night, when you…” You swallow, and risk a glance up at him. “I don’t think I’m over it.”

Osamu feels like he might die. Maybe he did already. Maybe this is his life passing before his eyes, because it’s always been you anyway.

“But it’s scary, Samu,” your voice is so small, so vulnerable, when you speak to him again. You’re trembling as you hold yourself. “Aren’t you scared?”

Osamu is suddenly reminded of that fall day in the woods, so many years ago now. Reminded of two kids who didn’t know what they were doing. Who didn’t know anything. But who knew each other.

Slowly, Osamu crouches too—his joints cracking in protestation as he drops his body down to your level. Your eyes never leave his.

“Yeah,” he says, after a moment. Soft but sure. “‘Course I am.”

You let out a soggy, incredulous laugh, but it somehow doesn’t feel out of place. He watches as you reach up and scrub at your eyes.

“I love you,” Osamu says, because it’s true. Because there’s no other words he can possibly think to say in this situation. Because it’s the only thing that he has in his mind.

You look over at him, sniffling a little, wiping at your running nose with the back of your hand in a way that Osamu absolutely should not find as endearing as he does. “How can you just say it like that? Like it’s so easy?”

Osamu wants to laugh too, like you did earlier, but he worries that the sound might come off as almost hysterical thanks to the misplaced hope he can feel simmering in the pit of his stomach. “Sayin’ it’s the hard part, that’s why it took me so long. But I’ve spent forever lovin’ ya. S’always been the easiest bit.”

You choke back a sob, your head hanging defeatedly as your body slackens. You’re a ghost of the angry little thing that was outside of his door only a few minutes earlier, but more yourself now than Osamu has seen you in weeks.

“What about you?” he poses the question so quietly he might worry you didn’t hear him if not for how silent the dark shop is around you both.

“What do you mean?” You know what he means. He knows you know what he means. You’re stalling, trying to buy yourself time that’s run out now.

“Do you love me?” he asks, praying to anyone who’s listening that he’s been a good enough man up until this point to deserve the answer that he wants to hear more than anything else in the world.

“Of course I do,” you say evasively, refusing to meet his gaze. But it’s not the same. It’s not enough.

“But are you in love with me?” Osamu finally dares to ask.

There’s a stretch of the most painful, profound silence that either of you have ever experienced. It goes on for an eternity, though the clock hands in the corner say differently.

You still refuse to look at him, your gaze fixed instead to a point on the wall on the other side of the restaurant. Osamu watches how the light from the windows catches in the tears that cling to your bottom lashes.

“Yeah, I am,” you say, barely a whisper. You speak the confession like it’s the most terrifying thing imaginable. Like it's wretched.

And it is maybe, but Osamu’s never felt happier to hear anything in all his life—he feels a rush of something so visceral and elated flowing through him, he thinks he might pass out.

“Can I touch ya?” he asks hesitantly, his voice thick and unlike its normal tone. He hardly recognizes it as his own.

You peek over at him for the first time, and Osamu revels in the feeling of having your eyes on him. Delights in watching you watch him and knowing that behind the gaze is the same feeling as the one he holds inside of himself. You consider it for a moment, and he doesn’t dare rush you, but eventually—mercifully—you nod. 

Osamu inches forward slowly and wraps you in his arms. Your body relaxes into his hold instantly, and he pulls you into his lap on the tiled floor. He holds you so tightly that he’s scared he might break you, but he still can’t find it in himself to be more delicate. You cling to him anyway.

It’s the first time he’s touched you in months, but every inch of you is still known to him. Still familiar in every way that matters. You smell the same. You feel the same. You’re soft and warm just like always. Osamu buries his face into the crook of your neck, and your fingers eventually lift to play with the hair at his nape. He holds you, and holds you, and holds you more—sating a thirst that’s been building for longer than the time the two of you have been apart.

And you let him.

You hold him too, in the same way.

“If I kiss ya, you gonna cry again?” Osamu asks you quietly after a while, his lips brushing against your throat as he murmurs the words.

You snort, your fingers twisting into the material of his t-shirt at his shoulders. Osamu peels himself away from you and looks up, and finds that your faces are so close. Too close, in any other circumstance.

His palm lifts, cupping your cheek in his hand, running his thumb against the smooth skin underneath.

“Shut up, Samu,” you say, a little smile twisting up the corner of your mouth.

And Osamu happily obliges by pressing his lips to yours.

i live for awkward/dorky!! kuroo so this is my name suggestion!!! no pressure at all tho choose who u want to write for!!!!

(in response to this prompt)

you manage a shuddery inhale, arm thrown over your eyes as your lover kisses his way down your chest. kuroo’s fingers brush gently against your ticklish sides, making you squirm while a giggle bubbles behind your parted lips.

he sighs against your stomach, warm breath raising goosebumps on your skin, and you shiver at the closeness, the intimacy of it all. on this quiet saturday afternoon where all was still and quiet, save for the soft hum of the AC and the smack of your lover’s lips against your skin, there was nothing more you could want. 

“tetsuro,” you sigh, scraping your nails up his back to tug on his hair impatiently. “hurry up.”

“patience, babe.” he kisses your stomach once, twice, then follows his kisses with a flurry of soft smooches down to where you want him the most…

…making a quick pit stop along the way to lick at your belly button. 

like a strike of lighting, your reflexes quite literally kick in—and before you could even breathe or think, you’re squirming and kneeing kuroo in the gut with all your strength. 

“fuck, sweetheart, ow— could’ve just told me you didn’t like that,” he wheezes breathlessly, curled up in a ball at the end of the bed clutching his middle. 

your jaw dropped the moment you realised what happened. 

“sorry, tetsu!” you cry, crawling forward on all fours to stroke his back. “i wasn’t expecting that, didn’t know i was ticklish there. you okay, baby?”

“no, not at all!” kuroo whined dramatically. “you gotta kiss it better.” he rolls onto his back, the saddest puppy pout you’ve ever seen plastered across his face, and points at his rib where a soft, muted red was starting to bloom across his skin. 

you abide by his request, scooting down to press a kiss to his sore spot. kuroo whines again when you lift your head to look at him, long fingers threading through your hair to push your head back down to his navel. “again,” he orders with a loud, exaggerated sniffle.

“how demanding,” you laugh into his tummy, but appease him anyway with a flurry of soft smooches. “there we go. all good now.” you declare, pulling back to look at kuroo. 

“i dunno, babe. still hurts a little,” he mumbles in a small, hurt voice; his pout now eased into a smug little grin that doesn’t match his words in the slightest. and with his arms crossed above his head, biceps flexing and pecs on full display, you’re finding it incredibly hard to resist him and his peculiar plea for affection.

“tetsuro, you’re just— you’re extorting kisses from me now,” you giggle. you lean down and press a series of quick pecks to his navel once more, pausing to blow a wet raspberry next to his belly button which makes him yelp.

kuroo tugs you up his chest to face you properly, shooting you a dirty look though his cheeks were notably red from laughter. then he kisses the side of your head, all tender and sweet, and you knew you were forgiven.

“sorry i kicked you,” you whisper. “it was an accident.”

“sorry i licked your belly button.” kuroo replies with a laugh. “was just trying to be sexy.”

a/n: and then they fucked, watched animal planet while eating ice cream, and napped the afternoon away. the end thank you for reading

(masterlist)

hockey au sero, who looks so much beefier with all that padding–

he wipes his broken nose on the back of his glove and sheepishly tells you that, yes, he’ll wear his helmet during practice from now on– he’ll wear his helmet ALL of the time

he’s always drinking mass gainers and protein drinks, begging you to go out to dinner with him after practice even though he’s all sweaty and tired, because he’s trying to keep his weight up during the season 

miya atsumu x reader, 4.3k

A tale of Atsumu's descent into madness when he realises you're hot.

a/n: hello ! is this a repost because of tags and my mistakes? yes T_T anyway — this is still dedicated to @augustinewrites because she is a smart, educated queen and im very proud of her. like i said before, i sacrificed so much to write this because putting myself into the mind of a libra man…. yikes. i felt insane at one point. but i hope you enjoy! <3

Atsumu is sitting in your room half drunk, half sober. The room is still spinning, and he’s not sure whether he wants to projectile vomit on your carpeted floor or pass out from exhaustion.

“Tsumu!” you say, pushing your phone against his face. “Do you think I look hot in this?”

“No.” he answers without thinking. You pout aggressively, plopping down onto the couch beside him. He doesn’t deserve to be harassed about some scandalous picture of yours right now for two reasons:

One, it’s like half past one in the morning and that’s the time of night when he should be tucked into bed, snoring to his heart’s content.

Two, because it’s you and he’d rather die than call you hot to your face.

“You didn’t even look!” you wave your phone, and Atsumu turns his face to the side hoping you will simply disappear if he pretends you’re not there.

It doesn’t work. All it does is give you the opportunity to poke at his sides and pester him even more. He closes his eyes, “Why do you need my opinion? You literally do the same peace sign in each photo you take. And according to you, you always look good.”

“I do,” you reply, relentlessly poking at his shoulder, “but I need an expert’s opinion.”

Well. Atsumu would know something about looking good.

He sighs loudly, turning to face you once again. Prior experience says it’s better to give in now, because he was going to give up later anyway. “Alright, show me.”

You move to rest your cheek on his shoulder and hand him your phone.

Atsumu rests his head on a pillow behind him and squints at the screen, trying to see the picture better. When he does, the shock of what he’s seeing causes his fingers to go slack and the phone smacks him in the face.

“Idiot.” you laugh, reaching out to pat his nose. It doesn’t soothe the humiliation he feels nor does it alleviate the sudden racing of his heart. What the fuck?

“So? Do you think I look hot in it?” you ask again.

Atsumu swallows, as he looks at it again. It’s a photo of you at the gym, hair tied back neatly. It’s a simple photo really. You’re wearing simple black leggings and a sports bra he’s seen you wear before of all things.

And yet, the universe still feels unbalanced.

With horror, it dawns on him that it’s because you do look good in the photo.

Okay, it’s not like he thought you were ugly or plain looking before, but you looked good, in a cute kind of way usually. Not like, good good. Not, uh, hot.

When the hell did you start looking hot?

You grab the phone back, analyzing the picture again. “You’re speechless. That means I look amazing. I’m going to share it with the others so they can either sleep well tonight or wake up tomorrow to a good start.”

Atsumu lightly smacks your shoulder, because he was not speechless. “Shut up, I was just shocked. Is that supposed to be a thirst trap?”

You sniff. “I don’t do thirst traps like you.”

“My fans love them,” Atsumu argues. “Are you saying my thousands of followers are wrong? Are you saying they have bad taste?”

You copy him, and he simply shoves you to the other side of the couch, throwing him a look of betrayal. “You don’t look hot in the photo,” he says, “you didn’t even get the right angle.”

You frown, looking like that one very sad emoji, and it tugs at his heart. Ugh. He backtracks, “I mean, that angle is still fine! It’s about the vibe, okay? And you do look good. It’s a nice picture, Y/N.”

“But I want to look hot.” you lament.

Atsumu looks you dead in the eye, and smiles, like a liar, “Take better pictures next time then.”

You stand up, picking up the cushions on the floor. “I’m going to get ready for bed. Feel free to leave soon, because I won’t be here to entertain you any longer.” you announce, still frowning, and Atsumu pulls you back until the force of it has you sitting back down.

“Should I teach you how to look hot?” He asks, teasingly poking at your cheeks. “You should have asked me from the very start.”

You grumble, but let him give you a few pointers. Although at the end, you complain, “That only works because you’re a guy!”

“Try it first.” he says, pushing you to stand up again. You say a lot of things, but you listen well in the end.

When you disappear into the bathroom, he decides to leave and head back to his own dorm a few floors down, calling out a goodbye. When he finally gets settled into his own bed, he plays ten levels to candy crush to dissociate himself from the possibility of gaining further realizations.

Just as he’s about to complete his last level, he gets a notification from the Inarizaki group chat.

Suna: Holy shit, is that Y/N?

It’s a screenshot from Instagram of the selfie you showed him, with the caption, sweet dreams [kissy face].

He looks at it for a good five minutes, feeling unspeakable things, before saving it onto his own camera roll.

.

.

.

Sleeping it off did not help. Atsumu decides he needs to be lobotomized.

Ever since you had shown him that gym selfie, he couldn’t stop seeing it.

(The idea that you were hot, not the selfie, he wants to emphasize. Although, he was also seeing your picture all the time, because well… it was saved onto his phone, so every time he took his own pictures, he would see it. And well… if you look at something enough times, it becomes imprinted in your eyeballs, and you see it even when you close your eyes. Or something like that. Don’t judge him.)

You meet him in a cafe nearby for breakfast and greet him a sleepy good morning, and Atsumu’s brain immediately goes, hot.

You sigh in frustration at the library while you’re trying to study for an exam. Atsumu asks if you want to take a break, but you get this fiery dead set look in your eyes and say, no let’s keep going. Also hot.

You’re eating at a korean barbeque place for dinner and take the grilling tongs from him when he gets smoke in his eyes to flip the meat for him. Really, really hot. It’s alarming because it’s not the first time you’ve done that for him, but it is the first time Atsumu’s found it hot.

Once is a farce, twice is a coincidence, thrice is a pattern, and more than that? It’s a fact.

Atsumu finds you really hot. Cue [throwing up emoji].

But that’s not even the worst thing about it. Atsumu’s clearly not the only one.

He brings it up to Osamu first, wanting the company of someone who has been friends with you for the same amount of time to back him up on the ‘you are not hot’ agenda (fuck off, he can’t think of a clever name right now). He rocks up to his twin who’s on his way to the next class.

He offers him an onigiri he bought from the 7/11 down the street, and casually says, “Did you see Y/N’s picture in the group chat?”

“Huh?” he asks, a little absent-mindedly. Osamu doesn’t even take the onigiri he was being offered. “Y/N’s picture?”

“Yeah, did you see it?”

“The one Suna sent into the groupchat?” Osamu asks. “Yeah I saw, what about it?”

There’s no way to ask the question easily, but to just be blunt about it. Atsumu blurts out, “Do you think she looks hot in it?”

Osamu looks at him for the first time, just a quick little side eye, before he continues walking, “Is this another one of your weird competitions? If so, tell me now so I can mute my phone before you guys start blowing up my phone with messages.”

Atsumu is offended and tells him, “I cannot believe you think that I would participate in such a, such a—” he couldn’t say the word.

“Childish game?” Osamu smirks. “This is why you need to read more books by the way; your vocabulary is failing. Also, you guys literally sent a poll into the main Inarizaki group chat the other day asking who had the best outfit of the day. Even Kita-san saw it.”

Atsumu huffs, “I can’t believe he voted for Y/N.”

Osamu stops as he reaches the front door of his next class, leaning against the wall to properly look at his twin. Osamu smiles, “She did look good. Y/N’s getting prettier these days.”

“Pretty isn’t hot.”

“Hot is subjective.” Osamu says solemnly, “But to answer your question, yeah, she did look hot. Why?”

Atsumu smacks him, “You’re supposed to say she doesn’t look hot!”

Osamu hits him back, “You want me to lie? I’m only saying what anyone with eyes can see.”

“You’re biased. This is because you guys are close.” Atsumu reasons.

“Actually,” Osamu corrects, because he hates Atsumu with all his guts, “Since we’re close I’m more inclined to say she doesn’t look hot. But it doesn’t bother me, because it’s just another fact of life, you know?”

No, Atsumu doesn’t know. Also, “What the hell do you mean anyone with eyes can see? I just found out yesterday—”

“Oh,”, Osamu realises, “Is that why you’re acting like this? Because you finally found her hot? You’re literally the last one.”

The situation just keeps getting worse. What do you mean Atsumu is late to the discovery? What do you mean people have been looking at you like a hot piece of ass all this time? It simply can’t be true. Atsumu’s powers of observation was like, Avenger-level.

But when he asks Suna, the guy doesn’t even think anything of the question and answers, “Of course she’s hot. This is old news.”

Atsumu feels like he’s just been shot in the foot.

And when he goes to ask Aran, he finds that he doesn’t even need to ask at all. Because when he finds him, he’s sitting across from you in the library taking a break while watching you write notes. He’s drinking water, but his eyes are focused on you and all Atsumu can see is appreciation in it.

He feels like he’s been shot again. This time in the back. Which is kind of dramatic, he knows, but how else is he supposed to express the feeling burning in his body. Everyone has betrayed him.

How could nobody tell him? More importantly, how did he not know? He feels woozy.

He goes to make ramen for himself. Comforts himself by looking at his own selfies. He’s mid-slurp when he’s scrolling through the gallery and it brings him back to the cursed picture.

The noodles go down the wrong way, and he manages to close his phone just in time. Just so on the off chance he dies because of your selfie, his dignity will remain intact. The headlines will say, Legend taken too soon.

Unfortunately, he survives the ordeal and will now have to deal with the fact that you’re hot for the rest of his life.

.

.

.

It is now day fifty post ‘Y/N is hot’ realization and maybe there’s still hope for him.

He’s alive. Adapting. On some days, he could even say he’s thriving.

First things first, he deleted your picture from his phone. Second of all—

Well, he hasn’t found a number two yet. It’s alright. He’s always number one for a reason. He doesn’t need a number two. He’s not making any fucking sense.

But here’s something that makes sense: in order to get used to you being hot now, he’s decided that he should just look at you more. The more he looks, the more his eyes get used to the sight, you know?

A pretty sound theory, if you ask him. Except, everyone else keeps catching on and now Suna has enough ammunition to use against him for at least a year.

Like, the last time the Inarizaki group met up and had dinner together, he had become hypnotized by how soft your lips looked and completely ignored everyone else’s conversations. You were too busy complaining about one of your classes to notice.

Or that one time you went to his dorm for a movie night, and he realised how good you smelled as he sat next to you on his bed, and you were too preoccupied by the actual movie to see him subtly leaning closer and closer.

Or even that one time it was his birthday and you had baked him a cake (Osamu got a store bought one heh), and he forgot all about blowing the candles when he was too distracted watching you sing happy birthday to him.

All Atsumu has to say is that, thank god you’re an idiot.

He posts a couple of hot selfies to his instagram that day for an ego boost and calls it a day.

He chuckles to himself. He’s healing.

.

.

.

Atsumu’s feeling more at peace these days.

He’s moved on to the next step of his self-healing process which is… revenge.

Quite frankly, it’s not right that he’s paying this much attention to you, while you just happily skip through life as if everything’s okay. It’s kinda fucked up, if you ask him. You’re out here thinking about silly things like what you should have for lunch (curry, obviously), when you should be out here thinking about him.

So now you’ve forced him to take matters into his own hands and right this wrong. Seeking justice for innocent victims such as himself, if you will.

He spots you from across the room, giggling at something on your phone. It better be his newly posted selfie you’re giggling over. If not, it’s a declaration of war; it took him like, two hours to get the right angle and lighting.

“Hey,” he says, sitting down next to you. Very cool. “What are you up to?”

You hum happily next to him, “Talking to my friend. Kenji sent me a funny meme.”

Earth-shattering. Atsumu almost regrets choosing to take a drink of water then because he almost spits it out. “You’re texting Kenji?”

You smile, “Yep.”

“But he’s your ex!” Atsumu doesn’t understand.

“Yeah, but he’s also my friend.” You explain, unbothered. “I’m friends with a lot of my exes actually.”

“What?” Atsumu is dumbfounded. He’s here suffering because of you, while you’re happily reconnecting with trash?

This is one of the most insane things he’s heard all year. You beckon him closer and show him a group photo of you and at least three of your exes or friends or whatever the fuck they are, with arms slung around each other.

Anyway. “Cute.” Atsumu comments, “do you guys also get together and trade dating stories?”

You narrow your eyes. “Okay, you’re one to talk when your friends from the team are so…”

“So what?” he challenges. Slutty, his own mind supplies, but it would be funny to hear you say it.

“Listen,” you say as you put your phone down and look at him intently. “I’m just saying, my friends are nice; like sheep. Your friends, who I’ve known since high school and hang out with constantly, are like lions. They could eat me.”

Atsumu stares at your cute little face and thinks, I could eat you. “Is that your rationale for why you’re friends with all of your exes? Aren’t you afraid it'll get weird because you know, you’ve done stuff with them?”

Atsumu doesn’t know why he can’t let it go. Or why he says that, because now he’s just thinking of you doing those kinds of things with your exes. It’s not jealousy that’s bubbling up in his chest. Definitely not.

“It’s not weird,” you defend, “it actually makes it easier when I see them at parties.”

Atsumu narrows his eyes, “Makes it easier to do what?”

You blush, much to his discontent. “Don’t ask me what, Tsumu! I don’t ask you what you do every time you disappear to the bathroom before games and come out destressed.”

“What are you insinuating?” he asks, jabbing at your side. You yelp, trying to move away, “I literally go there to play candy crush in peace where nobody can bother me.”

“Yeah right.” you go to kick him at the same time he leans down and hit him straight in the face.

Atsumu is so stunned by it, he freezes, hands clutching at his nose. You look at him horrified, starting to panic, “Oh my god, did I break it? Is it bleeding? Oh fuck I’m sorry! Tsumu say something! Are you mad at me? Tsumuuu—”

Atsumu stands up, doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t have it in him and goes to the bathroom to inspect his nose. He should have gotten his nose insured or something, because dammit it’s one of his best features. And now, it might be gone forever.

He’s pretty horrified to find that his nose is okay. In fact, it looks more perfect than ever. But if he didn’t lose his nose, then why the hell does he still feel like he’s lost something.

.

.

.

Atsumu is spiralling, but only on the inside. He watched Frozen for the first time the other day and now he keeps repeating conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them show out loud as a coping mechanism. He’s grateful that it’s nearly Christmas time so he has an excuse every time somebody looks at him weird.

But the discovery that he likes you makes him pissy.

Not because he doesn’t want to like you like that. It’s a comforting realization actually. He was having a crisis about his sexuality and thought that maybe he was fruity. His homophobic grandfather was probably rolling around in his grave at the mere idea of it.

But alas, he is as straight as a pencil. And how he came to that conclusion you ask? You wore a top that showed a bit of cleavage one day and he immediately had to run to the bathroom and take three deep breaths.

He thought he had long forgone his puberty years but you were just a different breed. He was so disappointed in himself.

The reason he’s pissy is because he can’t believe he missed all the signs pointing towards his feelings for you. How long has he even liked you? When he looks back, all he sees is a long chain of happy memories, each one linked together with fondness and affection.

Maybe all he needs to do is accept the fact that you’re attractive, and attractive people like you, well, they never stay single for long.

Despite him not realizing his own feelings, his brain has been signalling this fact to him, encouraging him to get a move on, before some other hot guy swoops in. Or worse, one of your exes swoops in.

(Cough, Kenji, cough.)

He needs to secure your ass. The longer he waits, the more chances he gives other men. That’s why he’s so mad actually, while he was out here thinking about how toned Kita-san’s body had gotten recently, other men were ogling his woman. Other men are making you laugh, taking care of you.

Sue Atsumu’s competitive ass, but he doesn’t want to be second to anyone in your heart. He’s number one or nothing.

So he decided to confess immediately, because he’s already wasted enough time.

The problem is, the moment he decides this is the same moment you decide that you want him to die of annoyance first. And then suddenly, it doesn’t feel so urgent for Atsumu to confess his feelings.

It’s important to teach you a lesson first.

It culminates at Inarizaki’s Christmas dinner get together, held at Osamu’s studio which actually has a big enough kitchen to feed everyone. You try his patience on today of all days; teasing him about his roots that have grown out too long, poking at his shoulder before running away, throwing peanuts at him every so often.

Atsumu sees who he’s sitting next to at the table, and already knows that it’s only downhill from there. He can’t even get a cup of coke without you pretending to pour him some before taking it away.

And then, there was the whole stressful debate on mint chocolate ice cream over the table while he was trying to enjoy his meal. You didn’t even understand the question, too fixated on your dislike of anything mint flavoured, raging with a fork in your hand as you screamed at Suna over the table. (How did he ever fall for someone so insane?)

Atsumu loves mint chocolate but as soon as you say you wouldn’t date anyone who likes mint chocolate, his mind is made. Mint chocolate be damned because it could never give him the same happiness that being with you would. Besides, no other person is allowed to feed you ice cream, if it's not him alright? Case fucking closed.

After that whole thing, Osamu pulls his chair away as he goes to sit down and he falls backwards, like an idiot.

There’s so many other misfortunate things that happen, and on days like this, when shit keeps happening, you begin to resign yourself to the fact that anything may as well happen.

Which is the moment Atsumu lets his guard down.

He doesn’t know what the fuck Suna put in the juice, but it doesn’t matter. Once the music started playing, what always happens, happened. Atsumu loses his mind.

His body literally moves on its own. One minute he’s talking to Kita vibing, and the next he’s doing the jerk while Osamu and Suna hype him up and take a video. (He’ll regret it in the morning, but not now).

The worst part of it all? He’s blowing you kisses every five seconds. It doesn’t register in his mind that it might look weird, because he’s too busy having fun and trying to keep you quiet, nothing more.

And then later, he finds himself on the floor, out of breath after he puts on the performance of a lifetime: as Elsa from Frozen.

Everyone else is kind of concerned. Well, some of them. He thinks he hears Kita asking “Is Elsa okay?”

No, Kita-san, he wants to say, Elsa is going through it right now.

He can feel eyes on him, so he turns his head, and sure enough you’re sitting there watching him with a fond smile on your face.

Elsa is completely fucked.

.

.

.

A few hours later, when Atsumu’s soul has returned back to his body and shame from earlier has sunk in, he decides it’s time to go home. He is not staying here and allowing Samu to bully him into cleaning the mess when he has better things to do.

He walks you to your dorm, like the gentleman he is, and goes to leave when you suddenly invite him in. Not a single cell in his body wants to say no so he happily goes inside and makes himself comfortable on the couch.

“You looked like you had a good time today.” you tease, sitting beside him.

He feels his cheeks heat up, pushing away every memory of tonight before it can occupy too much space in his brain.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t remember all the kisses you sent me?”

“Shut up!” he groans before assaulting you with tickles to shut you up.

You squeal in delight, pushing his hands away as he climbs on top of you and laughs, sounding deranged. In a way, he’s got you right where he wants you.

“Stop!” After a few more digs as revenge for driving him crazy, he finally decides to take pity on you and stops, letting you catch your breath.

“You drive me crazy, Y/N.” he says, sounding sappy as he closes his eyes and leans his head back, missing how you turn to face him.

“If it helps, you drive me crazy too.”

It’s music to Atsumu’s ears.

He opens his eyes and turns to face you too. “I do?”

You roll your eyes, which would be irritating if you weren’t so pretty. “All the time. You’re so annoying, always teasing me that I thought I was gonna lose my mind. I was like, why does this stupid boy always target me? Does he not realize how much I like him—”

Now it was Atsumu’s turn to roll his eyes but it was getting harder and harder to fight the smile bursting onto his face, “Come on, you’ve always been the annoying one—”

“Actually, you start it most of the time,” you snort, cutting him off. “But honestly Tsumu, if you wanted my attention there’s better ways of getting it.”

Atsumu doesn’t know whether to continue his prior assault or kiss you.

Instead, he decides to take the challenge in your last words. “Is that so?” he says, breathy, his hands starting to roam all over your body, starting with the curve of your hips, until it rests on your waist. “Are you going to show me?”

You whimper and he laughs, feeling both adoration and vindication in his chest. You’re flushing red in embarrassment, an emotion he didn’t even think you were capable of feeling. “You’re so infuriating—”

Atsumu cups your cheek, “You’re so hot when you’re trying to be angry at me,” and then kisses you so eagerly that neither of you have any brain cells left to say anything afterwards.

Well, you do say one more thing. “So you did think I looked hot in that selfie—”

likes and reblogs are appreciated!

kuroo, you think, has been out here for quite a while now. 

when you left to go meet with your study group—sometime between six-thirty and seven—the snow was just beginning to pile up. it hadn't started sticking to the roads yet, but you could see the vapor slip from the few leaves left on the trees; a symptom of early winter, you suppose. 

now, though, there must be four or five inches out here. the old oak tree that hangs over your building is starting to sag, and the moon seems heavier than it did before, hanging lowly along the glow of street light. 

kuroo is sitting on the steps up to your apartment, looking down at his phone. he has more than a few flakes in his hair, and if it wasn't for the ridge in the snow where he'd pushed it aside to sit, you'd think he'd been out here the whole time. 

"cold?" you ask, shuffling towards him. you can hear the crunch of your feet under you. 

"me? never."

he looks up at you then and, you'll admit, you like seeing him like this. lately, he's been against the whole 'text me before you come over' thing, and you know it's mostly because you don't reply, but, in part, that's so you can see him here. 

his hands are half-tucked under the sleeves of his coat, and there's a stretch of pink from the tops of his cheeks to the tip of his nose. his lips are chapped (you can only assume from being out here so often) and there's a little smile tugging at the sides of his mouth, his tongue poking out from behind his teeth. 

"oh, you want me to leave you out here then? give you a little more time?" you're smug—or, at least you're trying to be, anyway. the more time you spend with kuroo, the worse you are at pretending you don't like him. recently, you've been failing at that more than you'd care to admit. 

"hey, i didn't say that." he sinks his teeth into his lower lip. "plus, what's the point of coming all the way over here if i can't see my favorite girl?" 

you shake your head at him, aiming your chin towards the ground. in a strange way, you feel like you're suffocating.

"you mean the cat?" you ask.

and he chuckles, "sure." 

a beat of silence hangs in the air for a second, before you plod your way up the steps, pulling your keys out of your pocket. you can hear kuroo rise behind you, attempting to brush some of the moisture out of his sleeves. 

"y'know," you say, pushing the key into the door. "if you like coming over when i'm not home so much, i could tell the neighbor to let you in." 

his hood rustles; he's shaking his head. 

"where's the fun in that? kinda ruins my whole 'mysterious stranger' act." 

"also kinda ruins the 'guy stalking the apartment complex' act." you swing the door open and make your way up the stairs. "i'm sure everyone is so enthused by the guy sitting on the stairs every friday." 

a laugh, "oh i'm sure. if they report me for loitering promise you'll come bail me out?" 

"depends on how much i like you that day." you can feel the heat of your apartment as you approach the end of the hall. 

"really," he says. "if they took me in right now?" 

"i would think about it." you pause. "maybe." 

"wow." you can hear the rasp in his voice as he drags out the 'o.' "tough crowd." 

your apartment smells like pine and vanilla—the workings of two little wax melters on opposite sides of the rooms. you turned them off before you left (you double and triple-checked), but the scent lingers, itching at your nose as you cross through the door. 

kuroo follows close behind, scaping his shoes off on the mat before slipping them onto the little shoe rack in the corner. his jacket squeaks as he shrugs it off—a sound so distinctly made from the shifting of wet nylon that you barely have to turn around to identify it. 

every time he follows you up here, you find yourself glancing around your apartment—looking for something that could possibly be out of place. something incriminating: three-day-old dishes that you know you already washed; your vibrator, forgotten on the nightstand, even though you remember putting it back in its designated drawer. 

for some reason, you have a tendency to think that the things around your home that make you distinctly human are also the things that would make you distinctly unappealing. you're aware of how silly the thought is, but there you are, quickly looking over at your nightstand as you stick your coat back in the closet. 

"so," you hum, rubbing a bit of the warmth back into your hands. "to what do i owe the pleasure tonight? you here to eat all of my leftovers again?" 

"depends," he says. "you have leftovers to be eaten?" 

"not this time." you make your way to the couch, and he pouts, following behind you. "but if i did, they'd be all yours." 

"aw, you mean it?" you eye him. "i'm honored." 

as much as you hate to admit it, this has sort of become habit. you come home a little later than expected and you find kuroo sitting on your front stoop. you're not exactly sure how any of it started—or, really, how the two of you became friends in the first place—but you ran in the same circles for a while and, eventually, you ended up here. 

"well," he begins, slinging his arm over the back of the couch. "study group?" 

"boring." you nudge your way beneath his shoulder. "practice?"

"thrilling, obviously. greatest two hours of my life, even. i think you could go as far as to—" you eye him again. "same thing as yesterday." 

you chuckle, swatting a hand into his chest. 

there's silence for a moment, something warm pulling through the air of the room. quiet breaths spill from kuroo's lips, and you resign yourself to listening to each one—in, and out. 

he still smells cold; like the heavy, wet snow you have to shovel off of the porch the morning after a blizzard. for every breath, it lessens, bleeding into the heat of the room, but you let the scent linger at the base of your nose. 

you're not sure how much time you've spent taking in pieces of kuroo, but you know it's more than you ever plan to tell. you know his hands take longer to warm up than the rest of him—he chalks it up to bad circulation most of the time, you know that too; he rarely spends a night at home because he doesn't like sitting in silence; he twitches sometimes, when he's nervous, a little flick of his hands; his favorite color is red but sometimes he's drawn to deep blues because he likes the sky better when it's absent of stars—he says there's something enchanting about the abyss. 

he's too dense to know you're in love with him but too smart to think you're not. sometimes you catch him looking at you after you say something in a tone a little too far beyond friendly and you swear that he knows what you mean. sometimes, you think he's going to break the silence, and, sometimes, you think he never will. 

tonight, he swings his head back, eyes lightly shut, slowly sinking into the back of the couch. you can hear the sputter of your vents and the sound of the wind against the windows—snow still trying to fight its way through the glass.  

you're going to ask him to stay the night tonight—you already know it. you're going to wake up to him on the couch tomorrow, with his hair messed up, and his eyes half-lidded, and that stupid look on his face that makes you want to slip your tongue into his mouth. 

you're going to think about that time you slept together last year—once, after a halloween party—and you're going to think about the way the inside of his mouth tasted; you're going to sink your teeth into your lips so hard that you're going to bleed. 

you're going to consider telling him that you love him, that you always have and you think you always will, and then you're going to ask him if he wants coffee instead—hoping the smell of the pot is enough to make your head feel less fuzzy. 

you're going to wait, and hope he says something, even though you'll know he never does. and then, next friday, when you come home to him sitting on your front steps, you're going to do it all again. 

reblogs are always appreciated! ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

shhh...no one is allowed to tell him. absolutely no one or istg 😃🔪

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