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IM A PICKY EATER THIS US SO ME

osamu miya who falls in love with a picky eater

osamu miya who learns from a very young age that you’re not willing to touch most foods. he (not so) secretly watches at lunch everyday to see what parts of you lunch you end up neglecting.

osamu miya who never teases you about being picky, after all that’s what makes cooking for you more rewarding right? nailing the flavors that you love and hiding the ones that you have no taste for.

osamu miya who attempts (and succeeds) at wowing you through bringing you lunches that he knows you’ll enjoy.

osamu miya who spends the rest of lunch trying not to grin ear to ear while watching you happily eat the lunch he brought you.

osamu miya who knows it’s now his life’s mission to make sure you enjoy food as much as possible.

osamu miya who loves the way your face lights up when he finds a place with lots of options for foods you like. whether its due to dietary restrictions, allergies, or a distace for certain foods, he will make sure there’s many options for you everytime you eat out.

osamu miya who cooks for you as often as you like. if you're ever feeling unmotivated and unwilling to cook he will show up and help you.

osamu miya will reach out to your parents for childhood recipes and loved dishes you may not have told him about. he wants to have your comfort foods at the ready whenever you're craving them.

osamu miya who never fails to wow you with how well he remembers your favorite foods. craving a certain cuisine but don’t know what you want? trust me, he knows way before you do and politely suggests it.

osamu miya loves seeing your reactions to new foods you discover. he’s always so proud when you try something new, and is even happier when he watches your face light up from the flavors.

osamu miya will order for you if you need to sub out items on a dish but are to embarrassed! food is meant to be enjoyed! not picked apart to avoid certain aspects of it.

osamu miya who will do anything to make sure you’re happy, healthy, and not hungy!!

A/N: projecting so hard onto this fic i am so picky about foods!! trying to be better but i fear i am doomed for life :( osamu save me

[miruac]

IM A PICKY EATER THIS US SO ME

osamu miya who falls in love with a picky eater

osamu miya who learns from a very young age that you’re not willing to touch most foods. he (not so) secretly watches at lunch everyday to see what parts of you lunch you end up neglecting.

osamu miya who never teases you about being picky, after all that’s what makes cooking for you more rewarding right? nailing the flavors that you love and hiding the ones that you have no taste for.

osamu miya who attempts (and succeeds) at wowing you through bringing you lunches that he knows you’ll enjoy.

osamu miya who spends the rest of lunch trying not to grin ear to ear while watching you happily eat the lunch he brought you.

osamu miya who knows it’s now his life’s mission to make sure you enjoy food as much as possible.

osamu miya who loves the way your face lights up when he finds a place with lots of options for foods you like. whether its due to dietary restrictions, allergies, or a distace for certain foods, he will make sure there’s many options for you everytime you eat out.

osamu miya who cooks for you as often as you like. if you're ever feeling unmotivated and unwilling to cook he will show up and help you.

osamu miya will reach out to your parents for childhood recipes and loved dishes you may not have told him about. he wants to have your comfort foods at the ready whenever you're craving them.

osamu miya who never fails to wow you with how well he remembers your favorite foods. craving a certain cuisine but don’t know what you want? trust me, he knows way before you do and politely suggests it.

osamu miya loves seeing your reactions to new foods you discover. he’s always so proud when you try something new, and is even happier when he watches your face light up from the flavors.

osamu miya will order for you if you need to sub out items on a dish but are to embarrassed! food is meant to be enjoyed! not picked apart to avoid certain aspects of it.

osamu miya who will do anything to make sure you’re happy, healthy, and not hungy!!

A/N: projecting so hard onto this fic i am so picky about foods!! trying to be better but i fear i am doomed for life :( osamu save me

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propaganda i'm not falling for: nanami hating gojo

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Nanami genuinely looks SO good I’m malfunctioning. Idk how to explain it but this is what the nanami x reader jujitsu high fics look like to me…

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osamu felt a sort of kinship to the very hungry caterpillar while growing up

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osamu “i know a place” miya. he said those 4 words like it was a secret, a promise to take you out on a date that was spoken with his usual deadpan tone. 

you expected him to drag you to a food spot or just a simple food date at home, really. those kinds of things are just totally osamu. if there was anything you could count on him, it would be that osamu's idea of romance would come out making onigiri or baking sweets for you. 

but what you didn't expect was that he'd take you out on a full blown food bazaar/market. one that is filled with life, light, and laughter. 

the moment you stepped past the entrance, past the row of fairy lights strung overhead each stall that reminded you of stars, it hit you. the scent of food and the chattering of people. the scent of everything was everywhere, curling in the air. it settled into your hair and clothes in a way you know you'd secretly love later once you arrive home.

as you and osamu found a place to sit after wandering around the food stalls for a while, you take in the sight to look around you. there were people in every direction— family sitting shoulder to shoulder at picnic tables, couples sharing skewers as they walked under the lights, kids gobbling candy with sticky fingers, and food vendors calling out the name of their customers, shouting out that their orders were ready to be served. 

normally, this would make you itch a bit. too much noise and too many people would've made you want to escape and search for an exit for a little bit. or atleast a quiet corner to shrink into. but this time? it didn't. not tonight. not with osamu who walked beside you earlier, his hand grazing yours every often just to remind you that he's there. that he's always right here with you. 

and knowing that, as you looked all around you, something inside softened. a kind of feeling that you couldn't really quite explain that bloomed in your chest as you watched a little girl give her dad a bite of her takoyaki or the way a pair of older women clinked their cups of sake, giggling like they were years younger. 

it comforted you, being surrounded by many lives, and still, you had your own place in your own world right here. right next to him.

and osamu noticed.

“you look pretty like that.” he said.

you turned to him, caught off guard. “like what?”

“like what you're doing right now.”

“i'm literally just looking around, doing nothing.” 

he gave a small shrug and a smile. 

“exactly. you still look pretty, even when you're doing nothing.”

you rolled your eyes, trying to play off the smooth words, but your heart gave a small flutter. he said those words like it was the simplest truth in the world.

and in that moment, bathed in the golden hue of the fairy lights, laughter, and the aroma of food, you believed in him. 

maybe it wasn't just the place that felt like home.

maybe it was osamu. 

a/n: i honestly had no idea where i was going with this and you could tell i didn't really put any effort into this but i wanted to write a drabble of osamu taking the person he likes out on a food date. i'll write a better one next time hehe. i love food markets guys they're so full of life.

divider: @/enchanthings

© RIRILEIL 2025 | do not copy, repost, or translate without my permission

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eclipse

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—CUPID IS SO DUMB!

synopsis ; everyone says that they would be a terrible person to date, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

ft ; kenma kozume, osamu miya

cw ; afab!reader, swearing

now playing ; cupid by fifty fifty

𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐌𝐀 𝐊𝐎𝐙𝐔𝐌𝐄

kenma was basically the joke of your school. sure, he was on the volleyball team, and they had made it to nationals, but he was…well, he was practically just begging to flip burgers for the rest of his life.

he was a video game addict, had no friends outside of the volleyball team, and probably never went outside in his free time. sure, he had decent grades, but nowadays, unless you’re in the top 10% of the grade, a good college surely won’t accept you.

no one in their right mind would date him, right? he wasn’t even that good looking either. short, monstrous posture, long and unkept hair…who in their right mind would date someone like him?

right, who would ever date him?

who would ever date him?

who would—

…

you would.

you never really saw anything wrong with kenma. he wasn’t bad looking in your opinion; in fact, you found him cute. you enjoyed video games as well, so you would enjoy playing with someone else.

you weren’t the most popular at school either anyways, so you’ve always had the occasional thought of dating kenma. but your last straw was when the annoying bitches in your grade who didn’t know how to shut up finally declared that “both kenma and (y/n) are so weird and ugly! they’re never gonna get married.”

fuck it.

“hey, kozume.”

“hm?”

he didn’t look up from his console, but you could see the slight stiffening of his hands. “you wanna, uh, like, y’know…um, go out together sometime?”

kenma’s entire body froze, the console nearly dropping from his hands. he stayed silent, and for a moment, you almost regretted doing this. but you had to do this for your own self-satisfaction. “we can go to a video game store or something after school.”

“wuh— why?” finally, some sort of response. poor guy; you were definitely freaking him out. you silently apologized to him in your mind.

“you clearly like video games n’ stuff, and we’re both quiet, so we’re pretty similar already.” you fidgeted with your fingers, managing a small smile.

“…sure.”

was it only supposed to be a one-off thing just to spite the bothersome bitches in your grade? yes. but kenma was actually pretty good company at the game store, giving you recommendations—though he was still rather quiet.

one date turned to five. five dates turned to ten. ten dates turned to twenty. though most of them were netflix or video games and chill dates. before you knew it, you really had fallen for kenma. and now that you think about it, those people sure were idiots for refusing to date kenma, because he treats you better than their asshole boyfriends treat them.

“here.” kenma placed a plastic bag onto your desk, face hidden with his hair.

“what’s th—“ you opened the bag, and seeing a box inside, you opened the box and saw what was perhaps the most heavenly piece of apple pie you had ever seen. “KENMA! IS THIS FOR ME?!”

“yeah. you always forget to eat breakfast, and my mom made apple pie, so…” kenma shuffled his feet.

“you’re the best! i love you!”

and so the gossip went from the both of you never being able to find someone to the both of you being a cringy couple who wouldn’t last. bold of them to talk, considering how they have more hookups and relationships than you can count on both your fingers and toes.

but oh well. let’s see who has the last laugh now, when you have a husband who is a successful streamer and the ceo of the bouncing ball corps.

𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐔 𝐌𝐈𝐘𝐀

you hated atsumu miya. that was a fact known to all. you were paired up with him once for a project, and he did absolutely nothing. he always claimed that he had volleyball practice, which was probably true, so you couldn’t blame him for that, but he was so self-centered. he only knew how to talk about himself. he was so annoying.

but the worst part? you knew fucking well that if he put in even a little bit of effort into the project, you both could have gotten a higher score than a 70. he was smart, no doubt about it, but lord was he annoying.

for a long time, you thought his twin osamu miya wasn’t much better. he was too nonchalant about everything, he only cared about food—which you could somewhat relate to, considering how you were a food lover as well—, and he doesn’t know how to properly discipline is annoying ass brother. handling him in a purely physical manner will not help atsumu’s behavior in the slightest.

and great, you were paired up with osamu for a project. at least unlike atsumu, osamu invited you over to his house in order to work on the project. you had been in his room, flipping through your notes feverishly to try and find something useful.

“want some dorayaki?” osamu asked, holding out the bread to you. your jaw dropped, stopping the flipping of pages for a few moments.

“you’re offering food? maybe you’re not a big back after all.”

“nah, this is tsumu’s. if you don’t want it, i’ll have it.” he said, nudging his head at atsumu’s desk right next to his. “he’s just dumb and he left it there on his desk.”

you laughed, taking the bread from his hand. “i take it that you’re not the most fond of your twin? well, i mean, clearly not considering how you beat him up all the time at school.”

“he’s still my brother. he’s an idiot though.”

although osamu wasn’t the brightest, you did get a much better grade on a project with him than his brother. plus, osamu was way funnier and had even offered you food. you know what, maybe he wasn’t nearly as bad as you had thought.

“want some?” osamu asked on a random day during lunch, holding out a large onigiri to you. “i made it, so i don’t really know if i can guarantee if it’s good or bad.”

you snatched the onigiri from his hand. “i literally love you so much.” you exclaimed. looks like the term ‘the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach’ works with women too. “literally marry me.”

“oh wow.”

you weren’t thinking when you had declared such a thing when you both weren’t even dating, but osamu surely was. staring at you as you ate, he did think that it would be pretty nice being married to you.

at home, atsumu walked to the kitchen and gave osamu a sour look. “you’re such a simp. is your rizz literally just cooking? man, bro is down bad.”

“shut the fuck up, tsumu. you wish you have any rizz outside of your looks.” osamu snapped back, molding rice into a triangle shape and eating any excess rice left over.

well, osamu was right about making you fall for him through your stomach. because a few years later, you’re standing at the altar, shoving wedding cake into each other’s mouths.

[miruac]

Canon mamas boy suguru is crushing me today

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[miruac]

HES SO CUTE

Pt.1–Nerdmin Collage AU ❤️

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oh im crying.

Putting in my order 💛✨

Trope: enemies (not really, it’s misunderstood like a messed up first meeting) to lovers

Prompt: #30 from menu #1 (“I’ve been in-love with you since we were kids.”)

Character: Nanami

Fluff/nsfw

🍹 𝔂our 𝓭rink is 𝓼erved!

today’s special features nanami kento at the aquarium, shaken up with the prompt: “i’ve been in love with you since we were kids.” it’s a resolved angst and second chance blend, served in 4.4k words. be wary of the following ingredients: misunderstandings, enemies to lovers

ordered fresh off the menu at the creamflix tiki bar. cheers.

it starts, as all good stories do, at an aquarium.

the halls were dim, blue-lit and echoing with the shrieks and laughter of too many children on a field trip. someone’s lunch was already smushed into the floor, a trail of crushed crisps leading to the penguin enclosure, and the air smelled of wet stone and sugary ice cream.

you, however, were rapt.

nose pressed to the thick pane of glass, palms spread wide like you could reach through to the other side and join them — the little orange-and-white darting blurs flitting through anemones. the coral shimmered like cities, the light bent and waved with the water, and everything in you ached with the kind of joy only children have. “they’re nemo fish,” you whispered, in that kind of reverent awe you’d usually save for fireworks or christmas mornings. “look. sooo many.”

you didn’t expect him to be behind you. 

nanami kento. khaki shorts, socks pulled too high, a heavy expression for someone who’d only just turned twelve. always quiet, always watching like he was already too old for the things around him. “they’re called ocellaris clownfish,” he said, not meanly, not kindly — just flat, factual. like correcting a label on a folder. you blinked, smile not falling, just pausing. 

“…yeah, i know. but i like calling them—”

“that’s not their name,” he interrupted, firm now, almost disapproving. “calling them nemo fish is wrong. that’s not science. that’s just... cartoons.”

your cheeks flushed, heat rising up behind your ears. not because he was right — you knew what they were. you’d read books, watched nature documentaries, memorised the way they swam and where they lived. but in that moment, none of it mattered. in that moment, you were just a kid with your heart in the wrong place. you stared at him, heart sinking in your chest. 

“you didn’t have to say it like that.”

he looked at you then. properly. the first time he ever did. and for a moment, something flickered in his eyes — regret, maybe guilt. or maybe he was just confused why it mattered so much to you. but he didn’t say sorry. 

he just turned and walked to the next exhibit, hands in his pockets.

and that’s when you learned the world wasn’t built for soft wonder, or silly names, or fish that made you smile. it was built for facts, for people like him. and that hate — heavy, unfamiliar, brand-new — settled inside you like a stone in your stomach.

starting then, gone was the girl who loved nemo and dory fish. she disappeared quietly — no tantrum, no tears, no declaration. just a slow erosion, a slipping away of softness in favor of something colder, cleaner, more precise. by the time the next school trip came around, you were the one correcting names. you folded your hands neatly behind your back, spoke when you were sure, and never let your excitement get the best of you.

the girl who once lit up rooms with facts delivered like secrets — did you know clownfish can change their sex? — had turned into someone sharp-edged. not cruel, just... unreachable. you answered questions before they were finished being asked. you stopped laughing at jokes you’d have once howled over. your birthday cake that year was minimalist — store-bought and vanilla. no tiara, no theme. you thought this was maturity.

your friends didn’t know what to make of you anymore. they watched you with something like confusion — or maybe caution — like you’d aged out of something essential they were all still living inside. and maybe you had. maybe you wanted to.

and nanami — nanami was still there. tall and tired and already carrying the weight of someone’s future. he rarely spoke unless spoken to, but when he did, it was exact, curt. 

he hated wasting time, hated wasting breath. and you hated that you understood that now. you hated that you walked the same halls and looked the same way — like people who had been taught too young that joy is naive.

you saw it clearest in the graduation photo.

the camera clicked and everyone grinned — cheeks flushed, fingers flashing peace signs, eyes half-squinted in the sun. but there you were, and there he was, and neither of you smiled, not really. the corners of your lips lifted politely, but your eyes were far away. you looked like kids who had missed something, and knew it. and didn’t know how to go back.

that was three years ago.

you’re twenty now, intern badge clipped to your shirt, hands slightly damp from the touch tank, and every morning feels like walking into the belly of memory. the same cold-air-conditioned lobby, the same slow background hum of filter pumps and distant chatter, the same goddamn clownfish exhibit.

marine biology made sense — it was quiet, factual, vast. you didn’t have to explain your reasons to anyone. not your friends who now studied abroad or spiraled into business degrees, not your family who had silently hoped for a less salt-soaked path, and especially not yourself. you stood in front of the tank again, three years later, arms crossed and professional, eyes flicking over the school of fish. they darted in formation, like muscle memory — like they too remembered twelve-year-old you squished against the glass, wide-eyed and full of wonder.

your lips twitched, just a little.

and then you felt him before you saw him.

nanami kento, tall and unreasonably composed for someone your age. khakis again, dress shirt tucked in, sleeves rolled up like he was pretending not to be out of place. he stood beside you like it was nothing, like the universe wasn’t elbowing you in the ribs with cruel coincidence. you didn’t look at him, but you could feel the silence swelling like a balloon between you.

then he said it. calm, clipped, matter-of-fact: 

“they're schooling for protection. the reflective scales help confuse predators.”

you blinked, your jaw clenched. of course he said something. of course it was another lecture-in-a-sentence. the kind of useless, unsolicited trivia he had offered since the day he ruined your childhood. you turned your head, slow and pointed.

“i’m aware,” you said flatly.

a flicker crossed his face — brief, but visible. a crease deepened between his brows. he looked at you like you’d just swatted away a peace offering.

you didn’t care. because there he was again, the human embodiment of a correction. because every time he opened his mouth, it felt like a test, like he expected you to fail it. because you didn’t need his facts. you lived in them now.

you turned back to the tank. he didn’t say anything else.

god, he was dangerous. and you hated him.

—

you continued your work like clockwork.

in on time. reports submitted, displays clean, tank parameters logged down to the decimal. no complaints, no errors. if a pipe burst, you were already on it. if a new intern messed up the feeding schedule, you fixed it before anyone noticed. your supervisors loved you for that, and they relied on it. and, oddly enough, the field trip kids adored you.

you were their designated aquarium guide on weekdays — not because you smiled the brightest, but because you didn’t talk down to them. you explained things clearly, didn’t sugarcoat, and walked briskly, expecting them to keep up. your tours became something of a local myth among the chattier schools.

“we have to behave or she’ll make us talk to the octopus alone.”

“no, she tells the fish who’s not listening.”

“she once stared at a kid into silence. stared. like this.”

but what they didn’t know — what none of your coworkers knew — was that you broke the rules for them. quietly, sneakily. like letting your younger self peek out of the coat you’d zipped her into years ago. “this,” you told one group of wide-eyed seven-year-olds, standing in front of the clownfish tank, “is where the nemo fish lives. he doesn’t like being disturbed. but if he ever escapes, it’s your duty to return him, okay?”

a small boy gasped, clutching his backpack straps. “even if he ends up in the toilet?”

you nodded solemnly. “especially if he ends up in the toilet.”

they all nodded with gravity, as if you’d just handed them the most sacred of responsibilities. 

a few days later, a girl barely taller than your hip ran up to you by the stingray pool, her pigtails bouncing. “miss! i made a song about jellyfish!”

you raised an eyebrow. “hm. is it scientifically accurate?”

she blinked. “…no. but it rhymes.”

you gave a single approving nod. “acceptable.”

and then stood quietly, arms folded, listening to the entire off-key mess of a song while she flailed her arms like tentacles.

there was another boy, maybe nine, who lingered by the dolphin video reel, eyes round.  “they talk to each other, right?” he whispered.

“with whistles, clicks, body language, echolocation—”

“no, i mean like… secrets. do dolphins keep secrets?”

you looked down at him, deadpan.

“…probably. i’ve never caught them gossiping, but that only proves they’re good at it.”

his eyes widened like you’d unlocked the universe.

you started carrying stickers in your lab coat. merch, too — small plushies, keychains, leftover freebies from the souvenir store. sometimes they slipped out of your pocket and found their way into the hands of the quiet kids. the ones who didn’t talk much but stared at the seahorses like they were seeing magic.

you never smiled too much. your tone never changed. you still walked fast, still didn’t indulge when your coworkers cracked jokes in the break room. but when a kid tugged at your sleeve with a drawing of a shark family that had wings and a bakery business? you took it, nodded seriously, and said:

“that’s a brilliant evolutionary step. flying sharks who bake. makes sense.”

this was the best part of your day, every day. the only part that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you hadn’t lost everything back at twelve.

it all came crashing down on a wednesday.

they called for an emergency meeting, something about tank restructuring, a need for reevaluation. the head curator’s voice was tight, her clipboard gripped like it might snap. everyone was there — staff, interns, conservation consultants — but you didn’t worry, not really. these things happened. you stood at the back, silent and observant as always, arms folded as you listened to discussions about space management, oxygen ratios, the logistics of hosting more endangered species. it made sense. you nodded along.

and then he spoke.

nanami, of course. seated near the head of the table, shoulders squared, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the effort of the day. he wasn’t an aquarium guy — he was finance, funding, operations. but that didn’t stop him from sliding in like he belonged here more than you did. 

“as per the current funding forecast and projected visitor interests,” he said, calm and clinical, “there’s a need to phase out certain displays. the clownfish exhibit is being considered for removal.”

you didn’t hear anything after that. 

it was like a sharp pop went off in your ears. you stared at him, not blinking. not breathing. he hadn’t even paused before saying it. hadn’t looked at you. hadn’t acknowledged the history in the room. your voice, when it came, was tight. “that’s… short-sighted. the clownfish are one of the most visited exhibits. the kids love it. it’s the first thing they run to.”

he glanced at you — not with disdain, but with the same infuriating, neutral disinterest you’d been haunted by for years. “we’re not only targeting children. our goal is to curate for a wider demographic. adults, conservationists, donors. we need exhibits that reflect more urgency.”

urgency. you could’ve laughed. or screamed. you stared him down, lips pressed thin, heart thudding against the ribs of twelve-year-old you. 

“they’re not just fish in a tank, nanami. they’re memory anchors. educational gateways. emotional touchstones. do you understand what they mean to people?”

his jaw ticked. he adjusted his glasses, not unkindly — but not relenting, either. 

“i understand the numbers. and the space constraints.”

and just like that, the conversation was over.

no one else spoke up. no one backed you. you sat through the rest of the meeting in silence, knuckles white, throat burning from the effort it took to keep still, to not shake. to not speak when your voice might crack.

because what else could you do?

you were an intern. he was the man with the spreadsheets and the last word. and it felt, once again, like he’d looked at something you loved and cut it down with logic.

as if that was more valuable than wonder.

—

you offered to close up for the night.

no one questioned it — you had that kind of presence now. dependable, unsmiling. someone who got the job done. interns didn’t usually have keys, but you did. you’d long since stopped correcting people when they called you staff instead of intern. if they trusted you more than themselves, who were you to argue?

the aquarium at night was a different creature. no footsteps, no kids yelling about sharks. just the sound of filters humming softly like breathing. you moved from tank to tank, making sure each parameter was logged, each lid sealed, each little life accounted for. you pressed your hand against the glass of every display — just for a moment, palm flat, fingers splayed.

the stingrays, the seahorses, the bony, awkward deep-sea ones that always scared the kids, even the rockfish, who looked perpetually grumpy. each one got a soft tap of acknowledgment. a little goodnight.

you reached the clownfish tank last.

the water glowed faintly, casting slow-moving shadows against your face as you knelt. they swam like they always did — quick, fidgety, curious — but one of them paused, hovering by the glass, watching you. 

you stared back.

“…just keep swimming,” you whispered, voice catching.

it sounded so stupid out loud. so childish. but it was the only phrase that ever worked when things felt too heavy for your tiny body to carry. you tried to breathe, but your chest felt like it was being wrung out from the inside.

you weren’t twelve anymore. you were twenty. you wore a badge. you had responsibilities. you were supposed to understand that these things happen — restructuring, budgets, conservation priorities. you knew this was inevitable.

but how do you explain that to a fish? how do you explain to something that has lived in this water longer than you’ve had a nameplate on your door that they’re not important enough anymore? that someone — nanami, of all people — looked at them and saw numbers? saw removal? you pressed your forehead lightly to the glass, eyes burning.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered, like a confession. “i tried.”

you weren’t sure if you were apologizing to them or to the part of yourself that still wanted to believe in fairy tales. that still thought if you fought hard enough, believed big enough, things could stay. people could stay. a choked sniffle escaped before you could swallow it back. you bit your lip hard, like it might force the rest of it down. but the ache in your throat only widened.

time is a funny thing. everything looks the same, until one day you realize it’s not. until one day you realize you’ve grown tall enough to lose things.

the fish scattered suddenly. jerked themselves away from the glass in one sharp ripple, like someone had cracked the water open with a stone. you blinked, startled, a frown forming before the reason hit you.

of course. of fucking course.

you didn’t even need to turn around. you already knew who it was. his presence always preceded him — quiet, composed, slightly colder than the room he walked into. 

nanami kento. just what your night needed.

he came to stand beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world, not even looking at you at first, hands in his pockets. and then he had the audacity — the absolute gall — to speak. “it’s for their own good,” he said, voice soft,. like that changed anything.

“bullshit,” you spat.

not said, not muttered, not tossed over your shoulder. spat. like it physically hurt to have it in your mouth.

he went still. you stood too fast, eyes blazing. “you always do this,” you said, stepping away from him. “you always do this.”

his brows pulled, barely. “do what—”

“take away the things i love!” your voice cracked right in the middle of it, and you didn’t care. you threw the words like knives, every syllable hurled from the weight of years. “you did it back then, and now again — why? what is it about me liking something that makes you want to ruin it?!”

he didn’t answer. just looked at you with something unreadable in his face — something caught between regret and resolve. you scoffed bitterly. “i loved these fish. i loved this job. and you — you just sit there with your figures and your logic and your blank face, and you don’t even flinch.”

silence. the air felt wet and heavy, like the tanks were listening. 

and then, finally, he said, very quietly, “give me time.”

you frowned. “what?”

he turned to you fully, now. face drawn but sincere. “give me time. i’ll fix this. i’ll do something. anything.”

you stared at him, stunned. “why?”

his mouth twitched, just once. not quite a smile. because he didn’t smile, not really.

“because i’ve been in love with you since we were kids,” he said. “and i hate seeing you sad.”

the silence that followed was so total, so complete, it made the humming filters sound like thunder. even the fish were still now. you could’ve laughed. you could’ve hit him. you could’ve cried. 

but instead, you just stood there, breathing too hard, chest rising and falling like the tide.

—

you never asked how he did it.

nanami showed up to the next meeting with some figures, some revised allocations, a little shuffle of priorities — and suddenly, there was enough space, enough budget. enough everything. you didn’t ask for the details. you didn’t want to know who he convinced, or how hard he had to push, or what rules he bent to make it happen. it was fixed. that’s all that mattered. 

the clownfish stayed. and right next to them, the new tank shimmered with the unmistakable blue of regal tangs.

blue tangs.

you stood in front of them for a long time when they were unveiled. blinking once, twice. the water made everything soft, dreamlike — and for a second, you swore you could hear the laughter of your younger self echoing faintly off the glass.

ironic, you thought. or maybe not ironic at all. maybe it was a sign.

the visits skyrocketed.

word got around. schools started booking more field trips. parents brought their kids back on the weekends — some of them still in cleats, some in tutu skirts and glitter barrettes, breathless with the urgency of showing their family “the fishies.” 

you kept doing your job — still serious, still composed — but something started tugging at the corners of your mouth more often now. especially when you overheard kids reciting facts to their siblings or dragging their cousins over to explain which fish had mucus layers or symbiotic relationships with anemones. words you had fed to them over the weeks.

and they remembered.

they believed them. they believed you.

that feeling in your chest — it was strange. not quite joy, not pride, either. just something warm and steady. like something old and heavy finally shifting inside you. and then one day, you realized what it was.

hope.

not the wild, blinding kind that crashes in like waves. not the desperate kind you clutch to like a life raft. no — this was quieter. something that curled up inside you and said, it’s okay now. it had stayed with you all this time, tucked between your ribs, until you had the strength to feel it again. and when a group of kids came barreling down the corridor, already yelling your name, clutching each other’s sleeves as they ran—

“miss! miss! can you tell us nemo again? pleasepleaseplease — just the part where he touches the—”

you didn’t roll your eyes, neither did you sigh. you let them drag you by the hand, back toward the tanks glowing like dreams, and for the fifth time that month — maybe the fiftieth in your life — you began to tell the story of a little fish who got lost, and the even littler one who never gave up. you told it like you meant it. because this time, you did.

nanami joined you not long after the kids had dispersed, their giggles echoing down the hall as they ran off to terrorize the jellyfish exhibit. you didn’t look at him. you didn’t need to. you stood shoulder to shoulder, both of you watching the slow, rhythmic dance of orange and blue beneath the water. the soft glow of the tanks brushed across your faces like moonlight — as if the aquarium itself had gone quiet to listen.

for a while, neither of you said a thing. and then, finally, you spoke. just one word. simple. tired. honest.

“…why?”

he didn’t pretend to misunderstand.

“because i’ve been in love with you since we were kids,” he said again, the same way he always did — like it was just gravity. just the truth. just how the world was. you swallowed, eyes locked on the clownfish that darted out and back into their anemone.

“why?” you asked again.

but this time it broke open something softer. not a challenge. not even a question, really. more like a crack in the surface. an ache in your chest. why me? he turned then — not to look at the fish, but to look at you. and when he spoke, his voice was a little rougher, like he was telling you something that had never been said out loud before.

“you were full of love,” he said. “at thirteen, you were so — so alive. every word you said made people smile. made me feel like smiling. you saw beauty in algae and dirt and seaweed. in everything.”

your hands had gone still at your sides.

“i didn’t hate your personality,” he said, slowly. “i was jealous of it.”

he let that sit. 

“i wanted to see life like that too,” he continued. “and when i saw you — eyes wide, face pressed to the glass, calling the clownfish nemo — i thought, ‘this is it. this is the person i want in my life. this is the person who makes everything make sense.’”

your chest ached.

“but i didn’t know how to say it,” he said, barely audible. “so i said the wrong thing instead. and then you stopped smiling around me. and that—”

he exhaled sharply, like it still hurt. “that was the worst part. not that you hated me, but that you stopped being you.”

you finally turned toward him, slowly. your eyes were shining in the dark. nanami looked at you like he was bracing for punishment, or forgiveness. he’d take either. 

you didn’t give him either — you gave him the truth.

“you broke my heart,” you said, voice calm. “at twelve.”

his expression didn’t change, but his hands curled slightly at his sides.

“…i know.”

“and yet,” you murmured, looking back at the fish. “you’re still the only person i wanted standing next to me today.”

his hand, so close to yours, twitched just once. and for the first time in years, the air between you didn’t feel heavy. it felt full. like something was beginning again.

—

it had been three months since the conversation at the tanks — the soft, shaking truths, the small silences that felt heavier than water, the beginning of something stitched slowly back together.

you still gave tours.

stoic, of course. nothing short of professional. but to the kids, you were something else entirely. they never quite caught on to the way your voice never lifted past a calm register, or how your expression barely changed — they were too swept up in your delivery. the stories. the slow, deliberate pauses you made right before the dramatic parts. the way you could spin fact into wonder.

you stood in front of the shark exhibit, hands clasped behind your back, surrounded by second graders in oversized backpacks and stained uniforms, all of them vibrating with barely contained excitement. “and this,” you said solemnly, “is the sand tiger shark. don’t be fooled by its name. it’s not a tiger. it’s not friendly. and it’s definitely not here to be your friend.”

the kids gasped, faces full of thrill. you let it simmer. then added:

“however. he does like to stare. so if you feel something watching you when you turn around, it’s him. probably deciding who he’d like to snack on first.”

a collective squeal from the crowd. one little boy clutched his friend’s arm in glee. another whispered, “i think he likes me.”

and right then, as if on cue, nanami walked past with a clipboard tucked under one arm, glanced toward your group and, without breaking stride, muttered just loud enough for them all to hear:

“they don’t eat humans. not unless provoked.”

you didn’t even flinch. you tilted your head dramatically, one brow rising as if you’d been challenged in a duel. “and how exactly, sir,” you called after him, “do you define ‘provoked’?”

nanami paused. glanced back, eyes behind his glasses sharp with restrained amusement. 

“unruly children.”

a wave of delighted shrieks.

“we’re not unruly!” came a chorus of indignant, giggling protests. “we’re nice!!”

you turned back to the group, as if considering his logic deeply. after a moment of dramatic silence, you nodded gravely.

“hmm. fair. i suppose he’ll have to find another snack today.”

relief flooded the crowd. someone in the back fist-pumped. one kid saluted the shark tank.

it was always like that now. nanami interjecting from wherever he was in the building, deadpan and perfectly timed, while you spun your stories like soft, serious spells. sometimes he’d linger longer, watching the way the children clung to every word you said — watching you.

he was still far from perfect. he was dry. he was difficult. he calculated emotional weight like it was part of a spreadsheet. but he tried.

he’d linger just a moment longer when you paused by the clownfish tank. he’d place a hand on your lower back in passing — light, steadying, just there. he’d listen to the stories you told the kids and never once asked you to stop.

you let him.

because some people really are worth second chances. especially when they’re brave enough to ask for one. and even more when they finally learn how to believe in magic again — with you.

[miruac]

miya osamu has long accepted the fact that the girl he loves is a crybaby.

when he and atsumu met you as kids you were crying alone in the playground as your friends left one by one.

when you entered middle school with them you cried when you found out you were in separate classes.

when he gifted you a necklace he had worked hard for to buy you cried so hard you got snot all over his shoulder.

when you atsumu made you so mad you cried in his arms as he comforted you.

when you and atsumu left hyogo for tokyo, you cried begging him to call you everyday.

when you were feeling lonely in college you cried on the phone with him and cried when he finally found the time to visit.

you cry over the smallest inconveniences, anything that made you feel happy, had you feeling mad, excited, surprised, anything.

so it's no surprise to him that it's taking you so long to finish your vows because of crying so hard.

all formalities are forgotten as he pulls you in his arms, swaying you gently as you finish the last of your vows. family, friends, and guests are forgotten ones he cries with you as he reads his vows written on a tissue paper.

"I whole heartedly promise to love you, comfort you and cry with you even if death separates us and even in our next life. i'd love you now and forever and until the next life that i'll share with you."

[miruac]

me and my fictional husband against the world ~ ༊*·˚ ୨🎀୧

[miruac]

MIYA OSAMU was the biggest foodie you knew.

it was the main reason why he'd learnt how to cook — he absolutely adored exploring new recipes, trying new cuisines, learning new techniques.

you, on the other hand, were the pickiest eater osamu knew (or so he claimed).

on your first date, you'd spent ages poring over the menu, looking over each ingredient to make sure you would enjoy it. anchovies in the pasta? no, you weren't feeling them today. pickles in the burger? absolutely not — in no world would you even go near them. mushrooms? no way, are you joking?

you'd laughed it off the first few times — actually, it was more osamu laughing at you — before you worked out a system.

it was the third or fourth date, where you'd sighed and said, "i'd get this pizza if it didn't have olives on it."

osamu was already used to your antics. "just order it and give 'em to me. we've already wasted enough time waitin' for ya to order."

"i don't understand how you can just eat this stuff," you muse, half to yourself.

"i think ya just need better taste, babe."

needless to say, since then, osamu's diet increased exponentially with the food you didn't like to eat.

hq m.list | gen m.list

a/n: i've been so busy that this is the first thing i've written in a month 😭😭 and this is totally not me just self-projecting oopsies

[miruac]

— osamu quietly sighs to himself as he hears an irritated grumble from your side of the bed, along with the soft huff of the bedsheet as you shift uncomfortably. his mild exasperation dissipates quickly, however, when he hears you whimper and sniff.

osamu tosses a pillow aside as he turns over to check on you, spread eagle on the bed with your forearm over your eyes. “what’s wrong?” he asks in a hoarse whisper. 

you’ve got an awful pout on your face, and he can see a tear slide down your cheek and onto your lips in the faint light. osamu watches in slight amusement when you lick it off. he clears his throat. “what’s wrong?” he asks again. 

there’s a pause as you sniff loudly. you dig your palms into your eyes. “it’s hot,” you say, finally. osamu’s deadpan as he leans on his elbow to look at you. that’s all?? “well, yeah, baby,” he replies plainly. “t’s summer.” 

“it’s so hot, i can’t sleeeeep,” you groan, your leg swinging over to land on top of his. “‘m so tired, ‘samu. and that fan’s doing jackshit.” “it’s literally in yer face, babe,” osamu tries, but you let out another weary sob that makes him roll his eyes as he starts to get up, peeling your sticky leg off of him as he does.

“where’re you going?” you mumble, still sniffling. “gettin’ ya a fan,” osamu grunts, feet dragging sleepily across the wood floor.

he comes back a few minutes later with a large handfan, lying back next to you on his side. osamu snaps it open and starts fanning you— face, chest, stomach, and back up again. you relax, settling into the bed contentedly, and he can’t help but scoff.

“yer sucha drama queen, ya know that?” he tells you, his voice full of affection. “seriously.”

note: i think i spent more time debating between a colon and an em dash than i did writing the damn thing

[miruac]

very late post but!!! atla orchestra in toronto :3 couldnt stop crying even during secret tunnel...also miruac finger reveal???