hey so i wanted to ask if you maybe could write a fukunaga x reader story where reader is both a year older and very blunt. she like straight up goes to fukunaga and is like "you are fun. we are dating now" and fukunaga doesn't chicken out but rather develops feelings for her? and reader-chan is part of the female vbc from nekoma (so that happens prior to training and in front of the male vb nekoma team)... thank you!!!
okay
— telling shōhei “we’re dating now” like you were ordering takeout as his heart just exploded like cheap fireworks.
fukunaga shōhei x thirdyear!f!reader
c: fluff!!
hope u like it!
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
it starts in the most unholy way possible—at least for nekoma’s boys volleyball team. the gym smells like sweat and determination, the kind that clings to polyester jerseys and squeaky sneakers. they’re warming up, tossing balls back and forth, half-listening to kuroo’s cocky remarks about blocking stats, when the air shifts. not like a breeze—more like a meteor crashing straight through the roof.
you’re standing at the doorway of the gym, hair slightly mussed from your own practice, jersey clinging to your skin in a way that makes more than one nekoma boy look twice before pretending not to. your grip on your bag is casual, like you’re just here to borrow a water bottle. but your eyes are fixed—target locked.
fukunaga’s crouched by the wall, tying his sneakers, headphones still hanging out of his collar like he was just listening to something strange. the rest of the boys are buzzing around like caffeinated hornets—kuroo’s yelling and thinking of random strategies, yamamoto’s flexing while complaining about not having a female manager, lev, yaku collecting some balls, and kenma already distracted by his game.
and you—oh, you—are walking straight up to fukunaga like you’re about to tell him he’s won the lottery.
“you’re fun,” you announce, voice cutting through the gym like a whistle. “we’re dating now.”
it’s so matter-of-fact, so final, that not even kuroo can think of a quip fast enough. yamamoto’s jaw drops. kenma pauses mid-scroll. even coach nekomata looks up, blinking like he’s watching a sitcom live.
fukunaga blinks. just once. then his lips curl into that small, sly smile that most people miss but you don’t. “okay,” he says simply, like you just asked him to pass the ball.
and that’s how it begins.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
from then on, it’s like nekoma’s entire reality tilts a little. fukunaga doesn’t back down, not even once. he doesn’t laugh it off or ask if you’re joking. he just starts acting like he’s already been your boyfriend for months, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. and the weirdest part? it’s seamless.
after practices, he’s suddenly the one walking you back to your gym. he’s the one offering you his towel like it’s a casual thing, but his fingers linger just a little too long when they brush yours. he’s still quiet, still deadpan, but every glance feels like a secret joke he’s sharing with himself.
and you—you keep being you. loud, direct, unfiltered. you tell him straight up when his hair looks dumb after a scrimmage. you poke his cheek in the hallway because he’s just sitting there eating melon bread like a cat. you sit next to him on the train home and lean your head on his shoulder without warning.
the boys notice, of course. nekoma’s team may be sharp on the court, but gossip-wise? lethal. yamamoto tries to nudge fukunaga about it one day. “so, uh… you and her, huh? when’d that happen?”
fukunaga just gives him a small grin and goes back to tying his shoes. “recently.”
but what yamamoto can’t see—and only you catch—is how fukunaga’s knee is bouncing under the bench. like he’s burning with something and the only thing keeping him steady is you sitting close enough to brush his arm.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
he starts showing up in little ways. you mention in passing that you like a certain canned coffee brand? next week, it’s already in your locker. your hair tie snaps during practice? one appears in his pocket like he was expecting it. you tell him you’re tired and want to skip the train? his bike’s already waiting outside the gym.
he never says it outright. he doesn’t need to. his actions are louder than his voice, and they wrap around you like a quiet net. there’s something intense under it—something deeper than just a guy with a crush. his eyes track you at practice like he’s learning your rhythm, like your heartbeat is just another thing he wants to memorize.
and when you tease him—oh, when you tease him—it’s like pouring gasoline on an already sparking match. you call him “my quiet guy” in front of kuroo. you tell him “i like your face” while poking at his cheeks. you press your palm to his neck while he’s sitting on the bench and his entire body stiffens, but his expression stays the same except for the faintest twitch of his mouth.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
there’s one afternoon when it really hits him. the boys have finished practice, sweat dripping down, and you’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, scrolling through your phone. your hair’s a little damp, your face glowing with post-practice flush. he walks over, towel draped around his neck, and you look up at him like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“you good?” you ask.
he just nods. but in his head, something’s shifting. like a tectonic plate breaking. because the way you look at him—completely open, not even realizing how tightly you’re pulling him into your orbit—is undoing him from the inside out.
he crouches down so he’s eye-level with you, and for a split second, he thinks about how easy it would be to just… lean in. to close the space between you. he doesn’t, though. he waits. because if he takes, he wants it to be because you gave.
“yeah,” he finally says. “just tired.”
you grin. “wanna share my water?”
he takes it. drinks from the same straw without a word. and for him, it’s like a confession he’s not allowed to make out loud yet.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
people start whispering about the two of you in the hallways. “she just claimed him?” “fukunaga? that quiet guy?” “he’s basically her puppy now.”
he doesn’t care. if anything, he likes it. the rumors are like background noise compared to the sound of you laughing at his dry jokes, compared to the weight of your hand sneaking into his hoodie pocket when no one’s looking.
and you—god, you’re making it worse without realizing it. one time, you show up at his practice and sit on the bleachers, wearing his jacket like it’s yours. another time, you call him “my boyfriend” in front of your team and watch his ears go pink even though his expression stays neutral.
the thing about fukunaga is that his devotion isn’t loud. it’s quiet, steady, unshakeable. but it’s also sharp. the kind of thing that could cut if anyone tried to pry it away. he’s not the type to make a scene, but his eyes? they’re a warning label.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
there’s a moment—late evening, empty gym—where you’re both alone. you’ve just finished cleaning up stray balls. he’s sitting against the wall, scrolling through his phone, and you flop down beside him with a dramatic groan.
“i’m dying,” you announce.
“no you’re not,” he says, handing you a bottle of water.
you take it, chug, then lean your head on his shoulder. “you’re comfy.”
he freezes for a second. then, slowly, his head tilts until it rests against yours.
“good,” he says quietly.
and it’s not fireworks, not a confession, not a kiss. but it’s something heavier. something that sinks under your skin.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
fukunaga starts thinking about you constantly. not in a soft crush way, but like you’re threaded into his pulse. he starts timing his days around when he’ll see you. he starts replaying your words in his head when he’s trying to fall asleep.
you’re not just a girl who declared “we’re dating now.” you’re the girl who held out her hand and said mine—and he’s not sure if you even realize how serious you were when you said it.
he’s already yours. all the way down.
and for someone as quiet as fukunaga shōhei, that’s louder than any shout in the gym.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
and maybe that’s why, when kuroo teases him one day—“yo, fukunaga, she’s got you wrapped around her finger, huh?”—he doesn’t deny it. doesn’t joke back.
he just smirks. and under his breath, so soft only he can hear it, he murmurs, “yeah. and i like it that way.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
a: FUKUNAGA MY MAN 😝
© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)
iloveu
