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Yamada Ryosuke


Yamada x Reader




Yama is an idol
soft fluff
little bit of angst



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Yama-chan meets you at your job as a barista in a pink cafe. Maybe he just likes pink? That has to be it….right?

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Music Inspiration: Dreaming Alone–Against the Current featuring Taka (ONE OK ROCK)

You slid the cup of coffee across the counter, your heart thrumming in your chest, because every time he came in he spoke to you so kindly, today was no exception, and yet you were struggling answering the question he asked today.

Would you let me take you on a date?

What? No. You’re Yamada Ryosuke, and I am no one.

I am literally nobody.

I barely make eight dollars an hour, am putting myself through college, and live in the most embarrassing neighborhood in the universe.

I come from a broken home, have a crazy family, and I literally can’t fathom what kind of world you live in.

You couldn’t help the way your voice trembled when you spoke, “Th-thank you for asking, but I am afraid I can not do that.”

“You can not do that?” he leaned onto the counter, his words slow and measured, his eyes shifting to look at yours closely, and your breath caught, because his eyes were beautiful under normal conditions, but they were so tender with some feeling you weren’t quite able to put your finger on, his voice soft as he spoke the words, “Why’s that, exactly?”

“Um,” you blinked, then your eyes moved to the coffee, which you pressed forward with your fingertips, just a bit further toward him, and his hand snapped out and grabbed your wrist, causing you to jump. A tiny squeal sound making him grin for a moment before he spoke.

“This is my number, you should text me when you change your mind,” he whispered, smiling a completely ridiculously beautiful smile as he pressed something into your palm with his other hand, then releasing you, picking up his coffee, and strolled casually out of the cafe.

Oh my God.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t been coming in the cafe regularly for over seven months now. Though for two months you were so completely oblivious to his attention that you were in complete and utter denial. Then one of your friends who had started working there asked you what was going on between the two of you.

“What do you mean? He’s a customer?”

“Ah, right? He’s a customer?”

“Um, yes? He has been a customer for a few months.”

“Ah, no. Honestly, he’s totally into you, and you talk to him.”

“I talk to him because he’s a customer, and don’t be insane do you know who that is?”

“Yes, I do know, but who cares, who actually need to buy eight different things in an hour? Plus, the entire cafe is pink. I feel pretty strongly he’s not coming here on average three to four times a week because he’s into pastel colors. I mean, really! C’mon! The way he watches you…seriously? You don’t see this?”

You’d thought about what she said, always thinking that he was ordering things for friends or group members who sometimes met him there. You’d never really wondered about it, at least you tried very hard to not wonder about it. About how long he would take to order sometimes, even though he must have the menu memorized by now. The way he sometimes reached a little further, the tips of his fingers touching your hand as he handed you the money.

Still, you weren’t one for flights of fancy or an overactive imagination–or really, one to set yourself up for heartbreak–so you insisted, anytime it was brought up that he was just another customer. After all, you served a lot of people every single day and you treated all of them the same, with respect and kindness–and, wait…was he really just making up excuses to come up to order more stuff so he could talk to me?

You’d started to pay attention and it became undeniable that he was most certainly spending a lot of time interacting with you, and if you weren’t completely obnoxious, it would be easy to imagine that he might actually like you or something–which you really, even in the constant state of denial, you simply couldn’t begin to understand. You’d made your friend start waiting on him because you weren’t sure how to handle it and you had no idea what to say to him to make it clear that he was so far out of your league that a handicap of epic proportions would be required for you to even be permitted into the locker room, let alone the playing field.

Even then, you didn’t miss the way he would linger around the register when you would stay in the back, or the way he would sulk, often leaving rather quickly when his ongoing attempts to reach out to you failed. You’d heard him ask a few times about you, and your friend would deflect rather smoothly, and he would stare her down, and then nod, somehow understanding more than she was saying.

It’s better this way.

But what…he’d taken the game up a notch today, he’d been bold, and you’d nearly passed out when he’d squeezed your wrist before he released it, picked up his cup, and as you watched him walk out the door, looking down at the paper he’d pressed into your hand, the words ’Call or text me! Ryosuke’ printed in neat writing, along with his phone number.

You shredded the paper as small as you could before you threw it away because honestly, you didn’t want to be responsible for some overbearing fangirl who knew he came there regularly to stalk the garbage and get their hands on it.

The next day, he was back, which was unusual, because he didn’t normally come in on Tuesdays.

God. Could you not?

Not what?

Admit you know his schedule?


“You know, I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t call me? Or text me,” his voice was teasing, and you raised an eyebrow, then tilted your head, “The usual?”

“No,” he leaned onto the counter, and the scent that you’d come to find uniquely him wafted over to you, and you held your breath, trying to not hum in satisfaction as he smiled disarmingly, his words soft yet full of intensity at the same time, “I want to talk to you.”

You stepped back a bit, as he was too far into your bubble, glancing around nervously in case anyone was watching, “I can’t really talk right now, I…I’m working.”

“When do you get off work?”


“I’ll come back when you’re off work, we can talk then?”

“Ah, no…I mean…I do get off work, but we…you can’t…What can I get you to drink? To eat?” Your words were a blur, a frenzy as your nervousness escalated.

His eyes moved around your face, then his head titled, his face lit up with a smile, “The usual.”

“O-okay,” you turned, your hands shaking as you started to make his drink, one of the young girls who came in daily after school approaching the counter, calling out your name.

“Yes, Aito-chan?”

“May I please have one of the orange-cranberry muffins?”

“Of course,” you smiled, nodding at the young girl, one you were quite fond of, “I just made them a few hours ago and they are very good!”

You’d put the drink into the mixer and then turned, putting on gloves to get the muffin for the girl, “How is your history assignment going?”

“Really, really good!” the girl gushed, her entire body vibrating with excitment, “Plus, oh my God, guess what?!”

You laughed at her excitement, “What?”

“I’m in the group with him!”

“Oh, that is exciting, huh?”

“Very!” the girl glanced over at Ryosuke who had leaned his hip onto the counter, his arms crossed, and his expression filled with amusement as he watched the interaction.

“I’m sorry,” the girl startled, “It was very rude for me to place my order like that while you were still here.”

“It’s okay,” Ryosuke laughed, waving his hand in front him, “Please, don’t concern yourself with it for a moment.”

You slid the muffin on the plate across the table, shaking your head when the girl went to open her bag, “Not today.”

The girl’s eyes clouded with emotion for a moment, and then she nodded, bowing quickly, “Thank you.”

She turned and took her muffin to the corner where she was studying, and you immediately glanced up to find Ryosuke looking at you curiously, which once again made you rather nervous, the already active butterflies in your tummy now doing somersaults.

Turning your attention to the mixer to finish his drink did calm your nerves a bit.

You moved back to the counter, sitting his cup down, and pressing it forward with your fingertips, “There you go!”

He put his money into your hand and when you offered him the change, he pushed it down into the tip jar, your eyes widening, so he was the one who kept leaving the fifteen dollar tips!

I should have guessed that.

You chastised yourself for wanting to tell him you didn’t need charity, when he must know the tips were divided between all of you, and it was just a kindness after all.

He’s just a good guy. Is that so hard to believe?



There are no good guys.

Sigh. You’re too jaded to be so young.

“Thank you,” you smiled, nodding your head, grateful when the door chimed where a new customer was walking in, looking forward to the escape from his question, and then your eyes grew wide when you realized it was one of his group members.

“Chii-chan,” Ryosuke smiled, gesturing to you, “Tell her what you’d like, I’ll take care of it.”

Yuri told you what he’d like and you began to make it, studiously ignoring the two of them and their conversation–at least you were attempting to.

“She didn’t call or text.”

“Didn’t she?”


“Hmmm, maybe she just doesn’t like you, Yama-chan.”

“I am not sure that’s what it is.”

“What makes you think not?”

“I’ll show you in a minute.”

They were quiet for a moment, and you felt like something was being said silently between the two.

“Okay, then I mean if she did like you I think she would have called or texted, right?”

“Maybe not.”

You’d finished the drink, and did not want to turn around, like, in all the world of things you wanted to do, including having the floor swallow you whole, you did NOT want to turn around. You simply didn’t want to see their faces, you knew your cheeks were bright red and you were so embarrassed.

“We should ask her.”

“Let’s do.”

You took a deep, shuddering breath, turning around to quickly set the drink down and before you could say anything, Ryosuke had smiled triumphantly, pointing to the cup you’d just set down and then gesturing to his own, “See?”

He glanced up at you, winking quickly and then his eyes went back to the other boy who looked at the cups and then looked up at you, his stance defiant, his voice whining, “Hey! I want a heart in mine, too!”

You heard Ryosuke laugh softly, telling his friend to shut up, and your eyes darted down to the cups, widening when you saw it, the feeling of mortification running across your skin when you realized that you had indeed put a row of hearts in the foam on Ryosuke’s and had only done a pattern of circles on the top of Yuri’s. 

Kill me now.

You couldn’t stop looking at the cup with the hearts, and then rolled your eyes in exasperation, the words flying out of your mouth rather ineloquently, yet too fast to stop them, “I threw the number away, I have no intention of calling or texting. I…I just…I am in school, and I work, and I don’t have time to think about anything else…I…and I just don’t need pity or anything either.”

You didn’t mean to say so much, and you were appalled that you had, shaking your head, moving away from the two dumbfounded boys, into the back to the managers office, “I’m sorry, I am really sorry, I have to go, it’s an emergency!”

“Of course, I’ll call in someone, go, take care of what you need.”

You’d never lied to your manager before, and surely, she must believe something quite dire had transpired to make you willing to leave work, and it had, you’d lost your mind, clearly.

You grabbed your bag and jacket from your locker, throwing it on, not bothering to take your apron off, rushing out the back door. You’d made it into the park on the way to your house before you heard your name.

You froze.

His voice was soft, and apologetic, “I’m sorry if that was rude…I don’t know what I’m doing, I just want to talk to you.”

You knew he was close but he didn’t move in front of you, and part of you wanted to take off running, run away, and go where he’d never find you, after all, you could get a new job.

“I-I…” he was so nervous, and your heart clenched because…wait, honestly, why in the world is he nervous!?

“This…this isn’t like me okay? I don’t….I just don’t do things like this…”

It’s precious.

“I don’t have any idea what I’m doing here…and if I messed up or something you just…”

It’s so cute.

“I don’t understand. that’s all..I don’t know what you meant…”

He’s so cute.

Shut up!

“I don’t know what you meant about pity. I didn’t ask you out from pity. I just…I just really wanted to make sure you knew that.”

He sighed softly, “I’m sorry to be so persistent. It’s just…I wanted to get to know you. I see you and I know about you but I want to know you more. That’s all.”

His words caused your heart to skip a beat, your fists clenching at your sides, “I’m sorry, Yamada-san, but you don’t know me at all.”

You shook your head, shoving your hands in your jacket pockets.

“I know you better than you think,” he spoke softly, “I know that you are going to school to be a teacher, that you graduate this year–and that you choose high school because you think those kids need someone to love them the way they are. I know that you want to teach literature because books have been an escape for you for all of your life and you want to teach kids to love them.”

He moved, a little bit closer, “I know your father left your family when you were seven, and you took on a lot of responsibility for your Mom and sister who is three years younger than you.”


“I know that you work as many hours as they’ll let you so that you can pay for your education, as well as send money home to your Mom and sister.”


“I know that you love dogs, your favorite color is any shade of blue, you love the smell of apple cider but hate to drink it…”

He’d moved to the side of you, and even though there was a part of you that was really freaked out by him stating all of this about you, there was still a louder, more insistent part that was telling you that it was okay, everything is okay…just listen.


“I know that you don’t buy new clothes, and that you have great pride in what you do have, your apron and uniform is always pressed, every single time I see you. I know that you are far cuter in your uniform than anyone else in that whole shop–in fact, the whole city.”

You could hear the smile in his voice, “I know that you are very careful with your money, and I know that you give two of those girls who come into the shop every school day freebies out of your own paycheck because they come from broken homes and their mom’s struggle like your own did.”

He stepped in front of you, and your eyes drifted to look at his shoes, shoes that probably cost more than eight months rent.

“I know that you take care of those girls, give them advice, listen to them. I know that you also look out for several of your elderly customers, keeping umbrellas on hand in case they get caught in the rain, sending some of your friends to walk them home if they are out past dark.”

He moved closer to you, his hands moving out of his pockets and you felt your entire body flinch, wanting to run away, wanting to back up.

“I know that you have the purest soul I have ever seen, I know that you couldn’t care less about material things, you find joy in the simplest things, you giggle at children’s laughter, you watch out the window at the wind in the trees. When you get mad you clean. When you are happy, you hum. Sometimes, you even hum one of my songs.”

“Please,” you gasped, it’s too much, “How…I’ve never even talked to you!”

“That’s true,” he mused, his hand lifting to bring your chin up to look at him, your breath caught in your chest from the contact, from the earnest look in his eyes, “You don’t talk to me, but you do talk to everyone else.”

He’d listened.

For all of these many months, he’d been paying attention to you, and he’d been learning about you by listening to you talk to the other customers, some of them people that knew you since you were just a toddler. You’d never censored yourself, and were never worried about talking in the shop…it was like your second home. You trusted people there, and your guard was always down, always down apart from with him–because you did like him, and that was dangerous and scary, and impossible.

“I know everything apart from one thing,” his finger stayed on your chin, insistent that you not hide, “Why you won’t talk to me.”

You shook your head, pushing his hand away, shifting around him so you could rush past, your words frantic, “I have to go.”

“Why won’t you talk to me?” he begged, his voice louder as your feet carried you away.

“What did I do?” he called out, desperation laced within the words.

“Please,” he was moving after you, you could feel it, and you shook your head.

“Tell me why you won’t talk to me!”

It was nearly a scream, and it made you jump, made you stop, turning on him, “You want to know why? Because this,” you gestured between the two of you, “This is not possible. This is not going to happen. You are you and I am me, and it’s not remotely possible for us to have anything more than a professional relationship. I am always going to be the barista, and you are always going to be the idol.”

His head shook, his expression not remotely hiding his confusion and hurt feelings, “What in the world…what do you mean?”

“I am nothing like you, I don’t fit you, you need one of those other kind of girls who know the difference between types of wine, and who knows which fork to use for what course, and all of those things–who knows name brands and likes expensive and weird things like caviar…I’m not that girl. I’m nobody. I have nothing to offer you. I bring nothing to the table. You would only be with me because you feel sorry for me.”

“That’s a lie,” his voice was firm, his body shifting toward you, like he was preparing to step closer to you, his eyes intense as they held yours, daring you to argue, “that’s completely false. I want to take you out because you are an amazing woman, and because I think there’s something so unique and speci–but now, wait, wait just a minute–what in the world would make you think any of that? Did I say or do something or is this because you know I’m an idol and that automatically makes me a stuck-up brat who doesn’t eat frozen pizza and drink beer on the weekends?”

You stared at him, your mouth opening and closing, “You don’t eat frozen pizza and drink beer.”

“I most certainly do,” he laughed, shaking his head, “Do you honestly think I cook seven course meals daily just because I know how to cook? Or that I pay a personal chef to cook for me or something?”

“I–I don’t know…I–You’re…you’re confusing me.”

“No, I’m telling you the truth, I don’t know why you thought these things but it feels like you’re doing to me what you’ve been saying I was doing to you!”

You startled at that, weighing the words for truth and finding it was fact.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, “I just…I don’t know why you’re so interested in me.”

He moved forward so fast, making you inhale sharply as he invaded your bubble, his voice soft, and gentle as his mouth moved close to your ear, your body shuddering at his proximity, at the smooth sound of his words in your being, “I am interested in you because you are fascinating, and it has nothing to do with where you work, what you wear, or where you live–it’s because of who you are.”

You opened your mouth, but it was like he could read your mind, “I don’t know who told you that you were nobody, but I’m going to see to it one way or another that you realize it’s a lie.”

He leaned back, his face entirely too close to yours, “Let me take you out. Let me get to know you the way those people do.”

“I can’t give you anything, Yamada-san,” you glanced down, feeling embarrassed again, “I can–”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he interrupted you, his voice firm, “you can give me the only thing I want, the thing that no fame, no fortune, no amount of prestige, talent, skill, or abilities will ever afford me…”

You looked up at him, your eyes wide, and he smiled softly, the corners of his eyes tender with emotion, “You.


“Yes,” he nodded, “You. Please, give me a chance. Forget the notions you’ve built up about why you should run, and hear my words, the ones that will reassure you–that will convince you to stay.”

You felt a war within, wondering if you could believe the things he was saying, if you could so easily toss all of your excuses aside.

They were always stupid excuses because you were scared to take a risk.

“Ok-Okay,” you nodded.

“Really?” his eyes were wide, his voice high, “Seriously?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, because his expression looked so excited, so happy, and you nodded, “Okay.”

He laughed, grabbing your hand, and started to drag you down the sidewalk, “What are we doing, Yamada-san?”

He stopped, looking at you with amusement, “Ryosuke,” he corrected firmly, “and we’re going on a date.”

He started walking again, and you tried to stop him, pulling back on his arm, “Wait, what? Now?”

“If you think I’m giving you a chance to change your mind, you can forget it!”

He has a point.

Shut up.

Just saying.

“Where are we going, Yama–” you stopped mid-sentence when he frowned at you, “Ryosuke?”

“To dinner,” he smiled, pulling you toward a taxi.

“Dinner…” you thought about the jeans and t-shirt you had on under your apron and coat and felt your hands shaking with nerves, “I’m not…I’m not wearing the right clot–”

“Relax,” he mused, opening the cab door for you, “We’re going to this cute little Italian restaurant I love, a normal, everyday place. Besides, to be honest, you’re dressed perfect for at least 99% of what I actually do in my life.”

“You sure?”


“But…what if…”

“We’re eating pizza.

He smiled softly at you as you shifted into the seat to make room for him to slide in.

That sounds good.

He sat down, his leg resting against yours as he moved forward, telling the driver where to take you, and then turned to look at you, “Pizza…and then we’re going to really talk.”

That sounds even better.


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