Miya Osamu X Reader - Tumblr Posts

Public sex Ft. Inarizaki boys!

Fandom: Haikyuu!!

Pairing: Suna, Osamu, Atsumu X Fem!Reader

Genre: Smut

Format: Drabble

Warnings: NSFW! content, (semi) public sex, oral(M&F receiving), Fingering, Vaginal penetration

Word Count: 0.8K

A/n: Haven't written about them for a while so :P

↳Rintarou Suna

Suna has always been fond of the good luck quickies you offer him before the games start.

He tries to keep an eye on the door to watch if anyone comes in as you told him too, but with the way you bob your head up and down on his length?

It's hard to miss such tempting view. How can he not stare into your beautiful eyes when you take him this well?

He groans when he feels you rolling your tongue around his tip, suddenly deepening him down your throat until the tip hits the back of it. And you choke, again, but you keep going, and assure Suna that one day, you will be the death of him.

He curses under his breath after he catches a glimpse of the watch, realizing there's only five minutes left until the match starts. Removing your mouth from his member reluctantly, he sits you on his lap, adjusting you on his cock before thrusting up hungrily, earning low mewls from you. He knows he's being rough and somewhat needy, but he just can't help it; It feels too good to be inside you.

He needs to come quickly now, and tonight after the game, he will make sure to take his time, returning the favor by pleasuring you twice as hard.

↳Osamu Miya

Sex in his office has always been a treat for you two. Osamu sure enjoys the sight of your body wrapped in a nice skimpy lingerie, and black tights embracing your long legs. He smirks when he pulls the garter and sets it free, loving how you jerk your hips when it slaps against your skin.

He reminds you to keep your voice down, that you're still in his office and he doesn't want others to find out how much of a slut you actually are; but he has no right to protest, since his fingers scissoring you open are pretty much the reason why you can't help but to let out lewd sounds.

Whenever one of the workers ask for permission to come in, he pushes you under the desk, gagging you with his already throbbing member as he keeps his voice normal and acts so smooth like you have literally zero effect on him. Sometimes you want to start sucking his dick while the worker is in his office to embarrass him, but you know you'll receive a hard punishment afterwards that's not worth all the trouble.

He whispers degrading comments into your ear, delighted by how you shiver when his lips make contact with your ear. His right hand grips one of your boobs while the other one fastens its speed, provoking you to moan louder.

He bites your shoulder when you finally reach your climax, tightening his grip around you so you don't fall from his lap. He then picks you up with no effort, places you on his desk while throwing all his belongings on the ground, ready to fuck your brains out.

↳Atsumu Miya

Atsumu loves it when you wear things he's bought for you. At the restaurant, he smiles when he glances from the menu to your black high heels, admiring how it has hugged your feet perfectly. When he gives his orders to the waiter and looks down the table, he's met with the high heels alone, without your feet in them. He's confusion doesn't last for long though, because he suddenly feels something poking his crotch, and when he looks down, he's met with your painted toe nails grinding on his clothed cock.

You somehow find your way to the storage room, in such hurry that you don't even bother to lock the door. He slams you against the wall and kneels in front of you, peppering your skin with light, but hungry kisses. He starts from your ankles and comes up, fingers holding your legs tightly. A small groan escapes his lips when he finally has a taste of your wet pussy, and starts taking his frustration out on your poor little cunt. He doesn't listen when you tell him to slow down or you might not be able to hold your voice back, simply telling you that you asked for it and now you gotta face the music. He doesn't even care that his pants might be ruined when kneeling like this, because nothing matters to him, as long as he can have his way with you.

You end up sticking to the wall as he pounds into you, moaning at how your walls swallow him whole. You're so fucking tight and he doesn't even have to move, being inside you is enough to make him lose his mind. Although he's always been obsessed with how your voice gets louder when you release all over him, and he's willing to do whatever it takes to hear that pretty voice of yours, again.

Reblogs are appreciated!

of muffins and slip-ups

wc: 1.7k

pairing: osamu miya x gn!reader

warnings: none (osamu’s hypnotizing tiddies)

Standing on tiptoe, you reach up into your cabinet and feel around for the vial of vanilla extract you know you have somewhere, and when you finally find it, you pluck it from the shelf to inspect it. You peer between the recipe on your phone and the bottle, brows furrowing. You don’t have nearly enough. You really should’ve checked your cabinets before embarking on a late-night baking session. 

As you frustratedly stare at the half-finished batter on your counter, you weigh your options. You could make a quick run to the store, you reason. It’s not that far of a walk. But when your gaze flickers to the digital clock on the microwave — 8:45 PM — you realize you’d never make it in time, and you refuse to be the person that shows up to a store five minutes before it closes.

And you’ve already made it this far — the bowl is out, the measuring cups are dirty, the muffin tin is meticulously paper-lined. You sigh. It’d be a waste to throw everything out now, and you aren’t keen on leaving it in the fridge overnight. Left with no other options, you decide there’s only one thing left to do — ask a neighbor.

You’re new to the building, and not quite friends with anyone yet, so the thought of going door to door to beg for some vanilla isn’t exactly what you planned on doing with your Wednesday night, but hey, nobody’s perfect. You consider asking the girl next door, the one who’d invited you over on your first weekend in the building. She was nice enough, but before you slip your feet into a pair of slippers, you remember that she stays with her boyfriend during the week.

You could ask that guy down the hall, but he’d ogled at you on the elevator last weekend, and the thought of knocking on his door and subjecting yourself to more of his looks made a hint of nausea settle in your stomach.

You stand, idle in front of your door, slippers and pajamas on and groan. The guy across the hall — Miya Osamu. You’ve bumped into him virtually everywhere since you moved in. The mail room, the laundry room, in the lobby and the hallway. And every time he’d fix you with this handsome, toothy grin, making casual small talk when he could. You’ve even seen him help the elderly woman downstairs with her groceries. He seems disarmingly perfect, so surely he wouldn’t slam the door in your face at your request. At least, you hope not.

Keep reading

“ma, i’ve got to-“ osamu stops in his tracks, hand on his heart in his childhood kitchen. “how’d ya get in here?”

your expression is blank as you bite into a cookie made fresh a couple hours back, when you first got here.

“the front door.”

“did ya run ma some money? yer practically moved in at this point,” he pulls himself up onto the counter. “where is she, anyway?”

you giggle. he raises an eyebrow, chewing slowly. it’s always something with the two of ya, as he always says.

“she ran to the market. we’re making dinner.”

“we? as in-“

“all three of us. she knew you would stop by.”

osamu grins. he knows how this goes. his mom runs to the store, gets the ingredients, and he makes dinner for the three of you while you gossip with his mom about who knows what.

standard friday night in the miya household.

he’s okay with it, too. osamu just wishes that instead of his best friend, his girlfriend was letting herself into his ma’s house, eating his food, and stealing kisses. but for now, he’ll settle for stolen looks across the table while the three of you eat.

“when they get jealous” | hq

𓂃𓂃𓂃𓊝 ࿐𓂃𓂃𓂃

content: haikyuu boys x reader, when they get jealous over someone else

warnings: disgustingly cute, kenma x reader + tsukishima x reader are established relationships, fem!reader, osamu x reader (y/n is perceived as shorter than osamu)

characters: kenma, tsukishima, osamu

a/n: more! bc these also have been stuck in my head... (not proofread sorry!)

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Kozume Kenma

'he would get distracted to the point of jeopardizing a game'

It was a weekend afternoon, and Kenma had carved out some precious time to play solos in the gaming room. His specialty was first-person shooter games, and he stayed absolutely silent to focus; a pin drop could be heard from how quiet it was. Only the sounds of his game controller clicking resonated softly in the soundproof room.

You two shared the room, with back-to-back monitors and a personalized setup on each side. Occasionally, you would enter and play a game or two, leaving when you knew he had a stream scheduled.

Today was one of those quiet days, with Kenma fully immersed in his game. His noise-canceling headphones ensured nothing but the game’s audio reached his ears.

You entered the room, aware of his headphones, and left rabbit-cut apple slices next to his keyboard. The colors from his monitor illuminated the slices, casting a soft glow on them as his slender fingers worked like a well-oiled machine.

As you moved, your figure momentarily blocked his sight, and he glimpsed you holding a phone to your ear, a smile plastered on your face as you talked. Kenma's eyes lingered on you for a few seconds before his monitor demanded his attention again. Usually, you would make some sort of light contact to remind him you were there, a gentle touch or a pat on the shoulder.

But this time, you didn’t.

Instead, you turned to your side and plopped down on the plush chair, fully engrossed in your conversation. Kenma wasn't overly nosy, but he couldn’t help but peek out from the side of his monitor to observe you.

‘Who has your attention?’ he wondered.

Knowing he couldn't keep glancing your way without compromising his game, Kenma adjusted his headphones so that only one side covered his ear, leaving the other exposed to the outside world.

Kenma's focus split in half; he tried to concentrate on his game, yet every time he heard your wholehearted laugh, his eyes darted to you instantly. Your joy was infectious, and it pulled at his curiosity with an unfamiliar force.

“Tomorrow? Yeah, that sounds great!” Your voice rang out, clear and cheerful. Kenma's brows furrowed as he strained to make out more of your conversation. His concentration slowly dissipated, the multiple noises becoming a chaotic blend in his mind.

“I can’t wait to see you!” Your exclamation, followed by another giggle, broke his focus entirely. He turned his head fully for just two seconds, enough time for his character on screen to be targeted and shot.

The screen flashed red with ‘GAME OVER’ in bold letters.

Kenma's eyes did a double take as the realization hit—he had gotten distracted a bit too long.

He never lost a game—ever.

He yanked the headphones off, letting them hang around his neck as he leaned back in his chair. A long sigh heaved out, his worn-out hands finding their way behind his head as his legs spread apart for a more comfortable position.

“Okay, I’ll talk to you later, bro. Tell Mom I can’t wait to see you guys!” Now free from his game’s immersive audio, Kenma heard you loud and clear. His eyes squeezed shut, feeling a twinge of annoyance at himself for getting so distracted.

That really cost him a game—yet he couldn't help but feel his heart rate slow down after realizing you were just talking to your brother.

Lost in his thoughts, Kenma didn’t hear you approach until he felt the soft, slightly wet touch of your lips pecking his. His eyes slowly fluttered open to find you staring down at him with a confused look.

“You lost, Kozu?” Your eyes now drifted to his monitor.

He could only softly scoff at himself, a mix of embarrassment and amusement in his tone. “Yeah, I guess I did.” His lips pursed together, noting the twinge of sweetness they tasted.

He would never tell you the real reason, though.

𓇼𓆉𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆉𓇼

Kei Tsukishima

'his smile looks indifferent, yet his eyes shot daggers'

The sound of someone’s cough echoed through the museum as you and Tsukishima passed through another grand exhibit. The exhibits grew slightly crowded at times, prompting you to lightly grasp the edge of his coat, careful not to fully grab him. His strides were slightly faster than yours granted his slight eagerness. Tsukishima turned his head, peering down at your hand clutching his clothes.

“Is this your way of trying to keep up?” His light eyebrows raised slightly in amusement before he reached back, taking hold of your hand to guide you instead.

“Excuse me!” a slightly loud voice echoed in the room, causing you to close your mouth before you could respond. You turned to face the source of the shout, only to find a young man staring right at you.

Tsukishima halted with you, turning his head around with a hint of annoyance at whoever was shouting.

“Do people not know when to lower their voices?” he muttered, his voice laced with irritation. As he was about to finish his sentence, he noticed the man making his way toward you specifically. Tsukishima didn’t miss the way the man’s eyes were solely focused on you.

Turning his attention to you, Tsukishima also noticed how your squinting eyes suddenly morphed into one of pure surprise.

“Y/N? Is that really you!?” the man exclaimed, his voice filled with excitement.

As the man launched into an animated recount of his recent adventures, Tsukishima stood by, feeling a pang of irritation.

Soon enough, a few others caught up to your classmate. Tsukishima couldn't miss the way it took them a few seconds to avert their eyes or the eager way they held out their hands to shake yours.

He couldn’t help but roll his eyes, ‘How shameless.’

“This is my—” you began to introduce Tsukki, but he beat you to it, turning fully to face the group. “I’m the boyfriend.” His smile was anything but genuine.

His tone might have been friendly, but you could tell Tsukki was irritated.

Quickly realizing he might be upset about the abrupt interruption of your date, you hastily said your goodbyes to your old high school friend.

“Aw, c’mon Y/N, how about a reunion selfie before we let you go?” your old classmate nudged, pointing at the phone he was holding.

You awkwardly laughed, trying to think of a way to politely decline. But before you could say no, you felt a gentle but firm pressure on the small of your back, guiding you forward. You turned to see Tsukishima's long fingers splayed out against your back, his touch insistent. The action caused you to straighten up in response, feeling the solid reassurance of his hand.

You quickly took the selfie with your old classmate, offering a polite smile for the camera. Before you could say another brief goodbye, you noticed the three guys in the back all staring in your direction, only to quickly avert their gaze to some random object in the building.

Curious about what had caught their attention, you turned your head to follow their line of sight. Your heart began to race as you saw the reason for their sudden shift in focus.

Tsukishima, now several meters away, was turned slightly to the side, but his eyes were locked onto the guy next to you. His usual could-care-less demeanor was replaced with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. Tsukishima's glare was menacing as if silently placing a bounty on his head. His hands were comfortably placed in his pockets; his black glasses failed to mask the daggers he shot their way.

There was no mistaking it—he was jealous, and not just mildly so.

You quickly excused yourself, murmuring a final goodbye to your old classmate. You made your way over to Tsukishima, your steps quickening with each passing second.

As you reached him, you hesitated for a moment before gently placing a hand on his arm. His eyes flicked to yours, then quickly shifted away, focusing on anything but you.

“Tsukki,” you said softly, “Sorry that took so long.”

“Whatever,” he muttered, his tone begrudgingly agreeing.

“Were their stares bothering you?” you asked, trying to keep your tone light.

Tsukishima’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“They were just...annoying,” he said, his voice clipped. “Like, read the room.”

A mischievous smirk played on your face as you interlocked your hand with his. “Is that why you were death-staring them like they were your sworn enemies?”

“Obviously. Anyone would with how noisy they were,” he replied, trying to sound indifferent.

He would never admit to it, but you could read him all too well.

𓇼𓆉𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆉𓇼

Miya Osamu

'wouldn't care if a purchase or two gets put on the line'

One day, Atsumu, his doting twin brother, waltzes into the semi-busy shop with open arms.

“Take a whiff, boys—the infamous Miya blood mixes with success,” he says smugly.

Osamu doesn't even welcome them once he sees who it is—he simply deadpans and shoves the curtains to go in the back.

With a bright smile that reaches your eyes, you quickly greet the customers. The two unfamiliar gentlemen behind Atsumu had a muscular and tall build—likely hungry athletes in need of rewarding food.

‘Time to sell the whole shop,’ you think with determination.

Although you weren’t an official employee at Onigiri Miya, you wanted to help Osamu as much as you could. That included selling his delicious food to hungry customers.

You devise a quick game plan and target the first tall guy, hastily approaching him. His eyebrows are furrowed slightly as he examines the menu, trying to decide what to eat.

“Hi there! If you’re looking for something delicious, you can’t go wrong with our classic tuna mayo onigiri,” you suggest cheerfully, your enthusiasm catching his attention.

The tall guy’s face lights up at your recommendation. “That sounds perfect, thanks!” he says, his serious expression softening.

Just as you’re about to show him another flavor, Osamu suddenly walks directly between you and the customer, almost bumping into you. “You should try the natto,” he says, grabbing a natto onigiri from the display, his tone a bit sharper than usual.

The customer looks a bit taken aback, clearly put off by the sudden change. “Uh, I’m not sure about natto…” he says hesitantly.

You frown slightly, trying to salvage the situation. “Well, we have plenty of other options too—how about the umeboshi?” you suggest, stepping around Osamu to point at another onigiri.

Osamu, however, doesn’t move, effectively blocking your view. “Natto’s a specialty here. You should give it a shot,” he insists, practically shoving the onigiri into the customer’s hand, his eyes darting briefly to you and then back to the customer.

The customer looks uncomfortable, but Atsumu, ever the opportunist, steps in with a grin. “Look at ya, ‘Samu. Can’t stand to see Y/N sellin’ your onigiri to my pal, huh?” he teases, clearly enjoying the situation.

Osamu’s scowl deepens as he grabs an onigiri from the counter. “Shut up, ‘Tsumu,” he mutters before stuffing the onigiri into his brother’s mouth, effectively muffling his cackle.

Atsumu’s eyes widen in surprise, slightly coughing from practically choking on a rice ball.

Trying to pretend the twins weren’t going at it, mouthing silent threats to each other on each side of you two, you try to make a pitch once again.

“I hope you try out all, but it’s up to you!” you quickly put all three into the man’s hands and in doing so, your hand encloses them and gives it a slight pat.

The shuffling stops as you feel two holes being burned into the back of your head.

You could hear a soft chuckle as Osamu's large hands suddenly and slightly encircled your neck from behind. His weight leaned lightly against you as he crouched down a bit to join the conversation.

"Y/N's putting in quite the effort to sell you these, man. I'd say take them and enjoy," he remarked, his face close enough to yours that you could almost feel his breath against your ear.

With a subtle maneuver, you sidestep out of his grasp and guide the customer towards the register; the mess the very owner put you through just to sell these damn onigiris. You mentally roll your eyes as Atsumu continues to tease Osamu in the background.

As soon as the trio of athletes bid the shop goodbye, the door chiming softly behind them, your attention soon fell on Osamu.

You could feel a slight tension in the atmosphere, the remnants of the earlier exchange still hanging in the air. Osamu stood behind the counter, his back turned to you as he methodically rearranged the onigiri displays. His movements were precise, almost mechanical as if he were trying to distract himself from the task at hand.

"Why the face, Y/N?" Osamu feigned confusion as he went around the stalls to continue his organizing.

You stood by the register with your arms crossed, eyebrows raised in amused disbelief. "Oh, really," you began, "I mean, I get Atsumu—you guys always go at it—but that guy was just like any other customer, 'Samu."

Osamu paused in his task, his expression shifting into a thoughtful gaze as if pondering something. His fingers tapped absentmindedly on the counter before he finally met your gaze. "Yeah, but there's always something more to it," he said cryptically, a faint smile playing on his lips.

You tilted your head, intrigued by his response. "More to what?"

He chuckled softly, a glint of something indescribable in his eyes. "More to everything," he replied enigmatically, leaving you with a curious smile as he continued to work around the shop. His words lingered in the air.

𓇼𓆉𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆉𓇼

want more?

⤷ masterlist.

Oh, how I love this mannn!!

“my back hurts,” osamu bends back, wincing with his eyes closed. it’s a saturday, post dinner rush, and he’s taking a break outside.

“maybe if you wore better shoes, you wouldn’t be bothered so much.”

your voice sounds distant through the phone speakers. his black high-tops kicks a pebble out of the way. very broken in, stained, and even a little ripped. he takes his hat off to rub his head before responding.

“but they match and look nice,”

“you can find nice, matching shoes with some support.”

osamu snorts. “those always look ugly,”

you laugh on the other line, and he grins. you groan, and hold the phone up closer to your lips.

“you’re a dork. we can look online later tonight, okay?”

“fine,” he sighs. he can hear the employees in the shop speaking louder, and he takes that as his queue to go back inside. “ya on yer way? yer favorite is the special tonight,”

he can feel you smile. “it’s the special every night. and yes, i’m only a couple blocks away.”

he pushes the back door open, holding the phone between his shoulder and ear as he puts his apron on again. he finishes the call and heads straight to the seating area to set your table up with the plastic reserved sign. like he does every saturday night.

he might even join you this time. just to rest his back, like he does every saturday.

— HQ BOYS + TAKING CARE OF THEM

feat. iwaizumi hajime, kuroo tetsurō, suna rintarō, miya atsumu, miya osamu, matsukawa issei

note. let me be ur housewife. also don't say anything abt how long osamu's is.... i like him.

IWAIZUMI lets you join him in the shower on nights when he comes home late, when his breath smells a bit like scotch and his smile is lopsided in a way that you both know means midnight. he's all hushed drunken laughter, soap cascading down rippling shoulders as he leans down to press a sweet kiss to your collarbone. he'll whisper that you don't have to do this, the soft mumbling of go to bed crossing his tongue. and yet, you never do. instead, you lean up, shampoo in your hands, and let him hum as your fingers tangle in his hair.

KUROO lets you tie his tie. it's in the mornings, kisses drawn from the rising sun and touches soft enough to meld with the linens that once draped your bodies. he'll stand in front of you, suit, grin, and all, even when you're still dressed in the hanging fabric of your nightgown and your hair is still a tangled mess around your shoulders and face. but, no matter, because you'll reach up, delicate fingers around strong silk, and tie it just for him. and when you do, he'll cup your jaw in his hand just so he can kiss you one more time.

SUNA would never dare ask, but when you find him laying on the couch, face resting down on his arms and shirt riding up just enough so you can see his back, you can't help but let you nails follow the length of his spine. he shifts as though to lean into your touch, closing his eyes and breathing in a breath that almost feels like divinity. and if you stop, should you dare, he guides your hand back to him, ignoring the laughter that bubbles up past your lips and closing his eyes in sweet solace.

ATSUMU lets you dye his hair. or bleach it, rather, and then tone it when he finally lets you convince him. oh and how he's awful, moving and laughing and dodging out of the way of the cold dye even when it's dripping off of your gloved hands. he'll meet your gaze in the mirror, lopsided smirk carved into his cheeks, before putting his hands up in surrender. then, and only then, will he sit still, letting your hands comb through his hair with that stupid grin still on his face.

OSAMU finds you writing down notes for him. if he's cooking, he might change a recipe, speaking aloud as he adds a different spice or substitutes an ingredient, and each time, you'll write it down, scrawling handwriting with a little comment of whether he liked the change or not. other times, he'll come home to notes around the house—little reminders of why you're gone or what you need him to do before you get home. but his most favorite ones, and the ones he keeps locked away in drawers or hidden beneath clothes and old jewelry boxes, are the benign ones. little i loves you's scratched on napkins, drawings left on old gum wrappers from high school, sticky notes covered in old games you used to play to pass the time. he holds them like they're something to keep, an extension of you in the best way possible.

MATSUKAWA comes home to his laundry folded, or half-folded, at least, the rest of it still in the hamper or your hands. he'll roll his eyes, hands already at your waist and fingers dashing along your hips until laughter floats from your chest and into the air. when he tries to help you, you'll swat at his hand, your narrowed eyes drawing out a grin onto his face. so instead, he'll sit, tell you about his day and ramble about the things he misses (your voice, mostly, or your hair, or the scrunch of your nose), and each one will be met with the teasing lilt of tone that he's come to only associate with you.

— HQ BOYS + SUBTLE AFFECTION

feat. iwaizumi hajime, kuroo tetsurō, bokuto kōtarō, miya atsumu, miya osamu, sakusa kiyoomi, matsukawa issei, sawamura daichi

note. hi <3 idk how i feel abt these but here they are <33 love u all <33

IWAIZUMI loves you through touches that can almost feel forbidden. in the dim lights of a bar, mattsun’s voice floating through the air and makki’s laughter quick to follow it, iwaizumi’s hands trace up your spine. his thumbs dip beneath the hem of your shirt, just to feel a bit of your skin. no one else could see it, no one else would dare look close enough, but he’s letting his fingers slide over your skin like you’re made of silken waters and his hands are only meant to know the tide. it’s secret, only for you, and only from him.

KUROO loves you through the bow of your head, the gentle, silent knowledge that when he places a hand on your cheek in just the right way, he’s going to kiss the crown of your head. big hands on sweet, warm cheeks, the chill of the outdoors leaking from his flesh into yours. it’s the way you both just know, the way your eyes flutter shut and the way he smiles into your hair. it’s the routine, and the sweet wisdom that comes with it.

BOKUTO loves you through the hum of old songs. your first date, your first kiss, that one night where you both dissolved into laughter before you could even try to slow dance in the kitchen. he has every song committed to memory, letting the notes slip out in mindless harmony with whatever you’re both doing. and slowly, the humming may turn to a muttering of the lyrics, but it’s quiet in a way that bokuto isn’t, shy in a way you wouldn’t expect from him.

ATSUMU loves you through bitten-back smiles and the sound of half-snorted laughter. it’s the way he holds back the prick of his lips when you flick his forehead and tell him please, babe, just think for once. it’s in the way he pulls you back into him when you roll your eyes at his antics, the bite of his cheek to hide the smile that pokes into it. it’s lilted affection, laughter and teasing and feigned offense at rolled eyes—all in the name of kissing you for just a moment longer.

OSAMU loves you through the warmth of a stove. he knows what you like without even asking. so it’s the spiced sauté of vegetables, the kind you love and spread warmth through your torso on especially cold nights—the kind of spices that creep from your tongue and into your nose, just the right amount of heat, all because he knows it’s you. and when you hum, the melt of flavor on your tongue, he smiles, a teasing good to know you like it following the prick of his lips.

SAKUSA loves you through whispers. he’ll dip his head to your ear as he passes, a quiet stretch of adoration slipping over his tongue and working past your ears. at whatever formal function may beckon you, he’ll meet you with a duck of his head, bending down until you hear the way a soft chuckle rumbles through his chest and rings in the air—the mention of your name and suggestion of let’s get out of here falling past his lips.

MATSUKAWA loves you through how he listens. it’s the tilt of his head, his tongue poking out to pull his lip between his teeth, the narrowing of his eyes until you lean forward, swatting his chest with the back of your hand. it’s then that he laughs, the crinkle in the corners of his eyes following the curve of his lips, and he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together, and listens. and god, he swears he could do just that for hours.

DAICHI loves you through the tuck of your hair behind your ear. he’s delicate with it, a soft twirl of the strands between his fingers, and then he’s brushing it out your face—knuckles gliding across the apples of your cheeks, the vibrato of hushed whispers or ardor starting in his chest and fanning across your lips.

osamu doesn’t remember the last time he’d slept a full, undisturbed eight hours. between two restless toddlers and early morning prep at the restaurant, he often found himself awake before his alarm, and tonight isn’t any different.

he isn’t sure what time it is when he feels a hand patting at his cheek. the room is still dark when he manages to peel one eye open, and sure enough, he finds the culprit leaning on the edge of the bed, blinking at him in the darkness.

he mumbles his daughter’s name sleepily, curling an arm around her to ensure she doesn’t fall as she clambers up onto the bed. osamu scoots back, mindful of your sleeping figure as he makes room for one more. it’s definitely not the first time he’s woken in the middle of the night to find her or her sister squeezing into bed with you both, so he thinks the purchase of a brand new big kid beds for the two might have been a little premature.

“what’s wrong, baby?” he asks, reaching up to push her messy bangs out of her eyes. “did you have a nightmare?”

she just shakes her head, leaning in so her nose nudges his. “‘m hungry.”

osamu, eyes already drooping, just hums. no nightmare, no monsters hiding under her bed that he needs to scare away.

“daddy,” she pleads, gripping his shirt sleeve. “wanna snack, please.”

“okay,” he sighs, knowing that there was no way he’d win against a hungry three year old in the middle of the night. “in a minute. just cuddle with me for a bit first.”

she doesn’t hesitate, crawling under the covers to snuggle into his chest.

“what do you want to eat?” he asks, tucking her head under his chin. “want me to cut you some mango? some cheese and crackers?”

“yes, please!”

not really an answer, but he’s a little too tired to ask her to clarify at the moment. “shh, baby. you don’t want to wake your mom.”

they stay like that for a while, his daughter humming the theme song of her favourite show and picking at the hem of the duvet as he gets one last wink of rest. he’s gotta be up in a few hours. he’s gotta go on a jog with his brother and be back in time to help with breakfast before heading to the restaurant. he’s gotta–

“snack now?” his baby asks, beaming up at him hopefully with eyes he can’t possibly say no to.

“alright, c’mon,” he sighs, pushing himself up and scooping her into his arms. he pokes her tummy, grinning when she giggles. “let’s go downstairs and put some cheese and crackers in there.”

osamu flicks the lights on when they make it to the kitchen to pull the fridge open, father and daughter squinting through the refrigerator light. he grabs a block of cheese and places it in her waiting hands before setting her on the floor.

“go grab your stool, baby,” he murmurs, chuckling as she gets up on her tiptoes to place the cheese atop the counter. while she drags her little wooden step-stool up to the counter, osamu gets to work cutting a few slices, nodding along and agreeing to the nonsense his daughter babbled as he worked.

“what are you two doing down here?” he hears you ask, looking over his shoulder to see you, your other daughter propped up on your hip and rubbing sleepily at her eyes.

“someone wanted a midnight snack,” he answers, opening up the cabinet to grab a second plate. you set the other twin down so she can grab her own stool. then you lightly nudge his hip with yours, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before reaching around him to steal a piece of cheese off the cutting board, heading over to the pantry to unearth a box of crackers.

“these girls have your appetite, samu,” you tease, setting a few triscuits on their plates. “remember back in our first apartment?”

he remembers it quite fondly, actually. sitting side by side on the kitchen floor at three in the morning, sharing anything from a tub of ice cream or leftover onigiri from dinner. it's years later and he's still doing the same thing, awake in the middle of night sharing cheese and crackers with you and his daughters.

it’s been a while since osamu’s had a full night’s sleep, but he really doesn’t mind.

hi ugly fart happy 300 or wtvr

can u do osatlas plzz but we r a smau and it’s just random texts through the day and we r in love also lyntsumu mention there once plzz i lob u imagine me kissing the screen

HOW TO (LOVINGLY) BOTHER OSAMU osamu miya

aka. texts you have with your bf osamu miya

for my 300 followers event!

NO LYNTSUMU MENTION THIS TIME BUT COOKING W OSAMU FIC JUST FOR U SOON!!!! LIVE LAUGH LOVE ATLAS

instead of osatlas smau for ur 300 what abt i’m cooking witf samu but he doesn’t let mw do shit u pick tho idc 😻😻

MADE WITH LOVE osamu miya

cooking oyakodon with osamu because he loves you <3

written for my 300 followers event!

“I feel like a horny old man watching a stripper right now,” you dreamily sigh as you watch Osamu chop an onion with precise yet swift motions. In less than a minute, the chopped onion was placed into a pan and replaced with a handful of fresh herbs that Kita—his senior and high school volleyball captain—had sent him earlier that day. Beside the chopping board, were bowls of eggs and sauces all prepared for a meal of oyakodon.

“I really wanted to have a special moment cooking for you but you had to make it weird,” your boyfriend complained. You both knew he never found any of your commentary annoying, insulting you was his love language and you relished in the faux criticisms because only someone he felt truly comfortable with would receive such jabs. “I don’t trust you with anything in this kitchen but you can help beat the eggs I already cracked. I know you’ve cracked eggs before but I have a gut feeling you would somehow manage to explode the thing in front of me.”

“Why do you have zero trust in me?” you whined, grabbing a pair of long, wooden chopsticks to beat the small bowl of eggs. In the meantime, Osamu mixed dashi, soy sauce, mirin, and sugar, drizzling the sauces onto the onions in the pan. The two of you basked in the savory aroma, already feeling your stomach rumble for the hearty meal. You push the bowl of beaten eggs toward Osamu, grinning in pride at your work. “The eggs are done! Rate my work, chef.”

“Not bad, chef,” he mused before ruffling your hair and giving you a kiss on the forehead. “That’s all you need to do. Now sit back and wait for the meal to come out.”

With a heart full of warmth, you lie your head on the kitchen island as your boyfriend turns the stove on and stirs the simmering onions. Sizzling sounded through the spacious kitchen when chicken and eggs hit the pan, a cloud of steam rising from the stove, sending the mouth watering scent of oyakodon to you.

“I can’t believe I’m getting the full Onigiri Miya experience at home with the owner as my private chef, all for free too. I’m so spoiled,” you stupidly grin as Osamu laughs.

“Only the most special treatment for my dearest,” he responds. Turning his head toward you, a sparkle glimmers in his round, gray eyes. “It’s only the right thing to do for the person I love.”

guys i love atlas pls follow them they write the cutest stuff ever

  forty, love ᵕ̈       tennis au!miya twins x gn!reader ˎˊ˗

⋮⋮ ˒ ₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎ 𖥻 ⿻ : the three of you always  ⋮⋮  end up finding yourselves on the ⋮⋮  court , time and time again

📋 content     ♡ # 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧 🐮 ( for now )     ♡ # 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 🥛     ♡ # 2.2𝘬 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴     ♡ # 𝙘𝙬 𝙨𝙥𝙤𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴     𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵     𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘢 𝘰𝘯𝘦-𝘵𝘰-𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘺

🧺 extensions  ⋮⋮  series masterlist  ⋮⋮  next  ⋮⋮

🎶 on shuffle " the signal " - trent reznor & atticus ross ( challengers movie soundtrack )

🧸 directory  ‹ ✩  like what you read ? check out more of my blog !  •ᴗ•

💬 kuroppiii ─ “ hey chat i caved and i'm making this multiple parts 😔☝️ a special gift for the one and only ree 😚 inspired by challengers aka my fav movie ever ( besides greta gerwig's little women , or cmbyn , or emma 2020 , or –– ) ”

in tennis, it's about winning the points that matter.

you can barely sit still. the heat of the sun, blaring down onto the court and onto the spectators in the stands of this match, didn't matter to you at all, though. you were used to this: the summer sun, desperation in the air, and your eye trained on the ball, zooming in a neon green blur from left, to right, from left, to right–

on your left, is the man you swore your life to. on your right is the man you loved.

you must admit, maybe it was bad, getting involved with a pair of twins for the better half of about two decades now. but if you had to defend yourself, they were like no one else you've ever met on the court.

and at this moment, it all comes back to you. all those years ago, when the miya twins first stepped onto court with their duffels.

،   の   ✧   後    🌱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻 ...

you were 18 then. nine years earlier, you watched as little dots darkened the blue hardcourt underneath you, bent over and supporting yourself with your arms on your knees. you felt the drops of your sweat glide down from your hairline and your temples to your chin and the tip of your nose, finally hitting the plane of blue beneath your sneakers. the racket in your hands was starting to dig into your palm. the summer sun relentlessly prodded at the exposed skin of your shoulders as they heaved up and down as you tried to catch your breath.

24 hours from that moment, you would be in a make-or-break tournament final for your tennis career. if you secured a that win in that ongoing tournament at the time, you were guaranteed to be in the top seed in ranking for the next event you were attending later that summer–when by then, you were hoping, you'd have gone pro.

'it only goes up from there, y/n,' your coach had told you. and that was your dream, ever since you were a child.

your heart was pounding up into your ears, but you knew that was just your body's signal to keep going.

you heard a prolonged creak far off–the gate to the court. thinking it was your coach, the only other person with you at the moment, you glance up and go to straighten up your back before they could scold you for slacking.

but no. past your coach, two boys had entered the court that your coach had previously assured was supposed to be private, just you and her for the afternoon. it was hard to see in the bright sunlight, even with your visor on, but one had a head of dirty blonde hair, and–as the pounding in your head died down–your ears caught on to how he was actually speaking pretty loudly as him and his companion approached. said companion had gray hair, saying very little and not nearly as loudly as his friend.

'gray hair? an old guy? maybe that's the other's coach,' brows knit together, you thought.

but as you squinted to see better against the daylight, you noticed how young–and how good-looking, actually–that "coach" was.

and... wait. same with the blonde guy.

in fact, they were alike in their good looks.

a bit too alike.

'am i seeing double?' you adjusted the wires on your racket while your eyes were trained on the two as they continued their carefree stroll in, slugging their matching black duffels with a certain fox-looking logo on them.

"y/n! what's the hold up? you alright?" your coach shouts out from the opposite side of the net.

just as you were about to say you think you need a drink of water–to hopefully prevent you from hallucinating and seeing more things in twos–the strangers became startled at the sound of your coach and their heads darted in your direction.

the gray-haired one's face seemed unfazed, but you watched as his eyes confusedly dart back and forth between you and your coach. the blonde, visibly surprised with brows raised high, quickly whips his arm around, the shiny watch on his wrist reflecting a brief glare as he flicks it to check the time.

"oh! oh, we're sorry!" he calls out with a chuckle. he grabs a hold of his partner's arm and starts redirecting their path towards the stands, "our reservation for this court isn't for another hour! we can wait, don't mind us!"

they already started climbing up to a place to sit, their toned legs reflecting the sun above. 'wow, those shorts are short'

"hey! who told you that you can–"

"no," you interrupted your coach before she could scare them away from the court, "they can watch. it's only for a little while longer, anyway, yeah?"

with a huff, your coach complied with your reasoning, and your gaze lingered on the strangers for just a bit longer as they sat down, before you pulled a tennis ball out of your pocket and got ready to serve in front of your new audience.

،   そ   ✧   の後    🌱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻 ...

"alright! that's enough for today. let's get you back to the hotel so you can rest up before your big day tomorrow," your coach announced about an hour of rallies and drills later, clapping you on the back. dragging yourself over to the bench, you ravaged your bag for some water. racket, towel, snacks... shit. you didn't bring your water with you.

as soon as you started to curse yourself under your breath you heard the distant crackle of a plastic bottle filled with the very water you were deprived of. following the noise, you look up–seeing the strangers from earlier, still sitting in the stands. (you had forgotten they were even there, honestly.)

they sat there, still. mouths agape and each holding a water bottle in his hand. they kept that pose for a long moment, and you couldn't help but start to laugh lightly at them. that seemed to snap them out of their trance, though, and suddenly both of them were climbing over rows of chairs in front of them and scrambling to get over the partridge to where you were.

"w-wow that was amazing–"

"how did you manage to return the one that–"

"and this was just your practice? it's incredible how–"

"you're almost, like, faster than the ba–"

"thank you," you interrupted them with a chuckle. the speed at which two quickly shut up the moment you spoke was astonishing, and it was like they were waiting with bated breath for your next sentence, "are you two here for the tournament? you can watch out for me tomorrow if you're so impressed. no use seeing me when i'm not even against an actual opponent."

two water bottles were now outstretched in front of you. you glanced between the bottles and the to boys' faces, expectant and still laced with such awe. (had to admit, spiked your ego a little bit.)

you eventually took the bottle the gray-haired one was offering. your hands grazed slightly when you did, and in the corner of your eye you could see how he gazed down to where your two hands briefly met–

"and you can watch out for us tomorrow!" the blonde quickly interjected. he gave you a toothy grin as his hand holding the other bottle was quickly wrapped around the other's shoulders.

you cracked open the water bottle you picked and took a swig, humming as the refreshing rush of cold water slid down your throat. closing the cap of the bottle you ask, "both of you? you play doubles?"

"yeah we do!" the one grinning at you extended his empty hand this time, "the miya twins. miya atsumu."

the other quickly followed suit with his hand, "miya osamu."

'hm, twins. that explains it.'

amused, you gently shook each one's hand. you shoved the last of your belongings into your duffel and slung it over your shoulder. you gave them a nod, "i'll see you around, then."

"see ya!"

"we'll see you tomorrow."

as you walked away from the court, the gray-haired one's water bottle still in your hand, you took a mental note of highlight reels to look up as you took an ice bath in your hotel room that night.

،   そ   ✧   の後    🌱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻 ...

the next day arrived. at the venue, the crowds were buzzing and announcers sounded off on the p.a. systems, announcing the lineup for the day–including your match, the first of the day. the tournament final.

all the sounds of the tournament couldn't overcome the pounding in your head, however. you felt the adrenaline in your veins as you made your way to the locker room, duffel slung over your shoulder and sneakers squeaking against the pristine tiles.

you decided to throw your headphones on as you did your warm-ups. despite how prepared you felt for this moment–the one you've been fantasizing about for years–you still couldn't help but feel the subtle tingle of nervousness in your bones.

eventually, it was time to face the crowd, the court, and your opponent. but the moment you stepped out into the sunlight, you were suddenly overcome with a laser-sharp focus.

this was the moment. this was your time to take what you always wanted.

the coin was tossed and your opponent got to serve first. you ready yourself on your side of the court, spinning your racket in anticipation. you observe your opponent, and for a moment you both lock eyes. in that split second it was like a cord snapped and stretched out between you two, connecting the both of you and suddenly putting you both in sync–like you two were the only ones in the stadium.

the very idea of nervousness was foreign to your mind in that moment. your racket melded with your hand and became an extension of you. your feet were just itching to follow that damn tennis ball.

eyes on the ball... eyes on the ball...

in a flash, the neon sphere gets lifted up into the air, and you smile to yourself as you already feel your feet taking you where you need to be on the court before the sound of your opponent's racket crashing with the ball could reverberate around the stands.

an impact on the hardcourt. corner.

you swing your racket and send the ball flying over the net and back to your opponent.

it's in, but your opponent is right there. another hit. to the right.

you feel the air rush past you as you stride over and return the ball to hit the corner farthest from your opponent. just where you wanted it.

hit. middle. hit. center. hit. corner. hit–

the crowd erupts in cheers and applause. the ball had gone flying past the other player across the net and you hear the umpire announce your first point of the match.

win.

،   そ   ✧   の後    🌱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻 ...

third set.

you had won the first one 6 to 3.

you lost the second set 5 to 7 after a long rally with your opponent but you shook it off. you could come back for the final set.

this set has gone on for what seems like forever. this tie break has gone on for what seems like forever. you've already won 7 points, yet your opponent's score has remained hot on your tail.

until now.

"match point," the umpire announces, and the stands fall silent.

you needed to finish this off.

it only takes one point now. one ace can end this match off once and for all.

it's your turn to serve, and you bounce the ball against the hardcourt as you let the thumping in your head die down. it was your signal to keep going, to make that last final push.

you take a deep breath before serving. you think of what it will feel like to lift that trophy.

you gracefully toss the ball in the air, but as your eye follows it as it briefly eclipses the blaring sun above the stadium, you swear you can catch a slight glimpse of two heads of hair in the crowd.

one blonde and one gray, same agape look on their faces from the day before.

it was like they were seeing god.

but no, it was just you...

so same thing.

the sound of your racket and the ball colliding mid-air rips through the silence of the court at that same moment. a gust of air rushes back into the stadium as everyone lets out the breath they had been holding, and you hear the crowd cheer as you let yourself fall to the ground, letting the exhaustion from the match finally take over you because now it was over.

you win.

you feel your chest heave up and down as your arms land to cross over your sweaty, smiling face. you close your eyes, the summer sun trying as hard as ever to blind you through your eyelids, but all you could see behind them was that image of those twins.

you recall how shocked those two always seemed to be as they watched you play, and you couldn't help but start giggling to yourself.

🗒⋆ *. ୨୧⋆｡ taglist (2/30 at the time of publishing) : @zumicho , @liillyliilly (just send me an ask if you’re interested! xx)

  forty, love ᵕ̈       tennis au!miya twins x gn!reader       ( pt. two ) ˎˊ˗

⋮⋮ ˒ ₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎ 𖥻 ⿻ : what to do when two  ⋮⋮  fellow pro tennis players are ⋮⋮  interested in you ? you compare ⋮⋮  their stats , of course !

📋 content     ♡ # 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧 🐮     ♡ # 𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦❕     ♡ # 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 🥛     ♡ # ~4.1𝘬 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 ( wow )     ♡ # 𝙘𝙬 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 ( all characters are 18     or older during all events of the story !! ) ,     𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨

🧺 extensions  ⋮⋮  prev  ⋮⋮  series masterlist  ⋮⋮  next ( coming soon ! )  ⋮⋮

🎶 on shuffle " yeah x10 " - trent reznor & atticus ross ( challengers movie soundtrack )

🧸 directory  ‹ ✩  like what you read ? check out more of my blog !  •ᴗ•

💬 kuroppiii ─ “ i locked tf in for this one ... ( also thank you ree for helping with the smau stuff i ' ve never done myself prior to this lolll ) ”

atsumu and osamu are neck-and-neck in a tie break. the crowd around you grows frustrated in a twisted type of voyeurism as the two tennis players are almost equally matched in the masterful way they return the ball to each other.

it's still only the first set but it feels like you've been sitting there watching 100 tennis matches–and in a sense, you have been.

as the ball gets traded between the miya twins on each side of the net, the countless times you've seen the two passionately rally tennis balls with their rackets cycle through your mind. they overlay the sight in front of you, almost like a flip book–one that eventually lands on a page from a long-gone time.

a time when the twins used to play alongside each other on one side of the net.

،   の   ✧   後    🌱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻 …

after winning the match that made your young pro-athlete career those many years ago, you remember you took your new trophy with you to sit in on a certain mens doubles match a few hours later that same day.

there were a few hours to kill between when the cameras flashed in your face as you held your trophy and when you'd have to deal with it all over again that night for the winners' banquet. so, you decided to take up the two twin brothers' offer from the previous day to watch them in action.

slipping into a secluded corner of the stands, you were just barely able to catch the last few sets of their game since yours had overlapped slightly time-wise. but even in those few sets, you found yourself drawn to how the two ruled the court.

looking at the scoreboard, it seems like they breezed past the first set, had faltered and lost the second, but were definitely back on track to secure the third when you had arrived.

under the searing afternoon sun you noticed how atsumu always donned a certain smirk on his face before serving. this smile somehow shone brighter than the rays of light beating down on him and his sweat-drenched shirt.

and not too far from the blonde and closer to the net, osamu continuously provided ample support whenever atsumu's serves were returned, no matter how powerfully their opponents hit them back. he had a show-stopping habit of leaping into the air to reach the tennis balls whenever they were returned up high. volley after volley, osamu's usually bored expression would turn to one that was laser-focused on swatting at his neon green targets with his racket so the balls would quickly crash onto their opponents' side.

in this way, the twins weren't ones who waited for the ball to hit the court. they always had the ball in motion. it was like they were so in-tune on some deep and unspoken level, and you hadn't seen doubles partners play in any way like it.

'maybe it's because they're brothers,' you thought to yourself as you found yourself more invested watching a tennis match than you ever had before, 'maybe it's because they're twins, at that!'

either way, the miya twins secured that third set, and despite the annoyance of your manager as you were completely oblivious to their calls and texts telling you to start getting ready for the winners' banquet, you intently watched every moment and every point as they finished off their match by winning the fourth set.

you earnestly joined the audience in the stands as you applauded the two, watching them drop their rackets and excitedly embrace one another in a tight hug upon realizing the match was now over. they were winners.

the trophy gets brought out, and you get a great view of their faces lighting up in celebratory smiles, holding their shared trophy between them for the cameras.

the image of them both–hair sticking to their foreheads and dripping in sweat yet still grinning impossibly wide–as they clutch their new trophy and both kiss it at the same time, was one that would be burned into your memory for years.

but at the time, the moment passes as quickly as it came before they go to pack up their duffels on the sidelines. you take this as your queue to leave and finally catch up on the notifications from your manager. but just as you stand up from your seat, atsumu spots you in the crowd, and you see his jaw drop.

immediately and without risking to glance away from you, he aggressively swats at osamu's arm next to him to get the gray-haired one to look at where you stood, too. osamu reluctantly follows his brothers gaze, and you see the frustrated expression aimed at his brother quickly melt into one mixed with shock and admiration as he locks eyes with you.

(unable to fight the small smile that tugs at your lips upon seeing their ego-boosting reactions again) you nod at them in acknowledgment, give them a small wave, and go to pick up your trophy as you leave while they flash those winning smiles right back at you.

،   そ   ✧   の後    🌱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻 ...

the banquet a few hours later was held in a classy venue, with winding spotless marble staircases and chandeliers in every room. when your ride pulled up in front of the building, you stepped out onto the ostentatious red carpet that was laid out for all the tournament's victors to waltz down. you could hear the buzz of chatter and crystal glass clinking inside. the louder it grew, the more your hands gripped at the shiny handles of your award as you entered the hall.

a worker directed you to a table where all the winners were asked to place their trophies for a round of pictures that would take place before dinner started. just as you go to set yours down, two similar and familiar faces entered through the banquet hall doors.

the voice of the tournament employee started to sound more and more tuned-out as you watched them step into the hall. the miyas were clad in clean and simple dress pants and blazers. osamu's outfit was on the more, of course, grayer side than atsumu's (and defiinitely more of atsumu's dress shirt buttons were unbuttoned than that of his brother's).

osamu held in his hands the brothers' trophy from their match earlier that day, and a different worker suddenly approached them, kindly gesturing to the table you were standing right next to. they were probably asking osamu to place the trophy down on the table–something you were still yet to do.

you quickly look back at the worker talking to you, apologizing for "spacing out" before carefully positioning your prize in the spot where they needed it. you feel a presence come up next to you, and look up to make eye contact with the two twins.

"long time no see," atsumu teases as his brother sets down their trophy next to yours.

"nice trophy ya got there," osamu adds on. a light-hearted scoff escapes you before you attempt to congratulate them on their own win.

"thanks! congrats to you t–"

"l/n! i've been looking everywhere for you!" your manager suddenly appears and interrupts you, "there are some photographers who're asking for your picture. right this way, please..."

as your manager nudges you away from the award table, you glance back to give the two brothers an apologetic smile. they wave you off and soon you lose sight of them as the crowd in the room gets between you.

and that's how it went for the first half of the evening: looks here and there exchanged between you and the miyas, but always getting whisked away by the crowd to each take pictures with so-and-so or do another interview with whatever news outlet.

until finally, all the trophy bearers are called up to take one big picture together, and you find yourself standing next to the doubles partners once again. osamu is right next to you, and atsumu next to him. the moment after all the athletes have clobbered their big trophies in their grasp to hold up for the cameras, you start getting bombarded with flashing lights.

as you try to maintain your smile for the pictures, you catch in the corner of your eye osamu leaning closer to you, and he whispers, "ya looked great out there"–he pauses and smiles again at the flash of another camera–"and you're lookin' great now, too."

"lay off the gorgeous singles winner, would'ya 'samu? you're ruinin' our photos right now," atsumu smoothly joins in on your brief hushed conversation.

your smile begins to resemble a more genuine one at the interaction, and you're hoping the photos of you don't show the blush dusted on your cheeks once they get released to the press.

again, you don't get to talk to the twins much throughout the rest of the event. but during dinner hour–while them and their team are off somewhere else in the venue doing some p.r.–you successfully managed to slip a napkin with your number scribbled on it into the cup of their trophy as you pass by.

that night at your hotel, two new numbers popped up on your phone.

،   そ   ✧   の後    🌱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻 ...

the sound of tennis balls making contact with hardcourt echo through the darkness of night.

a few weeks later you're practicing late-night at a hotel court for your first grand slam appearance. for you recently, it's been nothing but nonstop training and drills. you were aiming for the final. sure, you could tell yourself to make it to at least quarter-finals, or even be satisfied at seeing yourself at semi-finals.

but no, your mind was set on the final. hell, your mindset was to win overall.

you got ready to practice your serve for another time, following the neon green ball as it went from the palm of your hand, to spinning in mid-air, to crashing against the wires of your racket–

your phone emits a small beam of light from where it laid on the bench in your peripheral vision. you wondered for a split second who could be texting you at this hour.

watching as your serve hit the exact corner you were aiming for, you decided you could give yourself a short break to check.

you reach into your duffel and fish out your towel, and you pat your neck and arms dry as you unlock your phone to open up the sudden set of notifications accruing on your homescreen,

it was the miyas.

ever since they added your number from the winners' banquet napkin, the three of you have had a shared groupchat you used to stay in touch. you had discovered pretty early on that the twins were very different, even if it's in how they text.

recently, however, on account of your intense grand slam preparations, you haven't been very active in it. but out of nowhere, here the two brothers are blowing up the chat. as you caught up on the messages, you pick up on an interesting amount of typos–more than usual...

at the mention of bottles, you immediately caught on. a small laugh escapes you as you type back to voice your suspicion, and atsumu almost instantly replies back to confirm it–that they've had a few drinks tonight.

you shake your head at the bench. it was almost midnight. and they want to see you this bad?

you debate for a moment how much you really wanted to see them again.

they were definitely staying at some different hotel than yours, as they were going to be at the upcoming tournament as well to compete in their usual doubles bracket. you had no idea where or how far their hotel might've been, though. how would they even get to your hotel from theirs anyway? how long would you have to wait for them out in the dark? you could probably fit some more drills in that time instead.

after thinking about it for another minute or two, you sigh and look up at the moon in the dark sky, too exhausted from the hours you've already spent on the hard court to really think of an excuse not to have them visit you. a small break right about now couldn't hurt.

besides–other than catching sight of them on tv or on online tennis news articles–the last time you saw them was at the winner's banquet, and you really wouldn't complain about seeing their faces in person again.

so you tell them what you're up to at your hotel, and you're met with eager replies back in the groupchat: atsumu suggesting they join you in your practice, osamu saying they have a driver that can bring them to you.

a sudden surge of energy enters your system realizing you're about to have them right in front of you again. you bounce your leg against the court impatiently to try and let some of it out.

you start thinking back to the last time you were face-to-face with them, and you can't help but cringe a little, recalling how you were more of a flustered mess than you might've wished in front of them.

you internally cursed the effect they have on you.

and yet, here you were giving in to see them. but if you were going to have to face them again, you concluded you'd need a bit of liquid courage pumping through you yourself...

around 20 minutes after you seal the deal and send your hotel's address to the two brothers, you hear footsteps approaching where you were sat at the court bench.

and then there they were–casually in t-shirts and shorts they were probably about to wear to bed–in front of you. you hear the clink of bottles as atsumu drops the duffel on his shoulder onto the court.

"be more careful with that, would'ya 'tsumu?" osamu hisses while landing a quick blow to the side of atsumu's arm.

you already find yourself giggling in their presence again and barely a minute has passed by. but what can you say? both on and off the court, the two were so interesting for you to watch.

after atsumu does in fact fail to open some more bottles with his racket and osamu instead opts to use the cap of one bottle to open two others, the three of you then start rallying in a friendly 2-v-1.

with the twins opposite you across the net, tennis balls start to get lazily passed over the net using one-handed forehands and backhands (you each had an occupied hand holding your drinks, after all). though you three aren't giving it your all, a steady and precise rhythm of clicks still start to ring out like a metronome with each pass of the ball, accompanying the catch-up conversation that you share on the court.

a few rallies in–and a drink or two more–atsumu suddenly poses a question mid-rally that catches you off-guard.

"hey, say if you had to date one of us, which one you would pick?" the blonde shouts across the court, almost causing you to miss your return on the ball. you question if this was atsumu, or the alcohol talking.

click!

skeptical, you shout back, "i'd go out with whoever actually liked me, obviously."

click!

"but what if we both did?" you barely catch osamu add on, as his words are more mumbled and almost slurred before you see him hurriedly take another swig from his bottle.

you can hear the joint-confession in his words, and your other hand goes to give you another sip from your own bottle to calm your nerves.

click!

"is it normal for you both like the same girl?" you tease.

click!

"nah, not really, actually," osamu calls back.

"so what, should i feel honored or something?" you can't help but sarcastically throw at the two.

click!

"of course. you're hot and talented," atsumu reasons, dropping his description of you like it's the most normal thing to say in that moment. you feel your face start to heat up–and it definitely wasn't the alcohol making its way through your system.

click!

"oh, is that all i am?" you feign offense, and for once both brothers mistakenly go to return the ball, when they usually are so coordinated only one ever has to take initiative. you loved messing around with them.

the ball falls between their two outstretched rackets, and atsumu curses under his breath as osamu goes after it as it starts bouncing away. after retrieving it, he tosses it to atsumu to serve it over and start up another rally.

click!

"'s not that," says osamu, "we've both gotten to know ya, you're great all-'round."

click! click! click...

"but based on what you've gotten to know 'bout us," atsumu speaks up in the pause of conversation, "who would'ya pick?"

click... click... click–

you suddenly give it your all and crash the ball hard onto their side of the court, downing the rest of your bottle right after, "let me think that over."

،   そ   ✧   の後    🌱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻 ...

the three of you had stopped rallying, opting to hanging out on the bench and just talking about life. the few bottles from the miyas' duffel were about halfway through and it was close to about 2 in the morning now.

the sound of tennis balls and rackets making contact was now replaced with hushed giggles, the sound of tennis balls lightly being dropped against the court surface and being caught again once they inevitably bounce back up, and the whirr of rackets being twirled by absent-minded hands.

all these sounds muddle together in your ears, an internal tell-tale signal to you that you were very tipsy.

since you were asked the question, the notion of getting with either of the miya twins has been floating in your mind. other thoughts came along with it, too, and the alcohol was not helping to push those curiosities of yours away.

as always, these two made it so easy to cave into your wants of selfish self-satisfaction. but this was a much-welcomed respite from the otherwise constant pressures and grueling day-to-day of going pro so young on the tennis court.

that you could be sure of, sober or not.

... so you figured your future and more sober self in the morning can't get that upset for what you were about to try.

"i think i know how i can figure out an answer to your question from earlier," you find yourself humming while atsumu was on your right, attempting a racket trick on the bench, and osamu was to your left, on the ground leaning up against the bench and bouncing a ball between the court and the palm of his hand.

"which one?" atsumu questions with a quick glance over to you as he tried balancing the middle of his racket on one finger.

"who i'd go out with," you nonchalantly shrug as you hear the wires of your racket slice through the air when you quickly spin it in your grasp.

"really?" osamu cranes his neck back to look at you, hand still trading contact with the ball between his hand and the court.

you look between them, the blush from the alcohol clearly visible on their faces–one you can certainly feel is shared on your own facial features, too–before looking back down at your racket, "i dunno, i just think i need more... stats to compare."

"what d'ya mean?" atsumu now puts down his racket in his lap and asks. you bend down and use your racket to slice the tennis ball out from under osamu's palm, directing attention to the racket by tapping it against the ground.

you ask osamu, "heads or tails?"

a beat of expectant silence passes by the three of you, as the brothers wonder what you're getting at.

"...tails," osamu finally replies, and it almost sounds like he utters his words on bated breath as he looks at you. (or maybe that was just your ego getting to your head.)

you twirl your racket one more time and let it clatter to the ground. the sound reverberates in the now completely-silent space, as the miyas are frozen in place as they scan your every move.

heads.

you look at atsumu, and mustering up all the confidence from your inebriated system, you reach your hand up to lightly hold his jawline. his skin under your fingertips runs soft as you dare to start leaning in closer, and closer, and at the moment your lips brush the slightest bit, you feel his breath hitch.

for a second, you reconsider if now was the time to settle into desire, if this may all just wind up being a big mistake–

but then atsumu quickly gets fed up, and he finally closes the gap between you. before you know it, your eyes flutter closed as you get lost in how his mouth feels on yours. his kiss is relentless, leaving no room for you to catch your breath as he constantly makes sure you can feel as much of him against your lips as you can. it's like he doesn't want you thinking about anything but him, not on his watch.

yeah, this is definitely not a mistake.

after a few moments, you hear shuffling and the bench creaks under a new weight on your left, and suddenly you feel a hand on your left thigh–osamu's, no doubt.

you carefully pull back from you and atsumu's kiss, catching how atsumu's eyes remain lidded as his body involuntarily tries chasing after you, both of you letting out soft pants to try and breathe in much-needed air.

you turn your head to face osamu, and you follow how his eyes trace over your face and his teeth subtly gnaws at the inside of his bottom lip in an anxious state of anticipation. you take it as your sign to start leaning in towards him–your fingers still lingering on atsumu's face as you do so.

osamu's kiss is much softer, but deliberate nonetheless. he isn't afraid of pulling back a little bit, but it isn't long before he takes the initiative to gently trap your bottom lip between his teeth now and then, forcing content sighs out of you–this in itself almost eggs him on further to toy with you more.

and then the skin under your right hand's finger tips disappears, a pair of lips start to kisses your jaw, and a pair of hands starting to wander along the right side of your body.

now both miyas are all over you, their possessive hands almost competing in grasping at more of you than the other. that, combined with the feeling of lips on yours at the same time as lips trailing along the side of your neck, made your head buzz.

you felt giddy–you've only ever seen them playing on the same side of the court. but right now, they were opponents, but instead of fighting over some glass trophy or medal, they were trying to win your attention.

finally needing air, you pull away from osamu. when you open your eyes to see his face, his lips are swollen and even in the dark of night you can catch a glimpse of his pupils appear blown out.

those same eyes flick over to glance at his brother on your right, and before you can follow his gaze, osamu's going in for the left side of your neck.

in the dark you can feel every touch–two varying paces of lips working against your skin, bleached and dyed hair brushing along the underside of your jaw. there's hands on your thighs, hands on your waist, hands peeking just under the hem of your shirt, hands threading through their blonde and grey hair–

your phone starts to ring.

"oh shit–" you quickly stand up from between them, stumbling a little from the imbalance that comes with your current tipsy state. you feel around for your phone on the ground and by the time you locate it among the mess of duffels and rackets and empty bottles, you see a missed call and texts from a member of your team. they're wondering where you were, and telling you to wrap up and head to bed if you haven't already.

"s-sorry," you stutter out at the two boys, picking up your racket from where you left it on the ground and fumbling with the strap of your duffel, "i gotta go–thanks for... the drinks."

and all osamu and atsumu can do is dumbly nod as you leave them at the bench–lips slightly parted and hair messes, with star-stuck looks from them that you've grown quite accustomed to.

🗒⋆ *. ୨୧⋆｡ taglist (2/30 at the time of publishing) : @zumicho , @liillyliilly (just send me an ask if you’re interested! xx)

💭ˎˊ˗ " you find this recipe card stashed away with three tickets to the movie challengers in a random drawer of the kitchen " ˚ ༘ 🎾 *｡𖦹⋆｡˚

forty, love … ₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎ ᯓ★ a tennis au! miya atsumu x gn reader x miya osamu series

꒰ there’s a constant back-and-forth in tennis. the in-between doesn’t matter. what does matter is if you can keep up when opportunity comes your way, to get your way. to be the winner. ꒱

details : long form, based on the movie challengers!!!, NO MIYACEST HERE, atsumu x y/n & osamu x y/n are like separate things even if the twins are competing for y/n's attention at first, fluff, but then just so much angst, lowk highkey toxic, infidelity, mentions of struggling with mental health (self-pressure), mentions of drinking, several suggestive scenes!, each part starts off in present day but then goes into a flashback in time, ambiguous ending! (just come along for the ride, would'ya?)

ᯓᡣ𐭩.ᐟ ⊹ masterlist

– part one。

– part two。 *

– part three。 *

– part four。 *

– part five。 *

( * suggestive )

💭ˎˊ˗ " ingredients for this recipe : sneakers squeaking on tennis courts , summer sun blanketing everything in neon hues , the scent of expensive cologne , the twinkle of shiny trophies and recognitions , slightly see - through sweaty polo shirts , the ruffling of duffels and the ruffling of clothes , sweat dripping down your temples to smirking lips ... - ro ♡ "

🗒⋆ *. ୨୧⋆｡ taglist (2/30) : @zumicho , @liillyliilly (just send me an ask if you’re interested! xx)

tune in to forty, love part 3 if you want some real drama 😭🙏 bc my god is it getting messy

long shots ; miya osamu

pairing: miya osamu x f!reader

synopsis: miya osamu is the teacher’s assistant for food chemistry i. you can’t stop thinking about him.

tag(s): college!au, slow burn, TA!miya osamu, grad student!reader, fluff, reader is a go-getter!! ; warning(s): profanity, suggestive themes, talk of insecurities and imposter syndrome ; wc: 5.6k

a/n: happy birthday to @starrysamu​! i love u. pls excuse any errors. i’ll weed them out later! btw this fic is not a sugar daddy au LOL

HIS NAME IS Miya Osamu and he always looks like he has it all figured out. Comes in every class with his black hair perfectly tousled, the sleeves of his dark button-up rolled to his elbows, a cup of coffee in one hand and the strap of that black messenger bag in another.

“He drives a BMW, did ya know?” Isla says in your ear one morning. Your only friend in Food Chemistry I gives you a pointed look before sitting back in her chair in the lecture hall with a smirk on her face. “Saw it this morning. Bet he’s loaded.” The two of you watch the subject in question walk across the classroom and settle in his seat at the table in the corner.

“Shut up,” you whisper with wide eyes. A grin–– far from innocent–– makes its way onto your face. “Imagine being Miya Osamu’s sugar baby.”

“He’s not old enough to be a sugar daddy.” Isla looks at her nails disinterestedly. “And that’s too many AUs in one. He’s already the TA, for god’s sake. This isn’t some shitty Wattpad novel.”

Keep reading

The L Word

Miya Osamu x f!Reader

summary: Love makes people stupid. Osamu knows it firsthand.

warnings: minors/ageless/blank blogs dni, established relationship, love confessions, fluff with a teeny hint of angst, happy ending, small miscommunication bc Osamu is an idiot but it gets cleared up, Atsumu to the rescue, Osamu being the dumber Miya twin for a change, Osamu really goes through it in this fic but it's all okay bc you love him

notes: literally wrote this entire thing today bc Osamu just does something to me. this takes place earlier on in the Meet the Miyas couple's relationship and you don't have to read the other fics to get this one, but I sure would like you to.

words: 3.6k

part of the Meet the Miyas series

Osamu’s date with you was meant to be a quick dinner. If he was thinking more clearly, he wouldn’t have suggested seeing each other that night at all. It’s been a hectic week for the both of you and he knows that you have to catch an early morning train for a meeting out of town the next day. 

But he can’t think clearly when it comes to you. Because he loves you. He doesn’t know when exactly it happened, but he knows it was probably after only a couple of dates, which he also knows is crazy. 

Again, he can never think clearly when it comes to you.

It means that he’s spent the last few months in a love-induced haze of happiness as your budding relationship has progressed. It’s even been enough to dull the irritation he would normally feel at how smug Atsumu has been about being the one to set the two of you up in the first place.

Of course, none of that is on his mind now. The only thing he can currently think about is how much he doesn't want your evening together to end. 

It’s a desire of his that you’re more than willing to indulge in as your time at the restaurant stretches on long past dessert. When he offers to walk you home even though you live in opposite directions, you don’t even bother to give a perfunctory protest. You merely nod with a wide grin, happily accepting the arm he wraps around your shoulders as you curl into his side. 

And what began as a sweet kiss goodnight outside of your building is now bordering on something inappropriate for a public setting, even on an empty street. 

Your soft lips move against his and his tongue slips into your mouth to taste you. One of your hands rests against his neck, while the other runs through his hair, making him shiver at the sensation of your fingernails gently running against his scalp. Both of his are tightly holding onto your waist, holding you as close as he possibly can so that the only thing separating you two is the clothing you both are wearing. 

“Come upstairs,” you breathe as he begins to trail his lips from yours to the spot just below your ear that always has your knees feeling weak whenever he lavishes it with attention. 

Unfortunately, Osamu has just enough of his sanity left to know what the responsible choice is.

“Ya need to sleep,” he murmurs against your skin before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your neck that makes you sharply inhale. “Yer meeting tomorrow is important. Gotta be well rested.”

“So thoughtful,” you tease as you guide his lips back to yours to give him another heated kiss, only to pause for air a moment later. “I promise. No funny business. We can just sleep.”

He can’t hold back his snort at your suggestion or his laugh when you pout at his reaction. He rests his forehead against yours, looking at you with a fond smile on his shining and slightly swollen lips. 

“We never ‘just sleep’ when I come up,” he reminds you and your pout deepens.

“But I don’t want to say goodbye yet,” you tell him, and damn if his heart doesn’t ache with how full of love it is for you.

“Okay. We don’t have to say goodbye,” he agrees and your expression lights up. However, it falls as he continues to speak. “We’ll just say goodnight instead.”

“Osamu,” you whine and he presses a soft kiss to your lips before you can say anything else.

“Goodnight,” he says.

When you open your mouth again, he gives you another smiling kiss.

“Goodnight.”

You open your mouth again, a smile of your own tugging at your lips, which he kisses again.

He loves you. 

“Goodnight.”

You playfully open your mouth as you pretend to say something. He kisses you.

He loves you.

“Goodnight.”

Another attempt on your part to protest. Another kiss to silence you.

He loves you.

“Goodnight.”

Your mouth opens. He gives you a kiss. 

He loves you.

“I love you.”

He freezes, but not because he’s accidentally spoken the words that have been on his mind these past months. 

It’s because the words don’t come out in his voice. They come out in yours.  

His eyes snap open to find you gazing up at him with a small hint of nervousness, but otherwise nothing but pure affection and fondness and love. It’s everything he’s been dreaming of — literally. He has literally been dreaming about this exact scenario.

But in his dreams, he gently murmurs that he loves you in return and softly runs his thumb along the apple of your cheek. The two of you then kiss beneath the first soft snowflakes of winter or the floating spring cherry blossoms or a drizzle of summer rain.

Reality is much worse. Because in his shock and disbelief, all he can do is open and close his mouth, struggling to put all of his joy and excitement and love in return into words. And the longer the silence stretches on, the touch of hesitation that was initially present on your face slowly begins to morph into sheer horror.

Your embarrassment is visible at his lack of a response and when you force out a small, self-conscious laugh, he knows that you’re regretting ever speaking those three beautiful words aloud.

“Sorry,” you wince and a cold shard of ice pierces his heart.

No, no, no. Don’t apologize. Never apologize. Not for loving him. Not when he loves you, too. 

You clumsily try to extricate yourself from his hold and he’s too wrapped up in his own mortification over how stupid he is that he easily lets you. 

“I don’t…s-sorry!”

Your voice breaks as you stumble over your unnecessary apology and even while you refuse to meet his gaze, he can see how quickly your eyelashes are fluttering as you try to blink back the tears that he’s caused.

“Night, Osamu,” you manage to say through a soft sniffle before hurrying towards the steps of your building.

The only thing worse than the panic and anger that he’s feeling towards himself is whatever it is that you’re feeling. You opened yourself up to him, allowing yourself to be vulnerable and trusting that he would keep your heart safe.

And he was too much of an idiot to be able to offer his own heart in return. 

He just needs to get the words out. Just get the words out.

Just get the fuckin’ words out, ya big fuckin’ pussy.

Relief floods through his veins when he’s finally able to blurt your name as he calls after you. He can fix this. He can tell you that he loves you and that he was just so elated that he was physically incapable of putting any words together. 

You stop, your foot on the bottom step as you turn towards him. While your eyes are shining with tears, he can also the hope in them as you silently plead with him to continue. 

A deep breath releases from his lungs. He hasn’t ruined it yet. You’re willing to listen to him. You’ll give him a chance to make things right and prove to you that he deserves you. He’s so fucking grateful to you. 

“Thank you!”

He wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Maybe a car will pass by and run him over. Could he be lucky enough for a freak thunderstorm and to be struck by lightning? When nothing happens, he contemplates dropping to his knees and banging his head repeatedly against the concrete sidewalk. 

All of it would feel better than watching how quickly he’s shattered the last remaining pieces of hope that you were desperately clinging onto. You stay still just long enough for him to see your lower lip tremble before you dart up the stairs of your building.

And because of how the stupid apartment buildings in this country are designed, he gets a perfect view of you racing up the exterior staircase and then towards your apartment, pausing only to unlock the door, which then slams loudly shut behind you. The sound echoes through the quiet street, reverberating against the pavement and buildings, but also in his mind. 

Osamu takes a slow, deep breath and holds it before exhaling. He then buries his face his hands, his fingers tugging at his hair, and lets out an unintelligible scream that’s filled with a nauseating mixture of frustration and embarrassment. The noise is louder than the slamming of your door and a dog starts to bark in the distance. 

In a daze, he somehow manages to make it to his bus stop. Likewise, his phone is now somehow held up against his ear. And somehow, Atsumu’s screeching voice answers on the other end.

“Thank you?” he greets angrily and Osamu loudly groans as he slumps forward so far that his head is practically between his knees. “My best friend, the woman yer totally in love with, says she loves ya and all ya can do is thank her?”

“I was just so excited, I couldn’t think straight. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I know, okay?” he mumbles. He hears a bus pull up to the curb but he’s too distraught to even look up and see if it’s his as he lets it pass. “She already told ya?”

“She’s on the other fuckin’ line right now, crying because of you, ya scrub,” Atsumu bites back and somehow, after everything that’s happened in the past ten minutes, Osamu manages to feel even worse. 

There’s a long pause and his guilt and mortification must be so bad that his brother can hear it through the phone because Atsumu gives a sigh of pity.

“Look, just make it right. We share the same DNA. Ya must have gotten a little bit of my ability to be romantic.” 

In any other situation, Osamu would scoff and roll his eyes. But right now, he doesn’t have the right to make fun of anyone, not even his twin. Instead, he simply nods even though Atsumu can’t see it over the call. 

“Can ya find out what time her train gets in tomorrow?” he asks pitifully. 

“Okay, sure,” the setter offers before sighing again. “I gotta go.”

“Yeah, don’t keep her waitin’.” 

He wonders if you know that it’s him Atsumu is talking to. You must. But Atsumu is a pretty good liar, much better than Osamu anyway. He’s had plenty of practice lying over every little thing under the sun since they were young. Surely, he can convince you that it was a teammate or his agent or anyone else but the man responsible for your distress.

“Same goes for you, Samu,” Atsumu warns him, but there’s at least a gentle undertone of sympathy in his voice that he probably only extends because they shared a womb.

“Thanks,” he says, feeling truly grateful to his brother in a way he hasn’t felt since he set the two of you up.

“I think ya said that enough tonight, ya scrub.” Atsumu then ends the call and Osamu’s gratitude dwindles. 

But Atsumu does come through for him, texting him the information on your train, which Osamu reacts to with a mere thumbs up, knowing that any form of thanks will have him being called a scrub for the third time that night. 

The next day, Osamu closes the shop early. It’s for the better as he keeps getting orders wrong and has to offer so many discounts in apology that if he stayed open any later, he would probably end the day at a loss. 

His mind has been so preoccupied that there’s no room left in it for onigiri. All he’s been able to think about is his plan to make it up to you. He’ll go home and change into his nicest suit. He’ll go to the florist and buy the nicest bouquet they have. He’ll stop by the bakery near your apartment on the way and order a slice of your favorite cake. 

And then you’ll come home to find him waiting for you outside of your building, where he’ll give you the speech he spent all day on. He’ll tell you how sorry he is and explain how much of an idiot he was and tell you that of course, he loves you. He’s even written down exactly what he wants to say on an order sheet from the restaurant so he doesn’t forget a word.

But apparently, the universe has decided that it wants to laugh even more at his expense. 

Everything starts smoothly. Despite not having worn it in over a year, his suit fits as perfectly as it did when he bought it. And after a quick iron, it looks like he just picked it up from the dry cleaner. When he arrives at the flower shop, the kindly older woman working there helps him make a custom bouquet filled with flowers that all represent some form of love and apology. 

It’s at the bakery where things start to go wrong. 

First, it’s so late in the afternoon that the display window is picked clean over. Your favorite cake has sold out entirely and all that’s left are a variety of croissants, donuts, and croquettes. He stupidly decides to buy a donut anyway, because although the image of him giving you a donut is much less romantic, he’s always believed that food is the best way to show you care about someone. 

Then, just as he’s finished paying and in his rush to make sure he gets to your apartment before you do, he runs right into a teenager holding a bright green melon soda, which spills all over the front of his clean, white dress shirt. The girl gasps in horror and immediately begins to apologize, repeatedly bowing as she offers him the napkins in her hand.

However, he knows it was his fault and that he can’t make another girl cry in less than 24 hours. He assures her that she wasn’t to blame and after patting his shirt dry to the best of his ability, he buys her a new drink and then helps the employee clean up the spill. He leaves the bakery with a squished donut and an obscenely green, large stain on his shirt. 

And of course, he gets one block away from the bakery when it starts to rain. It’s not the soft, romantic drizzle that he’s imagined might color such an important moment in your relationship. It’s a true downpour that has people ducking into stores and under doorways. For just a moment, he considers stopping at a konbini and buying an umbrella but he’s already drenched and when he sees how long the line is, he decides that it wouldn’t be worth it if he has to miss you. 

It’s another block away from the konbini that the bag holding the donut breaks, dropping the baked good into the gutter where it’s quickly washed away by the rainwater. As he looks at the soggy remains of the bag in his hand, he decides not to worry about it and shoves the mess into his pocket. The flowers are enough on his own.

The flowers, which he’s just now realizing aren’t in his hand and weren’t with him at the bakery. The flowers that he remembers setting down on the bench at the bus stop but doesn’t remember picking back up when he got onto the bus. 

The voice in his head is frantic as it tries to assure him that everything is fine. If you really love him then you don’t need flowers or baked goods or him in a dry, unstained suit. You’ll love him just as he is when you find him waiting to greet you after a long day.

He’s thankful that the sound of rain falling is loud enough to mask the panicked, high-pitched whine he lets out when he turns the corner onto your block to find that you’ve beaten him to your place and are already standing on the bottom step of your building’s staircase, protected from the rain as you shake the worst of the water from your dripping umbrella. 

There’s the smallest part of him that wants to just go back home and hide beneath the blankets like he used to do after losing a volleyball match. 

But then, without his consent, your name leaves his lips and his feet begin moving on their own to meet you. You freeze mid-umbrella shake and look up at him in shock, clearly not having expected him, and definitely not in this state if the way your eyes widen is anything to go by. 

Your senses come back to you quicker than his did to him last night and you open your umbrella back up and rush out to meet him, hurrying to finally protect him from the rain.

“Osamu, what are you doing? It’s pouring,” you say with a mixture of disbelief and confusion. You look him over from head to toe and frown. “Why are you so green? You look like you spilled a melon soda all over your shirt.”

It’s okay. He still has his speech. He’ll win you over with his words. Whether it was volleyball or opening his own restaurant, when has he ever given up?

Instead of answering you, he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out the order slip. He’s relieved that it’s held up better than the bakery bag and vows to keep buying order pads from the same supplier for the rest of his life. 

At least until he unfolds the paper and finds that the ink he wrote in has run because of the rain that soaked through his jacket. His shoulders sag as he sighs in defeat. 

“Osamu?” you ask with a timidness he hasn’t heard from you before and it’s enough to snap him from his own wallowing. His idiocy left you in tears last night.

The flowers, the suit, the pastry, the speech, this entire big, grand gesture he was trying to make all boil down to one thing.

“I love ya,” he says and it feels so good to finally be able to say the words aloud to you for the first time. It feels like a weight has been lifted from his chest, leaving room for how big his heart has grown with all the love it holds for you. “I’m so sorry about last night. I’ve been in love with ya since, like, our third date but I knew I’d seem crazy if I said it that early. And when ya said it first, I just couldn’t believe it and I was so stupidly happy that I just couldn’t say anything.” 

Now that he’s started talking, the words won’t seem to stop. But from the way you’re looking up at him with so much warmth and affection and love, he doesn’t think you want him to.

“And then I started to panic because I couldn’t say anything, which made it harder to say anything else. So, I came up with this big plan to win ya back with flowers and cake and a big speech but literally everything went wrong.”

“Osamu,” you try to gently interrupt him, but by this point, he couldn’t hold anything in even if he wanted to.

“I forget yer flowers at the bus stop and the bakery was out of cake. Then I almost made this teenager cry so I had to make that right. And of course, this fuckin’ monsoon had to sweep in outta nowhere. And my speech got all ruined, too,” he complains, holding out the order sheet for you to see the proof. 

“Osamu,” you try again. Only he’s too wrapped up now in this bizarre, stream-of-consciousness monologue to even take in the adoring way that you’re looking at him.

“If it was gonna rain, couldn’t it at least have been a soft, romantic type of rain? But I guess nothing says romance like a flash flood warning. It’s a good thing ya live on a higher floor with how much it’s comin’ down,” he continues. “All this little love confession is missing are some warning sirens—”

“You love me?”

The question finally shuts him up. But it’s a different kind of silence than the one from last night. Because you look so utterly happy as the three words occupy the space between you. His own expression softens and he crumples up the paper in his hand before shoving it into his pocket. 

His hand now free, he tenderly cups your face and presses the softest, sweetest kiss to your lips as the rain continues to come down in sheets around you, only your small travel-size umbrella keeping you both safe. 

As his lips part from yours, he rests his forehead on yours, an almost mirror image how you two were wrapped up in each other last night. 

“Yeah, I love ya,” he whispers as he affectionately brushes his nose against yours. You smile back at him and his heart pounds with excitement at hearing you repeat the sentiment back to him. 

But then, your eyes begin to sparkle mischievously as they always do when you tease him.

“Thank you,” you say and he thinks he’s somehow managed to fall even further in love with you.  

he doesn't mean to make you sad, you know that. it's just that, when atsumu's upset it becomes everyone's problem—yours especially.

you don't know how it starts. atsumu had been bouncing off the walls just a moment ago, drunk off of booze and the afterglow of victory. you don't know which one of his teammates had invited her to the after-party, just that right now, you can't help but hate them.

it's just for a second, but you catch it. the way his eyes immediately dim, how his hand falters around yours. you don't want to jump to conclusions, but it's obvious—atsumu's in love with her. painfully so.

he drops your hand as if burnt and turns away, letting himself be carried off into another conversation. atsumu laughs loud enough to be heard over the music, a deafening house mix that thuds through your chest like a second heartbeat. anyone else might not spare him a second glance, but you know that when atsumu laughs that loud there's something he's trying to hide. then, as if remembering that you're still there, atsumu turns over his shoulder. you answer before he can ask the question.

"no no, go ahead. go have fun!"

atsumu tilts his head, though you know he's only asking to be polite. "are you sure?"

you smile. "no worries."

it's a bold-faced lie, but atsumu's never been that good at paying attention. he returns your smile with an excited nod, letting himself be led away by the shoulders. "don't go anywhere!" he shouts, though you know later on he'll forget to come find you. that's the way it always is. always has been.

you nurse your drink against your chest—water, you don't have the stomach tonight—and try to look on the bright side, if there is one. atsumu had been the one to invite you, hadn't he? and though you're still "just friends", he'd held your hand earlier, so that has to count for something, right?

it's useless. you down your water in one go, figuring that if you treat it like alcohol it might work like it is. it doesn't, and now you're alone at this party with an empty cup and an even emptier hand.

you sigh and snake your way out of the kitchen, making your way up the stairs to the first door that opens. the upstairs is off-limits, but you hope that whoever owns this room is drunk enough to be forgiving. you don't even bother to turn on the lights, and instead flop backwards onto the bed. you feel the music downstairs rather than hearing it, a steady thump-thump-thump that shakes through you from head to toe.

you close your eyes, trying very hard not to think about atsumu and the girl he's still in love with downstairs. it's not your place to be bothered, that you know, but something in your chest still aches at the thought. you've loved atsumu since before he met her, after all. it's a shame he hasn't noticed. or maybe he's not noticing on purpose, which is considerably worse.

"woe is me," you say to no one, your voice biting with sarcasm. you're not shocked at how things are turning out, moreso that you thought it'd turn out any differently. with a sigh, you close your eyes. atsumu will find you eventually. and if he doesn't, then someone else will. you'd rather be cursed at for trespassing than anywhere downstairs, faking a smile as you wait for atsumu like a well-trained dog. at least here you can lick your wounds in private.

you don't know how much time has passed when you feel something press into your side, warm and solid. arms wrap around you: one slung over your waist, the other snaking its way under your head. you turn in confusion, seeing nothing in the dark.

whoever's holding you down reeks heavily of liquor, and their arm feels like a dead weight around you. when you try to pull it off they hold onto you tighter, mumbling something incoherent under their breath. "um, hey," you say loudly, voice hoarse with sleep. "get off of me."

the person beside you stirs, and the bed dips slightly as they prop themselves up. they mumble your name under their breath, and in the dark you can make out the vague outline of a face.

with a start, you realize you recognize that voice. "...osamu?"

he lies back down, bringing you along with him. "h-hey," you start to protest, but osamu's grip grows stronger in response.

"don't leave," he mumbles, as you try to sit up.

"but—"

"m'head hurts. shhh." osamu shushes you, curling up against your side. his hair tickles the side of your reddening cheek.

"hey, osamu." you try to move out from under his arm again, to no avail. "you're really drunk."

"and?" he counters, pulling you closer, almost possessively. "just pretend for a little while."

that catches you off guard. "pretend?"

"it's dark, so it's easier," osamu refuses to elaborate. "c'mon. it's my birthday."

"osamu, your birthday's in october."

"is it?" there's an uncharacteristic cheekiness to osamu's voice, one that makes you turn your head towards him in surprise. you can't see him, but you can tell from the warmth that his face is only inches away. "well it's somebody's birthday, somewhere."

something touches your cheek—osamu's hand? no, his face. somewhere near his chin, guessing by the stubble that scratches your skin. "just do me a favor and pretend i'm him," osamu says, and in that moment he sounds scarily sober.

"wh-what?" you can't help the way your mouth hangs open at the request, your stomach feeling like it's about to drop out of you.

"you heard me," osamu mumbles, back to being drunk again. "pretend i'm him. you know what i mean."

"you—what—that's not—"

"am i wrong?" osamu presses, raising his voice like he's imitating his brother. it works. osamu's fingers trace across your face, reading the shock on your face like braille. you turn your head and press your nose to his neck—no cologne, only the soft smell of skin. it can't be atsumu, but for a moment, you're fooled.

osamu tilts his head and sighs, slow and sweet. and when his lips brush your forehead, it's like everything you've ever dreamed. "i'm right," he breathes, nestling his head against your shoulder. it's not a question anymore, but a fact. "i'm right," he sing-songs, still painfully drunk.

"osamu—"

a hand covers your mouth, warm and firm. softer than atsumu's, and just a bit bigger. "don't say my name like that," he whispers, his voice hot against the shell of your ear, "say it the way you say his."

you swallow an audible gulp. "osa—osamu?" you try again.

osamu shakes his head. needy hands pull you in by the waist. you feel osamu's lips kiss up the side of your neck. "not like that," he murmurs.

"o-osa...mu..." you're breathless and dizzy. you feel osamu's smile against the underside of your jaw.

"better," he grins, and this time, his lips find yours.

it ends before you can even react. osamu pulls away with a shaky exhale, as if he's slowly waking from a dream. his eyes shine back at you in the dark, wide and unblinking.

he opens his mouth to speak. "i—"

"you're drunk," you say immediately, and push him away by the chest.

osamu doesn't let you. he brings his hands over yours and keeps them there, and under the thin cotton of his shirt you feel his heart beating rabbit-fast. "so? i'll still want you when i'm sober."

his words choke your own out of your throat. "osamu...i can't—"

"so don't. don't do anything. just stay the night." there's a desperation in his words that makes your stomach flip. osamu holds onto you like he's afraid to let go. "please."

it's late, and you're tired. atsumu's in love with someone that isn't you, but osamu's arms are warm enough to make you forget. you think to yourself: is it selfish if he's willing? are you cruel for wanting to pretend?

you wrap your arms around his neck and osamu relaxes, melting into you the same way butter does on toast. he's soft, comforting. familiar, but not the same. osamu's lips brush on your neck again and the impact shudders through your spine like electricity. he takes his hands and rubs them over your arms, thinking that you're cold. you don't want to tell him that in reality you're burning up, feeling hot everywhere he touches.

"thank you," osamu murmurs into your hair.

"for what?"

"stayin'."

and when osamu kisses you a second time, you don't have the heart to push him away.

Ok but would reader and best friend Osamu ever share a BED instead of the couch?

sleepy miya osamu/f!reader (haikyuu!) part 2 of the bff!osamu series word count: 820 tags: SFW, fluff, childhood friends to pining, domestic osamu, poor rice ball boy down bad

Osamu thinks about it a lot.

You in his bed.

He'd be lying if he denied the implication that his thoughts were less than pure, because he'd been picturing you like that as long as he'd been conscious of imagining anyone in that sense. But most of the time it's quiet--tender, even. It's moments like this.

"I'm sleepy," you mumble, curling onto your side atop his bed as Osamu stands at the end and folds his freshly washed laundry.

"Yer always sleepy, like a big baby," he quips, neatly folding one of his t-shirts and slipping it into his drawer along with the rest of them--all pleated into identically uniform rectangles.

"Am not," you shoot back. But there's no bite to your words, too heavy with the weight of your aforementioned sleepiness--just like your eyelids that are threatening to close as Osamu sends a pointed glance in your direction.

"If yer not sleepy yer hungry, and if yer neither it's because yer sleepin' or eatin' already. And then after ya eat yer sleepy, or when ya first wake up you say--"

"Alright, I get it!"

Samu laughs at the scowl on your face, approaching the bed and plucking the empty basket off the corner to move it to the floor. He flops down dramatically next to you for no reason other than to disturb you.

"Get off me ya big bully!" you complain, pushing him away from where he's half on top of you.

"It's my bed," he replies pointedly, "and I'm the one who just washed and folded all my laundry. If anyone deserves a nap it's me."

The two of you settle down in silence, each finding your own space easily though your bodies rest close together. Osamu's never been happier that he didn't splurge for a bigger bed when he finally moved into his own place--if there was more space, he might not get to feel the way your body radiates a soft heat against his side, he might not get to smell the faint scent of your shampoo, he might not have such a good view down the neckline of your--

"We should get up," you murmur, stirring a little.

"Don't wanna," Samu whispers back immediately.

There's another moment of quiet.

You laugh a little, all breath. "Man, thank god you don't have a girlfriend."

Samu's heart stutters.

"Ouch?"

You laugh, and there's more body to the sound this time.

"No, no, I just mean"--you roll onto your side so you can look at him directly, propping yourself up on one elbow--"we wouldn't be able to do stuff like this if you did. Or I did. Or whatever."

Samu's brow scrunches together.

"Whaddya mean?"

"I doubt a girlfriend would like the idea of you in bed with me."

Samu's heart feels like it's beating out of sync, ventricles and atrium pumping arrhythmically. What does that mean? What do you mean? Why does it feel good and bad at the same time?

"We used to take baths together," he offers as a reply.

You snort.

"That was less 'taking a bath' and more getting the mud hosed off of us by our ma's. And it was usually your fault," you say pointedly, your nose scrunching up in a smile.

"Nah, it was always Tsumu's," Osamu says breezily--a miracle considering the war raging under his ribs. He reaches up with one hand and pushes you back down onto the mattress so you're lying side by side again.

You don't protest, not even as he uses the movement as an excuse to scoot a little closer to you.

"Are we taking a nap?" you ask as you settle into the bed, snuggling into the warmth of his side without pretense.

"Well, I don't have a girlfriend to complain about it so I don't see why not," Samu replies with a little shrug.

You hum--a drowsy, lazy sound--and Osamu lets it roll over him like a wave.

He thinks about this a lot.

The soft sounds of your little snores. The heat of your body that curls further around him in your sleep, seeking him out without even knowing it.

He thinks about it on the nights when you fall asleep on his sofa, always before him--though you assume he just falls asleep at the same time. It's easier to let you think that than to come up with another excuse as to why he's at the other end of the couch the next morning--uncertain as to how he could possibly explain that he spent his last moments of wakefulness torn between thinking about carrying you into his bed and admiring how peaceful you look when you're sleeping.

Osamu lets his eyes flutter shut.

Thank god he doesn't have a girlfriend.

Thank god he doesn't have a bigger bed.

Thank god you're always sleepy.

bff!osamu series

Osamu's used to being mistaken for Atsumu.

Even though he doesn't see the resemblance--his eyes are different, and his hair's a darker shade than his brother's--the two of them were constantly mistaken for each other when they were young. They used to use it to their advantage at any possible opportunity, switching back and forth to cover for the other whenever it was convenient or would cause a bit of trouble.

The mistakes stopped for the most part in high school when they dyed their hair--Osamu had dyed his first, and then Atsumu had complained until the younger twin helped him bleach his too, though the older twin insists it was the opposite. Now as adults it's a rare occurrence, if ever, that the two are mistaken for one another.

But not completely impossible.

"Atsumu-chan!" the little old lady behind the counter of a convenience store just around the corner from Atsumu's apartment greets Osamu cheerfully as he steps through the door.

He doesn't bother correcting her, seeing as she's about 100 years old, and just smiles politely and bows in greeting before stepping towards the refrigerators to retrieve the 6-pack of beer he'd come in search of. She calls out a few questions to him as he finds his purchase, which he answers on Atsumu's behalf.

Have you been well? Yes ma'am, and you?

Are you eating? More than I oughta.

How's your wife?

Osamu pauses as he puts the beers down on the counter, his head tilting to the side.

"Wife?" He chuckles and then clears his throat.

"Yes, is she well?" The auntie behind the counter tilts her head to the side, smiling so the wrinkles at the corner of her eyes look even more pronounced.

There's only one girl that Atsumu has around enough to possibly be mistaken for his wife.

You.

"Yes, she's doing well," Osamu says quietly.

"Oh, I'm glad to hear. The last time she was in with you she wouldn't stop complaining about how busy you are! I hope you're taking care of a pretty young thing like her." The lady sends Osamu a pointed look, but there's warmth to it.

"I always do," Osamu assures her, meaning it.

He pays for his purchases, promises to say hello to you (his wife), and ducks out the door with one final bow of thanks.

His heart is pounding by the time he makes it to Atsumu's apartment, plastic bag gripped tightly in his hand. He lets himself in with the passcode Atsumu had given him the day he moved into the fancy unit downtown.

You're seated on the kitchen counter when he arrives, having toed off his shoes in the genkan, and Atsumu is standing flush against your thigh as your legs dangle down in front of you.

"Hey!" you greet him with a smile, and it does absolutely nothing to quiet the thrum of his pulse.

"Hey," he nods to both you and his brother, shuffling over to the fridge to put his drinks inside. He sets them on a low shelf, but not before helping himself to one of the cans. He cracks it open and takes a long drink.

"Take it easy, killer. No one else is even here yet!" you call from behind him.

"Yer one to talk." Atsumu snorts from behind him as well, and then Osamu can hear some shuffling and a laugh as he's sure you took a swipe at the blonde.

"Why does the auntie at the konbini down the road think yer married?"

Osamu turns to face you both, and finds you both looking away guiltily.

"It's Tsumu's fault!" you confess after a mere quirk of Osamu's brow--the pressure of his interrogation too much for you to bear. "He keeps telling people we're married, or engaged!"

"Hey! You went along with it!" Atsumu guffaws, a look of betrayal on his face.

"That was one time! And it was only because you told me the restaurant would bring us free dessert!"

Osamu watches as you and his brother squabble back and forth, silently wondering how anyone could ever mistake the two of you for a married couple.

"As if I'd ever marry ya anyway!" Atsumu sticks his tongue out at you and your jaw drops.

"Jerk!" You swat at him again but he dodges it, skittering away as he giggles to himself triumphantly.

You're left pouting in his wake.

"He's an ass," you mutter sullenly, arms crossing over your chest.

"You're the one who married him," Osamu replies, tipping his beer back to take another drink.

You shoot him a look.

"I'd never marry that airhead. Don't even know why I went along with it in the first place. All you Miyas ever do is get me into trouble," you say, shaking your head disapprovingly.

Osamu shuffles over to you, taking the spot his brother had just vacated. You lean towards Osamu's beer, and he tilts it back so you can take a sip. He watches the delicate bob of your throat as you swallow, and then the grimace that pulls at your features as the aftertaste washes over you--you've never liked beer.

"Don't let that scrub tarnish the Miya name," Osamu says in reply to your earlier comment, and you laugh a little.

"What, you think you'd make a better husband?"

There's a drop of beer clinging to the edge of your lip that Osamu is using every modicum of his self restraint not to lean forward and taste for himself. Your tongue peeks out to lick it away before his thoughts can get the better of him.

"Do you even have to ask?" Osamu replies.

You laugh, and nod a little, and the simple gesture makes Osamu's chest ache. Do you think he'd be a better husband? Do you agree? Have you thought about it? About him?

"Well, next time the two of us go out to dinner you can fake propose to get us free dessert and then I'll let you know how you compare," you joke.

But it's not a joke to Osamu. At least not to his heart that leaps beneath his ribs at the mere thought of getting down on one knee, of putting a ring on your finger, of the world knowing that you're his.

"I'll hold ya to it," Osamu says, in place of the thousands of other words that beg to be spoken on the tip of his tongue.

You smile, reaching for his can of beer again and then abandoning the motion halfway through.

"I have no idea how you can stand that." You scrunch up your nose, hopping down from the counter and shuffling towards the fridge to get a drink of your own.

Osamu watches you as you cross the room, and the way the light from the refrigerator bathes your face in a pale blue glow.

"Neither do I," he says quietly, and then takes another sip of his bitter drink.

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.