#Miya Osamu x reader

[bowtiepasta]

osamu god of aftercare miya who doesn’t know what leaving is. in gray sweats, shirtless, a ‘kiss the cook’ apron on while he’s making you breakfast the morning after? you don’t really want him to leave anyway.

butter, pancakes, and some secret third thing, pulls you from the haze of sleep before you even open your eyes. the sheets beside you are empty but still warm, proof that osamu hasn’t been up for long.

when you stir, stretching lazily, the first thing you see is him: standing by the stove in nothing but his sweatpants and an apron that hangs loose around his bare chest. he rolls his shoulders back, muscles bunching, the former act to perfectly flipping a sunnyside egg — yolk intact.

“you’re starin’,” he drawls, not looking away from the pan. who wouldn’t be? sleep is evident in his hair, apron dusted lightly with flour, and there’s a faint pink mark on his shoulder turning purple, one you don’t remember leaving but feel smug about anyway.

“you’re in my apartment, my kitchen, making me breakfast,” you manage to carry the tone through a mumble, “I think I’m allowed to look.”

he huffs out a laugh, setting a fresh pancake onto the growing stack on the counter. “fair enough.”

“planning on leaving anytime soon?” you ask, tucking your hair behind your ear and drizzling syrup over your portion. he stares a moment, eyes soft and crinkling at the ends, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I ain’t leavin’ until you're full.”

[yamsfrecklvs]

cw: implied fem reader, spanking, fingering, biting, post-timeskip - not proofread

thinking about osamu miya and his big strong hands and his sudden discovery of the fact that he likes to spank you - but most importantly, that you enjoy it. it all starts out as a joke, really. you two love to playfight - in a way that never ever results in you getting hurt, of course. but this one particular time, you’re pretending to fight on the couch, laughing ‘til your ribs got tough, until he yanks you up by your waist and sprawls you on his lap, face down, ass up. he playfully bounces you on his knee before he lands a sound slap to your ass. it’s hard. a little too hard, somewhat painful, even. sure, it’s not the first time he’s ever smacked your ass - it’s a habit of his. he does it when passing by you around the house, if you’re laying on the bed, during sex, of course, or whenever he feels like it. but it was never like this, mostly because he’s aware of his strength. but today, he didn’t control the amount of force he put into the slap properly. it hurts - but oh, you love it.

you wince a little, a loud gasp coming from your mouth, eyes wide from surprise because why are you even enjoying it?

mistaking your mildly confusing pleasure for pain, his expression immediately softens, pretty eyes staring at you in worry.

“i’m so sorry, angel, did that hurt?”

it’s a little embarrassing, really. you shake your head no while he coos in an almost condescending way, his hand rubbing the reddened spot on your butt. but osamu knows you, and the fact that you’re not cracking a joke or turning to look at him in annoyance is absolutely telltale. and when he realizes it? oh.

so he tries again — he spanks you hard, exactly as he’s done instants before, and carefully observes your reactions. when he hears that cute little sound you make again, something inside him snaps. he gets it.

“you liked that, didn’t ya?”

and oh he’s such an asshole about it too, in his own, little sarcastic way. when you turn to look at him, lips in a pout and eyebrows furrowed in a mixture of embarrassment and admission, you see a flicker of sheer joy in his irises.

“don’t make a big deal out of it, ‘samu, i swear-“ you begin, only getting cut off by him spanking you again. and the little post-smack burn feels so good that you can feel the heat pooling between your thighs and you instinctively arch your back a little. he says nothing, but he takes the sight of you like this in like he’s never gonna get another chance like this, knowing damn well that yes, he will, because you can’t resist him anyway.

two minutes later, you’re still bent over on his lap. but your panties are around your ankles and he so surprised at just how wet you are from him doing so little. he’s got two fingers knuckles-deep inside you while his other hand lazily spanks you. and you could swear that it’s heaven, the way his fingers curl up inside you so perfectly, how he knows how and where to touch you. and while he says nothing, you can definitely feel his bulge poking against you. but this is not about him, no. it’s about you. it’s about making you feel good, the way you can’t help but let out gasps and moans at every single touch he reserves for you and you only. of course, it’s also about the way he can’t wait to see the purplish imprint of his hand on your ass tomorrow.

when he makes you cum on his fingers, you can tell he’s just so satisfied with himself. his hands, so big and rough now gentler against your bruised skin, cup at your ass once more. but then, he clicks his tongue in… disappointment?

you turn to him, breath still hitched. “what?”

“one sec.” he says, and he just stares at your ass for a couple of seconds before he leans down. then, a sharp pain - his teeth sinking into you. he’s biting you, the soft flesh already bruised by his digits now marked by the crescent moon of his teeth. he’s so mean and smug with it that his amusement is almost infuriating.

“sorry, baby. looked way too pretty. had to leave m’signature.”

@yamsfrecklvs i hate this but i haven’t posted in a while so ummm here ya go ig ALSO check out the lorde ref at the beginning lol

[ohgodthevoices]

going crazy over how husband material osamu is, hear me ouuutttt

tags : fluff, time-skip, f!reader, tattoo , he listens to, he cares , and he cook , i’m thirsting m sorry

osamu would be the type of bestfriend that knows damn well you want him bad but keeps on teasing you and acting clueless just to see how far you can go before you crack

as childhood friends, it was normal for you to be touchy and generally comfortable with each other but it raised his suspicions when you now looked away when he was topless around you. it’s not like you were uncomfortable with it ?

you’ve basically lived your whole life with the miyas, you’ve seen osamu wet the bed as a kid, get rejected by his middle school crush you’ve even witnessed him putting his hand in his pants and scratch his butt, seeing him topless in the comfort of his apartment was a casual thing so why the hell would you look away , did he lose his shape ? no, he still worked out frequently even if he’s not an athlete anymore…

either way osamu always took care for you, he was always so careful when it comes to you , sure he’d playfully hit you here and there but it was nothing you couldn’t handle

just imagine him cooking you a nice heart-warming meal, glancing at you every now and then while you’re sitting on the counter looking like a mess after a long exhausting day , wine glass in hand and rambling your worries away. it really became a ritual for you to swing by his place unannounced after a bad day.

he’d open the door with his signature lazy smile “ya had a bad day?” you finally let you shoulders relax “long story..” he steps back, inviting you in “i got time”.

sometimes osamu gets this weird feeling he can’t explain when he realizes he’s seen you grow into a real woman, it really freaked him tf out when you told him you had your first time with some boy he never heard the name of.

he scolds you after a bad decision for sure , but he’s always there to comfort you right after. SO imagine his surprise when during a drunken confession after you finally listened to him and dumped your toxic bf, you admit to him between sobs that broke his heart into pieces

“why can’t i find a guy that actually likes me—?” your face was buried in his now wet tshirt , his strong arms holding you tight as if they were gonna protect you from feeling hurt, your words were muffled, melting together “why can’t i find someone like you samu…im so jealous of the girl that’s gonna be yours” holy fucking shit how was he so blind to never realize this…

thank god that night was complete blurry in your mind , so when you woke up the day completely hung over and found your beloved best friend making you breakfast with a bed hair and his sleeves rolled up showing off his forearms that you find really hot for some reason , your slight blush was explained.

omfg the day he showed up to your workplace during his break with a well crafted lunch box he made full of delicious onigiris because he listens and he remembers that your annoying coworker kept flaunting her relationship to you and it pissed you off and you wanted to show her that you can pull too

ever since he realized the power he had over you, he wouldn’t stop just picking at you and seeing how far he can go, he was basically testing the waters by stretching until his shirt lifts up, hold eye contact for a lil longer than what he should, and how he praises you don’t get me startedddd

“yer actually pretty decent at this” when you cook dinner with him, “look at ya bein all confident and independent !” when you actually tell the waiter they got your order wrong, “yer pretty distractin’ yk that? that’s kinda dangerous.”

osamu was a pretty touchy guy, not overly cuddly or anything but he did enjoy proximity, he’d usually hold your wrist when passing crowds but for some reason he now held your waist, his touch gentle yet firm on you. istg his hand placement is impeccable

there’s just something about him keeping a hair tie on his wrist for you that’s so endearing, so caring and attentive to your lil daily struggles.

it all happened when you got your first tattoo, he had sent you to his friend whom he deemed good enough to ink your body. he was nervous and excited as if he was the one getting tattooed but that’s mostly because you wanted to keep it a mystery, he knew that when he came home after closing the shop he’d find you there already.

there was just something so intimate about him coming back from work and finding you already at his place , he liked it, he could get use to it.

“ ‘m here !” he yelled out closing the door behind him , analyzing you from head to toe as you pop infront of him with his tshirt and shorts on displaying an almost mischievous smile, his eyebrows creasing as he doesn’t see any trace of a tattoo on your arms or legs, maybe it was on your shoulders?

he plopped down on his couch , man spreading “soo… are ya gonna show me or ?” you happily turn to the side, his eyes widen as you lift up the shirt enough to reveal a sideboob tattoo. he sits up the shock visible on his face “holy shit cmere” you obey him , getting closer for him to get a better look. with a swift motion his arm was now around your hip , pushing you to sit on one of his legs

he clearly recognized his friend’s intricate style, the design cupping the side of your boob, he wanted to admire his work but damn he felt a lil jealous that he worked so close to you. he finally looked at you only now noticing your reddish face

his face was just inches from yours, his previously shocked expression fading as he met your eyes. he leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your jaw, and for a split second, everything around you felt quiet, just the two of you in that small space. he couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, though, breaking the tension as he nudged you lightly

“didn’t know you had it in ya to do somethin’ like that” he whispered.

before you could answer, his hand found its way to the back of your neck, gently pulling you in. his lips brushed yours, just a soft, teasing touch, before pulling back slightly with that same smirk. “couldn’t resist,” he muttered under his breath, and this time, when he kissed you again, it was longer, deeper—no more teasing, just the feeling of the moment taking over.

i’m currently such a sucker for time skip osamu he’s all i’m thinking about

[swtnjk]

osamu hates how you’re so bratty

he hates frat parties. just the way everybody’s bodies are pushed together and the way it smells like alcohol breath and sweat. atsumu made him dress up as freddy krueger. so stupid.

he shakes his head as he texts his brother im leavin. don’t care if u got laid or not.

he suddenly feels a hand on his back, “sammy?” he hears your sweet voice say softly. he turns around, your bratty little smirk on your beautiful face.

he looks down at your costume. you’re dressed up as a grey wolf. he backs up a bit, taking in your whole appearance. your lace shirt down to your fur skirt that didn’t cover… anything.

you stare up at him, “didn’t think you’d be here. especially dressed up as freddy krueger. did i ever tell you i always wanted to fuck that guy? hm… i guess i can fuck you to make for it,” you giggle as your nails trace his jaw.

he looks into your eyes, “wolfs always got their asses out?” he asks. you shrug, “my type of wolfs do. what? you don’t like it? didn’t seem like you minded it when you ate my a—“

“y/n,” he cuts you off. you smile, “well… have fun.”

God. there it was. that stupid thick sexual knowing tension between you both. you guys fucked once… twice… more than five times but it didn’t matter!

he grabs your waist before you can walk out, “come on.” he says low, like a growl. you raise your brows, “oh?”

he pushes you in some random empty bedroom. his lips smash against yours. he shuts the door shut, “why do you always have to be a fuckin brat?” he slaps your ass and sits at the head of the bed.

you climb onto his lap, “dunno…” you giggle softly. “you look ridiculous in this.” you tug his sweater. he shakes his head, staring up at you.

“you look like a damn problem,” he huffs against your mouth. “but i’ll solve it.” your laugh dies in your throat when he bites your neck. hard enough to make your hips buck.

“still think freddy krueger’s hot?” he growls.

“i think you are,” you pant. “now shut up and continue.”

[sodaneko]

it’s late when osamu slips under the covers with you. he told you not to wait for him while he closes up the store, told you to catch some sleep because by god you need it, told you a million times and each time you stubbornly refused. the soft light of the nightstand lamp dips your bedroom in golden hues, the book you were reading abandoned somewhere between your pillow and the plush he won for you at the arcade shortly after you started dating in high school. 

osamu doesn’t know how you do it night for night, but you somehow manage to occupy the entire bed in your sleep, laying there sprawled out in nothing but an old shirt of his and panties, tangled up in the blanket and leaving little to no room for him. he scoffs out a quiet laugh while the mattress dips under his weight, his hands gently maneuvering your form snug against him with one leg hooked over his and your head coming to rest on top his chest. he feels you stirring awake, always the light sleeper, and tries to coax you back to sleep with a few kisses on your forehead and hushed sweet nothings against the shell of your ear.

your hand dances across his torso with featherlight touches and he catches it, calloused fingers wrapping around yours, his thumb running soothingly over your knuckles. osamu feels your wedding band–a line of his vows engraved into it–sitting on your ring finger and his heart grows twice in size again, as if trying to make room for you to crawl into if you ever needed a place to hide from the world. some days it still feels surreal, all of it–to call you his, the matching rings, and the polaroids on the fridge from when you eloped a few months ago. someone who loves even the most flawed version of him like it’s easy. the mental image of you saying “i do” with a smile brighter than the sun is carrying him through his darkest days. 

he brings your hand to his lips, kissing the back of it and your fingertips before nuzzling his face into your palm and letting out a content sigh. no matter how weary his bones, holding you like this made it all worthwhile. osamu never took your love for granted; not when you blurted out your confession behind the gym after training, not when culinary school grinded him down and left you with nothing but a ghost of him, not when he proposed with a paper ring made from wrappers of your favorite candy. it’s as if you always see right through him, seeing him for the man that he is–one that’s hopelessly, deeply, endlessly in love with you, only you, forever you.

[everrinsly]

a/n; "god's plan" by drake on repeat again, but what's more fitting is "god's menu" by stray kids bahaha

blurred lines, best friend vibes.

"nah, there are only three women in my life" series.

two women and someone i should've eaten in the womb with miya o. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

more reads!

~~~~~

You hadn’t even stepped inside Onigiri Miya before the scent of smoked soy salmon and Kewpie mayo-ed rice wrapped around you like a warm hug.

The restaurant, already one of Osaka’s culinary gems, was packed to the brim tonight—not only with regular customers, but also with press, food critics, a few dangerously stylish celebrities, and of course, the whole of MSBY (because, as much as Osamu didn't want to admit it, his restaurant was their hang-out spot)—all here to celebrate Miya Osamu's latest achievement:

His first Michelin Star.

The youngest restaurant owner ever to have this privilege.

And to think it all from a humble food stall at sporting events to a full-fledged chain.

Despite the fanfare, Osamu only had one person he insisted on inviting personally. You.

"Wha—what are you doing here, 'Samu? Did you take the late train? And it's cold out... why are you only wearing a hoodie? Do you want anything to eat?"

He had arrived at your doorstep around 10 PM. The train from Osaka to Tokyo took longer than it should have.

Just like old times, when you opened the door, you immediately began fussing over him. Coddled him like a baby—

And shit... he loved it, all of it.

But what he loved more was the pretty little smile gracing your soft lips when you read over the letter from the Michelin Guide. And what he loved, even more, was the hug you gave him when he handed you a personal invitation card—the paper smudged with a hint of onigiri grease, along with a quiet, “I want ya there. Wouldn’t feel right without ya.”

—and so now, you were here. Right by the door of his restaurant. You entered, standing a little off to the side in a hidden booth of a far corner—watching him charm reporters in his deadly compression shirt and apron combo.

You tried not to melt.

He looked so calm, so collected. Hair pushed back, smile lazy, forearms on display—ones that had ruined lives and kneaded rice with the same precision.

Miya Osamu, the culinary heartthrob.

And then, the question came.

“Osamu,” a reporter asked, holding up a mic, “How does it feel to be the youngest restaurant owner in Japan to earn a Michelin star? What’s your secret?”

He tilted his head, a smirk just barely twitching.

“Secret, huh?” He looked thoughtful, but you saw the glint in his eyes.

“I think I owe it to the women in my life,” he said smoothly, wiping his hands with a towel.

The crowd laughed, confused but entertained.

“First’s my mama,” he said with a proud nod. “Raised me and ‘Tsumu right. Taught me how to cook. Kept me grounded.”

He turned his gaze, warm grey eyes landing straight on yours as if he knew right where you were.

(And it's true, it never takes much for him to find you in a crowded room).

“Second’s her.”

Your breath caught; your heart fluttered.

“She’s my best friend,” he said casually. “Been puttin' up with me since we were kids. She taste-tested my first onigiri. Told me the seaweed was soggy. Honest as hell. Shows up to every stall opening. Reminds me to sleep when I get stressed. Can’t do much without her... can't do anything without her, really."

"Awww, that's so cute—"

The Osamu deadpanned, “Oh, the plus one’s my idiot twin.”

“HEY!” came the familiar voice from across the room. Atsumu, dressed to the nines like he had won the award, shoved his way through the crowd, pointing. “What do ya mean plus one?!”

Osamu didn’t even flinch. “Means ya weren’t in the top two, dumbass... and that I should've eaten you when I had the chance in ma."

The room howled with laughter. Cameras clicked furiously. You thought your face might catch fire.

The internet spiraled within seconds. Fan edits of Osamu's eyes finding yours, slow motion gifs of Atsumu's betrayal face, and a trending meme that read: 'Plus One Energy: When your twin gets more camera time for having a girlfriend-shaped best friend.'

It was cute, chaotic, all-encompassing Miya energy that you wouldn't trade for the world.

Later that night, after the reporters cleared out and Atsumu had dramatically sulked off, grumbling something about morning practice—though only after stealing six more onigiris and a few sweet kisses on your cheek "just to annoy 'Samu"—you stood in the quiet kitchen with Osamu.

“You didn’t have to say all that,” you mumbled.

He leaned against the prep counter, arms crossed, watching you.

“Ya, I did.”

You glanced up, cheeks rosy. “Why?”

His voice dropped lower. “Because I wanted everyone to know. You’ve been with me since what? Diapers? Before and after all the volleyball stardom. Before the damn restaurant."

Your breath hitched as he leaned in to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

His voice was soft enough to ruin you. “...Think you can stay after all the restaurant stardom too, darlin'?"

[ghostlynightpanda]

I love your HQ storys! Can you write for Osamu as well? Maybe timeskip like with Kita when Osamu have his own restaurant and meets reader? And maybe at the end or smth reader confused him and his brother?

Closing Time Flirt

English is not my first language, so if you find mistakes, feel free to contact me!

Synopsis: A late-night encounter at Onigiri Miya sparks an unexpected connection between a tired intern and the charming restaurant owner, Osamu Miya. What begins as casual visits for food after long shifts slowly turns into something more.

warnings/content: Miya Osamu x fem!reader, fluff, 6.245 words

The soft glow of streetlights pooled on the damp pavement as you rounded the corner, the distant echo of your footsteps mingling with the quiet hush of evening. The air was still warm from the day, but the fatigue in your limbs made every step feel heavier. Your hospital ID card still dangled loosely from your coat pocket, a stubborn reminder of the twelve-hour shift you’d just crawled out of.

You spotted the familiar sign — Onigiri Miya — nestled between a closed pharmacy and a quiet bookshop. You had never entered the restaurant but had walked past it a couple of times over the last few days. The light was still on. Hope fluttered, small and silly, in your chest. You pushed the door open, the soft jingle above you announcing your arrival.

Inside, the restaurant was mostly quiet, save for the sound of clinking dishes and the low hum of a closing routine. A tall figure behind the counter glanced up, wiping his hands with a dish towel. His eyes — pale and perceptive — met yours, and for a second he looked almost surprised to see someone.

“Sorry,” he said, voice low and even, “we’re closed already.”

You froze mid-step, heart sinking. “Ah… sorry. I didn’t realize.” You gave an apologetic smile, already stepping back toward the door. “Didn’t mean to bother. Have a nice—”

“Wait.”

The word stopped you just short of the door.

You turned.

He was eyeing the takeout containers on the counter beside him, then back at you. “I was just about to pack these up anyway,” he said. “If you’re hungry, I can throw something together from the leftovers.”

Your brows lifted in surprise. “Really?”

He nodded once, already reaching for a clean container. “It’d be a shame to waste it.”

The door swung shut behind you as you stepped back inside.

“Thank you,” you sighed earnestly, settling near the counter. “You just saved my night.”

He didn’t look up right away, but you caught the slight curve of a smile tugging at his lips. “It’s nothin’. Long shift?”

“Brutal,” you replied, rubbing the back of your neck. “Intern hours. First week at the hospital. First week in town, actually.”

That caught his attention. He glanced up, one brow raised. “Ya just moved here?”

You nodded. “Couple houses down the street, actually. Passed by here a few times already. Figured I’d treat myself once I wasn’t running on fumes.”

He chuckled under his breath. “And ya picked five minutes after closin’.”

“Impeccable timing, I know,” you said, grinning.

He packed the food with quiet efficiency, moving with a kind of practiced calm that suited him. As he handed over the bag, the warmth of the container seeped into your hands — simple food, but it smelled like comfort and care.

You reached into your pocket. “How much do I owe you?”

He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

Your brow furrowed. “No, really. I don’t want it for free. You’re running a business, not a soup kitchen.”

He leaned slightly on the counter, smirking. “You’re not gonna let me be generous for five minutes?”

Despite being tired, you easily matched his energy. “Maybe I’m just not used to handsome strangers feeding me for free.”

“Now you’re just tryin’ to butter me up.” He chuckled, amused—though slightly flustered. But after a second, he caught himself. “Leftovers,” he said again. “Consider it a neighborhood welcome.”

You tilted your head. “You always feed strangers who wander in after hours?”

He met your gaze without hesitation, a small, smug grin lifting one side of his mouth. “Only the polite ones.”

You laughed — soft, tired, but real — and gave him another quiet thank you before heading for the door.

“Hey,” he called before you stepped out. “Come by when we’re open next time.”

You looked back over your shoulder. “Maybe I will.”

You left with a full heart, a warm meal, and the faint sense that you’d just stumbled into the start of something worth remembering.

The next day, you found yourself outside Onigiri Miya again — this time with plenty of daylight and plenty of time before your next shift.

The lunch crowd was mild, just a few tables occupied, the air filled with the soft clatter of chopsticks and low conversation. The familiar scent of seasoned rice and grilled fillings drifted toward you the moment you stepped inside. Comfort, now with a face and a name.

You waited patiently in line, placing your order with one of the staff — a young guy with brown hair and a warm smile — and slid a generous tip into the jar beside the register. A little extra. Okay — a lot extra. Enough to cover last night’s meal and still make the jar look pleasantly stuffed.

You’d just settled at a table by the window when you heard it.

“Well, look who came back.”

You glanced up to see the guy from yesterday approaching, wiping his hands on a towel, eyebrows slightly raised. Same calm posture, same faint smirk.

You smiled back. “Told you I’d stop by during actual business hours.”

He leaned a forearm on the back of the empty chair across from you. “Wasn’t sure if ya meant it. Figured I might’ve scared ya off with the terrifyin' offer of free food.”

You scoffed playfully. “Please. I’ve worked double shifts on three hours of sleep. I’m immune to fear.”

His eyes dropped briefly to the tip jar on the counter, then back to you. “Ya left a tip.”

You blinked, a picture of innocence. “Did I?”

“A generous one.”

You took a sip of your tea. “Maybe I’m a generous person.”

He exhaled through a quiet laugh. “That puts me in a tough spot.”

“Oh no,” you said, tone mock-concerned. “A moral dilemma?”

“Somethin’ like that,” he replied, tapping a finger against the table. “If I take that money from my staff, I’m a terrible boss. But if I don’t, it means ya got away with payin’ for yesterday’s food — and I lose.”

You raised an eyebrow, lips quirking. “You’d be cruel if you took it.”

“Maybe I’m a cruel boss,” he replied, mimicking your earlier tone — that teasing inflection wrapped in faux sincerity.

You bit your bottom lip, trying not to grin too widely. “Is it so bad that I like supporting my new favorite neighborhood restaurant?”

He gave you a look — half amused, half defeated — and straightened up. “Fine. You win.”

You gave a mock bow. “Thank you for your noble sacrifice.”

“So, new favorite restaurant, huh? Was my food that good?”

You laughed softly, nodding your head. “I think you know your food is amazing.”

He smirked proudly. “‘Course I do. Doesn’t hurt to hear it, though.”

As he turned to walk away, you heard his voice again over his shoulder. “But don’t think you’re leavin’ without dessert.”

You blinked. “I didn’t order any.”

He didn’t turn around, just kept walking toward the kitchen. “Exactly.”

You watched him disappear into the kitchen, the swinging door settling back into place behind him. A few moments later, one of the staff brought out your order—beautifully arranged, still warm—and set it in front of you with a cheerful smile and a small, “Enjoy.”

You thanked them, and then you did.

The food was exactly what you didn’t know you needed—simple, comforting, perfectly balanced. Each bite melted into the next like muscle memory, like something made by someone who gave a damn. It made you slow down without thinking about it, and you realized with a quiet kind of gratitude that you’d finally exhaled for the first time all day.

Through the narrow window in the kitchen door, you could catch quick, partial glimpses of him as he moved behind the counter—sleeves rolled up, brow slightly furrowed in concentration, movements sharp and practiced. He didn’t seem to be talking much. He didn’t need to. His hands worked with a kind of certainty you rarely saw in people still in their twenties. Focused. Calm. Content.

He looked like someone doing exactly what they were meant to be doing.

You sat with that thought a moment longer, sipping the last of your tea when the door to the kitchen swung open again. He emerged carrying a small tray with a container and a napkin—dessert, clearly—but didn't hand it to you right away. Instead, he set it down and slid into the seat across from you without asking.

He nodded toward the empty plate in front of you. “Guess ya weren’t just being polite about the food.”

You leaned back slightly, smiling. “Not my style.”

He smirked. “Good to know.”

You looked down at the small dessert container and raised a brow. “You always throw in free sweets for persistent strangers?”

“Only the ones who tip offensively high,” he said dryly, then added with a slight shrug, “and maybe the ones who look like they’ve had a hell of a week.”

“Moving to a new city can suck,” you said with a sigh.

He chuckled softly. “Figured as much from yesterday.”

There was a small pause. Not awkward. Just quiet.

“I’m Osamu, by the way. Miya Osamu,” he said, offering his hand across the table.

You took it, his grip warm and steady. “Nice to officially meet you. I’m Y/N.”

He repeated it once under his breath, like he was testing it out. Then nodded. “Good name.”

You tilted your head. “That your professional opinion?”

“Nah,” he said, standing again and grabbing the tray with the empty plate. “Just a personal one.”

You smiled to yourself as he turned toward the kitchen, but he paused halfway, glancing back at you.

“Come by again sometime. Next shift that runs too late, or… y’know. Just ‘cause.”

You stood too, collecting your bag and the small dessert box he’d left behind. “I might take you up on that.”

He gave you a little wave and slipped back into the kitchen, already halfway into his next order.

As you stepped outside, the afternoon sun warming your face, you realized the food had helped—but it wasn’t the only reason your day suddenly felt better.

The weeks that followed fell into a rhythm—if you could call it that.

Long shifts blurred into each other, charts and corridors and back-to-back rounds leaving your feet sore and your thoughts scattered. Some days you barely remembered your own name, let alone where you’d tossed your keys the night before. You were learning a lot but you were tired all the time.

Your new apartment was still mostly a forest of half-open boxes and scattered furniture you swore you’d eventually arrange properly. On your days off—what few you had—you tried to tackle the chaos. A rug here, some framed prints there. Books still stacked on the floor. The kettle finally in a place that made sense. Slowly, it began to feel like yours. Not just a stop between shifts, but a space to breathe in.

And in the middle of it all, like a warm thread woven through the weeks, was Onigiri Miya.

You tried to swing by whenever you could.

Before a shift, if you had an extra fifteen minutes to spare. On rare quiet evenings, if the lights were still on and your legs carried you out of habit. Some nights, you passed by and paused at the door, only to see the chairs already flipped up onto tables and the lights dimmed inside. You never went in then. You didn’t want to push your luck again—not when you knew how much work went into closing up.

But on the days you did catch them open, there he was.

Osamu.

Always behind the counter or moving between the kitchen and the dining area, sleeves rolled, eyes alert but calm. And every time he saw you, his expression would shift—just slightly—but enough. A subtle warmth behind his eyes, the start of a smile tugging at his mouth. Like your presence was something expected. Or maybe hoped for.

"You're back," he'd say with that low drawl, half statement, half welcome.

And every time, he'd bring you something good. Not always what you ordered—sometimes something a little extra found its way onto your tray. A new filling he was experimenting with. A small dessert. Miso soup with a touch more care than seemed strictly necessary.

You never stayed too long. Just long enough to exhale. To eat. To chat, if he had a second to come over between orders. Sometimes it was only a few words. Other times, longer stretches where you swapped stories—about the city, your weird neighbor, his brother who, apparently, was a menace in volleyball form.

You didn’t know exactly what it was yet, this quiet thing forming between the two of you. It wasn’t fast or loud or all-consuming.

But it was steady.

And it felt like something worth returning to.

The street was quiet, save for the low hum of the city settling into night. You walked slower than usual, shoulders heavy from another late shift and the dull ache in your feet creeping up your legs. The kind of tired that lived in your bones.

As you rounded the corner, your eyes flicked up instinctively.

Onigiri Miya.

The lights were dim. The chairs were up on the tables. Closed.

You paused anyway.

Maybe it was habit by now—or maybe just hope. But like the last few nights, the sign on the door confirmed it: they’d already shut down. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and turned to keep walking, pulling your coat a little tighter around you.

You were barely two steps away when the door behind you swung open with a soft creak.

“Oi.”

You turned.

Osamu stood in the doorway, a dish towel slung over his shoulder, the light from inside casting a faint halo around him. He gave you that familiar look—half smirk, half warmth.

“You’re really gonna walk away without sayin’ hi?”

Your tired lips twitched upward. “Didn’t want to bother you. Looks like you already closed up.”

He tilted his head. “I was just playin’ around in the kitchen. Tryin’ out some new ideas.”

You raised an eyebrow. “At eleven at night?”

“That’s the beauty of ownin’ the place,” he said with a shrug. “Anyway, ya look like someone who could use a bite. C’mon in. Be my guinea pig.”

You hesitated—just for a second. But the warm light spilling from behind him, the quiet invitation in his voice... it was easy to say yes.

Inside, the restaurant felt different at night. Still and soft, no clatter or chatter. Just the low hum of appliances and the faint smell of grilled rice and dashi.

Osamu led you to your usual seat and disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he returned with a small plate of onigiri and something unfamiliar on the side—crispy, golden, a little experimental.

“Alright,” he said, sliding the plate in front of you. “No lying. If it tastes weird, I need to know.”

You took a bite. Your eyes widened.

“This is so good.”

A satisfied grin tugged at his lips as he sat down across from you. “Knew it.”

You ate slowly, the quiet between you comfortable. He didn’t say much, just watched you for a moment before leaning back slightly in his chair. “I saw ya, y’know.”

You looked up. “Saw me?”

“The last few nights. Walkin’ past out there.”

You blinked, suddenly self-conscious. “I—yeah. I didn’t want to come in. You were already closed. Didn’t want to be a burden.”

His brow creased slightly, just for a second. “You’re not.”

“I mean it,” you said, gently. “You work just as hard—probably harder—than the rest of us. You deserve your nights off too. I always see you here. It’s like you live in this place.”

He gave a quiet snort. “Feels like it sometimes.”

You smiled faintly, then added, “So yeah… I didn’t want to intrude.”

He shook his head, gaze steady. “That’s nonsense.”

He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his phone, and slid it across the table.

“Here.”

You looked down at it.

“Next time you’re on a late shift and you want somethin’ warm after,” he said, “just text me. I’ll have it ready for you.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “Seriously. It’s not a bother.”

You hesitated only a second before picking up his phone and typing in your number.

When you handed it back, he added with a small smile, “Plus, it’s good for business. If I keep feedin’ you, you’ll never find another favorite restaurant.”

You laughed quietly, warmth blooming in your chest. “Bold of you to assume I’m still looking.”

He looked at you for a second longer, then gave a short, satisfied nod.

“Good.”

It started with food.

You’d text him after late shifts, a short message: “Got out late. Still open?”

Sometimes he was. Sometimes he wasn’t. But more often than not, he’d reply with: “Come by. I’ll heat something up.”

And you would.

You’d arrive to a dim restaurant, front lights low, the doors locked to the rest of the world. But inside, Osamu would be waiting, sleeves rolled, an apron slung casually at his hip, and something already warming on the stove.

The meals were simple. Comforting. Something he’d made a dozen times, or something new he was testing out on you first. You never lingered too long—you knew he was tired too—but those short pockets of quiet and shared space became a rhythm of their own. A kind of ritual, even.

But then the texts started to shift.

One night, you texted: “Rough shift. Is miso soup a medically-approved cure for frustration?”

He responded: “Only if it’s mine. Get over here.”

Another night, it was him who messaged first: “You ever work with a broken AC? Swear I lost five pounds today.”

You sent back: “I’ll trade you for a fifteen-hour trauma shift and an elevator that got stuck with me inside.”

“You win.”

It wasn’t just about food anymore. The conversation bled past menus and late-night cravings. Jokes turned into little stories. Complaints gave way to updates. Some days it was as simple as a shared meme. Other times, it was a photo of something he’d cooked. Or a song he thought you’d like. Or a question about your schedule for the week.

You still came by the restaurant when you could. Sometimes before your shift, other times after, when it was just the two of you. He’d make you tea if you looked too tired. You’d nag him to sit down for five minutes if the kitchen was quiet. He never really listened, but he smiled when you said it.

You caught yourself smiling more too. Not just in the restaurant—but on the way there, or when your phone buzzed, or when you passed a grocery store and saw a flavor of rice seasoning you knew he’d hate.

Your world was still hectic. Your apartment still had boxes in corners. Your shifts still left you drained.

But now, your days ended with something warm.

And someone waiting.

It was just past the lunch rush, and the restaurant had finally settled into a quiet lull. You sat at your usual spot near the counter, picking at the last grains of rice left in your bowl while Osamu leaned casually on the other side, wiping down a tray with practiced ease.

He glanced up when you set your chopsticks down.

“Done already?”

You leaned back with a content sigh. “Yes. Finally got a day off. Trying not to pass out from happiness.”

That earned a low chuckle. “A miracle.”

“Right? I’m meeting up with a few of the other interns later. We’re gonna check out some pubs, maybe try a cocktail that doesn’t taste like regret.”

At that, Osamu raised an eyebrow. “Hope you’ve done your research. Some of the places ‘round here serve jet fuel and call it mixology.”

You laughed. “That bad?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, pointing at you with the edge of the cloth. “Avoid Raku’s. Fancy menu, but every drink tastes like it’s been filtered through a gym sock. And Donny’s Bar? Don’t even get me started. Worst mojito I’ve had in my life—thinkin’ ‘bout it still gives me trust issues.”

You bit back a grin. “So noted. Any recommendations?”

He rattled off a couple names, surprisingly thoughtful about each—where the drinks were decent, which places played music that didn’t suck, and one quiet bar tucked behind a bookstore that you instantly bookmarked in your phone.

“Sounds like you know your stuff,” you said, eyebrow raised.

He gave a modest shrug. “Gotta have somethin’ to do when the restaurant’s closed.”

As you slipped your phone back into your bag, he added, voice a little lower now, “Hey—if anything goes wrong, or if you end up stuck across town or somethin’... call me.”

You blinked. “What?”

“If I’m still here, I’ll come get you,” he said, tone casual, but eyes steady. “Better than walkin’ home alone past midnight after a few drinks, yeah?”

You smiled softly. “That’s really sweet of you. But I’m not planning on staying out that late.”

“Mhm,” he muttered, clearly unconvinced. “People always say that before tequila enters the equation.”

You snorted. “We’re interns, not wild animals. I’m just going for a few drinks.”

Osamu leaned in slightly over the counter, his smirk softening just a bit. “Then do me a favor, yeah? Even if it’s not a late night... stop by after. I’ll fix you somethin’. Good way to soak up the alcohol. Prevents a hangover.”

You tilted your head, smiling. “Is this you caring about my liver or just trying to get me back for dinner again?”

“Bit of both,” he admitted. “Can’t be sure you’re takin’ care of yourself out there. Gotta keep an eye on ya.”

You rolled your eyes, but your grin gave you away. “You’re very persistent, you know that?”

He shrugged with mock innocence. “I own a restaurant. It’s in my nature.”

Still smiling, you stood, grabbing your bag. “Alright, alright. If I’m not dead from bad cocktails or carried off by a mob of exhausted interns, I’ll swing by.”

He gave a small nod, that usual flicker of amusement behind his gaze. But this time, something softer lingered there too.

“I’ll be here.”

The city buzzed gently behind you as you reached the familiar storefront. Your steps were slow, not unsteady, just loose—the kind of relaxed wobble that came with one too many cocktails and an unusual amount of joy after a rare night out.

Onigiri Miya’s lights were still on, the warm golden glow spilling faintly onto the sidewalk. You smiled.

As usual, the sign on the door read “Closed.” Also as usual, you ignored it.

The bell above the door chimed softly as you slipped inside.

Someone sitting at the counter turned at the sound.

“We’re closed,” he called, voice firm but not unkind, brows slightly drawn. 

You blinked at him, a half-smile tugging at your lips. “Very funny, Osamu.”

You shut the door behind you and made your way toward the counter, the familiar scent of grilled rice and miso lingering in the air like a memory. You dropped onto the stool beside him with a soft, content sigh, your elbow brushing the counter as you propped your cheek against your palm.

“You dyed your hair blonde?” you asked, tilting your head curiously, a playful spark in your gaze. “Had too much time on your hands during lunch break?”

The man beside you—who you assumed, of course, was Osamu—flashed a grin. A big one.

“Sure did,” he said smoothly. “Thought I’d try somethin’ new. Keep things interestin’, y’know?”

You laughed, though something itched at the back of your mind. He was… different tonight. The same face, sure. But the grin was sharper, posture more relaxed, voice carrying a slightly different rhythm. Still, your head was buzzing and your body was warm, and he looked close enough to Osamu, so your brain—pleasantly marinated in tequila—filed the weirdness under “not your problem right now.”

“Well,” you said, resting your chin in your hand, “it’s definitely a look.”

He chuckled, turning slightly to face you. “So? Big night?”

You nodded. “Day off. First one in forever. We hit a few bars. There were… shots. Bad music. Worse dancing.”

He snorted. “Sounds like a hell of a night.”

“It was.” You smiled. “And now I’m here. Because I promised a certain overly responsible onigiri chef I’d soak up the booze before bed,” You nudged him with your arm. 

“Well, lucky you,” he said, pushing himself off the stool. “Let’s see what my twin left in the back, yeah?”

As he moved toward the kitchen, you stared after him for a moment, that odd little itch still scratching at your thoughts. The walk was too light. The energy too playful.

You narrowed your eyes, your brain processing his words.

“…Wait a second.”

He paused, glancing back at you with a crooked grin that looked just a little too proud.

“Twin…” you murmured. “You’re Atsumu?”

He turned fully now, bowing with exaggerated flair. “Guilty.”

Your eyes widened. “He never told me you were twins.”

Atsumu flashed a bright, unapologetic grin. “Yeah, he does that.”

You stared at him, momentarily stunned, then let out a laugh. “Well. That explains… a lot.”

“Glad I don’t give serial killer vibes or nothin’.”

“No,” you said, still chuckling. “Just chaotic golden retriever.”

He looked deeply pleased by that.

“Osamu’s in the back?” you asked.

“Yeah, probably elbow-deep in rice. But I’ll make sure he knows you’re here.”

“Good,” you said, smiling. “Wouldn’t want him to think I didn’t keep my promise.”

Atsumu gave you a wink. “He’ll be thrilled. He doesn’t shut up about ya, y’know.”

You rolled your eyes, but your face flushed all the same.

You were about to fire back something witty—maybe even a little smug—when the kitchen door swung open.

Osamu stepped out, towel slung over his shoulder, brow furrowed. “Tsumu, what the hell’s takin’—” His words cut short when his eyes landed on you. His expression softened in an instant. “Hey. You came.”

You grinned at him. “Of course I came. I promised, didn’t I?”

Atsumu leaned casually on the counter between you both, clearly enjoying himself. “She thought I was you.”

Osamu raised a brow, eyes flicking to his brother and then to you. “Seriously?”

“In my defense,” you said, sitting up straighter, “I’m tipsy. And tired. And your faces are the same.”

Osamu sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Don’t lump me in with that menace.”

“Hey!” Atsumu looked mock-offended. “She said I give off golden retriever energy.”

Osamu gave you a look. “You feeding his ego now?”

You shrugged, smiling. “Only a little.”

Atsumu clicked his tongue. “Well, this’s been fun, but I’ll leave ya lovebirds to it.” He grabbed his hoodie from the hook by the door and shot you a grin on his way out. “Nice meetin’ ya properly. Don’t let him bore you with rice talk.”

The door closed behind him, and the room felt just a little quieter—warmer, more familiar.

Osamu moved behind the counter, glancing at you once more with a small shake of his head. “Can’t believe you mistook him for me.”

“I mean…” you drawled, resting your cheek in your palm again. “He was sitting in your spot. And the hair really threw me off.”

Osamu snorted. “Told him not to sit there.”

“Is it your designated brooding seat?”

“Something like that.”

You watched him as he began heating something in the small back kitchen. He didn’t rush, but his movements were practiced—almost meditative. After a moment, he peeked back around the corner.

“Still feelin’ okay? You don’t look too far gone, but I figure I should check before feedin’ you anything.”

You smiled lazily. “I’m good. Definitely still upright. Barely even spinning.”

“Great,” he said dryly. “Give me five minutes.”

You hummed your agreement and let your gaze drift again. The restaurant felt softer at night—quiet and kind, like a space that held secrets. Yours, maybe. His too.

When Osamu came back out, he set a bowl of ochazuke in front of you—rice steeped in tea with bits of grilled salmon and nori sprinkled over the top.

“Eat,” he said, sliding a glass of water beside it. “Not negotiable.”

You picked up your spoon and took a bite. Warm. Comforting. A little salty, a little smoky. It settled something in your chest.

Osamu leaned on the counter across from you, arms folded.

“So,” he said. “First day off in forever?”

You nodded. “And I spent it doing shots and making poor karaoke choices.”

He gave a quiet laugh. “Gotta live a little.”

You looked up at him through your lashes. “And ending the night here with you. Pretty solid choice, I think.”

That gave him pause—just long enough to notice.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, voice softer now.

You took another bite, letting the silence stretch for a moment. It wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt like the quiet after a long day—earned and easy.

“I really like it here,” you said quietly, surprising yourself.

He didn’t smile right away. Just watched you for a moment, thoughtful.

“I like you here too.”

Your eyes met across the counter.

Then he reached into his apron and pulled out a small paper bag, setting it beside your bowl.

You glanced at it. “What’s that?”

“Dessert,” he said, nonchalant.

“I didn’t order dessert.”

“Exactly.”

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. “You and your surprise desserts.”

He just shrugged, that familiar smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Can’t help it. You’re easy to spoil.”

You didn’t have a clever reply this time. Just a full heart, warm cheeks.

It was one of those slower afternoons, the restaurant caught in that peaceful lull between the lunch rush and evening prep. You were lingering at your usual spot near the counter, sipping the last of your barley tea when Osamu leaned across from you, arms folded, that familiar glint of something unspoken dancing behind his eyes.

“When’s your next day off?” he asked, like he’d been waiting for the right moment.

You blinked at him. “Uh… next Wednesday, actually. Why?”

He shrugged, all casual. But there was a little shift in his posture—shoulders straighter, tone softer. “Wednesday’s good. Weekdays’re slow, easier to let my staff handle it alone.”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

His lips twitched up. “To finally do somethin’ with you that doesn’t involve takeout containers or leftover rice balls.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Are you asking me out?”

He gave you a lazy half-smile. “Somethin’ like that.”

A beat passed between you. Then you grinned. “I’d love that.”

You spent the next fifteen minutes spitballing ideas—zoo visit, picnic in the park, maybe even a theatre play in the evening. You could already imagine it: sun, a soft breeze, Osamu in a slightly-too-casual shirt and pretending not to be excited about penguins.

But when Wednesday rolled around, reality looked a little different.

You both met that morning already looking worn down, your body still sluggish from night shifts and Osamu rubbing at the back of his neck with the kind of fatigue only business owners could understand.

He looked at you, exhaled, and chuckled. “We’re a mess.”

“You wanna cancel?” you asked, trying not to sound disappointed.

He shook his head. “Nah. But how ‘bout we trade lions for takeout and theatre for my couch?”

You smiled softly. “Honestly? That sounds perfect.”

So you climbed the stairs above Onigiri Miya and entered his apartment for the first time—not a huge place, but clean and warm, shelves half-filled with cookbooks and old volleyball trophies, and the faint scent of miso clinging to the wood floors.

You both ended up in the kitchen, bumping into each other while trying to cook something halfway healthy. He showed you how to roll tamagoyaki properly, and you teased him about how he took it way too seriously. He countered by flicking a tiny bit of flour at your cheek.

Later, you curled up together on the couch, a volleyball match playing softly on his TV. EJP Raijin vs. Tachibana Red Falcons.

You watched with your feet tucked under you, a blanket across your lap and Osamu sitting close enough that your arms brushed occasionally. His voice was calm as he pointed out a player.

“That one’s Suna,” he said, nodding at the screen. “He always had a weird way of readin’ the court—creepy accurate. Kinda like he sees two moves ahead.”

You leaned in. “The Suna you’ve told me stories about?”

“The very same. We played together in high school. He’s always been like that—barely looks like he’s tryin’, but somehow still outplays everyone.”

“Anyone else you know?” you asked, causing him to point to a Red Falcons spiker.

He grinned. “Aran. Another teammate from back then. Used to carry us sometimes. I mean, I’d never say that out loud,” he added, smirking, “but yeah. He was damn good. Still is.”

You turned to him slightly, taking in his relaxed posture, the faint fondness in his voice as he watched old teammates now living their dreams on screen. You already knew Osamu loved his restaurant—that he’d chosen it over a career in pro volleyball—but seeing him like this, surrounded by memories of both worlds, gave you a deeper kind of warmth for him.

He caught you staring.

“What?” he asked, smirking slightly.

You shook your head. “You really love this, don’t you? The food, the place, your people.”

His gaze lingered on you for a second longer. “Yeah. I do.”

And maybe it was the comfort of the day, or the closeness, or just the way your heart had started quietly aching for him the way it used to ache for home—but you didn’t need anything more elaborate than this.

Dinner half-finished on the counter. A quiet match on the TV. His arm finally, gently resting behind you on the couch as the game played on.

Not the day you planned. But exactly the one you both needed.

The final whistle blew on the match, the screen fading into post-game commentary and slow-motion replays. You didn’t move right away. Neither did he.

The warmth of the blanket pooled around your knees, the room filled only with the distant sound of the TV and the hum of the city outside. Osamu sat close, shoulder to shoulder with you on the couch, one hand lazily draped across the backrest behind you — not touching you exactly, but close enough that your skin could feel the suggestion of it.

“That was nice,” you said softly, voice half-lulled by the quiet.

“Yeah,” he murmured, gaze still flicking over the screen. “Was a good game.”

You glanced over at him. “I meant the day.”

He looked at you then, eyes steady and unreadable for half a second. Then he smiled — slow, warm, just a little crooked.

“Yeah,” he said again, this time more gently. “It was.”

You sat like that for another minute before you gave a reluctant stretch. “I should get going. My place is… well, like a two-minute walk, but still.”

He moved before you could stand. “I’ll walk you.”

You blinked. “Osamu. It’s literally five houses down.”

He gave you a look. “I know. Humor me.”

So you did.

The air was cool outside, the quiet kind of late evening where the world feels tucked in for the night. Your shoes scuffed softly against the pavement. Osamu walked beside you, hands in his pockets, matching your pace.

When you reached your front step, you turned to thank him — something lighthearted already on your tongue — but the words stalled when you saw the way he was looking at you.

There was something still in his expression, like a breath he hadn’t let go of yet. His eyes flicked down to your mouth for just a second before returning to your face. Not hurried. Not nervous.

Just... certain.

You felt it in your chest, the way your heart picked up. “Osamu—”

“I’ve been wantin’ to do this,” he said quietly, “for a while now.”

And then his hand lifted, calloused fingers brushing a loose strand of hair back behind your ear. His touch lingered just slightly on your jaw, as if asking.

You leaned in.

The kiss was gentle — not hesitant, but unhurried. A slow press of lips, warm and familiar, like everything that had built up to it had always been leading here. He tasted faintly of green tea and the sauce you'd made together earlier. His hand cupped your cheek now, thumb grazing just below your eye, grounding and tender.

When you finally pulled apart, it was by only a breath.

You smiled. “Took you long enough.”

He chuckled softly, forehead resting against yours for a second. “Worth the wait, though.”

The porch light buzzed faintly above you, but the rest of the street was dark and quiet. Your world, for that moment, was only the warmth of his breath, the curve of his smile, and the soft promise that this was only the beginning.

Masterlist

[qardenofeden]

contrary to popular belief, osamu miya is not any better than his twin brother, especially when he’s with you.

this must be your fourth date this month, and it’s barely even two weeks in. so, in order to save money, osamu proposes a little life hack. a cheat code, if you will.

“baby, i got this ring at a pawn shop,” he takes a small, rusty ring from his pocket and presents it to you as he continues, “i’ll pretend i’m proposin’ to ya and all ya gotta say is yes, okay? free dinner, easy peasy.”

you sigh, holding back your laughter as you pinch your temple. “‘samu, that’s unethical.”

“whaaaat? no way, come on, baby. we’ll get to go on dates more often if we do this,” he says, and you know you shouldn’t say yes. you should be the angel in this scenario, guiding him towards the right path. the path of the just and the good.

...but then again, why would osamu date you if you weren’t at least a tiny bit similar in terms of thinking?

“fine.”

“hells yeah!” he celebrates, looking around and waiting for one of the staff members to enter your vicinity. luckily, it doesn’t take long until a blonde girl walks to the table next to yours and starts cleaning up the leftover dishes the previous party has left behind.

osamu looks at you, grinning before he gets off the chair and gets on his knee. you cup your mouth with both your hands, seemingly in shock; though in reality, you’re doing it to prevent yourself from laughing like a madman.

“my sweet, beautiful, gorgeous girlfriend. i’ve loved you since i’ve known you, and i’ll love you for as long as i do. will ya marry me?”

and the restaurants’ guests just eat. it. up. the crowd cheers, much like how they do in his games, and they chant “yes, yes, yes!”

“yes!” you burst out in laughter, jolting out of your seat and hugging him. he lifts you up slightly before putting you back to the ground and kissing you, lips soft and at your mercy.

osamu puts a ring on your finger as the crowd yells and howls, and later that night, the manager approaches the two of you and tells you not to worry about the bill.

atsumu’s been rubbing off on your boyfriend too much.

and so this becomes a ritual, though you’re both careful not to overuse it. you reserve it for anniversaries and small celebrations, like his team winning a big tournament or you getting a high score from a grumpy professor.

and though it doesn’t always work, you guys at least get a little dessert on the house.

until one day, when you’re a high end, fancy restaurant. you’re wearing a silk, red dress with so much jewelry, you’re practically shining. the chandelier lights reflect off of his rolex watch, and you both have just finished eating.

“this place is really good, osamu. we should come here more often.” you take a sip of the wine, drinking in delight.

“yeah... hey babe, what’s that?” he points behind you and you turn immediately in curiosity.

“...huh? ‘samu, i don’t see anything,” you turn back around to face him, but lo and behold, osamu miya is down on one knee.

your eyes look around in shock, clearly taken aback. “wha— babe, we didn’t plan this?!”

“i know,” he chuckles, pulling out a ring similar to the one he bought at the pawn shop, except brighter, cleaner. with more diamonds than you could ever even imagine. “my love, i’ve loved you since i’ve known you, and i’ll love you for as long as i do. will ya marry me?”

sure is a good thing osamu’s got practice.

@deardoelle mwah

[haikyu-mp4]

You’re cuddled up in Osamu’s arms one peaceful Sunday morning, lazing under the sheets until you hear Osamu’s stomach growling.

He groans, pulling you even closer, which in turn makes you snuggle into him even more.

“I’m so hungry,” he mumbles. You hum to confirm you heard him but make no further attempt at doing anything about it. “So hungry that… I could eat… You.”

Chomp!

That's the only warning you get before you feel Osamu’s teeth clutch onto the thicker part of your arm, munching loosely and making fake gnawing noises.

“Samuuu!!” you squeal, twisting to try and escape but finding his arms much too strong.

‘My boyfriend ate me out this morning,’ your friend would share later over a glass of wine, definitely bragging.

‘My boyfriend just ate me altogether,’ you would sigh in response.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

masterlist

[noosayog]

[3:47 pm] ft miya osamu

wc: 700

--

When you slam open Atsumu’s bedroom door and plop yourself onto the carpet next to him, he barely looks up from his phone. 

“Ever heard of knocking?”

You lay belly down on the floor and scream into the worn fuzz of the carpet. 

“Gross. You know our bare, unwashed feet walk on this floor right?” 

He offers you a pillow and you take it, squishing it between the floor and your face. Atsumu waits for your breath to run out. 

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Atsumuuuuu…” you bemoan. “I’m going through a crisis.” 

He says nothing, continuing to scroll on his phone but you can tell you’ve garnered some of his interest. 

“I have a secret. Like one that I can’t tell anyone.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s so shameful. I’ve been keeping it to myself for, like, ever.”

“Yeah, I bet I couldn’t guess what it is.” The sarcasm is completely lost on you. 

“Yeah. You’d make fun of me. It’d be material for you to tease me for a lifetime,” you pause, take a deep breath. “I-

“-have a big fat crush on my brother?” 

You gape. “What?” 

He looks up from his phone. He blink at you, like you’re any simpleton. “You,” he says slowly, punctuating each word, ”have a big, fat, embarrassing, crutching, debilitating crush on my brother.” 

“I didn’t even realize you knew so many big words-”

“What?” 

The two of you freeze up. 

“‘Samu!” Atsumu exclaims. “Thought you weren’t gonna be back until later tonight.”

“I wasn’t.”

He gives no other explanation. You stay still, hoping that if you don’t move or breathe, he won’t notice you. The silence stretches.

“Ohhh.. kay. Well, I better go. You kids-”

You jolt awake at that, in disbelief that Atsumu would flee alone after what he’s done.

“I’ll go with!” You turn and run, making monumental efforts to avoid a dark eyes trained on you. 

You’re about to squeeze past when a hand slams against the doorframe, arm now blocking off your exit. Osamu stares hard at you while your gaze stays glued to the exit beyond, though it’s more like you’re staring at his bicep which is now stationed at your eye level. 

“I’m just gonna go…” you hear Atsumu mumble, ducking under Osamu’s arm barrier, stealing your escape route. 

“Jackass-” you mumble.

“Hey.” 

The low voice comes from right above your head.

“Osamu,” you greet, still staring at his arm. “I gotta go. I have plans-”

A finger comes up to lift your jaw. It’s careful, but still forceful. When your eyes finally meet his, the one finger turns into two which grip your chin in place. 

“Was what Atsumu said true?” 

It takes a lot for you to hold back a stutter. “Sounds like you heard him loud and clear to me,” you say, ready to slap his hand away. 

“I did.”

“Then why are you still asking-” 

“If it’s true,” he leans down, talking slowly. It makes you start to hyperventilate. You need a paper bag or something. “I don’t wanna hear it from my stupid brother.” 

His eyes are mesmerizing, captivating. Not even the many, many years of knowing him dulls the effect of his straightforward gaze on you. You think you hear someone concede, “it’s true.” 

“What’s true?” he whispers. He’s so close you feel his words ghost your mouth.

Autopilot talks. “That I have a big fat crush on you.” 

He eats up the next millimeter of space. 

“Yeah?” he murmurs against your lips.

Suddenly, his neck is caged inside of your arms and you’re licking up his familiar minty breath and surely this all isn’t your doing because your brain is still catching up. 

His smile widens against your lips and you can feel the smugness radiate off him. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have interrupted, then.” 

That clears the fog. You shove his shoulders away and try to ignore the fact that he doesn’t go very far.

“Why?” you demand. 

He kisses you again. “‘Cause my brother’s got a big mouth.” 

You tilt your head in confusion. Osamu takes it as an invitation to slot his face better against yours. 

His kiss almost makes you forget your train of thought, but that’s okay because he answers your question anyway. 

“And he probably would’ve blabbed that I have a big fat crush on you too.”

[dearru]

getting stood up | ft. hq boys

-> pairings: miya atsumu, miya osamu, hinata shoyo, suna rintaro, tsukishima kei, iwaizumi hajime x gn!reader | sfw | cw: smau, cursing, they all highkey want u | genre: fluff | mlist

-> synopsis: you text your friend after getting stood up, and he knows exactly how to comfort you.

—a/n: don’t look at me.

[morosluvbug]

osamu miya who falls in love with a picky eater

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[bokutoko]

ᴏꜱᴀᴍᴜ didn’t really have a favorite color.

it wasn’t until he saw you after school one chilly autumn day, your face lighting up with the question, “is that jacket new, ‘samu?”

he nodded—he didn’t think too much of it when he got it for his birthday, so he surely didn’t expect anyone else to notice. “a gift from ma.”

“i like it, it’s my favorite color,” you took in his full appearance, your eyes looking him up and down, “it suits ya.” a cackle escaped you at osamu’s flustered face, only growing louder with him grumbling, “shaddup.” osamu’s biggest tell was always his accent thickening, and you knew it.

as winter came, osamu found himself wearing that same jacket to and from school every day, ignoring atsumu’s relentless “whadda simp” comments, as a part of him hoped you’d one day be chilly enough to need his coat.

and when that day came, with his jacket hugging your figure as you nuzzled in his leftover body heat, osamu found it hard to breathe.

in that moment, he realized he’d found his new favorite color—yours.

a/n: sorry osamu if reader’s favorite color is pink😔 bro’s looking like pepto-bismol.

masterlist | navigation

please do not copy, alter, or repost my work. ©bokutoko 2024.

[kitasuno]

with you, i'm first | miya osamu x reader

in which miya osamu is used to coming second to his brother. but with you, he's always first.

wc: 1113 | gn!reader | fluff

Miya Osamu is used to coming second. 

It starts with Atsumu, like most things do. October is cold and gray and Atsumu comes first, a small body with a large presence that fills the warm hospital room. His cries are loud and he’s a little underweight, but with him comes the sun. 

Atsumu is born under a partly cloudy sky but the nurses swear he was shrouded in sunlight. 

Osamu comes twelve minutes later. His parents are crying and his Ma is close to passing out. If he thinks really hard he can almost feel her warmth, Atsumu’s sobs, and a mumble of prayers that October has safely brought Atsumu and then Osamu.

He asks Grandma one day what the weather was like when he was born. She says, with confidence, it was foggy.

Atsumu doesn’t get along with his classmates. He is too loud and too rash and lacks social cues, and Osamu is angry because Stupid ‘Tsumu cares too little: and he wants everyone to know Atsumu like he knows Atsumu.

They fight and they yell and they argue until Atsumu says, 

‘Samu, I don’t care about ‘em. Why do ya care so much? 

And Osamu throws him across the room. The argument ends there, he says sorry, and Osamu lies awake that night thinking about his brother. Atsumu is hotheaded. And an idiot. A loud snorer, too. But he turns on his side and curls into a ball because he knows it was sunny when Atsumu was born and all of a sudden he really wants to be his brother. 

Atsumu dyes his hair first: it’s a shitty box dye from the pharmacy down the street, and it looks terrible. It’s a little yellow and a little neon, and Osamu laughs until his sides hurt when Atsumu shows him. 

But Atsumu is proud, and he is confident, and he goes to school with a hundred watt smile and a group of girls trailing after him. 

Osamu goes to the pharmacy that night and buys a box of gray, cloudy dye. Atsumu helps him bleach his hair under their bathroom sink with the faulty tap and tells him he looks like the moon.

His Ma says that Atsu is hot and Samu is cold after the two have a particularly bad fight. Atsumu is gleeful and smug as he gloats that he was born to be hotter and warmer and better, and Osamu punches him. 

He remembers his Ma sitting on the porch, an arm around his shoulders as he pouts. 

“‘S not fair,” Osamu had said, his chin in his palm. “Why’d ya name Tsumu that?” 

His Ma had laughed, quietly, leaning her weight into his side. And she had held his cheeks between her palms and told him with a fire in her eyes that Osamu means To Rule. 

He meets you for the first time in February. 

You were standing in front of him, a little sheepish, with a box of chocolates in your extended palms. He remembers feeling something heavy in his chest. Because, yeah, Atsumu was definitely going to accept your confession. 

You had said, IReallyLikeYou, and Here’sSomeChocolates, and Please Accept Them. 

You were shorter than him, and your hair was done nicely, and you were blushing and nervous. And you were really fucking cute. But Osamu is used to coming second, so the only thing that comes out of his mouth is, Why? And then, Tsumu’s in tha next classroom ov’r. 

He doesn’t remember what happened next, only Atsumu’s laugh and the slap echoing through the halls. You leave with his cheeks stinging and hot. And Atsumu had teased him the next day, behind his mountain of chocolates and confessions, because Osamu’s face was still red twelve hours later. 

He sees you a lot the year after. 

You’re in the same class as him and ‘Tsumu, and you smile every time you see him. You sit two rows in front of him and you’re not very good at tying your uniform. Every lunch, Osamu watches you pull out the same gray bento with a wrapped onigiri on the side. He tells you one day that he really likes onigiri. And then, Osamu watches as every lunch, you pull out the same gray bento with two wrapped onigiris on the side. 

With you, it’s always Hi Osamu, first, and then, Hullo Atsumu. With you, it’s an onigiri dropped on his desk when the lunch bell rings. With you, Osamu thinks back to a conversation with his Ma on a porch. 

Osamu means To Rule.

The menu is this: Tuna mayo on Mondays and Thursdays, Ume on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Friday is plain. You don’t ever bring onigiri for his brother. 

He asks you, on a hot night in June, what your favorite type of weather is. You had your knees tucked to your chest, a sparkler in hand, and then told him cloudy. Cold. Foggy. Winter. Snow is nice, too. You say it all with no hesitation. 

Osamu kisses you for the first time that night. 

It’s New Years and you’re cooking Ozoni on the stove. The curtains are open, it’s snowing outside, and Osamu wakes to the smell of miso and the sound of carrots on a chopping board. He gets out of bed, padding to the kitchen with half-lidded eyes and a stifled yawn, and then he thinks his heart stops when he sees you. 

Because what Miya Osamu is not used to is this: coming first and having something unequivocally his. 

But you’re bent over the counter, fiddling with the oven as you read the instructions on the back of the packaged Yakimochi you bought the other day. And you’re wearing his shirt, it falls right below your thighs, your hair is still messy from using his chest as a pillow, and you look beautiful. 

“Mornin’ ‘Samu, come help me with this.” You say, looking back at him with a smile, pointing to the fresh pot of rice on the counter. “You’re in charge of onigiri.”

He hugs you instead, his arms around your stomach with your back to him. 

“But I like yer onigiri,” He says, his chin on your head. His eyes are watering and it must be from the steam of your boiling dashi. 

“‘Samu,” You complain, giggling as he presses kisses into the crown of your head. “I made enough for ya in high school.” 

It’s cold outside and snowing, and Osamu knows he’s going to make the onigiri. 

He also knows that if his name means To Rule, he’s okay with coming second if it means you’re by his side.

[miiyas]

osamu turns his body to face you in the dark room of your shared bed, a frown etched on his face as he wraps his beefy arms around your waist.

“‘yer stomachs growlin’.” he states, breathing in the scent of your lotion that lingered gently on your skin from after a warm shower. you hum tiredly as your thumbs doom scroll across your phone, the lights highlighting your face gently. from your lack of response, your husband sighs and sits up on the bed, tossing the covers away from his side, grabbing your attention away from your phone.

“‘samu ? where’re you going ?” you put your phone away from your face slightly, eyes wide and confused at the sudden action. you see osamus shadow tap the lamp on from beside the bed and run a hand through his bedhead, feet shuffling out of the bedroom without another word to you.

“‘samu ? dude, what are you doing ?” with the sudden ‘dude-zoning,’ you can hear his voice call from … the kitchen ..?

“are ya feelin’ somethin’ light or heavy ?” he calls, causing your brows to furrow in confusion as you slip out of bed, placing your phone down on the mattress. you tiptoe to the kitchen, seeing osamu having his head popped in the fridge. you couldn’t help but stifle out a laughter, the sight of your husband in nothing but a simple shirt and boxers tickled your tired, hazy mind.

“what in the world are you doing, ‘samu ?”

“yer stomach was growlin’ since we got into bed.” he mumbles, picking up a carton of eggs and counting how many was left before placing them down again. “you feelin’ pancakes ? i can make the meanest pancakes, y’know.”

you sigh out a chuckle before moving over to the small dinning table, bringing your legs up to your chest to keep a bit of warmth in your body from after leaving the bed. “i know, ‘samu. i’ll have whatever’s easier.”

“alright, pancakes then.”

osamu pulls out the carton of eggs again and a stick of butter, pushing them on the kitchens island before closing the fridge to find more ingredients. you eye your husband roam around, your eyes fluttering as you drift in and out of consciousness as a soft, content smile lies gently on your lips.

it’s okay, though. because you know that osamu will wake you up when your stack of pancakes are hot and ready. he’ll give you a big kiss on your forehead before sitting beside you, resting his elbow on the table as his head props up with the support of his big hand, a lovesick smile drowning out any sleepiness in him.

[blockedbykei]

𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐄𝐂𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐘 !!

— haikyuu men as your boyfriend (ft. tsukki, tobio, hinata, kuroo, osamu, oikawa, & ushijima)

— a/n: in the midst of writing another fic (spoiler alert: it's kageyama), i've decided to rest my brain and give you an insight as to how the haikyuu men will be your boyfriend lol (lets pretend i didn't just insert my boyfriend's attitude in some of these dudes bc he is as sassy as tsukki and as obsessed with vball as kageyama)

tsukishima kei

- the type of boyfriend to close his fist when you try to hold his hand

- pretends he doesn't know you when you do something embarrassing

- greets you like he's annoyed but he actually isn't, he'll give your forehead a kiss after

- he's very supportive of your clothing, wear a bra and an underwear wherever you go– he wouldn't care. but when he senses the crowd isn't safe, he would constantly remind you to put a hand on your chest when you bend, or put a hand on your knee when you sig

- he gets flustered easily when you giggle whenever you see him use his phone without glasses and look like this -.-

- everyone says he's shy when it comes to pda. and that is so true. he would hold your hand but most of the time, you wrap your hand around his fucking pinky. he would occasionally wrap an arm around your shoulders, or you'd wrap your hands around his arm. kisses in public are chastised into cheeks or temples

- whenever you fight and you go to your room to sulk alone, he walks in without knocking, scooches on the bed beside you, and spoons you. it hurts him to see you cry even if you don't see it in his face, and he'll hold you in silence until you've gathered the courage to face him and talk about it

- biggest gift giver EVER

- he would literally get you anything that you want. you send him a pic of a dress and tell him you want it? he'll buy it for you even if you don't tell him to

- remembers every date of a special occasion, like first kiss, when you said yes to being his boyfriend, all that stuff

- when you're together for a long time, you don't talk that much yet you do your hobbies together. not because nothing's new and fun anymore, but because you've gotten so used to each other that the silence between you was comforting and filled with so much love.

- when you do talk though, you'd think he wouldn't indulge in whatever topic you ensue, but he would actually talk to you like it is the hottest tea in the century

- is a small spoon when he's so needy

- because of his love for strawberry shortcake, he actually knows how to bake it. you have it every weekend. and if he isn't so busy, you'd have it everyday.

- he taught you how to bake it *swoons*

- he smells like strawberries because he uses your perfumes all the time

kageyama tobio

- he smells the ball from far away

- like when you're both on a date or just hanging out outside, the minute he hears that exact sound of a volleyball bouncing on the ground, he will snap his head towards that direction

- LIKE A DOG

- i hc that he knows how to play the piano, so he has one in his room. when you hang out, you lay on the bed and he plays whatever song that comes into his mind

- he's so awkward even if you guys have been together for a long time

- on the court he's all badass but he's actually a loser LMAO

- biggest loser ever but he's so cute though

- like when he asked you out on a date, he was bowing and yelling "PLEASE GO OUT WITH ME" like he's so desperate and pathetic it's so adorable

- he's a good bf tho even if sometimes he's too preoccupied with volleyball. it's you above everything else so if you called him in the middle of practice, best believe he's running to you in a minute

- he's such a heavy sleeper. he sleeps with his eyes open sometimes and it creeps you out to wake up in the middle of the night with him staring at you with half lidded eyes

- when you fight he sometimes cries and will ask u to hold him

- doesn't know social cues sometimes you feel like you're mothering him but in a good way

- awkward kisser too sometimes he forgets to close his eyes

- when he takes a shit, it's always hard. like his poop is hard, so you hear him grunting in the bathroom

- he smells like metal sometimes but when he's at home he smells like markers its kind of addicting

hinata shoyo

- fucking TONE DEAF

- sucks at cooking, prefers your food over anyone else's

- loves cuddling he's such a tiny clingy baby you just want to eat him up and keep him in your stomach

- when you're sad, he goes out of his way to make you smile, even if it includes him hetting hurt

- compliments you ALL the time like he's all "wow baby you're so good at this and that you're so amazing please marry me"

- sticks to your side at every social gathering and will hold your hand the whole time

- he will feel like a literal baby if you're taller than him, and he LOVES taller women i so believe that

- when a match lasts for more than 3 sets, hinata is extremely tired and will pass out the minute he steps foot into your home

- he smells really good, like his skin smells amazing

- will do skincare with u bc he's sometimes as overdramatic as you when he sees red bumps on his face

- loves to give and receive a massage

- he's so chronically online too bc he's influenced by kenma so he's always up to date with all the trends and music. but he's also incredibly stupid with technology

- his phone always overheats

- twitches randomly in his sleep and sometimes he's so messy in bed he ends up pushing you off

- loves to take baths with you and let you play with his hair hehe

- the softest boy ever too like you would both always have a kitten staying in your home until someone can foster or adopt them because there's always a lot of sick strays outside of your home

- has a sweet tooth. his favorite is cotton candy

kuroo tetsuro

- he's actually emo sometimes

- sometimes because not only with his stupid bangs, but because when you're not giving him attention, he will play loud music that will get your attention, sit on the couch, and cross his arms and pout until you look at him

- he's one of those people that will get mad when you touch his hair

- smells like soap

- he treats you like a princess though like when he brings you to his parties he will bring you EVERYWHERE

- like a bodyguard too, will bring all your stuff even if they're heavier than his gym bag

- you're the one to always patch things between him and kenma when they fight because they're like literal children

- asks for your help to get kenma to eat when he plays too much

- a whiny bitch too like he's the type of person that's actually so clean so when he encounters a room that's dirty or a bathroom he thinks is too wet or has too much grime in the tiles, he will gag and pinch his nose (same goes for tsukishima)

- has a good sense in fashion, he dresses you A LOT

- puts your bag on your shoulder and scolds you like a mom

- scared of cockroaches

- literally would climb up a wall and sob when he sees one

- and he's such a good captain too like sometimes you'd see him talking to his teammates and give them advice outside of volleyball. he's their big brother

- he's your study buddy all the time. when he's not too preoccupied with volleyball, you're both studying together

- he cherishes your accomplishments and is always present at your events

- he's close with your friends that sometimes you see him playfully hump your boy-space-friends and moan like he's riding them

- used to be kenma's discord kitten too

- one time, in his drunken state, he showed you a picture of him and kenma in maid outfits during one of kenma's gaming streams, because they were both drunk and in lock down

- whenever you see the matches or hinata, tsukki, or kageyama, kuroo feels proud and tears up at how much they've grown

- loves kids. wants to plant a baby in you.

miya osamu

- when you wake him up in the middle of the night and ask for food, he WILL cook for you

- smells like fried chicken but its alright it smells good either way

- when you go to work, he always packs your lunch

- when you fight, he knows just what to cook to cheer you up

- he loves food so much that you can't remember the last time you haven't eaten, because he ALWAYS feeds you

- when he cooks at home, he wears a pretty pink apron just for you

- listens to music when he cooks, and even when he showers too

- when you have a big social event, he'll volunteer to give a portion of food in your event or actually cater for them

- when he cooks something that you don't end up liking, he is DISTRAUGHT; will do anything for you to like it again because there's no way that he can't feed you something delicious

- sometimes, when atsumu comes over, they both play volleyball INSIDE the house and atsumu sometimes gets too much, but before you could scold him, osamu's already on his ass

- as aforementioned, always expect midnight snacks

- he's like that dude on tiktok who can make everything out of chocolate, except his is onigri. or, well, he can shape anything made out of rice

- one time, on your anniversary, you woke up to a rice shaped like a life-sized teddy bear and it was actually so cool

- you have your own spot in his shop

- and he actually let you design the blueprint for his shop because he wants it to be yours too :(

oikawa tooru

- sometimes you don't know if he's your boyfriend or an opponent at a beauty contest

- he values skincare more than you do like he's buying face masks and exfoliators and everything and you caught him one time sleeping in one of those peel off mask things

- and he cries when you take off those peel off masks

- smells like rich perfume that hurts your nose

- but oikawa takes volleyball seriously. when he lost to karasuno, you caught him sobbing in his bed when you came to check up on him, and he let you hold him until he fell asleep

- that was also when he fell in love with you lol

- before you guys dated, you two were so close that tne girls actually stopped approaching him one time because they thought you were officially his girlfriend after he held your hand during a field trip to the museum because you almost got lost

- sometimes oikawa doesn't know who he's more scared of: you or iwaizume? bc both of you are always on his ass making fun of him and scolding him

- but he cherishes you so much though like he's treating you like his certified baby girl all the time— you're getting fucking princess treatment every single day. you don't remember the feeling of a bag in your hand because he's always CARRYING it

- oikawa is proud to take up the role as your assistant

- and he's also just as sassy as you are

- he's also rich so like you're always on adventures and on dates outside. but sometimes he likes to stay at home and cook for you even if it tastes like shit

- a jealous bitch

- one time a guy asked you for directions and oikawa told him to "turn right and then you'll see a mirror that tells you you're a piece of shit"

- you scold him after that. he doesn't care

ushijima wakatoshi

- bad at social cues

- he's like an old man and you're his social media manager bc why is he texting everyone through EMAIL when sms exists already

- there was that time when he sent you a nude and it went "was thinking of you. I miss you — Ushijima Wakatoshi" AND LIKE??

- he's literally "i'm so happy for you" o_o

- and he is though its just that he's always so dazed sometimes you think he's a robot

- he's a living baby though like he's one to be honest about something that he doesn't realize what he says and you feel embarrassed for him too so you're just kind of like sweetly telling him that it's not nice to say that someone smells like cigarettes or that their breath stinks

- one time, when you and tendou surprise him, you're both caught off guard when he actually jumps– but the thing is that he accidentally hit you with his arm due to his reflexes and you swear you got a concussion after that

- he LOVES CUDDLES and he loves sniffing you and sometimes hes a sub

- smells like rich cologne that actually smells good

- takes you with him everywhere and he has to be with you all the time or else he'll cry his ass out

- decides to be matrilocal too and take your last name when you get married bc he just loves you so much

- before you guys got together, he was always so stoic and silent. and he's so silent that sometimes he suddenly appears in front of you and talks to you like he didn't just almost make you shit your pants

- he also doesnt switch out his phone so when you're in the year 2024, he still has an iphone 7 that's too big for his hand

- his bff is tendou so he's always at your home too and they're watching a bunch of animes and you're just sitting between wakatoshi's legs like you're his stuffed animal