#Osamu

[rosierin]

yer rubbin’ off on me | atsumu, osamu, suna

synopsis; (y/n) accidentally mirrors the twins’ accent and they won’t let it go.

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

When (y/n) first met the Miya twins, she couldn’t understand half the things they said.

They talked fast, used strange words and expression she’s never heard of, and constantly dropped endings from their sentences like it was a race to save syllables. Back then, she’d just blinked politely and pretended to follow.

Now? Now she could understand them a little too well.

Spending years with them in high school was one thing. But living under the same roof? That was a whole new level.

She’d gotten used to their loud hallway arguments, coordinated snack raids, their freaky twin telepathy, even the way they insisted on turning absolutely everything into a competition.

And over time, she started picking up some of their habits.

From Osamu, it was the quiet, practical ones: tapping the lid of a yogurt cup before peeling it off (he says it stops the liquid from splattering), or using a food rating scale out loud—even for the dumbest snacks (“convenience store curry? Solid 6.5. Texture’s mid”).

From Atsumu, it was the mildly chaotic ones—like using her foot to close drawers or nudge doors shut (“why bend down if ya got legs?”), or carrying way too many things at once just to avoid a second trip (she’ll risk it all tumbling to her feet before going back for that one mug).

One thing she never thought she’d pick up was their accent.

Not until today.

They were all chilling in the living room, still in loungewear. A volleyball match was playing on the TV—loud, fast-paced, and dramatic enough to keep Atsumu and Suna locked in, barely blinking. The coffee table was cluttered with mugs, a few snack wrappers, and someone’s hoodie draped over the corner like a flag of surrender.

Osamu sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a recipe book with a pencil tucked behind his ear. Every now and then, he’d pause to squint at the TV, then return to whatever note he was scribbling in the margins.

(Y/n) walked in with a plate of toast and dropped onto the couch with a heavy sigh.

“If y’all are plannin’ on loafing around all day, at least help me with the laundry after breakfast.”

Silence.

Dead silence.

Three pairs of eyes turned to her.

(Y/n) blinked. “What?”

Suna shifted his gaze from the TV, to (y/n). “You just said 'y’all are plannin’.”

“I—” she paused, frowned, then replayed the sentence in her head. “…Did I?”

Osamu looked up, a slow, smug smile spreading across his face. “Well, well, well.”

Atsumu sat bolt upright, mouth hanging open. “She’s usin’ Kansai-ben!!”

(Y/n) groaned. “No, wait—it was an accident.”

“It’s startin’,” Osamu said dramatically, pointing his pencil at her. “Yer becomin’ one of us.”

She flushed, brushing them off. “It was a fluke, guys. Just slipped out. My brain’s tired, okay?”

“I dunno," Atsumu grinned, eyes gleaming. “Next thing ya know, you'll be callin’ people ‘aho’ (idiot) and yellin' 'nandeyanen?!' (what the hell?!).”

“She already does,” Suna added helpfully.

(Y/n) gawked, sitting upright. “No I don’t!”

“Pretty sure you called me 'aho' yesterday,” Suna said flatly, without so much as a glance.

She opened her mouth as she stammered for a comeback—then closed it again, defeated.

Atsumu looked visibly moved, wiping away a fake tear. "'M so proud."

(Y/n) just rolled her eyes, sinking lower into the couch as she pulled out her phone. “Guys, stop. It wasn’t intentional.”

Osamu leaned back, satisfied. “Ain’t nothin’ embarrassin’. I think it’s cute.”

(Y/n) frowned, still trying to hold onto her dignity. “I think you both need to drop it or I'll make you do all the laundry alone,” she threatened—but she couldn’t quite hide the way her cheeks were still burning.

Atsumu pouted. “Whaaat? S'wrong with our accent?”

"Nothin'," (y/n) mumbled.

A beat.

Her eyes widened slightly as the word left her mouth.

…Shit.

The twins exchanged a look, then whipped their heads toward her in unison.

(Y/n) froze. “Wait, no—”

Atsumu and Osamu howled, slapping their thighs like it was the funniest thing they’d heard all week.

Atsumu pointed at her, wheezing. “There it is again!!”

Suna sighed, shaking his head with mock disapproval. “Talking like a real country bumpkin.”

Osamu flashed her a little smirk, raising his mug like he was offering a toast. “Welcome to our world, darlin’.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes and took a dramatic bite of her toast. “I’m movin’ out.”

...

“Guys, I swear—”

“NO WAY!!”

An explosion of laughter boomed around the room.

[dictearchive]

[noorpersona]

Confessions: Osamu

The shop is quiet, bathed in the golden light of the early evening, the kind that settles over wood and stone like a warm sigh. A gentle hush lingers in the space, broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional click of the camera shutter. Most of the chairs are stacked, the door flipped to its "CLOSED" sign, and the scent of vinegar and freshly cooked rice still lingers in the air. You're both still inside—Osamu behind the counter in his slightly wrinkled apron, you crouched near the front display trying to get the perfect shot of a tuna nigiri against the fading light.

You’d met in college—him, a culinary student with arms always dusted in flour or sea salt, and you, a sharp-tongued marketing major who could charm a room with a smile and tear apart a branding pitch in under a minute.

You clicked almost immediately. It started with coffee-fueled group projects, late-night ramen runs, and long, quiet study sessions where neither of you said much but never seemed to want to leave. By the time you graduated, you'd both moved back home, and when he opened up his own nigiri shop, it felt natural to call you in to help make it shine.

Osamu’s had a crush on you since your second year. He’s certain of it. The first time you snapped at him for being late and then bought him lunch anyway, he was done for. But he never said anything—not when you were swamped with internship applications, not when he got too busy building his dream from scratch. He just... kept you around. Close. Safe. Until now.

“You’re supposed to be takin’ photos,” he says, voice low and amused as he leans against the counter, watching you from across the room.

“I am,” you say around a mouthful of nigiri, holding your phone up with one hand, chopsticks in the other. “I’m multitasking.”

Osamu lifts a brow. “That your fancy marketing term for stealin’ my hard work?”

You grin, chewing contentedly. “Not stealing. Quality control.”

He huffs a laugh, arms crossed, apron a little wrinkled from the long day. You’ve been at this for hours—prepping a new campaign for the shop’s upcoming anniversary special, trying to capture the perfect lighting, the perfect angle, the perfect bite. The trouble is, the food is too good. And you’re hungry. And Osamu’s expression every time you sneak another piece is too funny not to provoke.

“Y’know,” he says, walking over to the bar where you’ve made a makeshift photography studio of cutting boards and empty plates, “I could’ve just hired a photographer.”

“Yeah, but they wouldn’t have my good side memorized.”

He pauses behind you, and you feel his gaze on the back of your head before he leans slightly over your shoulder to glance at your camera roll.

“Half these are just you eatin’ food,” he mutters.

“Well, you can tell it's good food.”

“Yer a menace.”

You laugh, the sound bouncing off the walls of the quiet shop. As you're reaching for another piece of nigiri, he eyes you from behind the counter.

“Oi,” he says, pointing a chopstick at you, “I said stop eatin’ 'em all.”

You pop the bite into your mouth with a grin. “Oh, c'mon. This is my payment for staying late and taking these photos.”

Osamu raises a brow. “Yeah, well, you can’t get the damn photos if there’s nothin’ left to shoot.”

You reach forward and pluck another piece off the plate just to spite him.

Osamu throws his head back with a groan, but the sound blends into a laugh—low and unfiltered. His arms uncross, one hand resting on the counter’s edge as he leans forward, shaking his head.

His smile cracks wide across his face, tugging at the corners of his eyes, and for a moment, he just watches you with something helplessly fond behind the amusement. His shoulders lift slightly with each breath, the kind of laugh that takes over your whole body before you even realize it. There’s no trace of the usual teasing smirk, no sarcasm—just the kind of joy that escapes when you stop trying to hide it.

“Hey—stop eatin’ all the—ugh, I love you.”

The words slip out in the middle of a breathless laugh, tangled in warmth and amusement, tumbling into the open before either of you can brace for the impact. His voice trails off at the end, like his brain only just caught up with his mouth—and then the moment hangs.

Still.

Your fingers hover above the plate, chopsticks clutched mid-air, and your smile falters as the weight of what he just said sinks in. The warmth still lingering in your chest twists into something deeper—sharper.

Both of you freeze, suspended in golden light and thick, heady silence. His laughter dies like a flame catching wind.

Your hand stops mid-air, halfway to your mouth. “...What did you say?”

Osamu straightens up like he touched a live wire. “Nothin’. I didn’t—I mean, that wasn’t—”

“No no,” you say, slowly lowering the chopsticks, your eyes narrowing with disbelief and something else—something softer. “Did you just say you love me?”

“I didn’t mean to say it like that!” he blurts, already rubbing the back of his neck. “I was just—ya were bein’ you, and I laughed, and it slipped out, but I do, I mean, I didn’t plan to just—shit—”

You cut off his rambling by stepping forward and wrapping your arms around him in a sudden, fierce hug.

Osamu goes completely still for a second, his breath shallow as his arms remain half-curled like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to hold you yet. Then you feel the tension give way as he exhales against your hair, and his arms tighten around you just slightly, enough to pull you flush against his chest.

You bury your face into the soft cotton of his shirt, the scent of soy and rice grounding you. “I love you too, you moron.”

You feel his breath stutter against your temple, and you tilt your head up just enough to see his eyes—soft, stunned, and a little dazed.

"Took you long enough," you add with a teasing smile.

He huffs a laugh, low and disbelieving, the sound rumbling through his chest. His shoulders sag, relief pouring through him in quiet waves. “You’re not just sayin’ that?” he asks, voice rough at the edges, like he still doesn’t fully believe he didn’t just hallucinate this entire thing.

You grin. “Would I lie to the man who makes me free food every week?”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face before ruffling the back of your hair affectionately. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, but his tone is nothing but fond.

He’s smiling, really smiling, like the kind of smile that lives in the corners of his mouth even after it fades, the kind you remember for days. His hand finds yours without hesitation, fingers curling through yours like he’s done it a thousand times in his head already. You stay like that for a moment—standing in the golden hush of the closed shop, surrounded by the scent of rice and vinegar and the lingering echo of laughter.

“You still owe me promotional photos,” he murmurs against your lips.

You pull back just enough to smile. “Only if I get to eat the props after.”

“Fine. But I’m writin’ you off as an expense.”

[iinoruu]

sweet summer🍒

[jay72664]

Dazai slowly realizing he’s happy

Dazai slowly realizing he doesn’t mind waking up since he gets to see Chuuya’s face.

Dazai slowly realizing he looks forward to going to work since he gets to be around his friends.

Dazai slowly realizing he smiles whenever he opens the bento’s Chuuya makes him.

Dazai slowly realizing he doesn’t dread the night since he gets to spend it with Chuuya.

Dazai slowly realizing he’s not scared to go to sleep, because Chuuya’s right beside him.

[areioshq]

That new key art though… ♨️🍙

[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

[aurabirds]

Miya Twins!

(post time skip-ish, hair is down cuz wet! HC says Osamu and Atsumu still occasionally play together with friends and Tsumu mocks Samu for his rusty skills constantly)

[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.

[st4ringlow]

UNSPOKEN. — osamu miya

pairing; osamu miya x reader wordcount; 548 [rewritten fics]

main masterlist

its ridiculous. its silly.

having a crush on osamu is stupid.

its like hoping the tree leaves turn into money bills. osamu was charismatic, attractive, and always surrounded by people who adored him. he's somebody everyone admires, while you're just some person who happens to be his classmate.

you had harbored a crush on osamu for as long as you could remember, but you were convinced that he saw you nothing more than just a buddy in his class.

the things you've done for a boy you like.

leaving homemade lunches on his desk before he arrived, knowing he stays at the hostel and rarely gets to eat homemade foods. his favourite dishes carefully prepared and slipped away unnoticed. you never signed your name, but you hoped he'd understand the sentiment behind it.

when you overheard him mentioning how he often forgot his notes for class, you began leaving neatly written copies in his locker, making sure the handwriting distinguishes from yours. the next time he was in a bind, he found notes waiting for him, a puzzled yet grateful look on his face. it warmed your heart to see him using the notes you had thoughtfully prepared.

you learned his favorite snacks and quietly stocked his locker with them. you noticed the slight smile he had when he found his preferred treats waiting for him. it was your way of being close to him, even if he didn't know it was you.

despite your efforts, you were questioning if it's all worth it.

"am i being a creep?" you ask out of nowhere, staring into the ceiling. your friend raised her eyebrows, eyes still glued to her phone. "why'd ya ask that?"

"nothing, it's just— i dont think my efforts are being paid off,"

your friend shrugs, eyes found to meet yours. "girl, listen. if yer willing ta do it, ya also have a will ta stop,"

maybe she is right.

and so the operation of 'uncrushing osamu miya' starts. no more homemade lunches, no more written notes, and no more snacks in his locker. your heart felt a little sad, but it is for the best. osamu miya is out of your league anyways, you thought as to reassure the heart. avoiding osamu miya has never been hard to do, considering how the both of you have never really talked. and you dont know if your head is messing with you, but you swore you caught osamu staring at you a few times. was your heart that broken it starts making hallucinations?

few days passed and you think you're doing very well, really well that you can finally accept that he's not the guy you can get. so tell you why, when your friend had her earphones on while walking, a breathless osamu pops out infront of her, blocking her way with his arms wide open as he catches his breath. geez, has this guy been sprinting?

"i need ta' know where y/n is,"

"sorry?"

"the love of my life, tell me where she is," osamu said, his breath were ragged, each punctuated by a gasp for air.

"oh," is all your friend could reply.

before she knows it, osamu spotted your walking figure from a distance, and he had never moved in such urgency.

[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.

[rosierin]

the other twin | atsumu, osamu

synopsis; the miya twins fight. that’s nothing new. but this time, it’s different. the words hit deeper. the silence lasts longer. and when it all boils over, (y/n) is left standing in the middle of it, heart hurting for both of them. it’s messy. it’s loud. it ends with tea, a quiet couch, and something almost like healing.

a/n; icl im rly proud of this one guys. prepare for emotional whiplash

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

The apartment was tense tonight, blanketed in a silence too thick to ignore.

Not the kind of silence that meant peace, or rest, or warmth—but a taut, fragile silence, stretched so tight it buzzed beneath her skin. The hum of the kitchen light was the only real sound, too loud, like it was trying to fill the space between words no one dared say.

Osamu stood at the stove, arms folded, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the front door. (Y/n) sat curled into the far corner of the couch, legs tucked up, phone in hand but long forgotten. She kept her back to the kitchen, but she could feel the tension radiating from Osamu, like heat off a stove left on too long. Across from her, Suna scrolled idly through his screen, though his thumb hadn’t moved in minutes. He looked relaxed, but she knew him well enough to spot the tension in his shoulders. The weight of something coming.

They’ve been waiting. For a while.

Dinner’s cold. Again.

She tried not to check the time. She tried not to wonder if Atsumu was even coming home.

The click of the front door unlocking made her flinch.

Atsumu stepped inside, shoulders tense, hoodie damp with sweat and rain, gym bag slung over one shoulder. She heard the door, heard the way he kicked off his shoes like he wanted them to hit something, make a scene. She didn’t need to turn around to know he was pissed.

No greeting. No apology, either. Just the weight of his presence filling the room like a storm cloud.

Osamu’s voice cut through the air, low and sharp. “You ever think about showin’ up on time for once? Or are we just all on Atsumu Time now?”

Her heart clenched, and she shifted slightly on the couch, resisting the urge to glance over her shoulder. She didn’t want to see the look on Osamu’s face—not yet.

Instead, she glanced at Suna, whose eyes momentarily lifted from his screen.

Atsumu scowled without turning. “Fuck’s yer problem? Tough day makin’ rice balls or what?”

Osamu inhaled through his nose. Tried to keep a lid on it. “Don’t start, 'Tsumu. You've had a long day, we get it. So have I.”

“What’s so hard about yer job?” Atsumu muttered, voice already growing sour. “All ya do is cook rice. Ain’t exactly rocket science.”

The insult made her stomach twist. Without thinking, she nudged Suna with her knee—a silent question, or maybe a plea. One that asked, Should we say something? Should we intervene?

Osamu didn’t reply at first. His hands twitched at his sides. “I’m not in the mood, Tsumu.”

“You started it,” Atsumu shot back. “I just walked through the door and yer already houndin’ me about punctuality.”

“Cause it’s inconsiderate,” Osamu said tightly. “You know how many times we’ve had to wait for ya to come home without so much as a text update?”

“Nobody’s askin’ ya to wait for me,” Atsumu said with a shrug. “I don’t need to eat with you guys.”

Ouch. That one landed somewhere deep in her chest.

(Y/n)'s shoulders sagged.

It wasn’t aimed at her—he didn’t even look her way when he said it—but it still stung. The words settled in her stomach like stones, heavy and cold. They always waited. Not because they had to. Because they wanted to. She wanted to.

Because it felt like a small piece of something solid in a world that kept spinning.

Osamu's expression twisted. “No, but have ya considered that we all wait for ya because it’s nice? Maybe we do it for yer sake. So ya don’t hafta eat alone every other night.”

Atsumu scoffed. “Will ya lay off? Ya don’t need to coddle me like I’m yer kid. I don’t care about eatin’ with ya.”

(Y/n)’s throat felt tight. She glanced toward the plate Osamu had prepped and reheated—now untouched and congealing on the counter.

“Right. Course ya don’t,” Osamu muttered, quieter now. Something about his voice made her shift in her seat. It was the tone he used when he was done pretending. When he meant it.

There was a long pause. She didn’t breathe.

Then Osamu looked up.

“Ya know, ever since ya made it to the big leagues, you’ve been nothin’ but a self-centred prick,” he said flatly. “Even worse than before. Ya finally make it pro and think yer hot shit—just 'cause people scream yer name when yer own the court. Big deal.”

Atsumu’s gaze snapped to him, lip curled.

“Ya jealous or somethin’? Do yer customers not praise yer cookin' enough? Mum and Dad not tell ya how good of a job yer doin’? Don’t they mention how proud they are, hm?”

The insult was laced with something meaner than usual. Something designed to wound. (Y/n) hadn't missed how he'd sneered at the word 'proud'.

Osamu’s laugh came out bitter and hollow.

“Ya wanna talk pride? I’m not the one who spent ten years chasin’ validation from strangers who don’t give a single fuck about me.”

“Don’t act like yer above it, Samu. You quit. You walked away. That ain’t noble—it’s convenient. You ain’t better than me just ‘cause ya chose a different path in life."

“It ain’t about quittin’,” Osamu shot back, voice climbing by the word. “It’s about growin’ up. Somethin’ ya clearly haven't figured out yet. I chose a different path, yeah—but it doesn’t mean I’m bitter about it.”

“Well clearly, ya are!” Atsumu’s voice cracked. “’Cause ya always do this—act like yer better. Like volleyball’s some big childish fantasy I should’ve grown out of. Ya treat me like I’m just some immature, fame-chasin’ loser.”

(Y/n) felt like she was shrinking into the couch. Her hands were cold.

This wasn’t just a fight. This was years of resentment spilling out into the open. This was the kind of thing you don’t come back from clean.

Osamu’s words came out sharp. A blade laced with raw vulnerability.

“No. It’s the fact that ya said you’d support me when I opened the shop. Ya promised. Then ya ghosted every time I needed help—‘Sorry bro, got practice,’ ‘Got a flight,’ ‘Maybe next week.’ Ya never showed up.”

Atsumu barked a laugh that sounded more like defence than humour.

“Because ya made it clear I didn’t belong there! Like I was just in the way!”

“You’re my brother,” Osamu bit out. “Ya could’ve been in the way all ya wanted, I wouldn’t have cared—as long as you were there.”

Atsumu looked like he was about to say something else—but something in his face faltered. His chest was heaving, eyes glassy and bright.

“Don’t ya drop this on me now,” he said, voice shaking. “Ya never once said any of that. Ya just sat there with that smug, quiet judgment—like you were waitin’ for me to fail or somethin'.”

Osamu stared at him, face unreadable.

“If I was ever smug,” he said, almost too quietly, “it’s ‘cause I had to swallow my fuckin’ pride and cheer for someone who made me feel like less every time he walked into the room.”

Atsumu scoffed—dry and bitter, like he was already bored of the argument.

“Whatever, Samu. Yer ramblin’. I never did any of that.”

And then, like he hadn’t already ripped enough open, he said it.

“You were always just the other twin, y’know that? The one they forget about.”

He didn’t stop there.

“That’s why you opened a fuckin’ rice shop. Only thing you could do where no one’d compare you to me.”

Silence.

Dead, thick silence.

(Y/n)’s body didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Her pulse pounded against her ribs like a warning, every beat echoing in her ears like thunder. It was the kind of silence that made her stomach twist. The kind you never forget.

Osamu’s voice broke it, flat and sharp like splintering glass.

“…What’d ya just say?”

Atsumu didn’t even blink. He just shrugged—slow. Venomous. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

And (y/n) thought maybe… maybe that would be it.

That maybe, somehow, the argument would just burn itself out right here. That they’d take a breath, walk away. Slam a door, maybe. Go to their rooms, sulk, ignore each other for the night. Maybe they’d go to bed angry—but alive. Whole.

She prayed for it. Please.

Her heart hammered in her chest, throat tightening with something close to panic. She didn’t even realize when she’d started gripping Suna’s sleeve, or when he’d silently threaded his thumb over her hand in slow, grounding circles.

But of course… of course Atsumu couldn’t let it go.

Couldn’t walk away, couldn’t end it without getting the last word.

And so he gave one final jab—sharp and deliberate.

Just because he could.

“Insecure prick.”

(Y/n) flinched like she’d been slapped.

Then everything happened at once.

The scrape of a chair against tile.

The sudden burst of footsteps.

Osamu’s snarl—raw and animal.

“You wanna say that to my fuckin’ face?”

She turned instinctively, practically scrambling to look over the back of the couch, and the moment she did—

Her breath caught.

Tears sprang to her eyes before she could stop them.

Osamu had Atsumu by the collar, knuckles white where they clenched his hoodie. His eyes were blazing—burning—with a rage she had never, ever seen on him before. His lip curled into the most vicious snarl she'd ever seen on a man, and for a split second, he didn’t look like Osamu.

He shoved him.

Not a brotherly push. Not roughhousing.

A taunt. A challenge. Hard enough that Atsumu stumbled backward into the kitchen table, his hand shooting out to catch himself. His eyes were wide, disbelief flashing across his face—but Osamu was already closing in.

His whole body moved like it had made the decision without him.

"Well?" Osamu’s voice was low, dangerous. "Where’s that loud mouth of yers now, huh?"

Atsumu straightened, rage flooding back into his expression. “Go ahead, then. Hit me. Bet it’d feel real good to finally win at somethin’, huh?”

Another shove—harder. The echo of it cracked through the apartment like a gunshot.

Then Atsumu lunged, fists curled, shoulders tense with instinct and fury.

Suna was on his feet in an instant.

Fast. Controlled. Silent.

He moved like he’d done it before—like he’d been in this moment before—and grabbed Atsumu by the collar, yanking him back with one solid motion that broke the momentum completely.

“Enough!” Suna snapped, voice harsher than she’d ever heard it.

Atsumu stumbled. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, red blooming across his face. Osamu didn’t back off. His fists were still clenched. His chest rose and fell like a war drum—like his body hadn’t registered the stop yet.

His hand twitched.

Like he still might swing.

That was when (y/n) moved.

She didn’t think. Didn’t decide. Her body just acted—rushing forward, slipping past the couch and across the room before she even knew what she was doing. All she could feel was the crushing weight of panic pressing against her chest, breath caught somewhere between her ribs.

“Stop it, please—just stop—” her voice cracked as it left her. She reached out blindly, fingers trembling, eyes glossy with unshed tears. “Osamu, stop—”

Her hand closed around the fabric of his sleeve.

And then he moved.

Just the smallest shift—his foot sliding forward, his body leaning in like he hadn’t finished what he started.

But it was enough.

She flinched.

It wasn’t dramatic, just a jolt of instinct—a tiny pull-back, a muscle reaction that betrayed something she hadn’t even processed yet.

And that—that—was what finally broke him.

Osamu froze.

His head tilted just enough to really look at her, and whatever fury had lit his eyes minutes before drained out in an instant. What replaced it didn't look like rage. Nor pride. It was something smaller. More fragile.

Something shifted in his face. Like he’d just seen something he hadn’t expected. Maybe the fear in her eyes. Maybe the way she’d pulled back. The way her hand hovered now instead of holding him. The way she’d looked at him like he might actually hurt someone.

Regret.

His shoulders dropped as if something inside him had been holding them up, and now… now it was gone.

His hand fell slack to his side. His expression crumbled, jaw loosening, lips parting like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

Behind them, Suna let out a breath—one that sounded more like a warning than relief.

“You two need to grow the hell up,” he muttered, still standing between them like a referee waiting for the bell to ring again.

The room fell silent.

The kind of silence that felt wet—like a storm had passed through and soaked everything in its wake. The air didn’t move. No one did.

The front door slammed so hard behind Atsumu that the frame rattled.

(Y/n) stayed frozen for a second. She didn’t even realize she was shaking until her hand brushed against the edge of the table behind her, searching for something solid. Something grounding. She curled her fingers around it and let out a slow, uneven breath.

Osamu didn’t move. Not right away. He just stood there, shoulders hunched like the weight of what just happened was finally setting in.

Then, quietly—so quietly it almost didn’t feel like him—he spoke.

“…I didn’t mean to scare ya.”

Her voice was soft. Still caught in her throat. “I know,” she murmured. “I just—” She exhaled, slow and unsteady. “I’ve never seen you like that before.”

Osamu swallowed. She saw the movement of his throat, the tension in his jaw that hadn’t fully left.

“I ain’t proud of it.”

He still wouldn’t look at her. He turned away, walked into the kitchen like he needed something to do—something to fill the space his anger had left behind. He opened drawers. Closed them. Opened them again. The rhythm of it was clumsy, like he couldn’t remember what he was looking for.

Suna sank into the couch behind her with a quiet groan, rubbing both hands over his face.

“Two idiots,” he muttered, voice muffled. “Raised in the same damn womb and somehow still managed to miss every one of each other’s signals.”

Another silence.

This one less charged. More… tired.

Osamu finally stopped moving. He leaned against the counter, hands braced on either side of the sink. Then his voice came again—quieter now. Not cracking, but close. Like he was speaking around something he didn’t want to let out.

“…He really thinks I look down on him?”

(Y/n) felt her chest tighten again.

“I don’t think he means it,” she said softly. “He’s just… hurt. And insecure. And too stubborn to say either out loud.”

Osamu was quiet for a long moment.

Then:

“…He’s not wrong.”

Her breath hitched.

“I was jealous. Still am, sometimes.”

He picked up a knife and a half-chopped onion from the cutting board, like he needed something to keep his hands busy. He started chopping. Too fast. Too hard. The blade hit the wood with a sound that made her flinch again—but he didn’t seem to notice.

“But not 'cause he’s better,” he muttered. “Just ‘cause… he still gets to chase somethin’ he loves. I stopped. And I tell myself I’m okay with it, but sometimes... I dunno if I am. What if the path I choose ain't the right one.”

There was nothing left to say for a moment. Just the sound of the knife hitting wood. The wet sound of the onion breaking down. The soft sniffle (y/n) tried to hide behind the sleeve of her sweater.

Suna glanced toward the door.

He didn’t look worried. Just tired. Like he’d seen this play out before.

“He’ll come back,” he said, voice quiet. Certain. “He always does.”

(Y/n) didn’t respond. She just nodded, barely.

Her legs moved on their own, carrying her back toward the couch. She sank into the cushion beside Suna with a quiet exhale, body curling inward. And then, before she could think her way out of it, she leaned into him—shoulder first, then chest, then the full weight of her pressing into his side like a dam finally cracking.

The tears came quick.

No warning. No breath to brace herself.

Just a wave of everything. The tension, the fear, the ache of hearing them fight like that. Of seeing Osamu like that. Of seeing Atsumu like that.

It poured out of her before she could stop it—but she tried. She buried her face in Suna’s hoodie and bit her lip, trying to keep the sound down. She didn’t want Osamu to hear. Didn’t want to make it worse.

Suna didn’t say anything at first. He just wrapped his arms around her, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other moved in slow, calming strokes down her spine. He smelled like shampoo and the faintest trace of miso.

“Hey,” he murmured, lips close to her temple. “It’s okay."

She shook her head into his chest.

“I hate it when they fight,” she whispered, her voice watery and cracked. “I hate it.”

“I know,” he said, so gently it almost broke her more. “I know. Me too.”

He kept smoothing her hair down, over and over, like he was trying to brush the memory of it all away.

“They’ll be alright,” he said after a beat. “They’re too stubborn not to be.”

She didn’t know if he meant it or if he was just trying to comfort her—but either way, she let herself believe it for now.

And she stayed there, curled against him, eyes closed and heartbeat finally beginning to slow, while the apartment fell into something resembling stillness again.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The apartment was quiet again.

Not tense like earlier—just quiet in that way only late night could be. Everyone had retreated to their rooms after dinner-that-never-happened. Osamu hadn’t said much else. He just disappeared down the hall and shut his door with a quiet click.

Atsumu still hadn’t come back.

(Y/n) lay curled on her side, duvet pulled up to her chin. Her phone rested on the pillow beside her, screen dim but unlocked—no notifications.

It had been hours.

She blinked at the screen for what felt like the hundredth time, then reached over and finally typed:

You: atsumu please come home im worried where are you

She stared at the message. Thought about deleting it. Thought about saying something lighter, something less… honest.

She decided against it in the end.

It sat there, unread. The minutes crawled. The longer it went unanswered, the tighter her chest became. Every creak of the apartment made her glance toward the door. Every car on the street outside sent her hope spiking, only for it to crash just as quickly.

She was just about to turn off the screen when the typing dots finally appeared.

Then:

Tsum: sorry im omw back now needed to cool off samu up?

Her breath caught, then released in a shaky exhale. She clutched her phone tighter, replying fast with trembling fingers.

You: no. he’s sleeping. i’ll wait for you to come home want a tea?

A beat. Then:

Tsum: ty sweetheart <3 yh please sth floral

Her lips twitched. Warmth returned to her chest like someone had unclenched a fist there.

You: no worries tsum lol okay chamomile it is

She set her phone down on the mattress with a shaky breath, staring at the soft glow of her bedside lamp. The room was far too quiet for her liking and she could still feel the tension in her limbs, the way it had been sitting there all night like static in her bones.

The clock on her nightstand blinked past midnight.

With a quiet exhale, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood. Her legs ached from being curled up too long, knees stiff as she shuffled across the room. She pulled her hoodie tighter around her and slipped into her slippers, the fabric whispering softly against the wooden floorboards.

She cracked open her door.

The apartment was still. Dark. Peaceful in a way that didn’t quite feel settled—like a house still holding its breath after an argument.

She padded downstairs in silence, arms wrapped around herself, guided only by the faint glow of the kitchen’s under-cabinet light. She flicked on the kettle, its hum breaking the quiet, and moved through the motions without thinking—tea bag into the mug, sugar the way he liked it, hands curling around the ceramic to leech whatever warmth she could find.

She left the mug on the counter to steep and turned toward the hallway—

And then she heard it.

Keys.

A soft jingle at the front door, followed by the familiar click of the lock and the squeak of the handle turning.

He was home.

The second he stepped inside, (y/n) ran to him.

Not walked. Not paced.

Ran.

She threw her arms around him with a suddenness that knocked the wind out of both of them.

“Oof,” Atsumu exhaled, voice muffled in her hair. His arms flinched at his sides, caught off guard by the impact. But then they came up slowly, winding around her back. Holding her there.

“Hey, you,” he said softly.

She didn’t answer. Just buried her face in the front of his hoodie, breathing him in like she’d been holding her breath all evening.

He smelled like rain and warmth. Like old fabric softener, the gym, and the faintest trace of something citrusy and clean—his shampoo, maybe. Finally—finally she allowed herself to breathe. To inhale the sweet scent that made her eyes sting and her shoulders finally relax.

“Bout time you came home,” she mumbled into his chest.

“I know,” he murmured. “’M sorry.”

“You better be.”

He chuckled, quiet and sheepish. “Missed you too, y’know.”

She pulled away first, her arms trailing down his sleeves before letting go completely. “C’mon,” she said, tugging gently at his wrist. “Tea’s ready.”

In the kitchen, she passed him the mug with both hands like it was something precious. He took it without a word, just smiled—tired, soft—and leaned his hip against the counter while she rinsed her own glass.

“Your hair’s still damp,” she said, glancing at him from the sink.

“Walked around for a while. Didn’t notice the rain.”

“You want a towel?”

“Nah. The hoodie’s doin’ the job.”

She rolled her eyes, but the fondness behind it made the moment feel lighter. Easier.

When they returned to the living room, she flicked the lamp down to its lowest setting. Just enough to see each other, but dim enough to feel safe. She curled up on the couch first, legs tucked beneath her, blanket pulled over both of them as Atsumu sank down beside her with his mug in hand.

It was quiet for a moment.

The steam from his cup rose and curled between them, catching the light like something magical. Her own sat comfortably between her fingers.

“Thanks,” he said, voice husky. “For the tea. And for… y’know. Textin’. Waitin'."

She nodded, absently tapping her nails against the ceramic. “You scared me.”

He looked down at his mug, fingers tightening around it. “Yeah,” he said. “Scared myself too.”

“You and Osamu…” she trailed off, voice soft. “You’ve fought before. But never like that.”

“I know.” He took a sip, eyes still downcast. “Believe it or not, that wasn’t the plan.”

She smiled faintly. “It never is.”

“I just… I saw red. And I was already so wound up. Then he had to go and say that—” He stopped, jaw working. “He really pissed me off."

She didn’t push. Just let the silence stretch between them before breaking it.

“I hate seeing you like that,” she said finally, her voice soft but sure. “Both of you. It’s like watching something split right down the middle, and I don’t know how to hold either half together.”

Atsumu didn’t answer right away. He just sipped his tea again. Then, with a sigh:

“He thinks I don’t care about him,” he murmured. “Thinks I’ve left him behind.”

“Have you?”

He looked at her—not defensive, not offended. Just tired.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered. “I never meant to make him feel like that. I just… I kept movin’. Kept chasin’ stuff. And I guess I thought he’d understand. That he'd have his own thing goin' on and wouldn't care."

“You’re allowed to chase what you love,” she said. “That's not the issue. And sure, 'Samu's got his own career but... sometimes people still need to hear that you care. That they still matter.”

He nodded. Slowly.

“I said some real shitty stuff tonight.”

“Yeah,” she said gently. “So did he.”

“I should apologise.”

“You should.”

He leaned his head back against the couch, eyes closed.

“It’s just hard, y’know? When you’re always buttin’ heads with someone who looks like you, talks like you… was born three minutes after you.”

She smiled at that. “But you’re not the same. That’s what makes you both special.”

He opened his eyes again, and for once, he didn’t hide behind a grin or a shrug. He just looked at her—weary, raw, and grateful.

“Ya always say the right thing.”

She ducked her head slightly, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. Compliments from him always landed a little clumsy—like they stumbled into her chest before she was ready.

“Nah. I just say what you won’t.”

A quiet pause settled between them. She kept her eyes on the steam curling from her mug, but she could feel him watching her—the weight of his gaze thoughtful, warm.

His voice came softer this time, almost tentative.

“I meant it, by the way.” (Y/n) glanced up, brows lifting slightly. “That I missed ya,” he added.

Something softened in her chest. She bumped his knee with hers, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I know.”

The blanket shifted slightly as she leaned her head on his shoulder, and he rested his cheek against the top of her head, their mugs cooling in their hands. The room hummed with warmth and things unspoken. Between them, between the brothers.

It was messy, still a little raw. But it was better. And for now, that's all (y/n) could ask for.

[wordsofelie]

when you started dating atsumu, you didn't realise it meant getting to know not one, but two people. you've been together for a little over a month now and even if you haven't yet met osamu, you sometimes wonder which twin you actually know better.

logically, it should be your boyfriend, right? but then one evening, while cooking red beans, you pause and think, ‘ahh osamu probably wouldn’t love that seasoning’. that's when it hits you—your boyfriend has the habit of bringing up his brother way more than he’d ever admit. only a few weeks into your relationship and you’re already stocked with random facts like: “ya know ‘samu loves matcha cookies, but it's disgustin' right? chocolate cookies are just better” when you’re at the grocery store. and “those are 'samu's favourite snacks. he hit me once just 'cause i ate 'em. they're not even that good. he's such a dickhead.” when you're watching a movie.

every time, he insists on the fact that he likes the exact opposite of whatever osamu does. but you don’t say anything. because, well—deep down, you realise that's just his way of loving his brother, fondly and absolutely.

so when you finally meet the infamous osamu for the first time, you make sure to prepare him his favourite dish (too bitter to atsumu's taste), get his favourite beer (“'samu loves kirin, i prefer asahi!”) and even light a candle with his favourite scent (apple pie; even though atsumu would have chosen salty water).

“that's so good. how’d ya even know i liked that?” osamu asks, his eyes wide.

you steal a glance at your boyfriend, who’s completely clueless, and smile.

“hmm, just a lucky guess.”

[shoyospikes]

I hope the haikyuu fandom never dies

that's all thanks for coming to my ted talk goodnight everyone

(⁠◠⁠‿⁠・⁠)⁠—⁠☆

[makkir0ll]

private chef! osamu x ceo!reader.

you hired him because you had little to no time to make healthy meals, living off of microwave ramen most of the time. incredibly unhealthy so you hired a private chef. you didn't see him often, only in the morning for a couple of minutes as you ate your breakfast and occasionally he would stand across the counter preparing your lunch.

you can't deny that he's cute, brown hair and big biceps that are constricted from his black compression shirt, the way his muscles are flexed every time he moves. his cooking skills are an added plus. you thank whatever angel is watching over you to give you such a hot man who can cook your meals. but obviously, you had to keep it professional but that doesn't stop you from ogling at him and he doesn't notice either so there’s no harm. (he has noticed.)

and he's not one to complain either. he particularly likes it when you come home late. hair in a messy bun, the first couple of buttons from your work shirt unbuttoned a little bit and at certain angles he can get a peek of the lacy black bra you decided to wear that day.

but his top favorite is when you come out of the shower on those late nights, dressed in your victoria secret silk pajama set, hair wet, and cheeks red from the heat of the shower. you smile softly at him as you take a bit of the dinner he cooked that night and he always falls to his knees weak at the sight of your smile rather than the usual scowl on your face due to the annoying people you have to deal with at work.

and when you fall asleep on the couch as he cleans up the dishes he freezes, he's never seen you so peaceful. would it be breaking boundaries to carry you to your bed? no he thinks, i mean you back would hurt if you slept here all night he justifies as he slowly picks you up and places you softly on your bed.

one day he will get to do that and sleep with you in his arms. but right now he had to plan out your breakfast for tommorow.

@cottonlemonade bc it’s infesting my brain