#Osamu Miya x Reader

[emmyrosee]

Hey Emmy hey Emmy listen

Whenever you’re having a snack or whatever osamu leans over with his mouth open expecting a bite and he calls it “boyfriend tax”

HE CAN PRY MY FUDGE BROWNIE FROM MY COLD DEAD GRIP-

You get so into the routine with him that when you take a chip out of the bag or unwrap your candy bar, you just immediately turn to give him a taste, laying the chip on his tongue while he chews happily.

Sometimes, to mess with him, you don’t give him a first or second bite of your cookie, and you hear him whine softly and gently wrap his fingers around your shirt, tugging the hem of it gently for your attention. If you continue to not listen, he whines your name softly, and you blink mindlessly at him, “yes? Can I help you?”

���Boyfriend tax, remember?” He says, opening his mouth.

You snicker, “I remember. I just don’t feel like paying for it.” You stick your tongue out playfully, and he pouts.

Then, his brows raise, “wait, c’mere baby, you’ve got some crumbs on your lip.” You lean over for him to wipe the crumbs free-

Only to dart his head down to your hand holding your snack and take a massive bite.

“MIYA OSAMU!”

He’s immediately out of his seat and making a break for it, cackling the whole time.

[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.”

[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.

[dearru]

i think osamu is the type of husband who has a series on tiktok titled “cooking for my spouse so they don’t divorce me” and i think that’s beautiful

[ottocre]

˚ ༘ * unbecoming behavior w/ osamu

m.list / wc: 710

    “you know, this is highly unbecoming of me… god i can only imagine what my mother would say seeing me down here, with you,” you whisper to your lover, sitting on one of the wooden counters, the warmth of the boiling stew next to you passing right through your thin clothing. 

  he doesn’t say anything, simply scooping out a spoonful of soup, his free hand hovering beneath. blowing on the steaming soup, it ripples slightly, smoothing over as he gracefully brings it to your lips. looking into his eyes, you take a sip of the broth. it’s still hot, uncomfortably sliding down your throat, hands raising to fan at your face.

  “osamu- you did not cool that off enough,” your voice raises slightly as you say his name, quickly quieting back down as soon as you hear how loud you were. 

  his hand sets down the spoon, raising back up to press his palm to your cheek. his thumb runs along your jawline, barely moving to wipe away a splatter of stew. “i’m sorry my love, was it at least good? savory, yet fresh,” osamu leans forward to kiss your forehead, his lips gentle against your skin.

  you look away for a second, letting out an annoyed- yet loving sigh. from what little you could actually taste, still lingering on your tastebuds, it was delicious. just as everything else he creates, “of course it was, it always is. tastes as good as you do.”

  grabbing ahold of his collared garment, you pull him into you, pressing your lips against his. your fist holds tight against the fabric bundled in your hands as you feel your body getting closer. his hands find their way to your knees, fingers gently touching your lower thighs. for a moment, you wonder if the heat surrounding you is no longer from the pot, but rather the intensity of his lips against your jaw.

  “you.. know just what to… say,” osamu whispers between kisses, unable to keep himself from you.

  you want to pull at his tunic, pull it over his head and toss it to the side. letting it fall to the floor, just as everything else. however, the sound of clanging in the halls sends your eyes searching. most of the room is dark besides the wood fire cooking the stew and a small candle on a nearby countertop. osamu pulls away, looking between you and the kitchen door. “what-”

  “i heard something,” you whisper, hand moving absentmindedly until you grab ahold of his, squeezing hard until you hear another noise.

  pushing yourself off the counter, your bare feet press against the cold stones. it makes you instantly regret such an action, any heat that was building within your chest suddenly freezing. kneeling down, you look up at osamu, biting your lip. after what feels like forever, the door creaks open. the bottom of the door scratching against the stones, a voice carries through the mostly bare kitchen.

  “what are you doing up at such an hour?”

  it sounds similarly to one of the cooks that typically create meals for large dinners. osamu lets out a short sigh, “perfecting the stew once more before making it for the queen consort’s visitors. wouldn’t want to give her anything less than perfect, this can all be given out to the staff for their morning meal.”

  there’s a pause, before the cook simply scoffs, his voice sounding gravelly from the late hours. “keep an eye on it than, and you know not to add any carrots, you know how the queen feels about them,” the cook shuts the door behind him, scratching once more against the stone flooring.

  osamu stands there for a moment, finally looking down at you once the door shuts. “you have the ears of an elephant, you know that your highness?”

  “and you love them all the same, especially when they save you from discipline from my mother. would hate to find you in the dungeon,” you whisper, grabbing ahold of his outstretched hand, feeling the roughness of his palms.

  “it would make this all the more exciting though, wouldn’t it?” he whispers back, hand hooking around your back, leaning back in for another kiss.. only stopping once more to stoke the fire. 

[lynnaredfield3383]

"What were you thinking, Samu?"

You gently dabbed the cuts on his knuckles with cleanser. A sharp hiss escaped his split lip.

"Protecting ya."

You met his steel eyes and found yourself smiling. Why was he so kind and always willing to risk himself for you.

"I can handle myself."

Osamu looked at the ground while you applied ointment to his busted hand.

"I know. Doesn't mean I don't wanna fight fer ya," he spoke softly.

Your fluid movements hesitated and then continued. Osamu was sincere, and the way it gripped your heart terrified you.

"Do you always have to make me melt?" You grumbled, putting away the first aid kit.

When Osamu stood he took up most of your bathroom. His shoulders alone occupied most of the space.

"Nah. But I like it," Osamu smiled, motioning for you to exit before him.

You moved to the living room, some movie playing. The couch looked so inviting and Osamu was always warm.

"Why don't you stay tonight? It's late."

It was a lame excuse, but Osamu didn't care if it meant he could be with you.

"Ya sure? I can crash at Suna's place."

"Yes. Besides, I gotta make sure my boyfriend doesn't do anything else stupid."

Osamu hesitated.

"Boyfriend? Not yer ex?"

You turned and looked up at him wondering why you'd ever left him.

"Boyfriend. Only if you want me back."

"Hell yeah," Osamu nearly whooped before taking your mouth with his. "Ow, ow...Not my best idea," Osamu chuckled pulling back.

[bonniepop]

another night where you fight, another night of silence. another night where miya osamu sleeps with his back to you.

the realization that there is not much more you can do to save your relationship clutches at your chest with an iron grip.

the gravity of it makes you whimper. pressing your lips together, you shakily push yourself up to sit blinking back tears while blindly stepping around for your slippers, willing yourself not to sob—not here, not where he can hear. your toes touch the fluff of them, and you hurry to slip them on. you need to get out of here.

as quiet as possible, you leave your boyfriend in your shared bedroom.

you stumble to the couch and kick off your shoes, blindly searching until your fingers catch the lampshade switch. you yank it to provide some light, rattling as it flings back into place.

you pull your knees to your chest and press your forehead against your kneecaps. a numb part of your brain thinks oh, so this is where this was, when you think of the misery that quieted itself, replaced with a numbness that overtook you during the fight you had with him earlier.

the numbness that made your limbs feel like ice when he clicked off the phone call without even hearing you out.

you wanted to tell him so much, but in the face of his blank gaze and dismissive demeanor, you shut off. you have more fight in you, you know that. but tonight you just couldn’t. couldn’t listen to him tell you that he needed more from you—more support, more time, more patience.

you’ve given him that, right? your brain runs with thoughts you can't keep up with. you gave him yourself. you have, for months, for years. you did what you could. you’ve withstood lonely anniversaries, forgotten birthdays, broken promises. you’ve done everything you could. you gave what you could. you gave everything you could.

i want you to come home, you wanted to tell him eatlier tonight. come home. you’re never home. i know you’re busy at work and you’re doing what you love but please, ‘samu. please. 

love me, too.

your body wracks with a sob, the hurt fresh, as if the words that you never got to say wounded your insides instead. you wanted to tell him that, you wanted to beg for it, beg for his time, beg for his attention, beg for him to love you back. but time and time again he just turns and says he’s tired, he doesn't want to hear it, and the moment is gone, and now the fear of knowing that leaving things unsaid will destroy you, will destroy him. will destroy both of you.

you huddle closer into yourself and sob, a sharp sound in your ears making your head pound.

“babe?” you hear through the ringing in your ears, and suddenly warm hands are on your arms. “babe, what’s wrong?” his voice is calm against your turmoil. “are you having a panic attack?”

“’samu, i’m—” you shudder and he leaves for a moment, flitting to the kitchen to grab you some water. 

“drink, please,” he tells you, gently unfurling you to sit. you comply with shaky limbs, taking the water he’d given you in your delicate grip. a few sips are enough to calm you down, but the fear is still there.

he gingerly takes the glass and sets it aside. he kneels in front of you, taking your hands and soothingly rubbing his thumbs against your skin. his fingers are hot, almost like a furnace, but when you realize that he's not, he's fine, your hands are freezing, you resist the urge to pull away as he warms your palm.

when he looks up to smile at you, you see the exhaustion on his face, and, instantly, you hate yourself for it. for this.

"i'm sorry," you blurt out, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over.

his hand leaves yours and cups your cheek. "for what, baby?"

“i love you so much, osamu,” you tell him without thinking, voice thick and wet and miserable. you press the palm of the hand he let go of against his cheek, hiccuping when he closes his eyes to lean into your touch. 

“i love you, too,” he says, ready to apologize for the fight, but it's not about that.

not anymore.

you pull away. the confusion and hurt on his face is making everything worse.

“i love you so much,” you tell him, desperately wishing that he could understand. “but i—” you sob, “but, osamu, i can’t anymore.”

osamu presses his lips together, saying nothing. you hear him sniffle, and his fingers come forward to brush at the tears on your cheeks and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear.

“i love you so much,” you confess. “i would do anything for you. and i have, i have for years. i’ve tried my best, but osamu, i’m so tired,” you sob. your voice feels like its giving out but the desperation makes the words claw themselves out of your mouth. “i’m so tired, i'm so tired and i'm so lonely, and—and—and i love you so much, but i have nothing left to give.”

you pull your hands away to hunch over and cry into your palms unable to face him. messily, you wipe at your face and push your hair back. you give him the most apologetic smile you can muster, but you're unable to see his face through your tears. “i’m so sorry i can’t give you more, osamu.”

you hear him sniffle and when you wipe your tears away with the backs of your hands, his eyes are glassy. then he closes his eyes.

the pain that washes over his face is absolutely unbearable. the furrow of his brow and the wrinkle of his chin, the lines by his scowl that you know is him trying his best to keep it together.

when he opens his eyes to look at you, his eyes are no longer glassy. your heart breaks for the pain he refuses to show. “what’s next?”

your smile is sad and wet with tears. “i think you know.” you brush his hair back and cradle his face with your hands. “let’s… let’s do this in the morning, okay?”

he nods, looking away. he licks his lips and shakes his head, and he turns to face you with a furrowed brow and a little more composure despite his watery gaze. but it doesn’t take long before his face crumples and he rushes to hide his face against your legs. his quiet sobs are pained and miserable, his chest shaking as he cries. 

you press your face against his hair and cry with him.

—

the morning greets you kindly, the soft sunlight bathing your room in a sweet glow. it’s early, but you can’t keep sleeping. there’s a lot to pack.

your eyes feel hot and swollen, and bones feel heavy beneath your skin, weighing you down from getting up from the bed. still, you fight. you push yourself up to sit and notice that you’re alone. unsurprising, really; osamu has been leaving earlier and coming home later. onigiri miya needs care, needs nurturing, so it’ll blossom and grow. you need to stop begrudging him for it.

you finish your morning ablutions in the bathroom and head out to the kitchen, but when you open your bedroom door, the smell of food hits your nose like a smack to the face. your stomach twists when you see a familiar broad back—osamu didn’t leave—and your fingers turn cold.

the door slides shut behind you and he turns. “good mornin’,” he says quietly, shutting off the stove.

“good morning,” you say, walking to your kitchenette. when you see the spread on the table, you gape despite yourself. “osamu. what is—what.”

he flushes, sliding a delicious looking steak unto a plate and setting it alongside the other plates—nearly every single plate you own, you note—and your dining table is bursting with food. “cooked breakfast.”

“for how many people?” you ask, incredulous. “i tried t'remember everythin’ you liked,” he said with a sniff, and your heart crinkles at the edges, because that means something.

“thank you,” you whisper, and you quietly take a seat while sets aside the dishware he used. 

when he finishes, he turns to look at you, leaning on the counter. it takes him a while. “when you leave,” he says, “i’m going to try again.”

you stare at him, confused. you say nothing and wait for him to continue.

“i don’t want you to leave,” he says, and he rubs his face in frustration. “but i know i’ve—i know i fucked up. i love you, and i never should’ve hurt you.” he inhales through his nose. “but i did, and i can’t change that.

“but i’m not giving up on you. not on us. you—” he clears his throat, and the dark circles beneath his eyes makes your heart feel tight. “i’ll… if i have to start all over again, i’ll do it,” he whispers, walking closer and taking your chin in his hand, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. “i’ll win you back.”

“osamu,” you whisper, and his face crumples again.

“i love you too much to let you go,” he says, voice breaking as he fights back tears. “and i know that makes me a jerk. but i’m… i love you, so much—so fucking much, and i hate myself for not making you feel that. for hurting you.”

he gets on his knees and tears are streaming down your face. “leave me if you have to,” he says brokenly.

“if you need space, i’ll understand. but please,” he begs. “please don’t give up on me.” 

he does the unthinkable. he curls over and bows, back curved and forehead pressed against the backs of his hands, pressed against the floor.

the horror that overtakes you is beyond words. 

you drop to the floor to pull him upright, not letting him do this. he won’t do this to himself, you won’t let him. not for anyone, not for you. you pull his face against yours and kiss him as hard as you can, crying as you do.

you won't let him do this.

later, you sit on the couch, arms around osamu’s middle as you lie on his chest. the idea that this could be the last time you held him like this made you want to burst into tears again.

“i’ll make it up to you,” he promises, pushing your hair out of your face, gently guiding your chin up. “please, just… give me another chance.”

you look up at him, and your eyes meet.

—

“hey!” atsumu greets warmly as soon as you enter the restaurant, spreading his arms wide to engulf you in a hug. “it’s so good t’see you!“

“hi, ‘tsumu,” you greet, returning the hug. 

he motions for you to sit as he picks up the menu. “know what you want?”

you nod, not even bothering to pick up the menu. “how are you? how’s training?”

“’m good! training’s good. teammates are pretty good, too.”

"yeah? like who?"

atsumu makes a show of looking at the menu. "oh, i don't you know them."

you roll your eyes at his obvious ploy to get you to start talking. “fine. ask me.”

atsumu instantly leans in, conspiratorially covering his mouth with the menu and whispering, “how are you two? it’s been over a month now, right?”

“oi.” you twist your head to smile up at the newcomer. “stop bothering them, ‘tsumu.”

atsumu glares at his twin. “i’m the one who invited ‘em to lunch!”

osamu rolls his eyes and lays down a platter of onigiri in front of you. he snatches the menu and smacks his brother’s wandering hands with it before they get to close. “these are not for you.”

“but that’s a lot!" atsumu whines. "can’t i have any?”

“no,” osamu says resolutely, then turns to you and gives you the softest smile he can muster, pinning the menu by his side and arm.

"i haven't even ordered yet!" atsumu complains.

osamu ignores him. “let me know what you think.”

“okay,” you say with a smile. 

“and let me know if you need to take out anything,” he continues, “i’ll wrap it up for you.” he leans forward and presses a kiss to your temple. “enjoy.”

“thank you, ‘samu,” you tell him before he turns to leave. 

he smiles back at you and heads back behind the bar.

atsumu has evidently forgotten about ordering, because his eyes shuttle back and forth between you two before nodding considerably. “so i take it things are going well?”

“yeah,” you admit, picking up an onigiri. “going really well, actually.”

“you’ve been…” atsumu searches for the word, “is it still called ‘dating’? you broke up. but… entertaining each other…?”

“don’t hurt yourself,” you joke. “but yeah. let’s call it dating. and it’s going well, thanks for asking.” you take a bite of the onigiri.

“does he still have a chance?” atsumu asks, genuine curiosity on his face.

you chew thoughtfully as you look back at osamu, who’s smiling at a customer. you remember that bright morning, when he helped you pack, helped you move into your friend’s apartment. when he cooked all that food, and you found it neatly packed away in a thermal bag that had a handwritten note, reminding you to eat well.

you remember the next day, when he showed up at your friend’s door, holding flowers and inviting you out to get some ice cream. you remember his messages, his calls, his check ins on you, littered across the days, asking you how you are or if you’re eating or if you need any food.

you could call him if you needed any help, if you needed anything at all.

but reality sets in when you think of how one phone call could be a mistake, it stops you from searching his name each time you pick up the phone.

in your mind, you see his bent form, his begging, his tears. you remember his smiles and his hugs and his ‘see you later’s, his gradually growing list of unbroken promises. you remember the effort, the time he’s putting into you, putting aside for you. you remember how hard he tries for you.

it's like everything is new again.

his eyes catch yours and he gives you a small wave, and you wave back, your stomach fluttering.

it's not new, you think. it's better.

you swallow your food. it's delicious.

“yeah,” you say softly, “he does.”

[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

[riddlesrose]

osamu miya who believes you’re close to him because you’re interested in his twin. it takes a while for him to fully accept that you don’t want atsumu, you want him. it really set it when you start bringing him the snack he pointed out in your lunch, setting it in front of him while you basically ignored a whining atsumu.

post graduation osamu who was so sad when atsumu was mad at him for quitting volleyball, he comes to you with his troubles, hoping you can help. you let him spew all of his feelings uninterrupted while pressed together on your bed. you wipe a stray tear from his eye and pull him impossibly closer for a hug.

college osamu who calls you almost every night, complaining about the work load he’s been given, or the fact that he wants to come back. when he does it’s the holidays and he celebrates with you first, then his family, and yes you’re there too. (his mother is a huge fan of you, she loooves you like her own:((( )

onigiri miya owner osamu who brings home extra food from his shop because he knows you love it. he totally didn’t make extra before closing. nope. you come to onigiri miya most days to visit him, despite living together. something about him and his uniform does something to your mind.

osamu miya who’s loved you since highschool <33

masterlist

[cxvii666]

no-context boyfriend txts w/ ten

FEATURING!

YUJI ITADORI, DENKI KAMINARI, HANTA SERO, hitoshi shinsou, eren yeager, ryuunoske tanaka, KEIGO TAKAMI, takuma ino, connie springer, hajime iwaizumi, issei matsukawa, (i could see) yuuta okkotsu, osamu miya, tetsurou kuroo, satori tendou, yuu nishinoya, koushi sugawara, satoru gojo, also suguru geto (he gives closet weirdo), jean kirstein, yuuji terushima, togata mirio + ur faves ofc x

[miiyas]

“if ‘yer stomach’s hurting that much, jus’ stop eatin’.” osamu frowns at you, pointing the ends of his metal chopsticks at your slouched form. you give a shaky nod, slowly lifting the spoon closer to your mouth before taking slow chews.

“don’t wanna,” you muffle out, wrapping one arm around your stomach in pain. “‘s too good.” osamu sighs dramatically at this, setting his chopsticks down beside his bowl and heads towards the kitchen. he takes a few minutes before coming back, picking up his chopsticks and taking a few left over bites of his dish before going back, a faint beeping noise dragging him.

… what the hell is he doing ..?

despite your overthinking, he comes back to you with a small mug, the tag of a teabag hanging loosely over the rim. osamu sets it in front of you and takes his seat again, lifting his chopsticks to reach for a side dish.

“you ate too fast ‘n that’s why ‘yer whinin’ to me ‘bout your stomach.” he chews lazily and keeps the ends of his chopsticks in his mouth, staring down at the various containers of side dishes as if he was in a predicament.

oh, you think, staring at your boyfriend, then down at the mug. the colors of the herbs are seeping out to the warm water, the tag revealing the expensive brand that osamu only ever uses when guests come over.

you slowly pick up the cup, the gentle porcelain warm on your fingertips. a small grin hides behind it as you slowly come to the realization that yes, osamu will force you to lay down later and yes, he will rub your stomach with his big warm hands, soothing it until it gets better.

[emmyrosee]

Whenever osamu gets you guys fast food or something, he always orders three fries- one container for you, one for him, and one to eat on the car ride home for him to eat.

It’s a win win for him- he gets his own container of fries to eat nice and hot on the way home, then he gets to watch your eyes shine with excitement when he says he’s done with his and gives the left overs to you.

[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

[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

[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.

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

[a-pastel-edgelord]

You are the closest thing Atsumu's ever had to a best friend, Osamu knows. His brother's faults were often so visible to other kids that it drove them away. Not you though. You simply laughed and called Atsumu a jerk. The rest is history.

Osamu watches from his place on the bench as Atsumu sets up for a spike serve, six steps, the toss, the jump and--

"Don't fuck it up!" Your voice jeers.

Atsumu misses, spectacularly. The ball ricochets off the back wall with a stellar thwump that rings a brief silence into the gym. Osamu sees his brother spin around, a vein in his neck throbbing as he starts to unload on you.

"YOU MOTHERF—"

"Imagine not getting the service ace because the opposite team heckles you!" You cut him off with a jovial smile. "How lame would that be?"

"YOU SCRUB! GET OVER HERE. I'LL KILL YA!"

And off the two of you go, shrieking insults at each other. Osamu makes no move to get out of his seat. Not for the first time, he considers how this strange game of tag could be its own spectator sport. Suna sits next to him, the middle blocker's eyes flitting to the current source of entertainment.

"Not gonna record this shit?"

"No, s'not nearly as entertaining as watching the two of you beat up on each other." Atsumu manages to trap you in a headlock, driving his knuckles into your scalp for a noogie as you kick at his legs. "How long have they been together anyhow?" The question is asked so flippantly, Osamu almost misses it.

"Hah? They're not datin', Suna." That's right. The two of you aren't dating. Not once had Atsumu ever expressed that kind of interest in you, and the same seems to be true in reverse. No longing stares. No pining.

"That so? Could have sworn they were." Suna glances over, his usual apathetic expression almost perfectly in place. However, Rintaro Suna is the closest thing Osamu has to a best friend.

Osamu's mouth goes dry. "Drop it, Sunarin."

Suna holds his stare for another beat before turning away. "You deserve to have what you want, Samu."

"I mean it."

"So do I."

Osamu fights to keep his face in check, fights to restrain himself like always. To hold back just enough so that he doesn't lose his temper. It should be easier by now, to suffer the pointed remarks Suna makes with grace. However, Suna had been the one to witness the smallest of exchanges between Osamu and you. And then, the motherfucker had managed to put two and two together. So here Osamu sits, watching his brother horseplay with you.

You. The one person he could trust Atsumu with, the one person who would be so good for him to fall for... is the same person who crashed through Osamu's walls and took a seat within the inner sanctum of his affections.

Osamu Miya is in love with his brother's best friend and Atsumu would never forgive him for it if he found out.