#osamu fic

[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.

[katescorner]

more on fake dating osamu - drabble linked here

getting into a fake relationship with miya osamu, wing spiker and resident hearthrob, was not on your agenda for today. so it was extremely unexpected when he grabbed your hand and pulled you into a broom closet with him when you were on your way back to class from the bathroom. it was dark and a little humid, and the only sounds you could hear were from his heavy breathing and the small surprised gasp you gave.

when you were about to speak up, he put a finger to his lips, quieting your words before they could escape just as a herd of footsteps passed in the hallway. he sighed in relief, and though you couldn't see much, you watched his shoulders sag as the tension melted off of him.

"is this a bad time to tell you i'm a fan?" you don't mean it, but watching his face morph into shock is enough to elicit a soft laugh from you. "i'm kidding."

"that's not funny," he says despite the smile he breaks into. "i was . . ." he pauses, like he doesn't exactly what to say, so you help him out.

"running from mumus?"

a look between embarrassment and curiosity crossed his face. "is that what they call themselves?"

"mumus, katsus, taroteas, roses, shinderellas," you list out. "i could go on. honestly, they're pretty creative."

osamu cocks his head. "are these—fan names?" when you nodded, he seemed amused. "and you just happen to know all of them?"

"are you asking me if i like one of your teammates?"

"as long as it's not my piss-head brother."

you laugh at that and it comes out louder than you mean it to, a stark reminder that you two are still very much in a dark broom closet together not so far apart.

"so . . . are we going to stay in here forever?" you ask, eyes wandering as you feel yourself flush. "because i'm all for rendezvous in tight spaces, but i'm also really missing fresh air right now."

osamu tries not to be obvious about his disappointment in the conversation ending so soon. "yeah, me too."

you leave first, and the rush of air that enters the closet feels almost dizzying to osamu. you're dazzling under the light, and he doesn't want to let you go just yet because what if after all of this you two go back to not knowing each other. so he thinks—quickly, as if he were in the middle of a match right now—and the idea hits him all at once.

"do you want to go on a date with me?"

the question catches you off-guard and you're well aware of the weight of his words.

"what?"

osamu tumbles out of the closet, trying not to trip on his feet as he walks to you. "i hate that i have fans. the attention, it freaks me out. so i was wondering if you wanted to go on a date with me . . . to get them off my back—the mumus i mean."

and you, blinking, decide what's the worst that could happen? "okay."

tagged @miruac @feyrfly

[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.

[heartmaddie]

home life with osamu miya

involves : domesticity , marriage , children, the most self indulgent thing i've written in my life.

you’re always exhausted when you come home from work, the weight of of your job clouded around your all throughout the day, that was until you’d finally be in the warmth of your home, with your two children hanging onto your legs while your husband made dinner. you would smile as you picked up the older daughter, naomi, pressing your soft lips against her cheek as she giggled.

“were you good for your dad, baby?” you ask, gently brushing out the girl’s messy brown hair as she squirmed in your arms.

“yeah mommy, we were so good” she nods confidently, eyes wide as she gestures to her little sister, who was jumping while holding onto your black skirt. you pick up the younger girl, balancing the both of them in your arms as they cling onto you tight, seeking you warmth.

“do you know what your dad is making for dinner?” you, slipping off your heels and walking towards the main area of the household.

“uhh, some sort of grilled fish thing?” naomi shrugs, laying on your chest. she was a bit more extroverted compared to the other, who would rather intertwine her small fingers in your hair while listening to her big sister talk endlessly with you and osamu.

“mm, okay. how about you and hana go play for a bit longer while i talk to dad, okay?” you ask in a maternal tone, gently putting you daughters on the ground and letting them run off to their bedroom. you walk into the kitchen, gazing at osamu’s wide shoulders before coming up to him and sliding under his arm, letting placing a soft kiss on your neck from behind.

“how was work?” he asks, thick fingers keeping a cabbage head still as he finely chopped it, “the girls are always so restless when you’re gone” he murmurs,

“mm, it was tiring” you hum, leaning against his chest as you closed your eyes, “but it’s nice to be back home” you take a deep sigh.

“isn’t your project ending up soon? so i’m sure that you’ll have some more time for rest in a couple weeks” osamu replies, kissing your head occasionally, “then naomi will start school again and hana can go to daycare and we’ll have some time to ourselves, yeah?” he smiles against your skin as he puts the cut cabbage into a small bowl.

“mhm, i have a lot of lost sleep to catch up on, but until then..” you stretch, “having a 9-5 is horrible, i wish i could stay home with you and the girls all day” osamu pulls you into his large arms, gently rubbing your lower back.

“how about you go take a bath while i make dinner, and i’ll call you when it’s ready” he offers, moving his fingers to your hair where he takes out all the pins and releases the strands from the tight grasp of your bun, he gently rubs his fingers through your scalp, “dinner will be ready in about 45 minutes, so take as long as you’d like, okay?”

“samu i kinda wanted to have a bath with you tonight” you sigh, rubbing your face against his chest. he smirks, chuckling softly,

“okay we can have a bath later then” he rolls his eyes playfully, “you’re always a bit demanding after work, hm?” he teases, pressing chaste kisses against the nape of your neck, “but still, at least change and take off your make up so it’s easier for you to relax.”

you nod, taking a couple steps towards your bedroom and closing the door behind you. you let each bone individually crack as you stretch out, reaching for your wooden hairbrush and guiding it through your knotty strands. you move to your vanity and sit on the plush, pink chair, pouring some micellar water onto a cotton pad and patting it against your face, watching as all your make up from the day melted off your face, you then take off all your work clothes and change into your soft, yellow satin pajamas which fell loose around your skin.

you spend the rest of your evening engaging in a long dinner with your children and husband, still needing to spoon feed hana occasionally as naomi excitingly recounts her day at onigiri miya, since it was the school holidays and osamu needed to take her to work now. you’d listen intently to her descriptive storytelling, osamu gently rubbing your hand from under the table as he ate his dinner quietly.

“okay, naomi, go brush your teeth and get changed for bed, you too hana” you instruct, helping osamu clean up and put all the dirty dishes away as your daughters ran off. “thank you for dinner samu.” you gently press your lips against his as he pulls you into his arms, rubbing your sides as your chests meet.

“of course love,” he presses a lasting kiss against your lips, “help me by wiping down the table?” you nod, taking the wet cloth from him and cleaning up the areas he used.

soon enough you and osamu are smushed onto naomi’s twin sized bed, with your two daughters perched between the laps as he read them a bedtime story, you listened to osamu as he read calmly, lulling the two girls to sleep with every word he enounced. you smiled softly as you watched him, hana cuddled on his lap with her eyes closed and naomi leaning on his bicep as she admired the pictures on the book, small, tranquil moments like these were your favourites.

when the two girls fell asleep, osamu carefully lifted hana and took her to her own bed, tucking her in with slow movements as to not wake up the sleeping girl as you mirrored his movements with naomi, gently kissing her forehead before flicking off the lights and walking with your husband to your en suite.

the two of you sat quietly in the bath together, osamu working his fingers as he lathered soaps into your hair as you washed your body, he knew you were exhausted, so he also spent some time kneading his calloused palms into your back with some shower milk, he was a doting and caring husband, and it was evident in the way he’d treat you and your daughters. you smiled softly as you leant against his knees, letting him take care of you as you felt your own fatigue catch up on you.

osamu smiles gently, carefully drying your wet body as he lifts you out of the bath tub, he slides on a new set of silk pajamas as he pat dries your hair so it’s only somewhat dry before taking you back to the bed where he’d lift up the covers to your neck to ensure that you’re warm. then, he’ll change into his own pajamas, drying his own hair and spreading thick creams along his skin before joining you in bed.

he cuddled close to you, shifting towards your limp body with his arms wide as he held you close to his chest, stroking your damp hair as he let you rest after a long, productive day. osamu would watch your chest rise and fall, admiring each of your unique features as staying awake for a bit longer to watch you sleep, before falling into his own deep trance.

please like, reblog or follow if you enjoyed! yung carti yung carti - not proofread whoopsies i want babies sooo bad.

[nizhspo]

genre: haikyuu imagine, smut

pairing: husband!osamu x fem!reader

warning: smut? idk lol

summary: in which your toddler gives you no alone time. so thank god for atsumu.

notes: ty to @oxytxn your headcanons inspired this lol

it starts the second the door shuts behind atsumu.

he barely gets a “don’t break anything!” out before your kid’s squeal echoes down the hallway and disappears into the elevator, leaving behind blessed, bone-deep silence.

you and osamu just… stand there. for a beat. in the soft, flickering light of the closed kitchen. warm from the rice cookers, the open oven, the lingering scent of soy and vinegar and ginger.

he leans back against the counter, exhaling like he’s been holding it all day. his eyes drag up your frame, slow, heavy-lidded, already dark with something you haven’t seen since before sleep regressions and preschool field trips.

you toe off your shoes and toss your hoodie over a chair, letting your hair fall loose. you’re still in leggings, still in the tank you wore under your apron. still wearing your wedding ring, catching the overhead light as you flex your fingers.

his gaze catches there.

“we got—what, two hours?” he asks, voice thick, rough from the day.

you nod. “if we’re lucky.”

he doesn’t move right away. just watches. something low and simmering under his skin. then, quietly, almost reverent, he says, “c’mere.”

you cross the room before the word’s even done leaving his mouth.

he pulls you between his legs, arms sliding around your waist, palms big and hot and grounding. his lips find your throat, slow and firm, like he’s re-learning the shape of your skin. like he’s starving.

“missed you today,” he murmurs, lips brushing your collarbone.

you hum. “you saw me six times.”

“yeah, but you weren’t sittin’ on my face any of ‘em.”

you laugh—sharp, surprised, and he grins against your skin like it was the joke and the truth.

“you want me to?” you ask, voice light, teasing. but your hands are already on his shoulders.

he tilts his head back, eyes flicking up at you. “need you to,” he says. like he means it.

you kiss him then: slow and deep, like the kind of kiss that always ends in ruined clothes and unwashed dishes. he groans into it, hands slipping lower, gripping your ass through your leggings like he wants to drag you over every inch of him.

“get up there,” you mutter against his mouth, nodding to the prep counter behind him. “lie back.”

his smirk is pure trouble as he obeys, climbing up with a grunt and lying flat, head tipped up against the wood, arms behind it like he’s ready for dessert.

you peel your leggings off in one smooth motion and climb up with him, straddling his chest, knees on either side of his ribs. his hands come to your thighs immediately, wide and sure, thumbs stroking the skin like he’s waited all damn week for this.

“you sure?” you ask, breath hitching.

“baby,” he says, already pulling you higher, “i asked. now lemme taste you.”

so you shift forward, slow, and settle onto his face.

and god.

his mouth is hot and greedy and shameless. his tongue moves like he’s got something to prove—like he wants to make up for the nights you were both too tired, the mornings interrupted by cartoons, the afternoons stolen by errands and orders and a toddler who climbs everything.

he groans like he’s the one getting wrecked. like this is all he needs in the world. his nose nudges your clit just right, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs to keep you steady.

“that’s it,” he mutters against you, voice muffled but still deep enough to make your stomach clench. “ride it, mama. don’t stop.”

you roll your hips instinctively, chasing every flick of his tongue, every sweet pulse of heat building low in your belly. the sweat from the day hasn’t even dried, and already your skin is damp again, sticky from the humid kitchen air and the way he’s worshipping you like it’s the only job he’s ever loved.

your hand goes to his hair, fisting it tight. your other braces on the counter.

“‘samu—fuck—don’t stop—”

he groans again, tongue flattening against you, and that’s it. you come with a full-body shudder, thighs trembling around his head, moaning his name like it’s all you’ve ever known how to say.

you try to lift off him after, but his hands won’t let you.

“nah, baby,” he says, voice wrecked. “not done yet.”

he licks you through it. keeps going until your back arches, until you whimper, until your hand slaps weakly against the countertop and you beg.

“okay,” you gasp. “okay, okay—”

you finally manage to crawl off, collapsing onto the counter beside him, panting, boneless, eyes fluttering shut for half a second.

he props himself up on one elbow and leans down to kiss you. it’s messy, tasting like sweat and salt and you.

“now,” he says, nipping at your bottom lip, “i’m gonna bend you over this counter.”

your legs don’t even shake anymore. they just give out.

you’ve got two hours.

and your husband?

he’s starving.

[evamame]

request for osamu miya from @merlucide

you’re on your bed, scrolling on your phone to pass the time. the speaker on your drawer is blasting your favorite tunes as you mindlessly sing and hum along to the lyrics. you’re enjoying yourself, rewinding all alone. or at least, you thought you were.

the sound of osamu returning home was drowned out by the loud noise of the speaker, unbeknownst to you. he had finished up at the shop on time and returned home as usual. too bad you were preoccupied with your doomscrolling session to notice the numbers on the clock.

as osamu enters through the front door and calls out his usual “i’m home!” greeting, he expects your typical “welcome back!” in response. but he hears nothing of the sort. instead what he hears is the muted beating of a loud drum coming from your shared bedroom.

he hasn’t yet picked up on your habit of blasting music and singing loudly to yourself in all the time you’ve spent living together, because this is something you only ever do when he’s at work and you’re home alone. rather than sitting in silence, why not yell your heart out when nobody is there to hear? you’re no musician by any means, but a good song will fill your soul with enough passion to try your best.

osamu throws his cap onto a hook on the wall before making his way to the bedroom, slowly peering his head in through the door. the creaking sound as he turns the door knob and slides his way into the room is unheard by your ears. but there you are, laying on the bed, singing along to the lyrics and bobbing your head from side to side to the beat.

he leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms, an amused grin dawning his features at the way you passionately belt the chorus. he can’t control his laughter at the way you’re so unsuspecting, still acting as if nobody is watching.

his snorts manage to make it past the sound barrier of the music, and you instantly freeze and look up from your phone to see osamu watching you. you quickly get up and run across the room to your speaker, spamming the volume button to turn it all the way down.

you stammer flusteredly, “‘samu, you startled me! when did you get home?”

he laughs at your bewildered expression, “just now. seems ya couldn’t hear me over yer music. i had no idea ya had such good taste.”

you glance at the time on your phone, “i guess this is the time you get home.”

he nods, “yup. i didn’t know ya had it in ya to sing like that.”

“well, i thought i nobody was home.”

he flashes you a toothy grin, “guess ya thought wrong. turn it back on. i wanna hear more.”

your cheeks flush pink, “but i’m a terrible singer.”

he chuckles, “i know. sorry sweetheart, but ya really do suck. i meant the speaker. this is my favorite song.”

you groan, completely embarrassed at being caught red handed and yet again being a victim to his insufferable teasing, “you’re the worst!”

“ya, sure. love ya too.”

masterlist | taglist | tags: @scoupsworld @mires765 @amaliaaliena

a/n: i love osamu so much jsnqhfmsiwiejf. no other comment.

© evamame 2025. all rights reserved. please do not repost, modify, steal, plagiarize, or translate my work.

[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.”

[honeycrispappletree]

86 'em both // osamu miya x reader x atsumu miya

*' giving into all his bullshit,

is this what you want,

is this who you are? '*

servers/roomates! osamu x f!reader x atsumu

reader interactive-you guys get to comment/message who you think she should end up with, overall vote near the end!

status: current!

notes: timeskip/in college, servers and roommates, love triangle, angst, alcohol, smoking, swearing, prob ooc oops, lyrics from tame impalaaaaaaa

taglist: open

resumes

coal mine workers | we wont take your shift

shifts

plaintiff vs defendant

[dumdogs]

SLEAZE ✶⋆.˚ MIYA OSAMU

CHAPTER THREE: dinner

SOUNDTRACK: freak by feeble little horse

warning: implied/mentioned ed

She leans out of her bathroom window. In one hand, she balances a lit cigarette and a half-eaten granola bar. She takes a drag from her cigarette, then a bite from the granola bar, smoke and chunks of chewy strawberry and oats mixing on her tongue. It’s early in the morning, blue and cold, and it’s drizzling. Tiny drops of rainwater gather on the tips of her fur jacket. If she shook around like a dog, it’d all splatter all over her bathroom, which can’t be good for the fur, if it’s real. If it’s not, it won’t make a difference. 

She decides to risk it for the view. 

Osamu’s across the street, transporting cardboard boxes from the back of a small car in through the front door of Onigiri Miya. She’s been watching him for a couple minutes now, enjoying him and her breakfast at the same time. He hasn’t noticed her, which makes her feel kind of creepy, but not enough to stop. 

Despite the cold and the rain, he makes the journey from the back of his car to the front door of his shop in just a tight, black long sleeved shirt that outlines perfectly which muscles of his are straining as he lifts and carries each box. She gnaws on her food, and exhales the smoke through her nostrils. She’s always had a thing about his arms. 

Osamu is perfect, she thinks. It’s hard to imagine his flaws. Whenever she thinks of him, she always tries. Late at night, lying restless in her bed, she imagines him as a habitual liar, as ill-tempered, as wickedly manipulative. She tries to picture him talking over her or letting a door slam in her face. Even small things: an obnoxious laugh, weird toes, bad breath. And it’s all sort of unfathomable. Her brain won’t let her imagine Osamu as anything other than flawless. 

He’s returning back to the car once more when she calls attention to herself. She swallows, and leans further out the window. “Hey, Miya!” she calls out. 

He stops, head swiveling around for a moment before his eyes land on her. For a second, they widen in surprise, but then his expression eases, and a soft smile tugs and his lips. “Hey,” he calls back, looking up at her second-story window. “What are you doing up so early?” 

She’s always up this early. She had fallen into the habit of late nights and early mornings when she was younger, and never bothered to break the routine. Which, she figures, is kind of unfortunate. It would be a lot easier to let life pass her by if she slept until noon every day. Instead, she has to be awake and bright-eyed for as much of it as possible. 

“Enjoying my breakfast and the view,” she tells him, winking as she does so, and she doesn’t miss the slight, pink blush that blooms across his cheeks. “Are you restocking or something?” 

He nods, looking back over his shoulder towards his car parked on the curb. “Yeah, there was a sale on disposables at the restaurant wholesale, so I figured I’d get there early before they sold out and restock while I could. Though I did have to take an elbow to the gut to get some takeout containers.” 

She leans further out the window, now standing on the tips of her toes. “I’m sure your customers appreciate your bravery,” she tells him with a smile, “I know I do.” 

Osamu blushes again, and it makes her feel smug. He crosses his arms over his chest. She chews on the inside of her cheek. “Well, at least that makes it worth it.” 

The front of her thighs press against the wall just below the window. She kicks one leg up behind her. “Want me to get you a coffee?” she asks. 

He raises an eyebrow at her. ��So you can get me a coffee, but I can’t take you out to dinner?” he questions. “That hardly seems fair.”

“Aww, c‘mon, let me just get you a coffee. Just one coffee,” she insists. “You deserve it.” 

Osamu sighs, and looks down at the ground for a moment, as if he is considering some great dilemma. When he looks back up at her, he gives her a soft smile. “Fine,” he relents, “I’ll take whatever you get.” 

She returns his smile, and leans back into her bathroom. She puts the cigarette out on the window sill, and abandons her half-eaten granola bar next to it. Without saying another word, she closes the window. 

✶⋆.˚

Osamu makes a twisted face as the coffee hits his tongue. “Black?” he questions as he holds up the cup away from his face, examining it. 

She shrugs, leaning against the counter of Ongiri Miya. Osamu stands on the other side, leaning over on his forearm. It’s oddly intimate, being in the restaurant before it opens, with the door locked and all the lights off. If she sat up on the edge of her seat and leaned in closer, her forehead would bump his. “You said you wanted whatever I got,” she reminds him. 

“This wasn’t what I was expecting,” he confesses to her, taking another apprehensive sip. “I thought it’d be a lot sweeter. At least cream.” 

At her lowest and most obsessive points, the thought of putting anything in her coffee, cream, syrups, sugar, would’ve been enough to make her break into stress hives. She would force cups of hot, black coffee down her throat no matter how bitter it tasted. It’s not really as if she ever started enjoying the taste of black coffee, since she doesn’t ever really enjoy the taste of anything, it’s more that she had just gotten used to it. Now sugary lattes and shots of flavor seem so sweet they make her feel nauseous. 

So, black coffee it is. 

“Black’s the best way to drink it, y’know” she tells Osamu, not really believing it. “You just gotta develop a taste for it.” 

As if trying to prove a point, Osamu tilts his head back and takes a large gulp of coffee. And she takes this opportunity to let her eyes linger over his exposed throat, and imagines, briefly, what it would look like stained in dark purple bruises and the deep shade of her lipstick. When he drops his head, she lets his gaze linger for a moment before she lifts her eyes to his, and she hopes he knows what she was thinking of. 

“It’s bitter,” he says, “but I could get used to it.” 

She grins at him. Teeth bared, and all. “I’ll get you addicted to it,” she teases lightly. 

Osamu’s eyes shine. “What do I owe you for the coffee?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” she replies. “For now, though. I reserve the right to change my mind. I kind of like the idea of you owing me something.” 

He snickers, and lets his head drop for a second, and he looks back up at her. “Make up your mind about dinner yet?” 

“Hmm,” she hums, and then pushes away from the counter, standing. “No word yet. And y’know what, you should probably get back to work. I think your coffee distracted you from your restocking.” 

“It certainly did,” Osamu says, watching her as she turns on her heel and heads for the door. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

Once she reaches the door, she turns her head and gives him a bright smile. “See ya then, Miya.” 

✶⋆.˚

She only has two friends, and has only ever had two friends, which doesn’t leave her with a lot to spare. So she can’t ever really get mad at either one of them without running the risk of being even more alone than she already is. 

Which sucks, because she’s really mad at Kuroo right now. 

Several pink, plump shrimp swim in the broth before her. And she just sits there, staring down at it, repulsed. She hates shrimp. She can’t stand them. The thought of them touching her food makes her stomach turn, and here they are, contaminating her meal. She shudders. 

“I’m sorry,” Kuroos says, now repeating himself several times over, but it falls on deaf ears. “I could’ve sworn you said shrimp!” 

“No,” Kenma says through a mouthful of noodles, “she’s always hated shrimp. You just never listen.”

The three of them are seated around her coffee table in her living room, some foreign volleyball game playing on her television. Kuroo does this sometimes. He brings Kenma and takeout to her door and insists on spending the night splayed out on her couch, watching her television. And she usually allows it, because she likes Kuroo, and is willing to tolerate the uncertainty of whatever restaurant he orders from in exchange for his company. 

But this error might be too much to forgive. 

Kuroo grabs at her takeout container, and slides it away from her, swapping it with his own bowl. “Here, you can have mine. It’s pork.” 

She looks up at Kuroo with a disapproving expression. “We can’t just switch. You already started eating it,” she tells him, picturing in her mind just how much of Kuroo’s saliva has already seeped into the dish. She has to suppress a shudder, and pushes the bowl away from her. “That’s disgusting.” 

Kuroo sighs, and drops his head back. “I cannot keep up with your rules.” 

She groans, and slumps against the couch behind her, her legs sliding under the coffee table, while Kuroo watches on with wide, stressed eyes. Kenma slurps at his own dish, staring flatly at the both of them. “You have to eat something,” Kenma tells her, and there is no room for argument in his words. 

Part of her knows that she’s being ridiculous, and that there’s really nothing stopping her from rifling through her fridge and finding something edible. It would be easy enough, and wouldn’t take long, but lying there with her head flat against the couch cushion, it seems like an impossible task. She can feel them both staring at her, waiting for her to take some action, but she just groans again, the only thing she can think to do to express her dissatisfaction. 

Kuroo leans towards her, and pokes at her arm. “Do you want me to order you something else?” he asks like he’s afraid of upsetting her further. 

“She can find food in her kitchen,” Kenma interjects. He does not have the same fear. 

She groans again, and forces herself to stand. There’s a limit to how much she can sit and groan and whine with Kenma around. The one downside to her forcing Kenma to spend so much time with her is that he’s gotten entirely used to her. Her rules and her habits and her frequent mental breakdowns don’t make him uncomfortable anymore. She can’t weaponize his uneasiness against him the same way she can with Kuroo. 

Her feet drag the whole way to her kitchen, and Kuroo calls out another desperate, “Sorry!” which she entirely ignores. Instead, she throws open her cabinet doors, looking in them for only a second before she moves onto the next one, leaving the cabinet doors wide open. There’s really no point in looking; she knows her kitchen inventory like she’s paid to. Eventually, she’ll settle on the leftover hamburger that’s in her fridge, but she wants to keep throwing her little fit first. 

She’s staring into the mostly empty pantry, containing only a bag of white rice and canned diced tomatoes, when there’s a knock on the door. At once, Kuroo shouts into the kitchen, “There’s someone at your door!"  

A terrible thought crosses through her mind that it’s her mother at the door, and she tenses up at once. “Will you answer it?” she calls back to him, voice wavering, and then calls again, “Wait, no, make Kenma get it,” just in case it is her mother. 

She’s closing her cabinet doors, hands slightly shaking at the image of her mother standing at her doorway, holding some kind of script in her hands. Her limbs move strangely, and her heart thumbs erratically. Kenma pops his head into the kitchen. “It’s for you.” 

She stares at him. “Is it my mom?” she questions. 

“Nope,” Kenma replies easily, and then slides back into her living room. 

Relief floods over her, and she follows Kenma, taking long strides towards her front door. And she doesn’t really question who else could be standing at her doorstep after dark once she accepts that it’s not her mother. Still, she’s surprised when she throws open her front door to see Osamu standing on the other side. 

He’s standing there in his tight black shirt and his Onigiri Miya hat with a small takeout container held delicately in his hands. He looks nervous, shifting his weight from one foot to another, his eyes not staying in one spot for more than a second. He smiles slightly at the sight of her. “Hey,” he greets. “I’m not interrupting anything am I?” 

She tilts her head to the side, and examines him. Her body still feels out of sync, and there’s still a lingering frustration in her muscles. Seeing Osamu adds in this shot of adrenaline, on top of it all, and she just doesn’t know the right way to act. “Nah,” she answers, and then straightens out. “Nothing important. What’s up? Did you miss me?” 

Osamu lets out a short laugh.. “I, erm, had a takeout order cancel. It’s salmon, your favorite. I figured it’s better you take it than it going to waste.” He holds up the takeout box to her. She wonders if it’s one of the new ones he got this morning. “It’s still fresh.” 

She doesn’t have great control over her emotions. Little things feel big to her. The thought of her mother appearing unannounced sends her body into a panic and she reacts to shrimp in her food as if it were poison. So when Osamu appears at her door, comfort food in his hand, his adorable hat pulled over his dark hair and his goddamn arms, she can’t stop herself from launching herself at him. 

Osamu takes a step back to steady himself, and his arms apprehensively circle loosely around her waist. She practically hangs off of him, standing on her toes and tightening her arms around his neck. She can’t help herself. She leans back, and places a kiss on his cheek. “Miya Osamu,” she says, still clinging onto him, “you’re my hero.” 

She knows it’s absurd, and slightly obsessive, but she swears, in that moment, she feels that she could be in love with him.

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[tulip-room]

ramekins and fondue - m. osamu || wc: 1.4k || tags: next door neighbors -> lovers, pining, notes left on the door, fondue date, fluffy, short and sweet <3 || hq works

It starts out with needing sugar and a tentative knock on a wooden door. “I’m so sorry to bother you,” she says as the door opens and reveals a man behind it. He looks to be in his mid twenties and he’s wearing a loose shirt, his hair is tousled like he just rolled out of bed. “Oh, I’m sorry, were you sleeping?”

“It’s fine, is there something you need?” He lifts up a hand to cover his mouth as he yawns. 

“I need some sugar, if you don’t have any I can go to the store or pay you back or something–” he cuts her off with a small smile.

“I have some, you don’t have to pay me back or anything.” He opens the door wider and beckons for her to follow him inside so she carefully steps over the barrier and closes the door behind her with a click. “Here,” his voice rings out from around the corner as she hears a cabinet creak open and close. He hands her a bag of sugar that has a red clip keeping it closed. “You can have the rest of it, I needed to get more anyway.” She smiles and takes the bag from him with an appreciative nod.

“Thank you, I’ll treat you to coffee or something.” 

“Alright, I’m not home this early most nights but I can maybe squeeze you in during a lunch break on the weekend.”

“Okay,” She closes the door behind her and takes a deep breath. Interacting with people should not be as difficult as it is. It’s just her neighbor and all she’s doing is asking for sugar so she can put it in her coffee. When she closes the door of her apartment she’s greeted by her cat and she immediately sets the sugar on the coffee table and picks him up. “Hi baby,” she kisses his small head and smiles when he starts purring, she sets him down and returns to the kitchen with her bag of sugar and finishes making her coffee. 

The next time she sees him is when a note is posted on her door telling her to come over. She laughs and puts her purse down on the couch before making her way over to his door. She holds the note up and waves it once he opens the door. “I thought you weren’t usually home this early?”

“I can make exceptions.” She rolls her eyes with a laugh and follows him inside of his home. She smells the food and hums with delight. “Did you make me dinner before I even got your name?”

“It’s Osamu.” He jests with her and she lets out a small laugh. He pulls the chair out for her at the kitchen island and pushes it back in once she sits down. “This is what I want for you taking the last of my sugar.”

“To be fair, you never told me when we should meet for coffee and you never asked for anything back.”

“This is what I want, you to have dinner with me.”

“I guess I can accept that.” There is a silence that settles around the room as she watches him finish cooking. His hands move with practiced ease as he goes around the kitchen. She can see his shirt is nicer than she’s used to seeing him wear. Usually he leaves the house in a black shirt that has a few stubborn stains on them although it’s clear the shirt had been washed. He usually wears pajama pants and when she asked him about it one day he said he was going to work. 

“What do you do for work?” She asks as a steaming bowl of food is placed in front of her, her mouth waters slightly and she waits for it to cool down before taking a bite. The flavors melt in her mouth and she hums as she takes another bite.

“I’m a chef, I own my own restaurant actually.” He leans against the counter on the other side and blows on his own bite of food.

“I can’t believe I’m getting this for free,” the statement causes him to laugh and he shakes his head.

“Come by the shop anytime and I’ll set something aside for you.” 

“Aww come on, you can’t show blatant favoritism like that,” she teases and she can feel the smile etch itself onto her face. 

“It’s my restaurant, or you can just come over here. Anytime really.”

“I’ll have to take you up on the offer,” they eat dinner in silence and just as she puts her shoes back on to leave the apartment he stops her. 

“You can stay a little longer if you want, it’s barely dark out.”

“If you insist,” she kicks her shoes off once more and sits on the couch with him. By the end of the movie his arm has found it’s way around her shoulder and her head found its way to his chest. They stay like that even after the credits roll, too scared to move in case the moment ends. She ends up being the first to move as she feels a cramp in her foot. “I suppose I should go home.”

He feels disappointment settle in his chest as he helps her up and walks her to the door. “See you soon?”

“I guess,” she teases and he doesn’t go back into his home until he hears her door lock. 

Over the next few months she’s visited him at the restaurant on days she had computer work. She always pays, and he conveniently cleans tables around her as an excuse to talk but he refuses to say it although they both know it. 

Within six months she feels closer to him than she has to anyone in a long time. She has a coat at his apartment and a toothbrush incase she leaves from his house for work instead of her own. Her table at Onigiri Miya is always clean and empty even during a lunch rush. Both of their friends at frustrated as they refuse to say. 

When she gets home from work she finds a note on her day reminiscent of when they first started doing whatever you want to call what they’re doing. She pulls out her key ring and unlocks his apartment, the lighting is lower than usual and she follows the noises to the kitchen and sets her bag down on the couch. “And what’s all this?” She says behind a poorly contained smile. 

“You aren’t supposed to be here yet,” he glares jokingly at her and turns around with a wooden spoon still in his hand. There are heart shaped ceramic containers on the table with candles under them and pieces of fruit cut and displayed on his nice plates. “Close your eyes and pretend you didn’t see this yet.” She laughs but goes along with it as she sits down at a seat. She can feel a hat be placed on her head and can feel his lips press gently against the skin on her forehead. 

“You’re not sneaky you know.”

“I know.” She hears more pots and pans clash as he rummages with things, hears the clinks of the ceramic against the table and then hears the sound of his chair scraping against the wood. She knows there’s a scratch on the wood from the metal of the chair scraping against it so often. “Okay, you can open you eyes.”

“Do I need to ask what all this is for?” She looks around at the fondue set up with a smile as her chin rests in her hand.

“It’s for your birthday, okay, I admit it.”

“Thank you.”

“Happy birthday darling,” his hand reaches out and skewers a piece of fruit before dipping it in the cheese and extending it out to her. She sighs happily as the taste hits her tongue and she can’t help but shake her head.

“Did you call off work today?”

“Possibly, I’m sure everything is fine. Let’s not talk about work.”

They sit at the table occasionally feeding each other bits of food and Osamu is grateful to his past self for putting down a discardable tablecloth under the food. There’s bits of cheese when he takes it off the table and the dishes sit in the sink when they make it over to the couch to enjoy the rest of their evening.

They don’t need to say what they mean to each other, it’s evident in the way the spare key jingles on her key ring and in the way that there are heart shaped dishes with the price tags still on the bottom in the sink. Love isn’t always something that needs to be said.

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this is for the very special, very lovely @solzscribblez as it is their birthday today <33 I hope you're having a wonderful birthday darling and that it's filled with all of your birthday wishes coming true and that you've gotten time to relax and enjoy yourself. I love you and hope you're doing well darling <3

[wordsofelie]

Chapter 1

🌅Don’t you dare runaway (A Phoenix and Ashes Sequel)

Miya Osamu x f!reader

Summary: Miya Osamu thinks some things will never change— Atsumu will always be annoying; his Ma’s food will always be the best and you will always be his favourite sunrise.

Content Warnings: Timeskip Setting, Manga Spoilers, ex!Suna, Swearing

Words count: 3.1k

chapter 2 - chapter 3 - chapter 4 - chapter 5 - chapter 6 - chapter 7 - chapter 8

Miya Osamu wouldn’t consider himself bad-looking. In fact, back in high school, he was quite popular. He remembers being on the volleyball team, where girls would show up to every game just to catch a glimpse of him, even more than ‘Tsumu—though his brother would argue that to the grave. But to be honest, Osamu didn’t really care about the attention. It was nice, sure, but it could also be annoying at times.

Now, as an adult running his own business, things have changed. The fangirls have been replaced by regular customers—people from the neighbourhood, office workers, students. Some of the girls still look at him, maybe even flirt a little, but it's different. They’re not giggling or blushing like teenagers. They smile, exchange pleasantries, and Osamu catches the occasional lingering glance, but no one is making a scene.

It’s almost a relief—being popular in school was one thing, but running a restaurant requires a different kind of behaviour. He can’t really ignore girls or play hard to get anymore. He has to smile and be polite all the time. Still, he is good at keeping people at arm's length and has a whole strategy built to keep his female customers without giving them false hope. So when a girl has a crush on him (and he can sense from afar) he adopts his three-steps rule: smiling but not too widely, looking at them in the eyes but not too intensely and when he hands them what they ordered, carefully avoiding any fingers brushing or any physical touch. With that, Osamu hopes that people will come back not because of how he looks but because they will like what he makes. And that’s just fine with him.

And above anything else, if he didn’t have time to date in high school because of the club, now that he is working, he has even less time to give to a significant other. So, he concluded that it’s better to keep people away.

(Well, except you.)

So yes, Miya Osamu is used to the attention. However, as he takes a glimpse at the two obasan grocery shopping on the other side of the road, whispering and grinning at him, he remembers why he hated fangirls back in high school.

“Do we really have to do this in the middle of the street?”

You wave at them with a polite smile and turn your attention back to him.

“Yes, one more, please!” you beg, holding your camera up.

Today is particularly windy and you decide to tie your hair up in a ponytail to keep strands from flying across your face (and Osamu knows you always tie them up when you want to be focused on something.) The sun is up in the sky, and the breeze is chill, summer is over.

The man sighs heavily, dragging out your name in exasperation.

“Osamu.” Your tone shifts, firmer now, the one you use when you're getting serious. Osamu likes to pretend you’re scary when you get like this, but really, you’re not. “Can you tell me who studied communication and social media management here?”

“You,” he mutters, crossing his arms.

“And who is in charge of your Instagram and Facebook pages?”

“You,” he repeats, already knowing where this is going.

“Right. So, unless you want someone else to ruin the carefully crafted image of your business I built, you should probably let me do my job.”

“Yer not even employed here,” he points out, raising an eyebrow.

You match his look, raising yours higher.

“Fine, fine,” he says, throwing his hands up in surrender. “But just one more photo. We’re supposed to open in five minutes.”

You grin in victory and start snapping photos of him. “Miya Osamu, you’re awesome. If you showed your face more you’ll get so much followers.”

Osamu feels a slight warmth creeping into his cheeks, he lowers his cap to hide his face. It’s getting hot, maybe summer isn’t really over?

“But can we at least do that inside?”

He knows you don’t really care whether it makes him uncomfortable or not because you just want to give the best image of Onigiri Miya possible and what’s better than the (good-looking) owner standing in front of his shop, half sat on a table, arms crossed? Nothing, you claim.

“Turn your face so I can see more of your left profile.” You instruct, ignoring his question.

Osamu is about to ask you to stop when Atsumu appears dressed in his MSBY Jackals sweatsuit, frowning.

“Oi, shop's still closed? I’ve got practice, need to eat first,” he complains, tapping his foot impatiently.

“Oh hi, Atsumu!” you lower your camera, “can you wait a few more minutes, I’m taking pictures of your brother.”

“Huh? But how am I supposed to be the best setter in the world if I have an empty stomach?”

Osamu sighs, “All right, all right. I’m openin’ up now. Just wait a sec.”

Atsumu watches as his brother opens the front door. “Wow, shocker. Ya actually listened to me for once.”

Osamu shoots him a flat look, one that makes you chuckle.

You both follow the younger twin inside.

The restaurant is small, but you always tell Osamu it’s warm. The walls are white, so the light reflects all over the place, the counter is made of wood, it’s so clean, sometimes you’re afraid to eat on it. There’s still some work to do and some decorations to add, but Osamu likes this place.

He sees your eyes waver all around the room with a little bit of pride. You both come here every day, but still, Osamu only realises how far he has come once you’ve passed the door and the look on your face lights up like a kid.

Atsumu’s eyes flick over to you as he pulls a chair. “What were ya doin’ outside?”

“I wanted to take some pictures of Osamu for his social media to celebrate the first anniversary of the shop. You know, to get more people to come.”

“Maybe ya should take me as yer model, I’ve always attracted more girls than that moron of ‘Samu.” He puffs his chest proudly.

Atsumu startles when the other twin brutally puts down a packed box with four onigiri inside in front of him. A nice way to tell him to shut up.

He blinks in confusion, staring at the box. “Oi, these are new?”

“Yeah, spicy cucumber and tarako, tell me what ya think.”

“Am I yer crash test or what?” Atsumu’s eyes widen, looking between you and his brother.

Osamu shrugs casually. “Ya always eat what I make, don’t ya? Thought ya wouldn’t mind.”

Atsumu’s indignation fades into a grin, though his pride won’t let him admit he’s secretly pleased to be part of his brother’s culinary experiments. He picks up an onigiri, inspecting it before taking a big bite. “Not bad. It's bitter and salty. But 'Samu, if I end up at the hospital, it’s yer fault. Don’t cry when ya’ll have to tell Ma’ her favourite son is dead.”

“Always so dramatic.” You whisper with a chuckle. The corner of Osamu’s mouth lifts a little at your words.

“Aren’t ya goin’ be late?”

“Nah,” Atsumu says mouth full of rice, “Practice starts a little bit later today, our manager’s lookin’ for someone to handle communication, so he had all those interviews and shit and coach wanted to be here.”

Both you and Osamu exchange a look.

“Atsumu.”

He turns to you, raising a brow.

“Atsumu,” you repeat, more slowly. “You realise I’ve been jobless for a month now, right? And that I’m looking for a job in communication? Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

“Yeah, I don’t think that would be good for ya. Ya’ll be surrounded by men. Bokkun, Omi-kun… even Shoyo-kun has joined us.”

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes. “And? Why is that a problem?”

Atsumu snorts, leaning back in his chair. “Just wonderin’ if ya can handle all those big guys, seein’ as ya’ve been single for—what—three years now?”

The brown-haired twin sees your features cringe at his words, but you quickly add, “But I’m with Osamu most of the time,” you point out, glancing over at his brother, “I’m used to boys.”

Osamu smirks at that.

Atsumu eyes the two of you before finishing his onigiri. “Right, just don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

“Do you think I should apply?” You ask Osamu. There’s something in your eyes like you’re searching for his approval but at the same time, his opinion wouldn’t matter anyway for you have already made your decision.

You have changed so much.

Osamu remembers the sixteen-year-old insecure girl he met in high school. Back then, you were quiet, always keeping yourself distant. He hadn’t even had a real conversation with you until the sports festival in his second year, and even then, it had been short, perhaps a little bit awkward. People would forget your name; forget you were in the same grade as them. It never seemed to bother you though. You appeared cold in front of people, but deep down, Osamu always knew you were kind.

The years he spent at your side confirmed that.

Maybe it was the fact that you used to date his former teammate and friend, Suna Rintarou, that pulled you into his world, but even after that relationship ended, you stayed in Osamu’s orbit. In fact, he can hardly remember a time when you weren’t around. You spend so much time at his restaurant, you have dinner together every night, you’re there on the weekends and every January 1st, for who knows how many New Year’s now, you are the first person he sees. You’re a constant in his life, maybe what he could qualify as a best friend (not that he needs to title your relationship, it’s too special to be defined with words).

But somehow, everyone still thinks you’re an introvert, that you don’t like to talk much. That statement never fails to make him smile. Because he knows better. He knows that you love telling him about your day and you love to talk on the phone until the a.m.—when you’re sleepy you tend to ramble. When you start a new activity, you always need to explain in detail what you did and where and how and what you liked or disliked about it. Osamu has no certainties about this world, except for one thing; you might be reserved with others, but never with him.

“Sure, go for it, just know ya’ll have to see ‘Tsumu every day.”

“So what? Are you afraid I’ll spend all my time with your brother instead of you?”

“Me? Yer the one who’s gonna miss me.” He leans on the counter to whisper that last part into your ear. From up close he can see the beauty marks on your face, he rests his chin on his palm and smiles (a side smile, always).

Your lips turn upwards, “You wish.” He can feel your breath against his cheek.

“Oi! Stop whisperin’, I know yer talkin’ about me,” Atsumu interjects, both Osamu and you straighten a little bit. The setter says your name, “D’ya wanna come with me so I can introduce ya to the manager? Maybe ya can give yer CV?”

You turn to Atsumu, “Of course, I’m coming. See you Osamu.”

“I'll close the shop earlier so I can pick ya up Champion.”

"You're the best." You wink at him and join the blond twin outside.

Osamu doesn’t have the time for a relationship because his business comes first.

Or perhaps it comes second.

Right after your friendship.

Osamu waits for you in the parking lot of Osaka’s gym. Your interview is supposed to end in a few minutes but if it were to end sooner, he decided to show up earlier, just in case. It’s become a habit—being there for you before you even ask. It started years ago, and somehow, it never stopped. He catches sight of you emerging from the gym, but your expression worries him. He’s seen almost every side of you by now. Disgust when you eat menma in a ramens, guilt when he picks you up at 3. am. downtown ‘cause you drunk a little bit too much—you always apologise a thousand times, as if he minds driving you home— sadness when your heart had been broken by your first love. And that face, he knows it too; you're overthinking.

Osamu raises a brow as you approach. "So... how’d it go?"

You hesitate, lips pressing together in thought. Your silence makes him uneasy. Osamu notices his hands are starting to sweat just slightly so he decides to hide them in his pockets. Over the years, Osamu has learned that if you're nervous, he is too.

"It went great, actually. Better than I expected." You look down at your shoes for a moment before adding, "But that doesn’t mean anything, right? I don't know if they really liked me... I should have done better..."

Osamu clicks his tongue and opens the passenger door. "Yer always so damn humble. It’s annoyin’, ya know that?"

You chuckle softly and roll your eyes. When you sit next to him in the car and he starts driving, you’re fast to realise he is not going in the direction of your apartment.

"Where are we going?"

"I want to thank ya for takin’ care of the shop’s social and ya know, just supportin’ me and stuff, openin’ the restaurant wasn't easy but ya were there. So yeah…”

“You don’t have to, you know I’m happy to do it.” Your eyes are so soft, Osamu wants to lean in them.

“I know.” He simply answers, he always answers the same thing.

 “How about Chinese food?"

You sink into your seat and nod. Osamu can see that you’re happy with his choice from the wrinkles that form around your nose as you smile. A warm feeling spreads into his chest, it’s comfortable like he had just drunk a sweet cup of tea in winter.

“So, how was the interview?” He then asks (and he knows the conversation will last the whole ride because remember, you never shut up with him).

So, you tell him about how it started with the manager and coach, both professional and somewhat intimidating at first, but then the mood shifted when the captain, Meian, walked in. You describe how calm and composed he was. He made a couple of jokes, and you tried your best not to burst into laughter ("I need to stay professional, you know.") Then, of course, Bokuto barreled in behind him like a human whirlwind.

"Bokuto-san was... a lot," you laugh. "He barely let the manager finish a sentence. He was so excited, he even asked me to make a post about him. But you know it’s not like I’m managing the social media yet, so he was very disappointed, and I felt bad. Maybe I should have made a post anyway, to show my skills? But then what if they didn't like it? What if they think I'm incompetent?"

"I'm sure ya did great, smartass" he uses a soft voice, in an attempt to reassure you. "What happened after?"

"And then," you continue, your voice lowering a little as if you're embarrassed, "Sakusa-san showed up. He didn’t say much—actually, he didn’t say anything at first. He just dragged Bokuto-san out of the room. I think he was annoyed."

There it is—that slight blush on your cheeks when you mention Sakusa. It's subtle, but Osamu has known you long enough to notice. For some reason, it bothers him more than it should.

"He’s... interesting," you add, trying to brush past it, but Osamu’s mind lingers the way your voice softened when you mentioned him.

"Is he? I don’t know him that much.” A sudden urge to change the subject invades him.

“Atsumu warned me not to fall for any of his teammates. Said it would be ‘too much drama for the team.”

Osamu glances at you briefly, curious. "And what d’ya think?"

You shrug casually and shake your hands. "I’m not really looking for a relationship right now."

Those words hit him harder than he expected. There’s a surge of relief in his chest, so sudden and sharp that he can’t ignore it. But he does his best to keep his face neutral, hoping you don’t read his mind.

You’re probably afraid to get hurt again, he understands that. When your relationship of three years ended up with Suna, you were devastated. Osamu remembers you crying for months. He was so afraid you’d starved yourself that he couldn’t sleep at night and decided to take care of you as much as he could. He wished he’d done more though.

He keeps his eyes focused on the road like he doesn't dare look at you at this moment.

He thinks the conversation is over when you break the silence again. "What about you? You never talk about your love life. What happened with your last girlfriend? What was her name again?"

Osamu stiffens. He hadn’t thought about her in months, and now that he does, there’s no real emotion attached to it. She was nice, sure. But nice wasn’t enough.

He needs someone funny and kind and bright.

He wants to laugh and to cook and to sit in silence with the one he loves.

"Ah, her," Osamu says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "She didn’t like that I spent so much time workin'."

You wait for him to say more, and he can feel your eyes on him, asking him to keep going. He sighs, feeling a weight settle in his stomach. And with you, he is about to say, but that would make you feel guilty, and he doesn’t want that.

You frown, confused. "She was very pretty though. Why didn’t you ever introduce me to her? Were you... ashamed of me or something?"

Ashamed? Of you? The idea is so ridiculous that it almost makes him laugh, but he can’t shake the look on your face, the way your brows knit together, and you purse your lips slightly.

"I’m not ashamed of you, idiot," Osamu blurts out, the words tumbling from his mouth before he can think them through. “I guess, I just didn’t really have the time.”

Your smile softens, and though you don’t say anything more, he can see a glint of joy in your eyes.

“Why are ya smilin’ for?”

“You must really love me.”

Osamu feels his heart skip a beat; he almost misses to stop at the red light.

“Why-why would ya say that?”

“You only insult people you love, like your brother.”

He opens his mouth a little, but nothing comes out.

“I’m glad we’re friends.” You tell him and your voice sounds like a lullaby.

Fuck, Osamu thinks. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken another coffee an hour ago because he can hear his temples beating loudly and he needs to do something with his hands—they’re shaking, they’re shaking. You’re going out of the car once he’s parked; he looks at you. Your smile is still playing at the edge of your lips.

Friends, of course, you’re friends.

That’s great.

Perfect.

Osamu wouldn’t change anything about it.

author notes: i'm sooo happy to start this story, this chapter was essentially a way of setting the scene. compared to the prequel it will be mostly osamu's pov.

i'm gonna try my best to make it possible to read it as a stand-alone but i still think reading the prequel can help to understand the bond between osamu and y/n, anyway i hope you've enjoyed that chapter :)

taglist: @wolffmaiden, @obibiwan, @teyvatsunsets

[katescorner]

osamu who has a gaggle of fangirls just like all the boys on the inarizaki volleyball team, but he doesn't exactly know how to deal with them like the others do. atsumu feels at ease in the spotlight, so he entertains his crowd by flirting; it's just who he is. meanwhile, suna accepts their chocolates and occasionally tosses a glance their way during practice sets. sure, osamu doesn't mind the attention, but it also feels awkward and honestly a bit uncomfortable to have eyes on him all the time. so he does what anyone in his position would do.

he gets into a fake relationship.

part two linked here

[quirrrky]

—LEAVE ME LOVING YOU [miya osamu x reader]

❝The sun is setting in purple and blue. Is there no getting closer to you?❞

Miya Osamu, your crush's twin, secretly pretended to be his brother to save you from embarrassment. It was supposed to be just for a day, but he never expected he'd yearn for more with you.

Will you be able to see right through his facade? Can he leave his brother's shadow before it's too late?

𐑂 inspired by jackson wang's LMLY 𐑂 secret admirer, unrequited love? timeskip, mini-series 𐑂 ongoing; weekly 𐑂 taglist: drop this emoji 🍙 on the ask box or on the reply section to be added    —𐑂 @miiyas @wyrcan

LMLY [moodboard]

✦ 𝐨𝐧𝐞 reaching out for you to bring you to me

✦ 𝐭𝐰𝐨 what if I just hold on for a while?

✦ 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 baby, there's no drug quite like denial

✦ 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 (november 4!) if you're out of this when I'm all in, I need a warning

✦ 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 if you don't feel it too, whatever you do, don't leave me loving you

#𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙀

this idea is in my head even before nonnie-chan requested for an osamu fluff. I know I did a serious damage with glimpse of us. I may have broken hundreds of hearts, so now I'm fixing them. while reading the request, I was listening to this song and the plot thickens. I just cried at how I imagined the last chapter to be. I'm just so excited! ദ്ദി ꒦ິ꒳꒦ິ )✧

© quirrrky 2024 - All rights reserved. No work shall be reproduced, reposted, modified, translated in any form or by any means.

samu coloring by @/hiddeninventories | @pixelcafe-network

[a-kaash-me-outside]

a bit dirty - ch6

in which you hook up with osamu in a club bathroom and that's just the beginning. prev | ch6 [masterlist]

// a really great idea ~ ᴏsᴀᴍᴜ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ~ 7392 ᴡᴏʀᴅs

a look into this chapter: 18+ minors dni nsfw, squirting, sex in a bed!!, a lot of feelings and love!!!!, intimacy in more than just the bedroom fr, names names names pet names a million pet names, oral f!receiving, afab she/her pronouns

tori talks: oh good god guys we're finally here. thanks to everyone who is going to read this last chapter even though it literally took me over 6 months to write it. i hope you enjoy it and i'm glad it's over and that it happened. ily all. hope u enjoy. ♡ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢs ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ♡

you’re not sure you’d admit it to anyone, but walking into osamu’s apartment for the first time feels like coming home after a long day at work. you can see yourself here, more than you can in your own apartment or your childhood home. you feel just a little bit more like yourself, shoulders relaxing in a way that you didn’t think they needed to, breath a tiny fraction steadier. you’re not sure you’ve felt this comfortable in a really long time. 

you don’t have to ask him where to put your shoes or where to hang your jacket, and he doesn’t take them from you either. he doesn’t put them away for you or tell you to hang them on the hangers in the empty closet down the hall. 

when he unlocks his door and pushes inside, you mimic his motions, placing your shoes gingerly on the rack to the right of the closet between his white sneakers and black work shoes, hanging your jacket on the empty hooks above the spot where you've just retired your shoes. 

stepping deeper into his apartment, he offers a small, “so, welcome,” he says, gesturing to the living room, one hand softly wrapped around yours as he tugs you along. stepping past the barrier of the front door, further into osamu’s space, you don’t feel like a guest here. you just feel like you belong.

“oh my god, it’s so clean in here,” you say, a few paces ahead of him now, but he refuses to break contact, to let go of your fingertips so he walks quickly along with you. 

“well, yea, i’m not really ever home,” he explains, shrugging, as you walk around his living room eyes stopping at the neatly organized coffee table with cork coasters and a yellow hard-covered book titled this book will make you kinder, at the photos on his wall of him and his brother and him and his restaurant and him and suna, at the plants in the window sill and the dustless, dirtless ledge beneath them. 

you shake your head, “no, that’s not true. you come home after work and you’re here before you leave for work, and i’m sure you’re super busy leaving in the morning and super tired when you come home at night, so it’s really impressive that it’s really clean.”

he lets out a half-laugh, a breathy light scoff in the place of a real response. you turn around, looking at him directly with a mischievous look on your face, “unless you cleaned your apartment just for me tonight?”

osamu’s quiet, a very telling silence, a wordless admittance. “oh my god!” you say, hands on your hip, and the slight hold that he has on your fingertips isn’t broken yet, his hand now pressed against your side, fingers curling around your hip as he pulls you a little closer.  

“okay!” he admits, “so i am pretty tidy anyways, but there may have been a few dishes in the sink and the bed might not have been made and the couch cushions didn’t look that good before but-”

you shake your head, clicking your tongue, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth as you tease, “how presumptuous of you that i would come back here after our date?” 

“i didn’t think we’d just fuck in the bathroom again, baby, what was i supposed to do, you literally said-” he says, trying to explain himself, unstoppable smile on his face as he pulls you even closer to him.

“do you think i’m that kinda girl? to just fuck you on the first date?” you ask, palm flat against his chest now, the other hand snaking up to lazily drape around his neck.

he shakes his head, wrapping his arms around you tight around your arms and shoulders, holding you in place as he laughs so deep that it sends tingles and shivers down your spine and skin. “you’re very funny, y’know that?” he asks, squishing you against his chest as he presses kiss after kiss into the top of your head. 

“you made the bed? fixed the couch cushions? samu, i mean, really, what did you think was going to happen tonight?” you giggle, emphasizing every other word dramatically as you squirm in his tight grasp.

“i mean,” he says, leaning back to look at the warmth on your face, the fluster that lies with it, “you are here, aren’t you? i couldn’t have been that wrong if the cleaning paid off.”

you giggle harder now, leaning up and pressing a kiss into wherever you can reach in his strong hold. “i sure am,” you agree. he loosens his grip, hand falling down your arm to thread his fingers with yours again. he pecks a small kiss against your lips and then your cheek. 

“you sure are,” he says, warmly. 

you really could’ve stayed in the middle of his living room forever surrounded by couches and books on shelves and an impressive entertainment system. you didn’t need any of it either, didn’t need a place to sit or things to keep you busy, you’d be really happy just staring at osamu for the rest of time, at hearing him laugh, at feeling his pulse in your palm.  

“can i getcha a drink?” he asks, pulling you out of this mellow, love-struck state in the name of hospitality. 

“only if i can come with you,” you say, looking over his shoulder into the kitchen. your motivation is 70% wanting to stay with osamu and 30% wanting to see what his kitchen looks like: what kind of mugs he has, where he keeps his silverware, if his knives and pans are on display or tucked away in cabinets.

“clingy,” he teases, smile huge because there wasn’t any way that he was leaving you alone for even a second. 

“fine! i'll stay in here,” you pout. 

he doesn’t respond, only laughs and pulls you by the hand, “come on, pretty.”

you don’t protest anymore, following along happily into the kitchen, forcing yourself to sit on the barstool in front of the bar rather than snoop in his cupboards and drawers. he’s hesitant to let his touch fall from yours, to let go of the contact he has on your hand and your hip, but he does, presses a small kiss into the side of your head, and walks deeper into his kitchen.

from here you can see the kettle on the counter and the knives on a metallic strip above the black countertop. the pans are nowhere to be seen. they must be hidden away somewhere safe. you don’t say anything and neither does he as he pulls wine glasses and mugs and cups out of the cupboard and places them on the countertop in front of you. 

and you still don’t feel like a guest. 

it feels like osamu getting you a drink is because he loves you, like you could get up and get your own if you wanted to, like you already knew where the tea bags were and the spoons and the shelf that the sugar resided, like next time you would return the favor, let him sit down for a minute while you made the two of you tea or poured another glass of wine. 

“what’s it gonna be?” he asks, gesturing to your choices on the bar in front of you.

“y’know you could’ve just asked me that before pulling out all the cups?” you tease, eyes moving from cup to mug to wine glass. 

he shrugs, “not as visual.”

“what are you in the mood for?” you ask, reaching to pick up the mug, black ceramic with a gray stripe along the base. you turn it over in your hand, running your fingers along the matte texture. yeah, this feels like a mug osamu would own. 

“anything, really,” he says, smiling before the rest of the flirt even comes out of his mouth, “as long as i’m drinking it with you on my couch, i will be very happy.”

you roll your eyes. it’s really unfair how predictable, yet how adorable, he is when it comes to things like that. “alright, how about wine now, tea later?” you ask.

he rests both of his hands on the edge of the counter for a moment, nodding as he does, removing the cups from the counter and pushing the mugs towards the tea kettle. “sounds like a plan, angel,” he says, disappearing behind the pantry door and coming back with a bottle of wine. 

he doesn’t recork the wine or put the bottle back, leaves it exactly where he sets it on the counter in a rush to just drink wine on his couch with you. he carries your glass for you as he guides you back to the couch. 

sitting on the plush, perfectly set cushions, tucking yourself into the corner against the arm rest, osamu pressed up against you, pulling your legs over the tops of his, his hand resting comfortably on your calf, you’re not sure you’ll ever really be ready to go back to your own cold, lonely apartment. when you close your eyes, you can see this moment next week and next month and three years from now. 

your first glass of wine isn’t even finished before he interrupts your current conversation of favorite movies and media with a stupidly cute, nervous question, “so, can i ask you now?” 

you want to be stunned or at least fake it, but you can only lean closer into him, setting your wine glass down on the coaster on the coffee table to wrap both of your arms around his bicep. “ask me what?” you tease.

he shakes his head, “y’know that night i thought you were so out of my league.”

you lean backwards, mouth agape, eyebrows furrowed in disbelief, “no fucking way.”

“swear,” he laughs, leaning forward to set his glass down next to yours, “and i was out of my depth, had no idea what i was doing, just couldn’t stop staring at you-”

“oh, i know,” you say, recalling his smitten, lingering stare so perfectly that your face feels warm, “every time i would look over in your direction you would be looking at me like this.” you mimic your recollection as best as you can.

he puts his face in his hands. “that’s so embarrassing,” he says, and it’s muffled by his palms. you wrap your hands around his wrists, pulling them away from his face and kissing the backs of them.

“no, no, it was cute,” you say, but he still groans. you continue, “samu, i was into it, obviously.”

he explains further, “sumu was like shoving me over there so blatantly that i almost didn’t go over there.” he shakes his head at the memory, at the alternate universe where his stupid brother alone failed to start the best chain of events of his life. “and then omi leaned over to me and was like, ‘i'll distract your dumbass brother, go have a good night, you deserve it.’” 

“remind me to thank him then,” you say, softly, shifting against the couch to lean against his shoulder instead of the armrest. 

“will do,” he says, smile in his voice as he snakes his arm around your waist, hand resting on the side of your thigh. “i’ve thanked him plenty for both of us, but it might mean more coming from a new mouth.”

“you just say the most romantic things like it’s nothing,” you say.

“i don’t try,” he admits, “just hard not to be romantic when i’m with you.” he reaches across you with his other arm, pulls you further into his lap until both of your knees are on either side of his thighs and you’re facing him. “sorry,” he mumbles, “wanted to look at ya.”

“you’ve gotta be doing this on purpose,” you whisper. 

his fingers scrape against the tops of your tights before rooting on your hips. he shakes his head. “it’s all you, really,” he whispers back. “these thoughts just come into my mind and i say them. love you so much, you make it easy.”

you’re very grateful for this position because it’s effortless to lean down and crash your lips into his, to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him deeper into the kiss, to feel his chest lift to kiss you harder. he tastes like expensive wine and a little bit like you still and you might cry, he’s just really perfect. 

he places his hand on your shoulder, holds you in place as he leans back into the couch. the pout is already forming on your lip, so he runs his thumb across it gently. “will you be mine?” he asks, adding before you’ve even answered, “let me love you with labels.”

“oh my god, samu, you’re going to kill me, y’know that?” you say, hands cupping both of his cheeks before kissing him sweetly. “how do you expect me to keep up with this?”

“just say yes,” he says, quickly, “that’s enough for me.”

“of course,” you say, forehead resting gently against his, kiss placed on his nose and then the high of his cheekbone. you repeat it again just in case he missed it the first time, “of course.”

“i’m sorry that i didn’t make this happen sooner,” he says, soft sigh accompanying his remorseful tone.

“stop that,” you hush him.

“i mean it,” he says, sitting up into you a bit more, “if i would’ve figured my shit out sooner, we could’ve been doing this for months.”

“yeah, but you don’t know if everything would’ve turned out the same way,” you say, bringing your hands up into his hair, “if that would’ve been too soon or if we needed to go through all we went through to be as strong as we are now, there’s no way to know, really.”

he smiles at you, not opening his mouth to say anything, just soaking in the moment, humming at your astute thought. you continue, “i guess i just mean that, yea, getting more time with you would’ve been great, but we can’t do anything about that. so i’m just really glad to be with you now, here, drinking wine and sitting in your lap and kissing you.”

“and you say i’m the romantic,” he murmurs, kissing you once more. 

“you are,” you argue. 

/\ /\ /\

neither of you even finish your first glass of wine. even if you had, there was no way the two of you were untangling from each other and making your way into the kitchen for another, not in the middle of unimportance conversations about your thoughts on christmas lights or osamu’s thoughts on the type of pet he’d like to have one day. 

but as the hours tick on, as the clock hands droop lower and lower, osamu knows that you need some sort of transition period to staying the night. “cup of tea before we go to bed?” he asks, head resting against the back cushion of the couch staring into your eyes with as much love as he can.

“are you being presumptuous again, samu?” you tease, but your eyelids are getting heavier and you can’t put a lot of effort into the taunting. 

“i’m sorry, princess, do you want to stay the night?” he asks, gut-wrenchingly sincere. 

“i would really love that, yea,” you say, flustered in the backfiring of your banter, “and tea sounds really nice too.” 

he nods, once, short and happy, ready to move you off of his lap to go get the two of you a final drink before bed, but you get off of him first. “i’ll get it,” you offer, waiting with bated breath for him to fight you on it or to be weirded out by the forwardness of raiding his kitchen to feel the domesticity a little harder.  

he doesn’t protest at all, lets the smitten, lingering stare last for a few moments before saying, “only if i can come with you.”

before you’ve made it to the kitchen with osamu in tow, he stops you, plants in place in front of the hallway to his bedroom, and nods towards it. “but first, can we get you into some comfier clothes?” he asks. “nighttime tea tastes better when you’re in comfy clothes,” he reasons. you can’t disagree. 

you follow him down the hall to his room. you don’t get a good look at his plainly decorated room or the nicely made bed as you wait in the doorway. he returns quickly with a t-shirt of his. “you can change in the bathroom across the hall if you want,” he offers.

“you know you were inside of me in a fancy restaurant bathroom hours ago, right?” you ask, narrowing your eyes, pushing past him into his room and taking off all of your date clothes. osamu folds them neatly as you set them on the bed. when he picks up your torn tights, he can’t hold back his small laugh. 

“oh yea, so funny,” you joke, “you can probably throw those away.”

“but they’re perfectly good for having sex in public bathrooms,” he jokes back. 

you pull his shirt over your head, soft cotton taking the place of going out clothes and the difference is already lulling you to sleep. you’re determined to make osamu tea, but you can’t promise most of the cup won’t go cold on the counter.

it doesn’t take long for osamu to be on you, arms wrapped around your waist, hands roaming over your body, “you look so good right now.”

“shut up,” you say, pushing him away with the least amount of resolve anyone has ever had, “imagine how i feel looking at you wearing stuff like this.”

“you look better in it than i do,” he says, shaking his head. 

“not possible,” you say back.

he leans down to kiss you once before reluctantly pulling away, walking back over to his dresser to change into comfier clothes as well. if you weren’t so stupidly tired, seeing osamu shirtless and in super casual sweatpants would’ve been the perfect catalyst for your first night together having sex in a bed.

tea. sleep. tea. sleep. tea. sleep. you remind yourself.

“c’mon, angel,” he coaxes, pulling you by your hand back down the hallway and into the kitchen. he leans against the countertop, doesn’t say another word or try to make you tea despite your earlier statement. 

you start the kettle with the push of a button, pull the mugs from across the counter in front of you. you pluck two tea bags from the glass jar where they live. you have to open a few cupboards before finding the spoons, but the sugar is right where you think it will be. 

“i think knowing that you take sugar in your tea is both the most surprising thing and also somehow completely aligns with who you are,” you reason, pouring the gently boiling water over the tea bags. by the time you finish your sentence, you’ve noticed the enamored look on his face, but you don’t have time to comment on it as he replies. 

“that’s because you know me really well,” he says, nodding, loving smile still lingering. you put half of a spoonful of sugar into the cup, stir until it dissolves and then slid it against the countertop to him. he wraps his fingers around the warm cup, brings it to his lips, blows on it gently as if that’s going to do anything at all, and then takes the smallest sip. “perfect.”

you lean against the edge of the counter, holding the mug in your hands, waiting for the air to cool down the steaming beverage. “i think i’d be really okay with ending every single day of my life just like this,” you admit. if his eyes go wide or he recoils even the smallest percentage, you’ll blame it on the eventful day and the exhaustion that’s quickly overcoming you, but they don’t. his features soften, hand reaches across the counter to rub the back of your hand. 

“me too,” he reciprocates. “you’ll have to stay over more often,” he doubles down. 

“what?” you ask, taking a sip of your tea. you can feel the warmth hit your stomach. “have dinner ready for you when you come home and spend your nights off intertwined on the couch?” everything that you’re saying is getting closer and closer to practically asking to move in, but osamu doesn’t seem to mind. 

“exactly that,” he murmurs, “you’ll have to see if you like my bed first, though, before you resign yourself to coming over every night.”

“every night?” you ask, cheeky smile the only form of teasing that you’re giving right now, “maybe we should go check it out then.” you take one more sip of your tea and then set the cup down on the counter. osamu doesn’t even do that, pulls you away from behind the counter and down the hall. 

you climb into his bed, under his covers without asking or another mention. osamu joins you, climbing into the other side, and the two of you don’t waste a single second, curling up against each other, limbs lazily tangling, pressing up against one another as close as you possibly can. 

“the first time we’re in a bed together and we’re not even having sex,” he says, softly, reaching over and turning off his bedside light. it takes a few moments for your eyes to get adjusted, to make out the shapes of his face in the dark. 

“crazy, right?” you ask, smiling as you snuggling into his chest impossibly closer. 

“i like this though,” he admits, traces his fingers up and down your arms, “just being in bed with you, falling asleep with you, means i get to wake up with you.”

you hum at his voice, soft and deep, and the darkness looks the same as it does with shut eyes, but you’re trying your best to not let the sleep take you that fast. “can you keep me awake?” you ask.

“you’re literally falling asleep as we speak,” he says, your eyelids fluttering shut as if to make a point. you shake your head, but you don’t say anything else. “why do you want me to keep you awake, babygirl?”

“cause i wanna be in this moment a little while longer,” you reason, breath taking over your voice as the darkness and warmth pull you into a comforting hug.

“we’ll have plenty of time for moments like this later,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “plenty of time, so go to sleep, angel.”

you’re not even embarrassed at how quickly you listen to him.

/\ /\ /\

if last night wasn’t enough to convince you that you were exactly where you needed to be for the rest of your life, waking up in osamu’s arms definitely was. they’re strong around you, wrapped tightly around your waist, nose nuzzled into the back of your neck, legs intertwined with yours. 

you’re incredibly surprised that you’ve woken up first, but the second that you start to stir, osamu’s grip loosens, and his head peaks over your shoulder and he places a small kiss on your cheek. “mornin’,” he says, raspy as he talks off the sleep. 

you turn in his arms, laying flat on your back so you can look at him directly. “good morning,” you say back, lifting your head to kiss him. “very good morning,” you say again. 

“cute,” he murmurs against your lips, “stupidly cute.” you reach your arms up, draping them over his neck loosely to pull him down into you. “do you want breakfast or something?” he asks.

you shake your head, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “no,” you say, “well, maybe later? i think right now i just want, y’know, this.” you gesture with a small nod not really towards anything in particular, just to the situation.

he laughs, kissing the side of your face, “alright, this it is.”

you don’t say much else. nor does he. it’s all stolen kisses and roaming touches and silent exchanges. you don’t feel the need to talk, don’t have much to say, you’re communicating just fine without them. 

every touch is getting needier, every kiss is getting longer, sloppier, more desperate, and the only thing that you’ve been able to think about for the last hour is all of the promises that have been made to you about after date things. 

it doesn’t help that he’s on top of you now, tops of his thighs resting between your legs, hands on either side of your waist just looking at you like that. the first thing you say in over an hour is, “what, samu?”  

he laughs, pushing his fingertips up your body, under the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and up until your entire stomach is exposed. “god, you’re so hot,” he says, grabbing onto your waist to pull you closer to him. 

“samu,” you whine. 

“what, doll? it’s true,” he says, pushing your shirt up even further now, tits on display so pretty that you can feel him begin to grow hard against your inner thigh. “so pretty,” he murmurs. he tugs your shirt off, tosses it to the side with no regard for the tidiness of his room anymore. 

you’ve really never been this exposed before when you’ve had sex with osamu, always an article of clothes on, but now the only thing stopping you from being completely naked is the thin fabric of your panties and osamu’s fingers are already hooked in the waistband. you don’t protest as he drags them down your thighs, picks up your legs and rests them on his shoulder as he does. 

he presses a kiss into the side of your leg, slowly drops them back around him. your stomach is in knots, can barely breathe with the way that he’s looking at you, eyes traveling down your body so slowly that you can see each point that they linger a second longer.

“fuck, you look good,” osamu says, leaning down to kiss your shoulders, your collarbones, your chest.

“shut up,” you murmur, fingers threading into his hair, scratching against the back of his head as he scrapes his teeth against your sensitive skin.

“no, i’m serious,” he says, leaning back, “you’re so fucking pretty, gorgeous actually.”

“ew, shut up,” you push him away jokingly, gently, “or i’m not going to let you fuck me unless we’re fully clothed ever again,” you joke.

he laughs against your neck, breath and vibrations tickling the wet skin. every single kiss feels personal, hand-crafted and perfectly thought of just for you. the placement is direct and purposeful and you can feel his love in every single one. 

“god, i’m going to take my time with you,” he says, pulling away again. you can feel the blush blooming under your skin, warming up every inch of you, igniting fires in your stomach.

“first time that we have a lot of it,” you joke, coaxing him back up to your lips. “and first time that i don’t have to be situated on a sink or the floor.”

“so you’ll be perfectly comfortable,” he says, kisses trailing between your tits and down your stomach, “while i eat you all morning long.”

“samu,” you say, crook of your elbow rising up to your face to hide behind it. he reaches up, pulls it away from your face. 

“don’t hide from me, doll, look so cute like that,” he says, laying between your thighs, pushing them open with familiar hands. you give in to the gentle pressure so easily that you swear you hear the faintest laugh coming from Osamu, but the light kisses peppering your thighs that follow gain your focus instantly. 

it should feel agonizing, the way he takes his time dragging his lips across every part of the skin between your legs, kissing and biting lightly. but the longer he’s there the more laughter flutters through your chest, the more your cheeks flush, the more loved you feel. you bring your hands to his face as he rests his head against your knee cupping one under his jaw and using the other to push his hair back a little. 

“make me feel so pretty, samu,” you mumble. he makes no attempt to answer, just holds your gaze with loving eyes as he brings himself to ghost near your already soaked pussy, the feeling his breath overwhelming any of your other senses. 

“just want you to see yourself through my eyes, princess.” the end of his sentence comes with a long, slow swipe of his tongue against your hyper sensitive clit and it feels good to finally not worry about who can hear you. 

you dig your head back into the pillow, hair already a mess after a perfectly restful night’s sleep. you can feel his eyes burning into you, even if you can’t see them, even if your focus is really anywhere but the agonizing feather-like touches between your legs.  

it’s a shame, you think, but only for a moment, that his mouth is so busy that you can’t hear him call you pretty names or poke fun at you for whining so much. only for a moment. 

if there’s one thing that osamu cannot be called it’s all-or-nothing. osamu doesn’t do all-or-nothing; he does slowly, consistently, comfortably, and then all. this is no exception. he runs his tongue between your puffy lips, smears your juices all over your sensitive pussy with the tip, and then he eats you- not like a man-starved, but like a man who he gets to indulge in his favorite dessert. 

his fingertips are digging into the fat of your hips, palms pressing to keep you in place, to keep you from squirming, and it’s working. he lets you scratch your nails into his hair, down the back of his neck, resting on the tops of his shoulders. you don’t guide him, don’t buck your hips impatiently, you don’t need to. if he isn’t lapping exactly where you want him to, you know he will be soon, you know it’s deliberate, you know that he knows what’s best for you even if you have to wait for it. 

you’re not sure you know how many times you come on his tongue, how many are attributed to just his tongue and how many are attributed to the noises that he’s making, the grunts that are coming from his throat, the mumbled praises that he’s whispering against your soaked folds, the squeaking of the mattress from the soft grinding that he’s doing against the blankets. 

without a watch, you’d have claimed you were there for hours, all morning, just like he said. you’re not sure if he would’ve stopped either, if you hadn’t sat up on your forearm, somehow more out of breath than he was, and tugged on his hair. “samu, baby,” you whine. 

you can’t help it, the even-more-breathless-breathlessness that hits you when he looks into your eyes, bottom of his face soaked with you, licks his lips, wipes the rest of it with his palm, and crawls slowly up to meet you. he kisses you hard, as hard as you’ll let him, and then he kisses you again, and then he kisses your cheek, and then your jaw, then your neck, mumbles against your skin, “what do you want now, bunny?” he’ll give you anything. “i’ll give you anything.” you know that he will. 

the opportunities are endless. the world is your oyster. anything that you ask for, he will give you, and it will be wrapped with neat paper and a pretty bow with a handwritten note several miles long. you swallow, eyes searching his face for nothing in particular, just because he’s pretty and because he’s yours. 

“i don’t think i have anything to ask for, because you’re already mine,” you whisper.

his face lights up, skin hot and flushed on the highs of his cheeks and traveling down his neck and chest. for a second it looks like he short-circuits, like you’ve broken him just by telling him the truth, and then, in a second, the world catches back up to him. 

he shakes his head slowly and then you’re on top of him, sat with both legs on either sides of his, strong hands steadying you before you can even clock that you need to be steadied. “you’re really asking for it, huh?” he asks, and now you’re feeling warm.

“i- what are you talking about, samu,” you say, eyebrows furrowed. you can feel his hips- and yourself- lift off the bed as the fabric between the backs of your thighs and the tops of his is replaced with soft skin. you yelp softly as you’re lowered back down, hands on your inner thighs pushing you back just enough for his cock to rest between them. 

you’re soaking wet, making a mess between your lips and on the insides of your legs and now all over his hard cock, slowly pushing through your pressed together thighs. he brings his hips off the bed, steady thrusts rocking the mattress ever so slightly, both his hands squeezing the outsides of your thighs. he clicks his tongue, “saying shit like that, angel, you know i’m not going to be able to help myself.”

“samu,” you repeat, breathless. “what ar-.”

he cuts you off, sliding his thumb from the tip of his cock to the base, his leaking head slipping between your messy lips until it’s teasing your hole. “sound so in love with me, baby, need to fucking feel you around me so fucking bad right now,” he breathes, sharp inhale punctuating his sentence as he pulls you by your hips until you’re fully seated on his cock. 

you don’t know if the warmth is coming from the blush or touch of his skin or the desire that’s burning in your core, but it’s there, and before you can even fully register what he’s saying, he’s honest-to-god whimpering, spouting more lovey bullshit, “god, it’s like falling in love with you made you fit even more perfectly around me.” he lifts you slightly, fingers digging into your hips as he lets you slowly fall back down onto his cock. 

he tilts his head into the pillow, but immediately picks it back up, locking eyes with you before letting his gaze fall down your body, like he can’t believe you really exist, like he can’t believe he let himself relax into a position where he couldn’t see you at all times, like he “can’t believe you’re fucking real,” he grunts, “and that you’re all fucking mine.”

“osamu, if you don’t knock it off,” you say. you’re only half-joking. you’re not sure that you could take him talking to you like this for much longer. you feel so full, every part of you feels so full. you slide your hands down his chest, palm against his rapidly beating heart acting as leverage as you start moving in time with him.

you close your eyes, partially to focus on the parts of you that are on fire right now, and partially so that you don’t have to keep looking at how much osamu is looking at you. he can’t keep his hands off of you, can’t keep his eyes off of you.

“can’t help it, pretty, not when i get to savor it like this,” he says, brings his chest up and wraps his arms around your back, holding you securely to him. he kisses the side of your face, whispers in your ear, “not when i finally get to fuck you in my bed and tell you that i love you and see you- all of you.” 

“are you trying to make me cry or something?” you ask, placing both of your hands on either side of his face, forcing his attention on just your eyes and the hints of shyness strewn all over your face. 

a slight smirk is followed by raised eyebrows and a tiny kiss to the temple. osamu flips you over, lying you gently on your back while you’re still fully encompassing him. “that can be arranged, puppy,” he says, kissing down your neck, nipping at your shoulders and chest. he slams his hips into you and you can’t help the pleasured, high-pitched moan that comes as a result. in fact, you can’t help the ones that come one after another after another as he keeps snapping his hips, insides of your thighs growing raw from the impact.

you’re babbling at this point, a symphony of half-finished words and tiny whimpers, and when a single tear breaks free of your blurred waterline, osamu can’t hold back. “fuck, holy fuck, babygirl, you sound so good, don’t stop, princess, keep making those cute fucking noises, fuck, sound so good.” 

you shake your head no and hope that he understands what it means, that you won’t stop as long as he doesn’t. you’ll cry and scream and make cute little noises for him forever if he never pulls out of you. 

you’ve always known that fucking in bathrooms has been disadvantageous, you just couldn’t pinpoint it, not when it always felt so good anyway. you never thought the space bothered you or the hard, cold various materials of sinks or the fact that people were often only a door away; you never thought any of that mattered until now, now when you can cry for him and feel the softness of the blankets beneath you and the plushness of the pillow behind your head.

“baby,” you cry, “i’m- you’re gonna- fuck, i love you so much. i’m-.” you throw your head back, you can’t finish your half-constructed sentence before osamu is fucking you faster, harder, wrapping an arm around your lower back and lifting you up the slightest bit to angle you perfectly. your hand moves on instinct, reaches down between your legs and circles your throbbing clit for only a second before you’re squirting all over him, a release of pressure drenching him as you gasp for air, drawing in enough breath to cry out his name.

you place your hand on his lower abs, eyes closing softly to center yourself. you could’ve passed out right here, slept for a million years, and you’re not sure you would’ve completely recovered. your body is shaking, throat is sore, and when you open your eyes, osamu is looking at you with such adoration and awe that you’re certain you’ve missed something. 

“the first time we’re not in a fucking bathroom and you fucking make me squirt,” you mumble, shaking your head, “what are we going to do with you?” you ask, removing your hand from his stomach, silently letting him know you’ve recovered enough for him to keep going. 

“i don’t care,” he says, kissing your jaw, “i don’t care what you do with me for the rest of my life, that was the most amazing thing i’ve ever seen.”

“you made a mess,” you tease.

“i made a mess?” he asks.

you nod. 

he breathes a laugh before accepting responsibility, “i made a mess,” he confirms. 

“so you’ve gotta do one thing for me,” you say, circling your hips, matching his lazy thrusts as you wrap your arms around his neck. 

“anything,” he says. and you know that he means it. 

you use your loose grip around his neck to coax him closer to you, your lips now pressed against his ear. “need you to make a mess inside of me, samu, please,” you say, low enough to send shivers down his spine from the tone alone. his hips stutter. he wants to regain composure, to not give in to blowing his load deep inside of you just from you saying his name and asking him nicely, he really wants to savor it and last a little bit longer. 

but you’re so wet. you’re drenched, but you’re still so tight and sucking him in so nicely, perfectly sculpted for him, gummy walls still clenching and fluttering from your orgasm, and you kiss the skin right below his ear and you say, “please, i’ve been waiting for it ever since i fucking met you, please, don’t make me wait any longer.”

and he can’t. 

he wouldn’t.

he doesn’t.

he snaps his hips forwards, pressing himself flush against the insides of your thighs and releases deep inside of you. you can feel his cock pulse with each stream, feel yourself getting fuller and fuller and fuller with each throb and accompanying grunt. you can’t get enough. you don’t want it to ever stop, but it does. he keeps himself deep inside of you for a moment, not wanting to lose the feeling just as much as you don’t. 

when he starts to get soft, he pulls out, come dripping out of your hole and onto the blankets below just adding to the mess the two of you have created in the span of a few hours. he doesn’t exactly know where to go, what to do. the two of you could’ve passed out just like this, intertwined together and had the most incredible sleep of your entire life, if it weren’t for the huge mess beneath you. 

“what now?” you mumble, not moving. 

you feel osamu flop next to you. you’re not sure if he’s avoided the mess or if he’s embraced it. part of you wants to stand up and apologize and start throwing his bedspread in the washer, but that part of you isn’t winning, not today. if that part of osamu exists, it’s not winning either. he wraps his arms around your waist, rests his head on your chest, pulls you into him. 

“are we just going to lay in this?” you say, laughing. it sounds ridiculous coming out of your mouth, but you’re sure it wouldn’t take much convincing for you to not have to move from this very spot. osamu doesn’t answer you, but you feel him unwrap from your body and then get off the bed. you go to sit up, but you don’t make it that far, opening your eyes as osamu pulls the blankets out from under you and throws them in a heap in the corner of his tidy room. he opens the closet door and comes back with a spare, small, but clean blanket. 

he reassumes his position on the now-much-more-acceptable bed, throwing the blanket overtop of you and him and cuddling into your side. “is that better?” he asks, but he doesn’t really expect a response. your small smile and content hum is all he needs. 

after only a few moments, recuperated by a clean blanket and strong arms, your body is ready to move onto the next thing, ready to get up and start making breakfast or start kissing him again or start getting ready for work despite how long you have until your shift. your skin is antsy, pulse is quickening. there are a trillion things in your head that you want to do with osamu, plenty of dull activities that seem like they’ll be much better with him by your side. you want to see them. you want to do them.

osamu shifts and pulls you into his chest, kisses the top of your head. “love you, angel,” he murmurs into your hair. “love you so much,” he says again. you feel calmer now, the most at ease you’ve ever been, because you know that there’ll be time for all of that, plenty of time, hours and hours of time to do all of the things that you want to do with osamu, more time than you know what to do with, you just know it.

for now, all you have to do is lay here, in bed, surrounded by warmth in more ways that you thought were possible, maybe let sleep take you again or stay awake in these passing moments, it doesn’t really matter. your exhale is steady, matches with his. you close your eyes and you can see this moment next week and next month and three years from now. 

you look happy there. 

you look really happy there.

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♡ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢs ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ♡

tori talks more: i do not know if i'll be around to write more to be honest with you. like i probably will at some point, but who knows. maybe when the new movie comes out. maybe ill do a jjk pivot bc i just finished it. feel free to scream in my inbox abt it or this or whatever. ily all and im so glad i could finally finish this. <3 :)

[rosierin]

Mischief & Manner│Miya Twins

Chapter II: The Forest Remembers

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Next summer couldn't have arrived soon enough. (Y/n) practically bounced in her seat as the bus to Kyoto came to a halt.

As expected, her grandfather hadn’t believed her when she told him about her encounter with the fox spirits of Fushimi Inari Shrine— how she had met them deep in the forest, how they had taken her hands and walked her home, how they had promised to wait for her return. Instead, he had simply smiled and nodded, humouring her as she recounted the story. She couldn’t really blame him. Sometimes, even she had trouble wrapping her head around the otherworldly encounter.

But when she mentioned that she planned to see them again, her grandfather had only chuckled and told her to thank them for bringing her home safely.

Little did he know, she fully intended to do just that.

Which accounted for the little brown satchel hanging low on her hip, packed with freshly made onigiri. They were stuffed with a variety of fillings— salted salmon, pickled plum, and more. Her mother had helped her shape the rice balls, and to (y/n)'s surprise, making perfect little triangles had proven far trickier than she had imagined. Still, she was pleased with how they had turned out.

When her mother asked who they were for, she had simply shrugged and said they were for the journey. After all, her mother would never believe the truth— that they were a gift for two fox spirits. And perhaps it was for the best. Like any parent, she didn’t take kindly to the thought of her daughter mingling with strangers, human or otherwise.

For now, it would remain her little secret.

“I’ll see you later!” she called after unpacking her things at her grandfather’s kominka. She kissed him on the cheek, carefully slung her bag over her shoulder, and hurried out the door, promising to be back before sundown, as always.

“Be careful!” he called after her. “And tell the spirits I said hello!”

She giggled. She’d have to keep that in mind.

Then she was off, practically skipping through the village, light-hearted and giddy at the thought of seeing the Kitsune again. She had imagined their reunion countless times from the moment she got home. She had even planned out her outfit— a long pastel sundress and sandals, perfect for a warm summer’s day. The midday sun shone down on her as she departed, waving at the villagers who smiled at her in passing.

She grinned. It was good to be back.

It took about twenty minutes before (y/n) finally reached the mouth of the forest.

The moment she stepped into the clearing, she felt it.

A hush fell over the forest. The trees stood tall, their leaves murmuring softly in the breeze, as if whispering a greeting just for her. Sunlight trickled through the arching branches in shifting ribbons as they appeared to stretch toward her, warming her skin like a familiar embrace.

It was almost as if the forest recognized her.

The wind coiled around her ankles, light as a cat’s tail, as if welcoming her back. And then, as if on cue, a gentle chime rang from the shrine nestled deep within the trees. It was soft— brief— like the quiet jingle of a bell when a door swings open. The sound drifted through the air, clear and high, like laughter.

Yes, the forest remembered her.

And if the forest remembered her, then surely, they did too.

But there was no sign of them.

(Y/n) slowed to a stop, a flicker of disappointment dimming her excitement. The Kitsune were nowhere to be seen. They weren’t standing by the red torii gates like last time, waiting for her. She chewed her lip in thought— then, suddenly, their words echoed in her mind.

"Only if ya find us."

Ah. Of course. They weren’t going to make this easy for her. If anything, it sounded as though they wanted to turn this into a game. It made sense— Kitsune were known for their mischief.

Unfortunately for them, (y/n) was no stranger to games of hide and seek. She had played more than enough rounds with her grandfather, giggling behind trees and ducking into corners of his old kominka.

Yes, she decided with growing confidence, they wouldn’t stand a chance.

She hiked her satchel up her shoulder with determination and stepped past the gates, eyes scanning the vast stretch of trees before her. The forest was just as endless as she remembered, the sun casting its golden touch across the winding paths, the air humming with the chirping of birdsong and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures. She kept her ears sharp, alert to every shift in the leaves, every flicker of movement between the trees.

A bird took flight nearby, its wings fluttering against the stillness, and (y/n) spun toward the sound, heart leaping. But as soon as she looked, it was already gone.

Her brows knitted together. Just how does one go about finding a Kitsune, anyway?

This wasn’t an ordinary game where the ones hiding simply stayed put, waiting to be found. These were Kitsune— cunning, playful, and undoubtedly a little unfair.

Still, she wasn’t about to give up that easily.

She cleared her throat, straightened her shoulders, and called, “Hello! It's me! If you are here, would you be so kind as to reveal yourselves?”

Silence.

She pursed her lips. Well, that was worth a try.

Her gaze flickered toward the endless rows of trees, uncertainty creeping in. There were so many places they could be hiding. And if she didn’t find them today, what happens then? The thought made her stomach twist unpleasantly.

No. She refused to accept that.

She had waited an entire year for this— spent countless nights imagining this very moment, dreaming of the things she would say, the way they would greet her. No matter how long it took, no matter how deep she had to search, she would find them.

A determined light sparked in her eyes.

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her satchel before slowly lifting to cover her eyes.

"One."

"Two."

"Three..."

The world dimmed into darkness, and without sight, her other senses sharpened.

Warmth kissed the back of her neck as she turned away from the sun. The air carried the faintest scent of incense from the shrine, mingling with the crisp green fragrance of the leaves.

"Four."

"Five."

"Six..."

Somewhere in the distance, a wind chime sang— a melodic, delicate note carried by the breeze. The rustling of the trees followed, a hush, as if the very forest was leaning in, listening.

"Seven."

"Eight."

"Nine..."

The wind stirred again, threading through her hair, rustling the fabric of her dress. The trees swayed in response, their leaves brushing against one another in a secret conversation. Did they know something she didn’t?

"Ten." She dropped her hands to her sides. "Ready or not, here I come!"

She opened her eyes, breathless with excitement. But what she did not expect to see was a small orb of blue light flickering just ahead.

It hovered like a wisp of fire, swaying gently in the air, yet it gave off no heat. When she reached out, fingers grazing the space around it, the little flame danced away, disappearing— only to reappear a few steps ahead. A delighted giggle escaped her. It was as if she were playing tag with a tiny, mischievous spirit. Perhaps this was the Kitsune's doing.

She took off after it, her steps light and eager as the glowing ember led her deeper into the forest. It wove between the trees, past moss covered trails, and over miniature mountains of rocks and fallen logs. Each time she lagged behind, the flame would wait, flickering expectantly before continuing its game of hide-and-seek. Then, without warning, it stopped.

She caught up, peering at it curiously as it wavered in place, pulsing like a heartbeat. Was this the end of the trail?

"Have I found you?" she called, her voice carrying through the trees.

Silence greeted her.

She tried again, tilting her head. "Miya? Are you there?"

This time, something stirred.

The blue flame gave one last, gentle flicker before vanishing into thin air. The air around her shifted, charged with something unseen. And then, before her, she noticed something she hadn't before— a cave, its entrance veiled by cascading vines, as though nature itself sought to keep it hidden.

Hesitation flickered in her mind, but curiosity outweighed it. Carefully, she reached forward, parting the curtain of vines. The cave yawned before her, shadowed and deep, but ahead, she could see it— light. A pale, silken glow pouring in from somewhere beyond. It beckoned her like a secret waiting to be uncovered.

With a racing heart, she stepped through.

The moment she emerged, the world transformed.

This was no longer the forest of Fushimi Inari Shrine.

A soft glow bathed everything in a golden shimmer, as if the very air was alive with magic, alight with the warmth of a thousand lanterns. Soaring willows, their bark a smooth, dusky gold, stood tall beneath an endless amber-lit sky. Their leaves, dipped in hues of copper and ruby, rustled softly. Fireflies blinked like fallen stars, trailing delicate paths of light through the stillness.

(Y/n) took a tentative step forward. The grass beneath her feet was plush, like stepping onto clouds warmed by the afternoon sun. She let out a breathless giggle and took another step, then another, past the glowing wildflowers, their petals shifting between shades of blue and silver, like moonlight woven into silk.

As she wandered deeper, the flowers along the path seemed to lean toward her, their colourful petals quivering ever so slightly. Their soft hum filled the air— not quite murmurs, not quite giggles, but something close. (Y/n) blinked. Were they… talking about her?

A sudden gust curled around her ankles, playful and warm. It swirled around her dress, sending the hem fluttering, then danced through her hair, messing up her neatly brushed locks. She swatted at it with a laugh. "Hey, stop that," she scolded lightly, pressing her hands over her satchel as the wind curiously tugged at the flap. "These aren't for you."

The breeze retreated, swirling away with what almost felt like a disappointed sigh. (Y/n) shook her head, still grinning, and continued on.

Somewhere in the distance, she heard the faint trickling of water. Curious, she followed the sound, weaving between the trees. The river came into view first, its surface gleaming like liquid crystal. It slid smoothly over polished stones, the current swishing softly as it made its way toward a larger body of water. She stepped carefully onto a few flat stones in the shallows, testing her balance before hopping to the next, as tiny fish darted beneath the surface, their scales catching the light like flecks of copper.

She hopped onto the last stone and landed in another patch of glowing wildflowers. They swayed as if startled, then huddled together, their soft hums turning into hurried murmurs. (Y/n) stifled another giggle.

Unlike the forest she had left behind, this place brimmed with wildlife. Hares darted through the flora, their fur adorned with gold from the firefly light. Squirrels leapt from branch to branch, their bushy tails brushing against the crimson leaves. But it was the foxes that caught her attention most. Sleek and red as embers, they prowled through the foliage, their movements graceful and fluid, And yet, when she passed, they stilled. Their watchful eyes gleamed like polished bronze, fixed intently on her, as if she were the most peculiar thing in this enchanted realm.

Then, she saw it.

The blue flame that had guided her danced ahead, flickering playfully before coming to a stop. And there, at the very heart of this world, stood a tree unlike any other.

A grand willow, its vast branches cascading down like golden silk, their tips grazing the surface of a tranquil lake. The water, impossibly clear, reflected the tree’s glow like molten amber, rippling gently with the movement of the leaves. Fireflies clustered around the branches, their timid glow turning the tree into something out of a forgotten myth.

A sweet smell floated around the air — a blend of flowers, honey and something richer, something ancient. The fragrance swirled around her, dizzying, lulling her deeper into this dreamlike haze, and for a moment, she thought that if she were to close her eyes, she might simply drift away, swallowed whole by this beautiful, ethereal world.

That is, until two familiar voices shattered the spell.

"Ya came," drawled one, his voice calm, steady.

"Took ya long enough," teased the other, unmistakably smug.

(Y/n)'s breath hitched. Her heart leaped with delight as she whirled toward the sound. And there they were— just as she remembered. Their fox-like ears twitched atop their heads, twin tails flicking behind them, and their masks— white with painted markings— hid their faces from view.

She gasped, hands clasping together. "Miya!"

The name rang through the clearing like a bell, bright and full of childlike joy. The Kitsune moved in perfect unison, hopping down from their perch with feline grace, landing lightly on the forest floor. The fireflies scattered briefly before settling again, their glow casting shifting patterns across their cloaked forms.

"In the flesh," the silver-haired one confirmed, his voice carrying a quiet sort of pride.

"Ya seem awfully chipper." The golden-haired one tilted his head, and though his expression remained hidden, the teasing lilt in his voice made it easy to imagine the grin beneath. "Didja miss us that much?"

(Y/n) couldn’t help but beam. "I did!" she admitted without hesitation. Then, her brows knit slightly as she recalled the strange blue flame that had led her here. "Although, I must say, I might not have made it if it weren’t for you. Was that little flame one of your tricks?"

The silver-haired Kitsune lifted a finger, and as if summoned by his will, the same blue flame flickered to life at his fingertip. It bobbed in the air, almost happily, as though pleased with itself. "Clever girl," he praised.

(Y/n) watched it, eyes wide with wonder.

The other Kitsune snickered. "Thought ya could use the help after last summer." His tails swished, clearly entertained. "Yer not the best at directions, are ya?"

Heat bloomed in her cheeks. She puffed them out slightly, indignant, but the knowing laughter in his voice made it impossible to be truly offended.

There was a rustling at her side, and before she could react, the silver-haired Kitsune was suddenly next to her. He peered down at the satchel dangling by her hip, tilting his head with quiet curiosity. His long ears brushed against her bare leg in the process, making her startle and take a small step back.

"O-Oh! That’s right!" she blurted, remembering. "I brought you something as thanks for escorting me home last year!"

His companion appeared beside him with a light hop, ears twitching in sync as she fumbled through her bag. Her fingers brushed against something, and with a triumphant smile, she pulled out a neatly packed box of homemade onigiri.

One of the Kitsune visibly perked up.

"I made these with my mother for you!" she announced brightly. But when neither of them responded right away— when she couldn't see their expressions behind those masks— her confidence wavered. Her grip faltered slightly, and she tucked the box closer to her chest. "A-Actually, maybe that was silly… do foxes even like rice?" she mumbled with an awkward smile. "You don’t have to eat them if you don’t want to—"

"They smell great."

The silver-haired Kitsune’s words were simple, but they made her heart flutter. She looked up at him, eyes brightening, and her uncertainty melted into a relieved smile. "You think so?" Hastily, she lifted the lid and held the box out toward them. "Please, help yourselves!"

"Don’t mind if I do," the silver-haired Kitsune declared as he and his partner each plucked an onigiri from the box.

That’s when it hit her.

They were about to eat. Meaning— they’d have to remove their masks. Meaning— she was going to see their faces!

She waited, holding her breath, but—

They simply slipped the food under their masks instead.

Her shoulders slumped.

The golden-haired Kitsune paused mid-chew. "What?"

"Bet she wanted us to take our masks off," the silver-haired one remarked, and for the first time, there was a hint of amusement in his voice. She’d started to think that tone was exclusive to the other fox— but apparently not.

"Was that rude of me?" she asked hesitantly.

They chuckled, both swallowing their food with ease.

"Nah. S’cute," the golden Kitsune said, and before she could react, his hand landed atop her head, ruffling her hair. She huffed, fussing over her now tousled locks, nodding begrudgingly. She decided not to question the remark— or the reason behind their masks. They must have their reasons, she supposed.

"How are the onigiri?" she asked instead.

"Delicious," came the answer— quicker than usual. It was the silver-haired Kitsune again, and as she peered at him, she caught sight of his twin tails swaying slightly, as if in contentment. "We get offerin's like this all the time, but yers are some of the best I’ve had in a while."

Flowers might as well have bloomed in her chest for how proud that made her feel. A guardian deity liked her cooking? Now, that was something to brag about.

"Ya sure love yer food, don’tcha?" the golden Kitsune teased, watching as the other finished his second helping. His voice was laced with mischief. "Surprised yer not fat yet."

The insult barely had time to settle before the silver-haired Kitsune smacked him upside the head.

"Shut yer trap. No one asked you."

She blinked, startled at first— but as their bickering unfolded, it became clear there was no real heat behind it. They tossed insults back and forth like some kind of verbal juggling act, jabs flying with well-practiced ease. Watching them like this, it was hard not to think…

"Are you two brothers?" she asked, tilting her head.

The silver-haired Kitsune exhaled through his nose. "Unfortunately."

His golden-haired counterpart scoffed, crossing his arms. "Yeah? Well, yer a scrub."

And just like that, the argument started anew.

She laughed, heart feeling light. It was easy to forget, for a moment, that they weren’t just ordinary boys.

They were strange— so different from anyone she knew— yet so charming. Playful and sharp-tongued, but never truly mean. Even their arguments felt more like a game than anything serious. Part of her wondered if they actually enjoyed the back-and-forth.

Her gaze lingered on them as they moved through the forest, something about the way they carried themselves catching her eye. They stepped over roots without looking down, weaved through the trees without hesitation, as if it was second nature— even in the dim light. They barely made a sound.

Could it be? Were they truly spirits? If so, how much of the stories about Kitsune were true?

Her thoughts tumbled over each other, curiosity bubbling up until it finally spilled over.

“Can you shapeshift?”

The golden one held his head up, seeming proud. “Sure can."

“Can you turn invisible?”

“Mm.”

“How do you know this forest so well?”

"Ya sure ask a lotta questions," the silver-haired Kitsune pointed out.

"Do ya always talk this much?" the golden-haired one added. He hadn’t meant it in a harsh way, but the words still stung a little.

Her shoulders sagged as she smoothed down her skirt. “Talking is what I’m best at,” she admitted softly. "Conversations are the heart of—" She hesitated, trying to find the right words. 

The lessons from home played in her mind— how her mother praised the art of conversation, how her tutors emphasized eloquence and grace, how being articulate made her feel capable, important, valuable. "Conversations are important," she finished instead. "They're how people connect, how they learn about each other."

“Sounds borin’.” The golden one stretched his arms behind his head, tails flicking lazily.

His brother hummed in agreement. “We much prefer doin’ things rather than talkin’ about ’em. C’mon.”

Before she could ask what they meant, they both stepped away, and in the blink of an eye, they were gone.

(Y/n) gasped, spinning in place. “Miya?” she called hesitantly. Had they left her behind? A strange tightness settled in her chest.

Then, something rustled ahead. Two foxes— one silver, one gold— stood in the underbrush, eyes gleaming. Her breath caught as they took a single step forward— then another— until, right before her eyes, they rose onto their hind legs, their bodies stretching, shifting, fur melting away to reveal familiar robes and masks.

Her lips parted in awe.

“That answers yer first question,” the golden one said, clearly pleased with himself.

She clapped her hands together in delight. “That was amazing!”

The silver-haired Kitsune crossed his arms. “Next question?”

She blinked. “Oh! Can you turn invisible?”

The Kitsune exchanged glances before, once again, they vanished into thin air.

(Y/n) gasped. “H-Hey! Where did—”

A tap on her shoulder. She whirled around, but there was nothing. Then, a flick to her ear. She spun again. “That’s not fair!” she huffed.

Laughter echoed from nowhere, and then, just as quickly, they reappeared on either side of her. Their body language screaming smug.

“Gotta keep folks on their toes,” the golden one grinned behind the mask.

She pouted. “That wasn’t very nice.”

“Maybe,” his brother said, “but it was funny.”

She huffed but found herself smiling anyway. “Alright, then. Next question— how do you know this forest so well?”

They didn’t answer right away. Instead, they led her through the trees, stepping lightly over moss and roots, until they came upon a shrine nestled deep within the woods. The stone was worn but sturdy, fox statues standing guard at its entrance.

(Y/n) stepped closer, brushing fallen leaves from the inscription at its base. The carved letters were weathered, but she could still make them out: Dedicated to the twin spirits of the forest, who have watched over these lands for two hundred years.

Her breath caught. Two hundred years?

She turned to the Kitsune, eyes wide. “That’s you,” she whispered.

They didn’t confirm it aloud, but they didn’t deny it either. The way they stood, the way the wind stirred around them— it felt as though the shrine itself acknowledged them.

Her mind reeled. They had lived here for centuries, watching over the trees, the rivers, the very land she walked on. No wonder they knew the forest so well. It was their home in a way she could hardly begin to understand.

The weight of it settled on her, but before she could dwell too much, the golden one clapped his hands together. “Well, that’s enough serious talk. Time to go.”

"Go where?" she asked as the brothers turned.

"Nowhere."

"Everywhere."

The two shot each other a look.

(Y/n) huffed, brushing invisible dust off her skirt before trailing behind them. "That doesn’t make any sense."

The golden-haired Kitsune shot her a look over his shoulder, a playful lilt to his voice. "Sure it does. Just means we ain't got a plan. We just go where the wind takes us."

The silver-haired one shook his head. "Don't listen to him. We know this forest like the backs of our hands after all."

"Oh?" she said, raising a brow. "Then where are we going?"

A beat of silence.

"...Dunno yet."

She giggled despite herself.

They wandered through the forest, no real destination in mind, but the Kitsune moved with an easy confidence that made it seem as though they had one. (Y/n) trailed after them, careful to keep her pace measured. She was a lady, after all. Running around like a wild animal would be most unbecoming.

That thought didn’t seem to bother the brothers.

One moment, they were walking. The next, they took off, weaving through the trees with effortless grace. (Y/n) gasped. "H-Hey!"

The golden one turned his head, voiced laced mischief. "C'mon, slowpoke!"

She huffed, gathering her skirt before carefully picking up her pace. But the forest floor was uneven, roots and moss-covered stones threatening to trip her with every hurried step. She scowled as the brothers easily darted ahead, moving like the wind itself.

The silver one noticed her struggling first. He exhaled through his nose, as if already expecting what came next. "She's gonna trip," he muttered.

His brother grinned. "Not on my watch."

Before she could protest, (y/n) found herself lifted off the ground, her feet suddenly dangling mid-air. She squeaked. "Put me down!"

"Yer too slow," The golden fox snickered, effortlessly tossing her over his shoulder like a sack of rice.

"I do not need to be carried!"

"Sure ya do," he said, entirely too pleased with himself. "If ya wanna keep up, that is."

The silver fox, ever the voice of reason, sighed but didn’t intervene.

(Y/n) huffed, crossing her arms. She supposed there was little point in arguing.

Eventually, he set her down by a shallow river, its surface rippling like silver glass. The brothers waded through without hesitation, bare feet sinking into the cool water. (Y/n) remained on the riverbank, eyeing the water with uncertainty.

"Well?" The golden Kitsune called. "Ya comin' or what?"

She hesitated. "I— I can't. My shoes will get wet."

The silver Kitsune's impassive mask stared back at her. "So take 'em off."

She stiffened. "A lady does not walk around barefoot."

The gold fox snorted. "That so?" Without warning, he stomped down into the water, sending a splash right in her direction.

She gasped, stepping back. "You—!"

She had a feeling he was grinning. "Oops."

The silver fox, standing off to the side, merely shook his head. "Real mature."

His brother ignored him, tilting his head at (y/n) expectantly. "Well? Might as well step in now."

She wanted to refuse, she really did. But something about the way they stood there— completely at ease, untouched by the usual constraints of decorum— made her pause.

Hesitantly, she bent down and slipped off her shoes. The moment her feet touched the water, a small, delighted sound left her lips. It was cool, refreshing. A little thrilling.

The golden one proudly crossed his arms. "See? Told ya."

She tried to scowl but failed, her lips twitching upward.

Further along the path, they stopped beneath an old tree with sprawling branches. The Kitsune leapt onto the lower limbs with practiced ease, perching there as naturally as birds.

"Yer turn," the golden one said, peering down at her.

She folded her arms. "I don’t climb trees."

"Why not?"

She huffed. "Because— because I just don’t."

The silver one shrugged. "Suit yourself."

His brother, on the other hand, rested his chin in his hand, sounding far too entertained. "Bet ya can’t."

Her spine straightened. "I can," she insisted, glaring up at him.

"Then prove it."

A beat of silence.

Then, before she could talk herself out of it, (y/n) gripped the rough bark, hoisting herself up with as much grace as she could muster. It wasn’t easy, and her skirt certainly didn’t help, but eventually, she scrambled onto the lowest branch.

The gold Kitsune grinned behind the mask. "Not bad, princess."

She sniffed, trying to catch her breath. "Obviously."

The silver Kitsune smirked. "Hope ya ain’t scared of heights, though."

She blinked. "Why would I—"

Before she could finish, the two of them suddenly jumped.

She let out a startled squeak as they landed effortlessly on the ground below, looking up at her expectantly.

The golden one dusted off his hands. "C'mon, jump. We’ll catch ya."

She eyed the ground warily. "What if you don’t?"

The silver one hummed. "Guess we'll see."

That was not reassuring.

Still, she took a breath. Then, before she could hesitate any longer, she leapt.

True to their word, they caught her with ease.

The golden fox chuckled. "Told ya."

As the sky deepened into the soft hues of dusk, fireflies began to flicker to life, their golden lights blinking in the dimness. The Kitsune moved effortlessly among them, catching them between their fingertips before releasing them back into the air.

(Y/n) tried to do the same, but each time she reached out, the fireflies flitted away before she could catch them.

The quieter Kitsune observed her for a moment before speaking. "Yer bein’ too careful."

She frowned. "But if I'm not, I'll squish them."

The other shook his head. "Nah, ya gotta move with ‘em, not against ‘em."

With that, he caught one between his fingers, then carefully placed it in her hands. (Y/n) watched as it flickered, illuminating her palms.

Her lips parted in quiet awe.

The gold Kitsune ruffled her hair. "See? Ain't so hard."

By the time they neared the shrine, the sky had darkened into a deep indigo, the sun almost out of view. The stairs leading up to her grandfather’s home stood just ahead.

(Y/n) turned to them, a newfound excitement bubbling in her chest. "Do you want to come for dinner?"

She talked animatedly about what they were having, how her grandfather always told the best stories, how the food was always warm and filling. But when she reached the base of the shrine steps, she noticed they had stopped following.

She turned. “Miya?”

The Kitsune stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her. For once, they were quiet.

The silver-haired one was the first to speak. “We can't."

The golden-haired one, for once, sounded serious. "We don’t leave the forest, princess."

She stared at them.

The silver Kitsune's gaze flickered up to the trees overhead. "This is our home."

She swallowed. “Oh.” Her heart clenched. For some reason, she didn’t like the thought of leaving them behind.

Still, she managed a small smile. "Then I'll see you tomorrow?"

Their ears twitched. “You’ll have to find us.”

She let out a soft giggle, turning to climb the steps. But as she reached the top, she glanced back.

They were still there, standing in the fading light, their twin tails flicking in the golden glow.

She carried that image with her all the way home.

Helloooo! Thank you so much for reading!! I hope you enjoyed c: This chapter had me giggling icl, super cute to write <33

Likes, comments & reblogs appreciated xx

Stay tuned!!

[evamame]

grieving the living

osamu after the breakup with you

cw: sfw, angst, hurt no comfort

masterlist

life without you is quiet and empty. it’s much too quiet and empty for osamu’s liking. and the part that makes everything more unbearable than it already is is knowing that it’s all his fault. it’s his incompetence that drove you away. he couldn’t do enough for you. and now it feels like he almost isn’t even enough for himself. nothing ever feels like enough since the day you left. it doesn’t feel like enough when he makes a plate of onigiri for one instead of two. it doesn’t feel like enough when he preps a navy blue bento box for himself in the evening, but doesn’t have to take out the light pink bento box with cherry blossoms printed on it to pack a lunch for you. that one is stored away with you somewhere, wherever you have been resting to heal the wounds that are still fresh. hopefully you’re somewhere doing better without him. that’s really all he wants. if you couldn’t shine by his side, he hopes you shine somewhere else. you were his sun after all, but he’s content if you can be someone else’s sun. or maybe your own sun, if you haven’t moved on yet. hopefully you can move on soon. the thought of you being in the same pain he is right now forms a gnawing feeling deep inside of him that makes him uneasy. the idea that the beautiful smile he once loved so much could be wiped right off your features and traded for tears all because of him is terrifying. he still loves your smile, even if he knows he’ll never be the one to make you beam that way again. the way your eyes would crinkle when you grinned from ear to ear at his jokes used to make his heart flutter, but now the image still vivid in his mind fills his soul with longing. he tries to stay optimistic and think that maybe one day he’ll see it again in a place other than his memory, but he knows deep down it’s no use. it feels weird, he thinks. he’s grieving you, but you’re still alive and well. it doesn’t seem that way. it feels like you died. maybe that’s because he knows he’ll never get you back. you’re not coming home, back to his side. and in his mind, he’s as good as dead. he shuffles around his house with a long, slow stride, the heavy burdens flooding his mind weighing down his every move. for now he’ll just keep grieving the living. until time heals, as it does all, he’ll keep moving forward. but his pace will always be a little bit slower as long as you’re not with him.

a/n: i was feeling angsty so i hope i made you cry.

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