#Osamu miya x reader

[qardenofeden]

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

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

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

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

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

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

“fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sure is a good thing osamu’s got practice.

@deardoelle mwah

[evxelisy]

HOW GOOD CAN A FIC BE OWEEMGEE

This has me feral. On my knees. Bent over.

"Operation: Sit, Bounce, Vanish"

Just Y/N casually grinding and bouncing on them then proceeds to get up and leave lol

KUROO TETSURO

Kuroo was manspreading like he paid rent just to do that. Hair messy. Shirt slightly wrinkled. Smug expression baked onto his face like it was his full-time job. He looked like the human equivalent of a “you up?” text.

You stared. Then smirked. Then slowly—without a word—walked over and shoved him onto the couch with the grace of a goddess and the menace of someone who’s waited exactly three weeks and four hours for this moment.

“Whoa—okay, hi,” he chuckled, arms up like he was ready for a good time. “You finally giving in, huh? Couldn’t resist me?”

You didn’t answer.

You straddled him. Dead silent. No smile. Eyes locked.

And then you started moving.

Slow grind. Full bounce. Nothing wild, just enough to make him twitch like a malfunctioning robot. The pressure? Exactly dangerous. The eye contact? Murderous.

He choked on a breath.

You moaned.

“T-tetsu..u~”

Like it was the climax of a soap opera. Like you were standing on a balcony in the rain in a gown screaming your dying lover’s name. Like you were about to win a BAFTA for this role.

He blinked. “H-hey, uh—babe?” His voice cracked like cheap glass.

Your hands rested on his chest.

You moaned again. Softer. Darker.

Then… you stopped.

Got up.

Walked off.

Deadpan face. Not a single look back. Not a word. Not a smirk.

Kuroo sat up so fast he nearly pulled a back muscle. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait—what just happened?”

Silence.

“…Was that revenge? What did I do? BABE? WHAT DID I DO???”

He stood, nearly tripped over air, and yelled into the hallway.

“I—I LIKED YOUR INSTAGRAM POST. I SWEAR. I DIDN’T FORGET OUR ANNIVERSARY. PLEASE, WHAT’S HAPPENING?!”

You, meanwhile, were in the kitchen calmly eating cereal like none of that happened.

Kuroo, clutching the back of the couch, whispering to himself: “…I’m in danger.”

KENMA KOZUME

Kenma was in the zone—shoulders hunched, headset on, fingers moving with sniper-level precision. You could hear the quiet tapping of his keyboard, the occasional mutter under his breath, and the distant sound of his teammate yelling, "LEFT! LEFT—NO, YOUR OTHER LEFT!"

You approached silently, sock-footed like a cat with bad intentions.

He didn’t notice you at first. Typical. Zoned in.

Until you casually climbed into his lap like it was your god-given throne.

He froze.

“…You good?” he mumbled, barely glancing at you, one hand still on the mouse.

Then you started soft grinding—gentle movements, slow and warm. Nothing aggressive. Just… suggestive. Cozy. Dangerous.

You leaned forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “K..kozume~..hnn” you whispered.

The sound of gunfire blasted through his headset.

He paused mid-match.

Dead silent.

His cheeks flushed pink instantly, ears visibly heating. “...You’re being weird again.”

But his fingers slowly slipped off the keyboard. And he hit ESC.

HE PAUSED AN ONLINE MATCH. FOR YOU.

“Okay…” he mumbled, voice small, clearly rattled. “I guess I can play later.”

You smiled. Just a little.

Then without a word—you stood up and walked away.

Kenma sat there. Motionless.

He stared at the empty space on his lap like it had just punched him in the heart.

“…You can’t just cause emotional lag and leave,” he muttered, still stunned. “I—I PAUSED FOR YOU. That was ranked…”

In the distance, your soft laughter echoed like a final killcam.

BOKUTO KOUTARO

Bokuto was sprawled on the couch, legs wide, phone angled up, watching volleyball highlight reels like they were gospel. He was in the zone—nodding, hyping himself up, whispering “That’s how you block, baby, YES,” like he hadn’t watched the same clip five times.

You walked in with an expression that said destruction was on the menu and Bokuto was the special.

“Hey babe!” he greeted loudly, full beam smile. “You wanna see this cool spike from—”

You didn’t answer.

You straddled him.

He blinked. “…Oh.”

And then you started.

All in.

Full bounce. Hands draped dramatically behind his neck like a diva about to faint from the tension. Whimpers, soft moans, and your voice drawing out: “hngh..k-kou..a-aa~” Like he was a forbidden snack and you were on a juice cleanse.

His brain fried.

Completely.

“UH—UH—BABE?!” he half-yelled, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure where to touch, where to look, whether to cry or scream.

He was absolutely flustered, mouth slightly open, cheeks red, heartbeat syncing with every grind. Volleyball highlights? Forgotten. There was only you and his complete mental shutdown.

You gave a final whimper. Rested your forehead against his.

Then stood up.

And left.

Just.

Walked out.

Bokuto stared at the empty air where you once were. Still seated like a cursed statue.

“…BABE?!”

He launched up from the couch, flailing after you.

“HELLO?! WHAT WAS THAT?! COME BACK!! I WAS ENJOYING THAT! I WAS SO INTO IT!! DO IT AGAIN!!”

In the kitchen, you stirred your drink in silence, deadpan, as if you hadn't just mentally exploded a man with fully-clothed cardio.

Bokuto, clinging to the doorframe like a war widow: “I’M WHIPPED AND I DON’T CARE. PLEASE.”

AKAASHI KEIJI

Akaashi was having a peaceful afternoon. Chamomile tea. A book with too many footnotes. Lo-fi playing like the world made sense.

And then—you entered.

Dead silent. Eyes locked on him like judgment day just arrived in thigh-high socks.

He glanced up. "Hello, love," he said, suspicious but polite.

You didn’t answer.

You climbed into his lap like you had a mission, and his thighs were the launch pad.

His hands stayed frozen mid-page.

Then—bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

Soft and sinful, like a PG-13 exorcism. “K-keiji..h-ha-a~” you moaned.

A single vein in his forehead twitched. He blinked slowly, like a man calculating whether this was a dream, a prank, or divine punishment.

“Darling,” he said with dangerous calm, “what is this?”

But he was already gone. Mentally wiped. That page of the book? Unreadable. Text? Just blurry noodles. You were bouncing like this was a demonic ritual and he was the altar.

Then—you leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

And LEFT.

You LEFT.

No explanation. No tongue. Not even a "brb."

Just... air.

Akaashi didn’t move for five whole minutes. Eyes glassy. Tea still steeping. Book sliding off his lap in slow motion.

Inside his head:

“Is this psychological warfare? Did I forget an anniversary? Did I accidentally vote for something evil in a group chat?”

Out loud, monotone: “…That was… bold of you.”

Another five minutes passed.

Still motionless. Still on the couch. The scent of your shampoo lingering like a war crime.

He finally muttered, “…Was I supposed to say something? Applaud? Cry? Ascend to heaven?”

Then he picked up his phone. Opened a group chat titled: “📚 Book Men and Bokuto.”

Akaashi:

She bounced on me, moaned my name, then left. What does it mean.

Bokuto:

BRO SAME I’M STILL BREATHING HEAVY SHE’S A MENACE 😭

Kuroo:

Just accept it. We’re dating chaos in eyeliner.

Akaashi looked out the window. Took a long, exhausted sip of his now-cold tea.

“…I am suffering. Elegantly.”

GOSHIKI TSUTOMU

Goshiki was chillin’. Hoodie on. Headphones in. Probably listening to something overly dramatic like the Haikyuu soundtrack or a TED Talk on mental resilience.

He didn’t stand a chance.

You walked in with zero warning. No explanation. No mercy.

Before he could say, “Huh?” you pushed him gently onto the bed. Straddled him. Planted yourself down like he was your chair and life was a stage.

Then you started bouncing.

Soft, slow. Intentional.

“Tsutomu..h-ha..why are so w-warm..hngh~” you moaned — drawn out, sugary-sweet, like you were reading it off a Wattpad page in real time.

His whole body seized up.

“W-WHAT THE—?!”

Hands flailed. Legs went stiff. Brain? Overheated. He felt like someone had kicked his soul out his spine.

You leaned in closer, let out the tiniest whimper — not loud, but close. Just enough to make his ears turn red and his heart go supersonic.

And then—you LEFT.

Just. Got. Up. No closure. No forehead kiss. You just dipped like this was some random Tuesday ritual and not his villain origin story.

He sat there frozen. Mouth parted. Chest rising and falling way too fast.

Then—he whimpered.

Just a tiny, high-pitched noise. Unplanned. From the throat. Like his soul sighed through his mouth.

“…Ahh—” Immediately slapped a hand over his lips. “WHY—WHY DID I MAKE A NOISE?!”

He flopped backwards dramatically, arms spread like a Shakespearean corpse.

“She’s going to kill me one day… and I’ll thank her.”

Face still bright red. Still hearing the sound of your voice like it was echoing in a cathedral. Still lowkey hoping you’d come back and do it again so he could “react better this time” (he wouldn’t).

And in the hallway, you smiled.

Mission: chaos. Status: accomplished.

USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI

Ushijima Wakatoshi was doing his usual — sitting on the couch like a fortress, silently eating protein snacks and watching volleyball footage like it was the evening news.

Then she walked in.

Confident. Calm. Dressed like danger.

He didn’t even blink when she shoved him back gently onto the cushions and straddled him. That wasn’t what alarmed him. He’d seen many unorthodox warm-ups in his time.

Then—

Bounce. Bounce. “Wakatoshi~”

She moaned it with full anime-level dramatics, sultry and slow like she’d been practicing. Her hands went on his shoulders for balance, hips rocking in steady rhythm. Fully clothed. No actual plan. Just chaos and vibes.

Ushijima’s brows pulled together.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice low and deadly serious. “Is this… a new kind of stretch?”

You didn’t answer. You just gave one last confident roll of your hips, leaned in like you were going to say something profound…

And then you walked away. Like nothing happened.

Left him there on the couch — straight posture, blank expression… and fully hard.

Silence.

He stared straight ahead at the door like it had just personally betrayed him.

Took one slow breath through his nose. Chest rising just slightly.

“She’s strange,” he murmured. “I love her.”

Looked down at himself. Back up. Then whispered, louder this time:

“…She’s going to come back, right?”

Pause.

No answer.

He sat there, motionless. Internally screaming. Externally still built like a demigod statue.

Conclusion: Training couldn’t prepare him. Love is terrifying. And he’s going to need to shower cold water and repentance.

SHIRABU KENJIRO

Shirabu was minding his business, sitting cross-legged on the floor, skimming through his notes like he wasn’t 100% hot in a cardigan. Completely in peace.

Then she came in like a war crime.

With purpose. With eyebrow energy. With chaotic woman agenda.

She straddled his lap like he owed her rent and started bouncing. Not wild. Just steady. Unbothered. Calculated. Evil.

“jiro...h-ha!~” She moaned his name like it was the finale of a play and she was up for a Tony.

He blinked. His soul buffered.

“Tch. You’re annoying.” Tone flat. Words sharp. Voice trembling like a wet cat.

But his whole face was glowing red like a strawberry in denial. Hands on his knees. Back perfectly straight. Losing his will to live one slow grind at a time.

She gave one final roll of her hips. Then stood up like it was jury duty and left.

Walked away. Blank face. Like she didn’t just emotionally obliterate him.

He sat there in stunned silence. Hands still on his knees like he was in timeout.

Then he snapped.

“...I—HEY! WAIT! I didn’t mean it like that!”

Scrambled to his feet like he was being evicted from peace.

“Come back! I meant like... annoying in a cute way?? Like—you’re MY annoying?!”

Voice cracking, ego gone. Left behind, staring at the empty space where she used to be, gripping his own hair like a man who just said “I don’t care” and then immediately cared so hard.

HINATA SHOYO

Hinata was chilling on the bed, humming to himself and swinging his legs like a golden retriever who just discovered a new flavor of yogurt.

He didn’t notice her creeping up until it was too late.

Suddenly—

BOOM.

She dropped onto his lap like the final boss of temptation and started bouncing. Full send. Championship-level rhythm. Gold medal-worthy grind. Fully clothed but somehow emotionally naked.

Leaning in, she whispered into his ear, dripping honey and chaos:

“Sho~”

He flatlined.

“WH-WHA—BABE?! ARE YOU OKAY?!” His soul ejected through his nose. Brain? 404 not found. His hands were in the air like he was under arrest by the goddess of seduction herself.

She didn't stop. Just grinded harder. Whimpering softly. Like this was HER volleyball final and she was spiking with every bounce.

And then—HE MOANED.

A tiny, breathy “nn–ah,” like his dignity was trying to claw its way out of his throat and failed.

And then she LEFT. Skipped away. Humming. Like she just didn't emotionally set him on fire and walk away like an arsonist in glitter.

He sat there, cross-eyed. Face red. Hands on his chest like he just got hit by a car made of hormones.

“Oh my god.” “Oh my GOD.” “I’m in love. I’m in danger. I need water.”

Collapsed backwards into the bed like his body just said “I forfeit.”

TSUKISHIMA KEI

Tsukishima was on the couch, headphones on, pretending he didn’t need love or attention, when she pounced.

Literally pounced.

One second: peace.

Next second: Lap. Bouncing. Moaning.

“Tsukki” She purrs it in his ear like a cursed ASMR channel sent straight from hell.

He freezes. Eyes wide. Neck stiff. Blush detonates. You could roast marshmallows on his cheeks.

“Ugh. What are you doing?” His voice comes out flat. Emotionless. Lying. Lying through his damn teeth.

She keeps going. Little playful grind here, tiny whimper there, body warm against his in all the worst-best ways. Then—

She gets up. Walks away. Like she didn’t just shake the foundation of his emotional stability.

He’s left sitting there, arms folded, jaw clenched like a Victorian man whose ankle was just exposed.

Pushes up his glasses with a trembling hand “Why are you so weird.”

Deadpan voice. Wild panic.

Later, Yamaguchi walks in to ask if he wants to go out, only to find Tsukki sitting there, still pink, glasses fogged up, muttering to himself:

“I hate her. I love her. I hate her. I need her to do that again.”

KITA SHINSUKE

Kita was folding laundry.

FOLDING LAUNDRY.

Peaceful. Domestic. Soft music playing. He had just finished lining up the socks by size, color, and life purpose when—

SHE SAT ON HIM.

Not aggressively. Not violently. Just… sat. And started bouncing.

Gentle. Rhythmic. Purposeful.

Like she was trying to awaken something ancient inside him.

“Shinsuke~” She moaned it like she was trying to get cast in the spiciest drama Japan's ever banned.

He blinked. Once. Heart rate: up. Stability: on fire.

“Are you… feeling unwell, love?” he asked, as if his voice wasn't one octave higher and vibrating with restraint.

She grinds again.

His hands grip her thighs like prayer beads.

He grunts. Then a tiny whimper slips out—traitorous. He covers it with a cough like he’s trying to convince God he’s still worthy.

His face is red, like a polite tomato having a breakdown.

“Darling, this isn’t sanitary. The clean towels are right there…”

She just smiles sweetly. Innocently. Like she didn’t just weaponize softness and decimate his will to stand.

And then?

She walks off. Like it was just another Tuesday.

Kita remains seated. Hands politely folded behind his back. Eyes blank. Soul ascending.

“…That girl’s gonna give me gray hair.” “And I’ll thank her for every strand.”

MIYA OSAMU

It was a quiet afternoon at Onigiri Miya.

The rice was hot. The kitchen was calm. Osamu was in his element, apron on, hair tied up, wrist flicking like a trained chef-slash-lowkey-dilf—

Until she pounced.

No warning. No hesitation. Just: BOUNCE.

Lap? Occupied. Voice? Breathless.

“Osamuuu~” She moaned it like she was trying to get arrested and liked the idea.

He blinked up at her with a smile that said “ha ha you’re cute” but his BRAIN said:

“YOU WANNA DO THIS RIGHT NOW WHILE I’M HOLDING A RICE SCOOP?!”

“Keep this up and I’m proposing today,” he teased, hand sliding to her waist like it wasn’t lowkey trembling.

She just smirked. Gave one last bounce for dramatic effect. Then stood up.

Winked.

Walked off.

Like she didn’t just shake him to his core and make him rethink his whole life plan in one minute.

Osamu sat there. Alone. Flushed. Emotionally fried like his best tempura.

He put down the rice scoop, stared at the door she disappeared through, and whispered like a man in a Netflix romance mini-series:

“...I’m actually gonna propose. Damn.”

MIYA ATSUMU

Atsumu was reclining like he owned the Earth.

Legs spread, arms up, smug levels critical. Smirking like, “Yeah, baby, you’re lucky I’m free today.”

That was before she sat on him. Hard.

Started grinding and moaning “tsumuuu~ a-ah! fuck..” like it was a performance art piece for chaos and psychological warfare.

His smirk faltered. Just a little. Then—bounce.

“H-hah—okay—okay! Someone’s feelin’ frisky t’day—!” Smug was cracking like drywall in an earthquake.

Another bounce.

He whines.

Then WHIMPERS. LOUDLY. Voice breaks. Accent slips.

“Aw hell, darlin’—wh-what’re ya tryna do t’me?!”

FULL SOUTHERN DESCENT. Kansai accent hitting so raw it sounded like a back-alley confession.

He’s sweating. Whining. Head back like he saw God and got rejected.

Then.

SHE GETS UP. AND WALKS AWAY.

Like she didn’t just spiritually decimate one of Japan’s finest athletes in under 2 minutes.

Atsumu sits there, jaw unhinged. Hands limp at his sides. Soul in orbit.

He blinks slowly. Watches her leave like she’s walking away from the wreckage of his ego’s funeral.

“...Ya can’t just leave me like this,” he mutters to the door. “That was... illegal. You’re illegal.” “I whimpered. I ain't never whimpered in my damn life!”

Silence.

Then he YELLS:

“WAS IT THE ACCENT?! I SWEAR I’LL TONE IT DOWN—JUST COME BACK!!!”

KYOTANI KENTARO

She didn’t ask. Didn’t warn. Just straddled his lap with the calm audacity of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.

He was mid-sentence. Now? He was mid-heart attack.

“H-Hey—wait, what—”

Then she leans in. Close.

Hot breath against his neck. Her lips ghost over his jaw. Slowly. Softly. Like she’s learning the texture of his skin just to haunt him later.

And then—she kisses him.

Not a quick peck. Not playful.

It’s deep. Slow. Spicy as hell. The kind of kiss that clings to his mouth even when it’s over.

His hands shoot up, gripping her waist so hard he thinks he might bruise her, but she just presses in more, bounces slowly in his lap like she’s reading every single one of his reactions.

“Kentaro~ nn- HaH!” she breathes right into his mouth. Bounces again.

He sees god. Then he sees hell. Then he forgets how to see.

“W-what the—what is this?!” His voice is too high, too desperate. He’s already hard. Already clenching her thighs like they’re life rafts.

She just leans in again, brushes his ear with her lips, and whispers filth that fries what’s left of his sanity.

“You’re so easy to break, you know that?”

Kisses him again. He groans into her mouth—loud—almost embarrassingly so. He grabs at her again, this time more forcefully—

And she flicks his hand away.

Stands. Fixes her shirt. Walks away like she just didn’t turn him into a walking hormone cocktail.

Kyotani is left on the couch, sweating, hard, and absolutely stunned. Face flushed, fists clenched, lips swollen, staring at the empty hallway like it personally betrayed him.

“That was love,” he mutters hoarsely. “I hate it here. I love it here.”

He doesn’t move for five full minutes. Still. Quiet. Processing.

Then under his breath:

“...I’m gonna marry her or die trying.”

IWAIZUMI HAJIME

She straddles him on the couch like it’s her throne and he’s just lucky to be her footstool. Hands on his chest. Eyes locked on his.

Then the bounce starts.

Slow. Rhythmic. Intentional. And then—

“haji~” she moans like she’s reading lines in a romance drama with too much budget and not enough shame.

His jaw tightens.

“Oi,” he warns, gripping her hips, “don’t start something you can’t finish.”

He's blushing. Hard. And it only gets worse when she grinds a little too good and too slow—right there.

His hands twitch on her waist. His whole body flinches like someone hit him with a volleyball spike to the soul.

“Seriously—stop playin’ around,” he mumbles, but it sounds more like a plea than a threat. He’s getting warm. Real warm. Real fast.

She just leans forward like she’s gonna kiss him.

Spoiler: she doesn’t. She hovers. Inches from his lips. Bounces again, lips curled in mischief.

He groans. Low. Threatening. Desperate. Hard.

And then?

She gets up.

Just hops off. Fixes her shirt. Leaves. No explanation. No glance back. Just vibes.

Iwaizumi sits there—wide-eyed, wrecked, emotionally tazed.

Staring into the middle distance like a man who saw the future and it was terrifyingly horny.

“...She’s gonna be the death of me,” he mutters to no one.

He stays there. Still blushing. Still adjusting his pants like his life didn’t just flash before his eyes with soft moans and denim friction.

And yet? He smiles.

“...Not a bad way to go, though.”

SAKUSA KIYOOMI

Sakusa Kiyoomi didn’t ask for this.

He was just sitting on the couch, minding his business, sipping tea, probably judging someone silently for existing wrong.

Then she came in. Straddled him like she paid rent on his thighs. Set her hands on his chest like it was hers—which, okay, maybe it was—and gave him a smile that screamed danger.

“Get off,” he muttered, wrinkling his nose. “You didn’t even wash your hands after touching the doorknob—”

Then she started bouncing. Slow. Hypnotic. Criminal. And the worst part? She moaned his name.

“Kiyoomi~” Like she was casting a spell. Like he was the main character in a fanfic. Like she knew what she was doing.

His breath caught. His tea almost fell. His sanity left the group chat.

“Y-you—what is this?!” he choked, voice jumping an octave. He wasn’t ready. His thighs weren’t ready. His pants? Absolutely not ready.

She leaned forward, breath hot against his neck, lips just close enough to not be kissing him.

“You mad?” she whispered.

“No,” he whispered back, voice shaking. “I’m terrified.”

Her hips moved. Again. Slower. Deeper.

He whimpered. Quiet. Shameful. Hidden behind gritted teeth and clenched fists.

But she heard it. She felt it. She thrived.

“Oh my god,” he groaned under his breath, gripping the couch cushion like it personally offended him. “You’re actually evil. You were sent to test me. This is a biohazard.”

Another bounce. Another whimper. This time louder. Desperate.

She kissed under his ear. Not sweet. Not soft. Intentional.

“Stop,” he whispered, clearly not meaning it.

“Make me.”

He groaned. His hands trembled on her thighs, like he didn’t know whether to push her off or pull her closer and die honorably.

“You’re ruining my life,” he hissed, head thrown back.

“And your boxers.”

She grinded one last time, slow enough to melt bone. Then—like a demon in disguise—she got up.

Just stood, fixed her shirt, and walked away.

No eye contact. No goodbye. Not even a damn wipe of his forehead.

Sakusa sat there. Breathing like he just ran a marathon. Harder than a physics exam. Staring into the void like he saw God and God was a woman with killer thighs.

He pulled a throw pillow into his lap and whispered to no one: “…I’m filing a report.”

[evamame]

osamu tattoos your daughter’s name on his wrist when she’s born. the day of her birth was an absolute miracle for him, being able to hear her cries and hold her fragile figure in his arms for the first time. as a way to show off his undying love for his little angel, he gets her name inscribed in small cursive letters across his right wrist. now he can carry her with him to work, smiling to himself at the thought of her adorable babbles and loud giggles every time he catches sight of it while shaping onigiri. his daughter is one of the most precious things on earth to him—coming up second just right after you—so his small tattoo is a homage to his overflowing love for her. it’s a way to commemorate every grabby motion she makes for him to pick her up, every stumble as she determinedly tries her best to walk, and every hand wave followed by a yell of “papa!” when he arrives home that fills his heart with an overwhelming warmth.

[smueivrse]

BOYFRIEND / GIRLFRIEND TEXTS . haikyuu

characs &. description. sakusa, futakuchi, yachi, kiyoko, sugawara, kita, osamu, yamaguchi, korai &. oikawa. boyfriend / girlfriend texts with them.

contains. crack messages, vulgar languages, established-relationship, oikawa being dramatic.

author notes. before you come at me, i’m tobxiyu. yes, why am i in another acc you ask? BECAUSE I LOST THE GODDAMN EMAIL OF THAT ACCOUNT AFTER MY PHONE GOT SOLD and when i got it back THE EMAIL WAS GONE. anyway, reposting this because i cannot think of anything.

SMUEI’S OTHERS　𝄢 guidelines &. masterlist.

© smuei . ♱ don’t repost, plagiarized, display on another platform, translate, copy any of my works

[riddlesrose]

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

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

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

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

osamu miya who’s loved you since highschool <33

masterlist

[novaimperia]

★ texts with childhood friend!osamu

warnings: timeskip!osamu, pre-relationship, fluff, crack, Atsumu stays haunting the narrative, fem!reader in college, some sexual language and mishap

a/n: part 1, part 2, part 3

[a-pastel-edgelord]

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

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

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

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

"YOU MOTHERF—"

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

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

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

"Not gonna record this shit?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I mean it."

"So do I."

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

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

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

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

—CUPID IS SO DUMB!

synopsis ; everyone says that they would be a terrible person to date, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

ft ; kenma kozume, osamu miya

cw ; afab!reader, swearing

now playing ; cupid by fifty fifty

𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐌𝐀 𝐊𝐎𝐙𝐔𝐌𝐄

kenma was basically the joke of your school. sure, he was on the volleyball team, and they had made it to nationals, but he was…well, he was practically just begging to flip burgers for the rest of his life.

he was a video game addict, had no friends outside of the volleyball team, and probably never went outside in his free time. sure, he had decent grades, but nowadays, unless you’re in the top 10% of the grade, a good college surely won’t accept you.

no one in their right mind would date him, right? he wasn’t even that good looking either. short, monstrous posture, long and unkept hair…who in their right mind would date someone like him?

right, who would ever date him?

who would ever date him?

who would—

…

you would.

you never really saw anything wrong with kenma. he wasn’t bad looking in your opinion; in fact, you found him cute. you enjoyed video games as well, so you would enjoy playing with someone else.

you weren’t the most popular at school either anyways, so you’ve always had the occasional thought of dating kenma. but your last straw was when the annoying bitches in your grade who didn’t know how to shut up finally declared that “both kenma and (y/n) are so weird and ugly! they’re never gonna get married.”

fuck it.

“hey, kozume.”

“hm?”

he didn’t look up from his console, but you could see the slight stiffening of his hands. “you wanna, uh, like, y’know…um, go out together sometime?”

kenma’s entire body froze, the console nearly dropping from his hands. he stayed silent, and for a moment, you almost regretted doing this. but you had to do this for your own self-satisfaction. “we can go to a video game store or something after school.”

“wuh— why?” finally, some sort of response. poor guy; you were definitely freaking him out. you silently apologized to him in your mind.

“you clearly like video games n’ stuff, and we’re both quiet, so we’re pretty similar already.” you fidgeted with your fingers, managing a small smile.

“…sure.”

was it only supposed to be a one-off thing just to spite the bothersome bitches in your grade? yes. but kenma was actually pretty good company at the game store, giving you recommendations—though he was still rather quiet.

one date turned to five. five dates turned to ten. ten dates turned to twenty. though most of them were netflix or video games and chill dates. before you knew it, you really had fallen for kenma. and now that you think about it, those people sure were idiots for refusing to date kenma, because he treats you better than their asshole boyfriends treat them.

“here.” kenma placed a plastic bag onto your desk, face hidden with his hair.

“what’s th—“ you opened the bag, and seeing a box inside, you opened the box and saw what was perhaps the most heavenly piece of apple pie you had ever seen. “KENMA! IS THIS FOR ME?!”

“yeah. you always forget to eat breakfast, and my mom made apple pie, so…” kenma shuffled his feet.

“you’re the best! i love you!”

and so the gossip went from the both of you never being able to find someone to the both of you being a cringy couple who wouldn’t last. bold of them to talk, considering how they have more hookups and relationships than you can count on both your fingers and toes.

but oh well. let’s see who has the last laugh now, when you have a husband who is a successful streamer and the ceo of the bouncing ball corps.

𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐔 𝐌𝐈𝐘𝐀

you hated atsumu miya. that was a fact known to all. you were paired up with him once for a project, and he did absolutely nothing. he always claimed that he had volleyball practice, which was probably true, so you couldn’t blame him for that, but he was so self-centered. he only knew how to talk about himself. he was so annoying.

but the worst part? you knew fucking well that if he put in even a little bit of effort into the project, you both could have gotten a higher score than a 70. he was smart, no doubt about it, but lord was he annoying.

for a long time, you thought his twin osamu miya wasn’t much better. he was too nonchalant about everything, he only cared about food—which you could somewhat relate to, considering how you were a food lover as well—, and he doesn’t know how to properly discipline is annoying ass brother. handling him in a purely physical manner will not help atsumu’s behavior in the slightest.

and great, you were paired up with osamu for a project. at least unlike atsumu, osamu invited you over to his house in order to work on the project. you had been in his room, flipping through your notes feverishly to try and find something useful.

“want some dorayaki?” osamu asked, holding out the bread to you. your jaw dropped, stopping the flipping of pages for a few moments.

“you’re offering food? maybe you’re not a big back after all.”

“nah, this is tsumu’s. if you don’t want it, i’ll have it.” he said, nudging his head at atsumu’s desk right next to his. “he’s just dumb and he left it there on his desk.”

you laughed, taking the bread from his hand. “i take it that you’re not the most fond of your twin? well, i mean, clearly not considering how you beat him up all the time at school.”

“he’s still my brother. he’s an idiot though.”

although osamu wasn’t the brightest, you did get a much better grade on a project with him than his brother. plus, osamu was way funnier and had even offered you food. you know what, maybe he wasn’t nearly as bad as you had thought.

“want some?” osamu asked on a random day during lunch, holding out a large onigiri to you. “i made it, so i don’t really know if i can guarantee if it’s good or bad.”

you snatched the onigiri from his hand. “i literally love you so much.” you exclaimed. looks like the term ‘the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach’ works with women too. “literally marry me.”

“oh wow.”

you weren’t thinking when you had declared such a thing when you both weren’t even dating, but osamu surely was. staring at you as you ate, he did think that it would be pretty nice being married to you.

at home, atsumu walked to the kitchen and gave osamu a sour look. “you’re such a simp. is your rizz literally just cooking? man, bro is down bad.”

“shut the fuck up, tsumu. you wish you have any rizz outside of your looks.” osamu snapped back, molding rice into a triangle shape and eating any excess rice left over.

well, osamu was right about making you fall for him through your stomach. because a few years later, you’re standing at the altar, shoving wedding cake into each other’s mouths.

[bowtiepasta]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I ain’t leavin’ until you're full.”

[bonniepop]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

love me, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

not anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the horror that overtakes you is beyond words. 

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

you won't let him do this.

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

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

you look up at him, and your eyes meet.

—

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

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

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

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

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

"yeah? like who?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“okay,” you say with a smile. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it's like everything is new again.

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

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

you swallow your food. it's delicious.

“yeah,” you say softly, “he does.”

[aeonmnei]

— osamu quietly sighs to himself as he hears an irritated grumble from your side of the bed, along with the soft huff of the bedsheet as you shift uncomfortably. his mild exasperation dissipates quickly, however, when he hears you whimper and sniff.

osamu tosses a pillow aside as he turns over to check on you, spread eagle on the bed with your forearm over your eyes. “what’s wrong?” he asks in a hoarse whisper. 

you’ve got an awful pout on your face, and he can see a tear slide down your cheek and onto your lips in the faint light. osamu watches in slight amusement when you lick it off. he clears his throat. “what’s wrong?” he asks again. 

there’s a pause as you sniff loudly. you dig your palms into your eyes. “it’s hot,” you say, finally. osamu’s deadpan as he leans on his elbow to look at you. that’s all?? “well, yeah, baby,” he replies plainly. “t’s summer.” 

“it’s so hot, i can’t sleeeeep,” you groan, your leg swinging over to land on top of his. “‘m so tired, ‘samu. and that fan’s doing jackshit.” “it’s literally in yer face, babe,” osamu tries, but you let out another weary sob that makes him roll his eyes as he starts to get up, peeling your sticky leg off of him as he does.

“where’re you going?” you mumble, still sniffling. “gettin’ ya a fan,” osamu grunts, feet dragging sleepily across the wood floor.

he comes back a few minutes later with a large handfan, lying back next to you on his side. osamu snaps it open and starts fanning you— face, chest, stomach, and back up again. you relax, settling into the bed contentedly, and he can’t help but scoff.

“yer sucha drama queen, ya know that?” he tells you, his voice full of affection. “seriously.”

note: i think i spent more time debating between a colon and an em dash than i did writing the damn thing

[bokutoko]

ᴏꜱᴀᴍᴜ didn’t really have a favorite color.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[dearru]

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

[miiyas]

oh, how he long to grow old with you. to suffer with back pains, headaches, and strands of silver hair shining in the sunlight together. to drive around and reminisce to your kids about your high school years, to come home to you and your voice, your kisses and your sweet embrace. he wants to build a home with you, whether it’s far away and in the feild where the sun sets beautifully every night or if it’s in a small, cramped apartment— decorated with things that make it a home. to hold your hand every night and listen to your whispers and laughter when he tickles your sides, to kiss you early in the morning before he goes to work, tucking you in. to see you in the morning everyday.

but for now, he’s gonna have to hide that pretty velvet box for a little longer, just until he gets your parents’ blessings.

HINATA, kageyama, oikawa, , KITA, miya twins, AKAASHI (hq), megumi, GOJO, ITADORI, NANAMI (jjk), CHUUYA, dazai, jouno, KUNIKIDA (bsd), WRIOTHESLEY, CHILDE, kazuha, zhongli, ayato, DILUC (gi) + ur favs !

[cxvii666]

no-context boyfriend txts w/ ten

FEATURING!

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

[xoxojisu]

"YOU'RE PREGNANT?!"

synopsis: you're pregnant with osamu's baby! you need to break the news to atsumu, but he somehow spoils it.. for himself?

notes: afab reader if that wasn't obvious

you and osamu had rehearsed this like three times on the drive over.

well, you rehearsed it. osamu just kept nodding and saying, “he’s gonna be loud either way,” which… yeah, fair. but this was a big deal! atsumu may have been chaos incarnate, but he was still osamu's twin brother, and you both wanted him to be one of the first to know!

so here you were, sitting in a booth at a quiet ramen place, the twins across from each other like always, bickering over toppings like they weren’t in their thirties.

“who the hell puts corn in ramen?” atsumu griped, making a face.

“people with good taste,” osamu muttered, not bothering to even look up from his bowl in favor of continuing eating. "corn in ramen's tasty. it's sweet and crunchy and buttery. yer just not refined enough to get it. got the taste buds of a toddler."

"it's actually pretty good! osamu put me on." you chimed in.

“he look like he is the corn in ramen,” atsumu grumbled. “fuckin' fatass. what, ya pregnant?”

you froze.

osamu froze.

atsumu… kept eating.

you and osamu turned to each other in perfect sync, wide-eyed, identical expressions of did he just..? before you could even stop yourself, you blurted:

“how’d you know?!”

atsumu blinked. “huh?”

osamu reached over to hit atsumu on the head with his chopsticks, not saying anything, just staring at him in disbelief.

"wait, what?" atsumu said, "hold on-"

"is twin telepathy actually real?! holy shit! samu, why didn't you tell me that he could fucking read your mind?"

“i- huh? what? wait,” atsumu stuttered, eyes darting between you two, hands raised in shock. “you thought i meant you-” he pointed at you. “you’re pregnant?!”

you nodded slowly, still stunned. “we were literally about to tell you.”

atsumu opened his mouth. closed it. opened it again. “what the hell, i.. i was callin’ him fat!”

“i’m not fat,” osamu hissed. “i’m-”

“i was makin’ fun of him! i didn’t think i had mind-readin’ powers! holy shit!”

“well clearly you do!” you exclaimed, gesturing wildly. “you just predicted a whole pregnancy announcement! twin telepathy is real!”

atsumu leaned back in the booth, looking like he just got hit with a volleyball straight to the face.

“yer seriously- like, for real- like- like, actually pregnant?”

you nodded again, this time with a soft smile. “yeah. just a couple months.”

atsumu stared for another beat before his face completely split into the biggest, brightest grin you’d ever seen.

“no freakin’ way! i’m gonna be a uncle?!” he launched halfway across the table, practically knocking over a bowl in the process. “holy shit, i was jokin’! samu, ya really did it, ya old sap!”

osamu groaned as atsumu pulled him into a squeeze. “let go of me.”

“never! i’m gonna tell everyone!”

“you’re not.”

you laughed, the moment finally settling into the warm, chaotic joy you’d expected from the start.

atsumu finally let go, eyes still sparkling. “i can’t believe i called it. like—psychic level. maybe i should open a side hustle. chicks would pay big money for a hot guy to read their fortune.”

osamu looked at you. “i told ya he’d be loud.”

you grinned. “he was also kinda perfect.”

“damn right i was,” atsumu said, already pulling out his phone. “now what’s the name gonna be? ‘tsumu’ is a gender-neutral option, just sayin’-”

osamu reached across the table and finally flicked him on the forehead.

later, after the chaos had simmered down and the three of you stepped out into the evening air, atsumu was quiet in that rare way that made you glance over to make sure he was okay.

you were halfway to your cars when he slowed beside you. “so,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “you, uh… got any pictures yet? like, baby ones?”

you smiled and pulled out your phone. “only one so far. first ultrasound.”

you handed it over and he took it a little too carefully, like he was afraid to drop it. the black-and-white image flickered faintly on the screen, and he just… stared.

he didn’t smile. didn’t joke. he looked at that tiny shape like it was the most real thing in the world. like it had just hit him, really hit him what this meant.

“that’s… them?” he asked, voice quiet.

you nodded. “yeah. that’s your niece or nephew.”

atsumu blinked. “they’re so small.”

you and osamu glanced at each other—your heart a little full, his eyes a little softer than usual.

then atsumu looked up, meeting your gaze. “thanks for tellin’ me. first, i mean. that you wanted me to know first.” he cleared his throat, suddenly awkward. “i’m… real happy for you guys. both of ya.”

“you’re gonna be an amazing uncle,” you said, nudging him gently.

he gave a little laugh. “yeah? little corn junior?”

“no,” osamu said flatly. “absolutely not.”

but you were smiling, and so was atsumu, and osamu had that small, quiet look he only ever got when he was really, truly happy.

atsumu looked back at the photo one more time. then, without a word, he stepped forward and hugged you. not a joking one. not a one-arm squeeze. a real one.

“i’m proud of you,” he mumbled. "this is crazy."

you hugged him back. “we love you, ‘tsumu.”

osamu snorted beside you. “gettin’ soft in your old age.”

“shut it, old man. i’m still prettier.”

they started bickering again as you all walked down the street—arguing over who had better genes and whether the baby would inherit osamu’s cooking or atsumu’s hair.

you stayed a step behind for just a moment. hand resting over your stomach. heart full.

this little one was already so loved.

..and also so doomed to a life of chaos.

but mostly? so, so loved.

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