#osamu

[jay72664]

Fuck everything everyone has ever said ever; Dazai flirted with Chuuya all throughout the port mafia days, but Chuuya is oblivious, and Dazai did it in the weirdest fucking ways known to man, change my mind.

[novakrouge]

Osamu might like milk idk

[petricorah]

~wip 🍙 [id in alt]

[haikyu-mp4]

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

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

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

Chomp!

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

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

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

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

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

masterlist

[bokutoko]

ᴏꜱᴀᴍᴜ didn’t really have a favorite color.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

masterlist | navigation

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

[kitasuno]

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

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

wc: 1113 | gn!reader | fluff

Miya Osamu is used to coming second. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He meets you for the first time in February. 

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

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

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

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

He sees you a lot the year after. 

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

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

Osamu means To Rule.

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

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

Osamu kisses you for the first time that night. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[wordsofelie]

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

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

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

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

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

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

“hmm, just a lucky guess.”

[makkir0ll]

private chef! osamu x ceo!reader.

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

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

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

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

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

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

@cottonlemonade bc it’s infesting my brain

[nickolashx]

Eastern Mind: The Lost Souls of Tong Nou (1994)

Eastern Mind: The Lost Souls of Tong Nou is an unnerving 1994 point-and-click adventure game by Japanese artist Osamu Sato.

Rin wakes up to find that his soul has been stolen by a living island known as Tong-Nou. In his quest to restore his soul, he reincarnates as several different creatures, fulfilling their respective lives.

[st4ringlow]

miya osamu x reader drabble

osamu hates it when someone else is in the kitchen with him.

he personally thinks its a hassle and slows down the work when there are more than one person in the kitchen. whenever someone offers help, he immediately declines, insisting that he can do it on his own. one time he got super grumpy because atsumu is too stubborn to leave him alone in the kitchen and fucking up the chopped vegetables. thats why he prefers to cook alone.

you, however, he doesnt mind. not that he lets you help him though, but he needs to feel your presence in the kitchen, " 's moral support," he said. he lets you yap while hes cooking, and will give comments and reactions to your conversation. 'oh d'you know about that old lady two houses across?' , 'i think im actually good at cooking, 'm just lazy,' , 'can we go to the ramen diner some time? heard it was good,' , ''m getting fat if you keep feeding me with your cookings,' . you may be quite the conversationalist, but osamu enjoys listening to you.

miya osamu may not enjoy others in his kitchen space, but for you, he would make an exception. even if you poorly chop the ingredients or botch the sautéing by overheating, he'll let it slide.

[toastyyjams]

may i suggest girlfailure fem dazai

[jay72664]

Happy Birthday Chuuya

TW: Slightly suggestive at the end.

Chuuya wasn’t all that big on celebrations, that included his birthday.

That’s not to say he minded people wishing him a happy birthday (or a bottle of wine that would come with it), but he did mind parties, they weren’t his thing.

What would be his thing would be getting off work; but Mori didn’t like him that much.

That being said; it was about eight o’clock when he was allowed to go home, which was earlier than normal, to be fair.

He’d gotten a couple different presents, Kouyou had gotten him a new hat; likely knowing other people would get him his fix of alcohol, which they did, both Hirotsu, and Tachihara had been nice enough to get him some, they were expensive ones too.

After arriving home he already knew exactly what to expect, because Dazai did the same thing every year since they moved in together

Not that he was complaining, it was sweet.

And low and behold upon getting home he was met with a candlelight dinner, how romantic.

The food, of course, Dazai hadn’t made himself, he’d ordered it, but it still smelled good.

The lights were off, save a light on in the bedroom; which must be where this husband was.

Chuuya took off his hat, shoes, and coat, then he set the wine bottles on the table, and he took his new hat with him down the hall, cracking the door to his bedroom open so he could see the brunette.

He was wearing a suit, and seemed to be giving himself a pep talk, mumbling to himself to make sure he had everything prepared.

“You look nice,” Chuuya comments, snapping the man out of his mumbling who instantly brightens and turns to look at him.

“So do you,” he replies; despite the fact the ginger looked the same as always.

He rolls his eyes. “You always say that.”

Dazai shrugs. “It’s always true. Come on, I made dinner,” he chirps as he leads Chuuya back out to the kitchen, doing jazz hands at the table.

“Made it?” the ginger asks with an amused smirked.

The taller man huffs. “Ordered. Now sit.”

“Okay, okay,” he gives in with a laugh, sitting down at the table in front of the other man.

“Good day?” Dazai asks, obviously eager to hear his husband talk.

Chuuya hums. “It was alright.” He gestures to the wine, which Dazai takes as a suggestion to pour themselves some. “Got some presents.”

“I got you a present,” the brunette says after settling back in his seat, taking a sip of his wine.

“Yeah? Did you use my credit card?” He teases.

“No, I made it,” Dazai huffs.

“You made it? Why do I find that hard to believe?”

“You’re a jerk, maybe I won’t give it to you,” The brunette whines, pouting.

Chuuya laugh. “No, no, I want it.”

“I‘ll give it to you after dinner,” he announces, clearly quite eager for that moment.

“You sure you can wait that long? You look about ready to explode,” Chuuya further teases, obviously in a good mood.

Dazai glowers at him, letting out another huff. “I can, and I will, it’ll be more fun if you have a full stomach.”

They continued to eat and talk until they finished, Dazai pushing the shorter man into the living room before he could even think about cleaning it up, and forced him to sit down.

“Stay, I’ll be right back,” he tells him, hurrying out of the room to get his present.

Chuuya waited for him, taking off his gloves and tossing them on the coffee table before leaning back and letting out a contented sigh.

Dazai came back not long after and demanded he close his eyes, to which Chuuya complied and held out his hands.

What was put in them was rather heavy, and he could feel the nervous energy radiating off of his husband as he sat down.

“You can open them now,” the brunette whispered quietly, and Chuuya did just that.

“Osamu,” he breathed; it was a scrapbook, it had their wedding day photo on the front, and just the words ‘double black’ etched into it.

“I love it,” he tells him.

“You haven’t even seen inside it,” Dazai reminds, his face heating up from the compliment.

Chuuya rolls his eyes, but opens it nonetheless, it seemed to be in order from least to most recent, photo’s and little tidbits about the day they were taken, some of them were from back when they were fifteen, and he had half a mind to wonder how his husband had managed to get his hands on them; but he knew the question would be met with a smug grin and a shrug.

Chuuya closed the book. “This is the best present ever,” he told him, smiling brightly as he set it down; he was definitely going to spend hours going over it.

Dazai pouted. “But I got you two presents,” he whined.

The ginger chuckled. “Well, maybe it’ll beat it, let me see.”

“I have to take you to the bedroom for it,” the brunette explained, a suggestive smirk coming to his face.

Chuuya took a moment to process his words, a smirk coming to his own face. “I feel like you’re going to enjoy this present more than me.”

Dazai pretended to look offended. “Not true at all.” As if to prove his point, he pulled his husband into a heated kiss, pulling back only so he didn’t suffocate the other man.

“Happy birthday Chuuya,” he whispered reverently, right before the ginger pulled him into another kiss.

[novakrouge]

onigiri shop owner osamu miya

[rosierin]

heat of the moment | atsumu miya

synopsis; it started with a massage. she’d had a long day, he offered, and she didn’t think twice. but then his hands slip under her shirt, his hands slowed, and suddenly they’re somewhere they were never meant to be.

warning; very suggestive!!! mature content

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

The apartment was dark when she stepped in—just the faint glow of the hallway lamp left on, humming gently against the silence. The scent of fresh linen and something faintly sweet lingered in the air, a comfort she didn’t know she’d been craving.

Her shoes hit the wall with a dull thud as she kicked them off with little ceremony, limbs dragging like she was wading through molasses. Her legs were heavy. Her spine ached like it’d forgotten how to hold her upright. And her shoulders—tight as wire, wound so high they nearly brushed her ears.

She didn’t sigh. She groaned. The kind that came from deep in her soul, coaxed out by too many hissing steam wands, clattering mugs, toddler meltdowns, and customers who still couldn’t grasp the concept of boiling water.

And of course, it had to be Free Drink Day.

More like Free Mental Breakdown Day.

They say not to cry over spilled milk, but after the third oat latte incident of the day, she was ready to weep into the mop bucket.

Her bag dropped with a final, resentful thud. She muttered something obscene under her breath and shuffled toward the living room like the ghost of capitalism’s finest victim—burnt out, steamed dry, and foamed to death.

“Rough day?” came a familiar voice—low, lazy, and way too smug for someone who didn’t just spend eight hours on their feet dealing with entitled customers who kept insisting on speaking to her manager.

She didn’t look at him, just flopped face-first onto the couch with a grunt. “Don’t speak to me, Miya.”

Soft footsteps, then:

“‘Miya,’ huh?”

She could hear the grin in his voice.

“Don’t.”

“I’m just sayin’. You only call me that when you’re feelin’ a certain way.”

“Yeah, when I'm tired, cranky, or borderline murderous."

He snorted. “You sure it ain’t somethin’ else?”

Her only reply was a muffled groan into the couch cushion.

Normally, she’d have some kind of quip locked and loaded—something dry, vaguely threatening, maybe even flirty if she was in the mood. And sometimes she did use his last name with that teasing edge, just to get a rise out of him.

But not tonight.

Tonight there was no smirk behind it. No playful undertone. No provocative lilt that made it sound like something else.

When she said Miya, she meant it. Plain and simple. No code. No joke. Just: leave me alone before I bite.

She was tired. Everything hurt. And she wasn’t in the mood for verbal sparring or Atsumu’s usual theatrics—not even a little bit.

Not tonight.

Beside her, the floor creaked.

And then she felt it—his fingers, brushing the fabric of her hoodie aside, settling gently on her shoulder.

“Let me help.”

Her head lifted slightly and—ow. Even that took a great amount of effort. “What?”

“You're all wound up,” he murmured, thumbs circling slow against the knots in her back. “Let me fix it.”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but god… the way his hands were already working over her hoodie—firm, warm, grounding—it was hard to protest.

“Take this off,” he said, tapping her back.

She shot him a glare over her shoulder. Everything?

He raised his eyebrows, amused. “The hoodie.”

“…Oh.”

Still grumbling, she pulled it over her head and tossed it aside, revealing the flimsy camisole beneath. She settled back onto her stomach, cheek pressed to the couch, breath leaving her in a long exhale.

Then his hands returned—bare, strong, and unfairly skilled.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

She hated how good he was at this. How steady his palms felt against her skin. How his fingers dug in deep enough to hurt, but just enough to make her feel relaxed. Like he knew exactly where the tension lived—exactly where to press, where to drag his thumbs to unravel her piece by piece.

“You’ve done this before,” she muttered, face still buried in the couch.

“Mmhm.”

“Who?”

“Not important.”

That annoyed her more than it should’ve. But the way his hands pressed into her lower back, dragging down, circling, gripping—god, it was hard to stay mad when her brain was slowly turning to soup.

A breath she hadn’t realized she was holding left her in a soft sigh.

“You know,” he said casually, “there’s a dangerous amount of trust involved in lettin’ me touch ya like this.”

“Don’t ruin it,” she mumbled.

“M’not. Just sayin’. One minute I’m bein’ nice and helpful, the next…”

She didn't let him finish his sentence.

“Atsumu?”

“Yeah?”

“Be quiet.”

He laughed—quiet, smug—and kept going, kneading along the tight lines of her shoulders, down the dip of her spine, slow enough to make her toes curl.

The kind of slow that made her forget things. Like how tired she was. How annoyed she’d been walking through the door. How many hours she’d spent on her feet.

Each pass of his hands pulled her deeper into the couch, deeper into herself. Her thoughts blurred into a soft haze. And for a moment, it didn’t feel suggestive or flirty or like something to overthink.

It just felt good.

Safe. Easy. Blissful.

Until he shifted.

Straddled her hips.

The weight of him was gentle, careful—not overwhelming. But it still took her by surprise.

“Wh—what are you—?”

“Better angle,” he said, offhand. Like it was nothing.

Somehow, it wasn’t very convincing.

His hands returned, slipping beneath her shirt. The change in temperature made her shiver, but his palms were warm—gliding lazy, deliberate lines along the soft skin of her back. Steady. Measured. Too measured. Like he was focusing too hard on not making it something else.

“You’re tense here,” he murmured, thumbs pressing slow circles just beneath her shoulder blades.

That’s when she heard it. The dip in his voice—the subtle, sultry shift she’d learned to recognize. Rare, but unmistakable. The tone he only used when his thoughts wandered somewhere they shouldn’t. The kind that meant trouble.

(Y/n) tried not to react. Tried not to read into it—keep it casual. But her skin was too aware of his hands. Her breath, too shallow. Her thoughts, not nearly as neutral as she wanted them to be.

“Mhmm,” she hummed, noncommittal. A deflection. Weak, but it was all she had.

His thumbs slid lower.

“And here.”

His fingers fanned at her waist, dragging down her sides with a softness that didn’t feel so clinical anymore. It felt…curious. Attentive. Too much like a question.

Her breath caught. Not loud. Just a flicker—a stutter of air through parted lips. But he caught it. Of course he did.

He chuckled—low, quiet, maddeningly pleased.

“I can feel your heart racin’, y’know.”

She didn’t answer right away. It was difficult to when she was now hyperaware of every point of contact.

“I’m—tired,” she mumbled weakly. “...Not turned on.”

A pause.

Then—

“Liar.”

It wasn’t a tease. Not really. Barely a whisper, but it landed like a spark to dry leaves.

(Y/n) stiffened. Her brain scrambled for something—logic, protest, retreat—but her body had already gone still. Listening. Waiting.

Because suddenly, the room felt smaller.

The couch felt warmer.

The line between playful bickering and something dangerous blurring far too fast.

And Atsumu—still perched on her hips, hands firm and steady at her waist—felt like something more than a friend doing her a favour.

His hands never stopped moving in those slow, rhythmic circles. Not rushed. Not forceful. But no longer innocent, either.

And then—he moved.

Just a small shift of his hips. Barely there. But it was unmistakable.

Intentional.

She sucked in a breath. Her body tightened instinctively, unsure, unprepared—but she didn’t pull away. Not yet.

Atsumu exhaled—quiet, shaky, like he hadn’t meant to do it in the first place. Like her reaction had knocked something loose in him.

“Shit,” he muttered, almost to himself.

He rocked his hips again—slower this time. More tentative. Deeper. Lower.

Her lips parted.

She didn’t mean to make a sound, but it slipped out anyway—a soft little breath, something between a sigh and a gasp, too quiet for full embarrassment but loud enough that he heard it.

Felt it.

His hands tightened at her waist.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he breathed, voice frayed and mildly stunned. “You keep makin’ noises like that and I’m gonna lose every bit of sense I’ve got left.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because somewhere between the first touch and now, her resistance had started to unravel. Not all at once. Just enough to let him in.

Her body betrayed her—arching, pliant, already so far gone.

Her eyes were shut tight, pulse hammering in her throat as he ground against her again—slow, controlled, like he was savouring every second of it.

“You feel that?” he murmured, hips moving just enough to make her thighs tense. “That’s what you do to me. You come home all tired and soft and whiny and y'expect me to behave?"

He leaned down, mouth at her neck, hot breath tickling her skin.

“All those little sounds you’re makin’. The way you're meltin' under my hands. You gotta know what you’re doin’ to me.”

Another roll of his hips—harder this time.

Her mouth opened.

A sound escaped her—quiet, shamefully honest. Just enough to make his breath catch this time.

He stilled.

Then groaned. “Jesus.”

Something cracked open after that.

He braced himself over her—slow and heavy—elbows caging her in, breath rasping as his hips ground down again, rougher now, less restrained. Over and over.

His mouth brushed her shoulder blade—hot and barely contained—and then he kissed her there. Once. Then again. Then a third time, slower now, lips dragging over her skin like he couldn’t help it.

(Y/n)’s eyes squeezed shut.

And that’s when it hit her—really hit her. The weight of his body. The heat of his skin. The way his hips pressed into hers like it was instinct, and the way her body arched into him like it had a will of its own.

Her mind screamed at her to push him off. To tell him to stop.

This was too much.

Too intense. Too close.

They didn’t do this.

This wasn’t banter. This wasn’t teasing. This wasn’t some flirty game they’d forget by morning.

This was heat. This was need.

This was her—on her stomach, panting into the couch cushion—while Atsumu Miya kissed down her spine like he was about to lose his goddamn mind.

She should’ve told him to stop.

But she didn’t. Couldn't. Not when her every nerve in her body was screaming for his touch.

“Atsumu,” she breathed.

His movements stuttered—just a fraction. One word. Just his name.

But fuck—did that turn him on.

He groaned softly into her skin, hips still locked against hers, grinding like he needed the friction. Like it physically hurt not to move.

“...What are you doing?” she managed, voice hoarse, thin with disbelief.

“Losin' it,” he whispered, like it wasn’t obvious.

His hand slid up her back, fingers tangling in her hair—then tugged. Lightly. Just enough to lift her face from the cushions, just enough to bare the sound that slipped out of her—something between a wince and a moan, sharp and breathy.

His mouth found her shoulder again—open-mouthed this time, breath hot, tongue brushing slowly over her skin like he was trying to memorize the way she tasted.

“I shouldn’t be doin’ this,” he muttered, more to himself than her, like he was trying to convince his body to back off.

He didn’t.

And she didn’t stop him.

Her fingers dug into the cushion. Her breath caught in her throat. Her body burned in places she didn’t know could ache like this.

Every roll of his hips sent a shockwave through her spine, and every kiss on her skin made her forget why this was a bad idea in the first place.

She felt his breath by her ear.

Felt the restraint in the way his hand clenched at her waist, like he was holding himself together with threads.

And then his mouth was at her neck—warm, open, hungry—before his teeth sank in just enough to make her gasp.

He exhaled hard, barely catching himself as he pressed his forehead to her shoulder, like he needed the anchor—like staying close was the only way to keep from falling apart completely.

“You’re lettin’ me,” he said hoarsely, disbelief threaded between his words. “You’re not tellin’ me to stop.”

She didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because if she spoke, she’d confess something they couldn’t take back.

And maybe he knew that—because his hand slid from her hair, tracing along her cheek before curling around her jaw. Gentle, but firm. He tilted her face toward him, made her look at him.

And god, he looked ruined.

Eyes blown wide. Lips parted and pink. Expression completely wrecked.

And still, he moved.

Hard. Needy.

Her moan slipped out—quiet, involuntary, the kind that tore straight from her chest.

It was all he needed.

“Fuck, baby—” he breathed, voice shredded and barely holding together. His hips stuttered, movements turning messy, desperate—like he couldn’t slow down even if he tried.

His mouth found her skin again. Kissed whatever he could reach. Sloppy. Starved. Every kiss less precise than the last.

He was close.

Too close.

A deep, broken sound tore from his throat as his hand locked tighter at her waist—his other still cupping her jaw like he needed to see her. And for one breathless, blinding second, the world narrowed to this:

Heat.

Friction.

Sweat.

His hips snapped into hers, too drunk on her to stop. Like she was the only thing keeping him grounded.

They were right at the edge of something they weren’t supposed to reach.

So close to—

CRASH.

A loud, metallic clang. Something hit the floor in the kitchen.

They both froze. (Y/n) almost whined.

A beat of stunned silence—

Then:

“For fuck's sake—My ramen!”

Suna’s voice cut through the moment like a slap.

A second later—

“YOU’RE CLEANIN’ THAT!”

Osamu’s voice, furious and far too loud.

Just like that, the spell shattered.

Atsumu collapsed onto her back with a guttural groan, his entire weight slumping down like the wind had been knocked out of him.

“…I’m gonna kill 'im.”

(Y/n) didn’t move. Just whimpered into the cushion. “...Why are they like this?"

He slid off her slowly, like he wasn’t sure how his limbs worked anymore. His breath was still uneven, his cheeks flushed. He flopped onto the floor beside the couch like he’d just fought for his life.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

A long, awful silence stretched between them.

Her heart still pounded in her chest like it hadn’t gotten the memo.

Then—

“…Three more seconds and I'd have bust.”

She blinked. Then let out a broken, exhausted snort. “Miya.”

He covered his face with both hands and dragged them down his face. “Don’t say my name like that right now.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Bonus:

The next morning...

The apartment smelled like eggs and impending doom.

(Y/n) sat stiffly at the dining table, fingers curled around her mug like it was the only thing tethering her to reality. She hadn’t spoken more than four words since she entered the kitchen. Not because she was mad. Not because she was tired.

Because Atsumu was in the room.

Leaning against the counter.

Hair messy. Shirt slightly wrinkled. Cheeks still flushed from whatever godless dreams he probably had last night. Arms crossed over his chest like they hadn't just been gripping her hips twelve hours ago while whispering pure filth and sin into her shoulder blades.

She took a long sip of coffee.

Don’t look at him. Don’t think about it. Don’t clench your thighs.

“You’re bein’ real quiet this mornin’,” Osamu said, setting down a plate of toast in front of her.

She blinked. “Hmm? No, I’m fine. Just a bit tired is all."

Suna, across the table, didn’t look up from his phone.

“Someone’s tense,” he muttered. “Again.”

Her soul left her body.

“I’m not tense,” she snapped a little too fast.

Atsumu made a small choking sound behind her. She didn’t turn around.

Osamu raised an eyebrow, glancing between them. “Did you two fight or somethin’?”

“No,” she said.

“No,” Atsumu echoed.

Osamu squinted. “Weird. Yer both lookin' a lil guilty."

Suna finally looked up, eyes slow and calculating. “Did something happen?”

“No,” she said quickly.

“Nah,” Atsumu added, voice a little too casual.

A long silence.

Suna’s eyes narrowed. “Y’know, the couch is looking kinda... dented this morning.”

(Y/n) stared at her mug. “Rin, please stop speaking.”

“And there was a hoodie on the floor. Yours, I think,” Suna added.

Osamu frowned. “Weren’t you wearin’ that last night?”

Suna turned fully in his seat. “Don’t tell me.” Seconds passed. Then—

“No way. Did you guys fu—”

Atsumu broke into the broadest grin.

(Y/n) turned bright red.

“NO!”

Osamu almost spit out his orange juice.

Suna's jaw actually went slack. “Holy shit.”

Osamu looked offended. “On the couch? Seriously?!”

Atsumu leaned forward, elbows on the counter, smirk straight out of a rated-R movie. “All I’m sayin’ is… ya leave a man alone with a pretty girl complainin’ about her back and—”

“It was JUST a massage!” (y/n) yelled, utterly mortified.

The room went silent.

Suna slowly pushed his plate away, crinkling his nose.

Osamu looked like he needed years worth of therapy. “I eat on that couch.”

"Okay," she blurted, pushing her chair back with the grace of a dying goose. "I’m going back to bed. None of you speak to me.”

“You didn’t finish your toast,” Suna called.

“You didn’t finish your massage, either,” Atsumu added.

(Y/n) stormed off, narrowly missing the doorframe on the way out.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Her door slammed shut.

Her body hit the mattress.

Her soul left her body.

She face-planted into her pillow with a strangled groan—the same noise people make when they think they’ve beaten a final boss, only for it to regenerate full health and announce a hidden phase two.

Her brain felt like the scrambled eggs she'd left behind.

Because it was replaying everything—every. single. second.

The massage.

The way his fingers dug into her back like he knew where she was most vulnerable.

The phantom warmth of his hands still lingered on her skin, like her body couldn’t quite let go of his touch. And the weight of him—solid, hot, heavy—still pressed against the back of her hips like muscle memory. Like her body remembered what her mind was trying to erase.

His mouth on her shoulders, her neck.

His voice—needy, breathless—almost desperate.

Her whole body flushed so violently she was surprised she hadn’t burst into flames on the spot.

What the hell was that?!

They didn’t do that. They never did that. Sure, Atsumu flirted—he flirted with everyone. She was used to it. Used to rolling her eyes and brushing it off, calling him insufferable while secretly liking the attention.

But this?

This was not harmless.

This was him, grinding into her like he was trying to memorize the shape of her body. This was her, moaning into a cushion like she was part of some kinky romance novel. This was—

“I should’ve pushed him off,” she muttered into the pillow.

But she didn’t.

She let it happen.

Worse—she wanted it to happen.

Oh my god.

The doorframe she almost walked into? Deserved.

The toast she didn’t eat? Deserved.

The ghost of his voice still echoing in her ears, haunting her?

Absolutely deserved.

She flopped onto her back, stared at the ceiling, and whispered:

“What have I done."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Meanwhile in the kitchen...

Atsumu wasn’t proud of himself.

Okay, maybe a little. But also not really. Not when Suna was staring at him like he was one word away from committing a crime, and Osamu looked ready to throw up in the sink.

“You touched her where?”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I already told ya,” he said, sinking deeper into the kitchen chair. “It was a massage. She was tired. I was bein’ helpful.”

“Helpful?” Osamu echoed, crossing his arms, his expression somewhere between offended and utterly gobsmacked. Probably both.

Atsumu winced. Yeah, maybe that hadn’t been the best word.

“What happened to runnin’ her a bath? Or—I dunno—cookin' her dinner like a normal person?”

Atsumu just shrugged.

Not defensively. Not exactly confident, either.

Just that lazy, noncommittal lift of his shoulders—the kind he pulled when he didn’t have a good answer and hoped no one would call him out for it. Sheepish. A little guilty. Mostly trying not to squirm under the look Osamu was giving him.

Suna, meanwhile, hadn’t blinked once. Didn’t even flinch. Just stared at him, jaw tight. “You’re genuinely insane.”

Atsumu threw his arms up. “Whaaat? (Y/n) didn't seem to mind."

Osamu made a noise. Something resigned, possibly a little traumatised.

“Keep it to yourself,” Suna muttered, voice low, sharp.

“You asked!” Atsumu protested, slouching into the kitchen chair like he was halfway through a trial he was absolutely guilty of. “It wasn’t supposed to go that far.”

“But it did,” Osamu snapped, gesturing dramatically. “On the couch. Where I eat.”

That earned him a grimace. “Okay, ya don’t gotta say it like that.”

He slouched further. Rested his chin in one hand. “It wasn’t even a thing. She came home all cranky and— I dunno. I just wanted to make 'er feel better.”

That was the truth, wasn’t it? At the time, it was innocent. Mostly. He hadn’t planned to grind on her like a man starved.

But then she'd moaned, and the rest was history.

“Right,” Suna said, and something in his voice made Atsumu look up.

The usual flat deadpan wasn’t there. Something sharper had taken its place.

“Are you sure she was okay with it?” Suna asked, meeting his eyes at last. “She didn’t look like she was in a good mood this morning.”

Atsumu blinked. His heart stumbled over itself.

“What? She’s probably just—embarrassed,” he said, a little too quickly. Then, bristling, “Are you sayin’ I did somethin’ she didn’t want?”

Suna didn’t back down. “No. I’m saying you didn't think." A beat passed. "'Least not with your head."

The kitchen got quiet. That kind of quiet that made Atsumu want to throw something just to fill it.

His nostrils flared. He straightened in his seat, bracing his hands on the table like he was ready to stand.

Suna just stared.

Unflinching.

Judging.

Calm and lethal as always.

And yeah, okay, maybe Atsumu hadn’t thought it through. Maybe he had gotten carried away. But he wasn’t some creep.

“She didn’t stop me,” he muttered, then immediately winced because wow, what a terrible sentence.

Osamu, to his credit, jumped in before the stare-down turned into an actual fight. “Alright, both of ya, enough.” He slapped a palm to Atsumu’s shoulder, forcing him back down when he’d started to rise. “I’m sure (y/n)’s fine. She probably is just embarrassed. But, 'Tsumu—” He gave his brother a look. “Make sure ya check in on 'er."

The tension thinned. Barely.

Atsumu slumped back into his chair.

But he never looked away, still locked in a silent death stare with Suna, waiting for someone to blink first.

Osamu rolled his eyes and went back to his breakfast.

But the words were already climbing up Atsumu's throat, too big to keep inside.

“…She moaned.”

Osamu’s fork hit his plate with a clink.

"Please," he groaned, covering his ears. “Spare me.”

“I’m not makin’ it up!” Atsumu insisted, leaning forward like this was somehow a defence. “I wasn’t even doin’ that much and she—" He cut himself off, then added in a desperate whisper, “She was movin’ with me, so she definitely—”

“Atsumu.” Suna’s voice was cold. Firm. “We get it.”

Atsumu’s mouth snapped shut. His ears burned. God, he sounded like a perv.

Osamu exhaled slowly, like his brain had just rebooted. Then, against all odds, he snorted. Covered his face, elbows braced on the table, but that stupid grin was peeking through his fingers.

“What is wrong with you guys?”

Atsumu stared at his cereal. Suddenly way too aware of how pathetic he must’ve looked, sitting here like a kicked puppy, talking about a moan like it was a Nobel Prize.

Still… his lips twitched.

“...What?” he said, trying for innocent. It came out boyish.

Osamu didn’t even look at him. “Nothin’,” he muttered, voice muffled and lowkey judgmental.

Suna shook his head and pulled out his phone. “You’re the horniest person I know."

Atsumu sighed.

Ran both hands through his hair.

And smirked.

Guilty as charged.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The kitchen was quiet.

Dim, too—lit only by the under-light above the stove, casting everything in a sleepy haze. It was late. Past midnight, maybe. She’d lost track of time after her shower, after the world stopped spinning quite so fast.

(Y/n) padded in with socked feet, her damp hair sticking to the back of her neck, water bottle loose in her grip. She wasn’t even thirsty. She’d just needed somewhere to be that wasn’t her room. Somewhere her thoughts wouldn’t chase her down and pin her to the bed like they’d been trying to do all evening.

The massage.

The weight of him.

The way her hips moved.

The sound she made.

God.

She opened the fridge just to cool her face against the blast of cold air. Stood there a moment longer than necessary, trying to freeze the memory out of her skin.

She stared at the contents without really seeing them.

If she was lucky, she could grab a drink and slink back upstairs before anyone—

The floor creaked behind her.

She knew that creak. Recognised the rhythm of those lazy footsteps.

Atsumu.

Of course.

She didn’t turn. Just shut the fridge, hugging the bottle to her chest like it could absorb the flush threatening to rise to her face.

“Hey.”

His voice was quieter than usual.

Not cocky, not teasing, but... soft.

Her heart stuttered.

She braced herself, then glanced up at him. “Hey, ‘Tsum.”

He looked like he’d come down for something too, but now he was just… standing there. In his sweatpants, hair mussed from his pillow, rubbing at the back of his neck like he wasn’t sure what to say.

Her chest tightened. It was impossible to ignore it.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked.

“Somethin’ like that.” He shrugged, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Figured I’d grab somethin’ to drink. But…” he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck again, “…guess ya beat me to it.”

She gave a breath of a laugh, barely there. “Sorry. I was just... thinking.”

A beat of silence stretched between them.

He hummed, mulling over his next words, like he wasn’t sure if now was the best time to ask—but he did anyway.

“You okay?”

(Y/n) blinked.

The question was soft. Careful. And completely sincere.

It disarmed her more than it should have.

She opened her mouth—then shut it. Swallowed. “Mhmm. I'm okay.”

Atsumu nodded, but didn’t move. Didn’t turn back around like he meant to leave. Instead, he stepped a little closer, resting one hand against the counter, glancing down at her.

“How’s your back?” he asked, lips quirking slightly.

That earned a glare. She stood up, arms folding over her chest, suddenly too aware of how warm the kitchen was. "Very funny."

He almost smiled again—but this time, it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

She was dodging. That much was obvious.

And he hated that he almost let her.

“What? Too soon?” he offered, like the teasing might lighten things again.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Ya love it, really,” he shot back—without thinking, without blinking. It was one of those lines. One of his lines. Something he said all the time, to her, to anyone, usually with a smirk and no consequences.

It rolled off the tongue like second nature. Easy as breathing.

But this time… it landed different.

Because her face changed.

She looked down at her water bottle, fingers tightening around the cap. Her smile—if it could even be called that—faded. Not annoyed. Not offended. Just... gone.

And for the first time, Atsumu regretted saying it.

He felt the air shift. He took a breath.

“…Listen,” he said, more seriously now, his voice low and laced with hesitation. “About… y’know. The other night.”

She stiffened.

And he noticed.

“I shouldn’t have—uh, gotten so carried away,” he added, scratching the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to make things weird. I was just—”

“—It’s okay,” she cut in, too fast.

He blinked.

She still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “It’s fine, 'Tsumu. Let’s just… pretend it didn’t happen, okay?”

His heart stuttered.

Pretend it didn’t happen?

He watched her closely. She was fiddling with the bottle cap now, like it was the most interesting thing in the room. Her expression guarded. Tight.

She was embarrassed.

Not because he crossed a line—he was sure of that—but because she didn’t know what to do with what happened. Because she let it happen, and maybe, just maybe, she regretted it a little.

And that stung him a little.

“Really?” he asked, careful.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Like. It was a one-time thing. Heat of the moment. Whatever.” She waved a hand in the air vaguely. “Let’s just never bring it up again.”

A one-time thing?

He tilted his head, slowly. “…Never?”

She looked at him then. Briefly. But it was enough.

“Never,” she confirmed. Then, a little firmer: “Forget it ever happened.”

He paused.

“…Even the part where you—”

“Yes.” Her cheeks flared. “Especially that part.”

There was something so sharp and exasperated in her voice that he couldn’t help it—he pressed his lips together, biting back a laugh. “Ya sure? ‘Cause I think about it like… hourly.”

“I swear to god—”

“Alright, alright.” He looked at her a second longer than he should’ve, hands held up in surrender, then forced a grin. “Forgettin’ it. Totally gone. Brain wiped.”

He paused. Tilted his head.

Then, dryly: “…What were we talkin’ about again?”

She groaned, but her mouth twitched too. Just a little.

And he'd have been blind to miss it.

The way she tucked her hair behind her ear, how her shoulders finally relaxed. He wouldn’t push. Not tonight. But he also wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t feel it—didn’t want it.

He cared. More than she probably realised.

And if forgetting it made her feel safer, more in control… then fine.

He’d let her forget.

For now.

[haikyu-mp4]

“Ya look pregnant,” Atsumu mocked when you and Osamu entered the living room to greet everybody. You froze at the unexpected comment, lifting one hand to caress your stomach.

“Tsumu,” Osamu hissed, as Atsumu was the only one he’d told about the pregnancy so far.

All the other partygoers gasped at the insinuation, some already approaching to congratulate you or ask if it was true.

“Shit, my bad. I meant…” Atsumu couldn’t even get the words out as he pointed at your husband and laughed.

Osamu’s stomach was definitely protruding more now than it did before he opened the restaurant and the shirt he threw on as you were heading out the door might have been a tad too small for his build.

You couldn’t help but join in laughing at the misunderstanding, moving your hand from your stomach to pat Osamu’s, affectionately. “Oh, he meant you.”

masterlist

petition for more art of timeskip Osamu who’s a little rounder at the edges.