#osamu fluff

[nizhspo]

genre: haikyuu imagine, smut

pairing: husband!osamu x fem!reader

warning: smut? idk lol

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

notes: ty to @oxytxn your headcanons inspired this lol

it starts the second the door shuts behind atsumu.

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

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

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

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

his gaze catches there.

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

you nod. “if we’re lucky.”

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

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

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

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

you hum. “you saw me six times.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you sure?” you ask, breath hitching.

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

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

and god.

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

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

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

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

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

“‘samu—fuck—don’t stop—”

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

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

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

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

“okay,” you gasp. “okay, okay—”

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

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

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

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

you’ve got two hours.

and your husband?

he’s starving.

[kitashousewife]

your patience is wearing thin. normally, osamu is the calmer of the two boys. but tonight is a completely different story.

“easy there fella,” atsumu’s got his arm wrapped around his brothers waist, the other holding osamu’s arm around his shoulder as he walks him out of the bar. osamu gives you a sleepy smirk and a wave, which you return.

“and nobody else was available?” you gripe, voice a little hushed as if osamu would hear.

“i tried, i promise. i hate to do this to ya,” atsumu grunts as he slides his brother into the passenger seat, buckling him in despite osamu’s efforts to make it as hard as possible. “i owe ya one.”

the first part of the drive to osamu’s place is quiet, besides the occasional yawn or sigh. it only took a few minutes for osamu to start talking.

and boy, is osamu a chatty drunk. he always has been, and you’ve known him for years. he can and will talk about anything and everything under the sun, with absolutely anyone.

“thanks fer pickin’ me up, m’pretty,” osamu’s accent is thicker after a couple drinks, and he’s had a few tonight.

he’s also a very flirty drunk.

“don’t mention it ‘samu,” you sigh, focusing on the road. you’re almost to his place, but that doesn’t stop osamu.

“so what’re we doin’ tonight?” he rubs his eyes. you hold back a laugh, but not very well.

“you are going to shower, brush your teeth, and go to bed,” you giggle only slightly. “and i am going to make sure you get home safe and sound.

osamu boos.

“ya sound like ma,” he groans, head back against the seat. he gives you a thumbs down for good measure as he looks out the window.

“oh look! we made it,” you pull into his driveway slowly, hoping he stays in the car before you can help him get out without injuring himself.

“hey! that tickles,” he squirms as you try to unbuckle the seatbelt. as soon as you undo it, you help him out of the car and to the front door. osamu fumbles with his pockets for a moment before stuffing the keys in your hand.

“d’ya want somethin’ to eat?” osamu stumbles into the kitchen, slipping off his shoes near the fridge and throwing his jacket haphazardly off to the side. you pick it up quickly, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him towards his bedroom.

“another time maybe, let’s get you into the shower first, okay?”

he shakes his head.

“i can shower later,” his voice is whinier than normal. if he wasn’t being so defiant, you’d almost think he was cute like this. voice whiny and cheeks pink, hair a little messy. the warm feelings dissolve when you see him grabbing ingredients out of the fridge.

“osamu, i don’t think cooking is good idea right no-“

“but-“

you sigh, grabbing the things he took out just to put them back in. you pat his back and nod towards his bedroom.

“seriously, osamu. it’s late, let’s get you to bed. please?”

he groans, but follows anyway. you grab his bicep when he starts to get distracted along the way, and he giggles. when you quirk your brow at him, stops walking.

“ya just wanted to grab my muscles, huh?” he smirks at your flustered expression. “don’ worry, i won’t tell tsum, or anyone,” he smirks to himself before leaning rather close to your lips. “it’ll be our secret.”

you gasp and pull back a little to calm your beating heart. truth be told, you’ve had feelings for the guy for a while now. but for the sake of your friendship, you’ve kept this to yourself, too scared to ruin the dynamic.

“alright, you go and take a shower and i-“

you cut yourself off when osamu pulls off his shirt, as if you weren’t standing right in front of him. your eyes to straight to his strong chest, flushed slightly from the alcohol, before trailing down to his toned stomach. as soon as you reach the trail of hair below his belly button, osamu’s hands begin to push his pants down.

“w-wait! how about you do that when you get into the bathroom?” you push him towards his bathroom, holding a new set of clothes in one hand while your other hand pushes on his back.

“stay here,” he whines as you grab him a towel. you shake your head.

“i’ll be right outside, okay? you just take your time,” you give him a small smile and he finally agrees, turning on the shower. he sings to himself as the water warms up, completely unaware of your presence. the longer you’re in there the more you stare, and unfortunately osamu catches on.

“do ya think i’m handsome?” he smirks, wiggling his eyebrows. you cover your gasp with a scoff, rolling your eyes and pulling his door shut.

“take a shower, osamu.”

the next few minutes you catch your breath, grabbing a glass of water and a few advil for osamu to take, as well as shooting atsumu a text to let him know he’s home safe.

“my teeth are brushed, are ya happy?” osamu shuffles out of the bathroom slowly, clearly very tired.

“very,” you pat his bed. “now just take this, and get into bed,” he climbs into his bed with a comfortable sigh, takes the pills and begins to get cozy. osamu has a look of bliss and exhaustion on his face as he pulls his covers up over his chest.

“are ya leavin?” he pouts when you turn off the light.

“i was going to,” he shakes his head and gives you yet another thumbs down.

“just stay for a bit, please?” he whines, voice beginning to get raspy and sleepy. you sigh, finally giving in.

“okay, just for a little bit,” you lay on top of his bed while he flips over to face you. a few minutes pass by, and his breathing becomes deeper and steadier. you’re sure he’s asleep now, but suddenly he speaks.

“do ya like me?” he whispers, voice almost unsure. you don’t say anything for a few seconds, but he beats you to it. “atsumu told me ya do.”

your stomach sinks, and your mind spins for a moment.

“let’s talk about this another time okay? maybe when you aren’t drunk?”

osamu nods, getting comfortable once more.

“but do ya?” he whispers again, voice much sleepier. “i promised i wouldn’t tell ya that he told me,”

“go to sleep osamu, let’s talk about this in the morning.”

he huffs and flips on his back. only a few minutes later, and he’s asleep.

the butterflies in your stomach are going crazy as you lock up his apartment and head towards the parking lot.

osamu never lies. that’s what you tell yourself the whole ride home, and you hope that as soon as he wakes up tomorrow he gives you a call, remembering everything.

[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

[makkir0ll]

between you and your husband, you were the one more…vocal about your love for him. leaving him sweet notes with doodles of the two of you in his lunch, ending all heartfelt messages with x’s, planting a big kiss on his cheek that he pretended to cringe at but in reality he looked forward to it everytime he left the house.

people would always come up to you, telling you that he doesn’t reciprocate his love with words and such and asking you how you dealt with it. truth be told it took a while for you to get used to but soon enough you began to see the signs.

it was the way that every time he got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom he would tuck your feet back into bed. the way he spent a solid twenty minutes cleaning your phone screen, and with furrowed brows as he placed your new screen protector on, making sure there were no bubbles. it was when you opened his wallet that you saw all the notes you wrote him saved in one pocket of his shitty leather wallet that was begging to be put to rest. it's the way when you come home after a long night out with your friends he takes his time undressing you, removing and placing your jewelry carefully on your bedside table and making sure to gently take off your makeup and of course do your skincare routine that he has memeorized. when he goes out and he spots a little something with your favorite character on it he buys it immediately, not bothering to look at the price tag because the way your eyes would light up when he brought home the little gift was worth more than a billion dollars to him.

it was when on your third month anniversary when the two of you were still dating, while the two of you sat down on the booth next to each other at a restaurant he held your hand and squeezed it three times. signifying the words, i love you. he knew he loved you from the start but was scared it was too soon to say it and this was his silent way of telling you so. and you picked up on it quickly when he started to do it more often.

and on your wedding day, as the two of you stand in front of all your loved ones and the officiator he says the most beautiful vows ever, telling you that "if death do us part then i hope to find you in every lifetime" and once he ended with that sentence, he squeezed your hand three times. i. love. you.

you always knew your husband loved you because his actions spoke a thousand words to you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜

sigh. TSUKISHIMA FREAKING KEI!!!!!!!!, akaashi keiji (he writes notes back to you), KITA. SHINSUKE., iwaizumi hajime (30) athletic trainer, suna rintarou, USHIJIMA, kageyama tobio (squeezed your hand a lot when you started dating), MIYA OSAMU, sakusa kiyoomi, OH OH OH AONE!!,

[yukkiji]

taste like home

osamu miya never expected love to find him behind the counter of onigiri miya—until a girl from miyagi handed him her number during a volleyball match. what began with long-distance visits and late-night messages turned into quiet mornings, shared meals, and a life built side by side. now living nearby, he dreams of always cooking for her, and her always tasting—because some love stories are simple, steady, and meant to last.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. miya osamu x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, timeskip!osamu, chef bf and taster gf

wc: 4.1k

author's note: i always imagined osamu having a s/o where he would always cook for them and would let them taste his newest creations in onigiri miya

the warmth of onigiri miya always made it hard for you to leave.

technically, it had become your second home ever since you started dating osamu miya—the former volleyball star turned onigiri restaurateur with a sharp mind for flavors and an even sharper way of knowing exactly how to hold you when the day had worn you thin.

here you were, sitting down on your usual stool behind the counter, right in that little space between the rice cooker and the stack of handwritten menus—close enough to watch him work, but far enough not to get in the way of the lunch rush he’d just wrapped up. the clatter had died down. the stools were empty now, save for yours, and soft music hummed low from the speaker he swore he never remembered turning on.

osamu was wiping down the cutting board, towel slung over his shoulder like always, apron dusted with grains of rice and streaks of miso. he didn’t say anything at first—just gave you that look. the one that said you’re here without needing to put it into words.

“you’re late,” he muttered, but his voice was gentle, teasing more than scolding.

you shrugged, chin resting in your hand as your eyes followed him behind the counter. “work held me. new team’s still getting the hang of things. i swear i answered the same email five times today.”

osamu didn’t answer right away—just huffed under his breath, the way he always did when you sounded too tired for your own good. then, without a word, he grabbed a small ceramic plate from the drying rack and walked over to where a fresh tray of onigiri rested, cooling slightly on the sideboard.

he picked up three—each wrapped slightly differently, seaweed folded with intention, each one marked with a tiny dot of colored seasoning on top like a secret code.

when he returned, he set the plate down in front of you like it was a course at a five-star restaurant, not something whipped up in a quiet corner shop in hyogo. “try these.”

you blinked. “all three?”

“all three,” he said, bracing both hands on the counter and leaning in slightly. “need you honest, though. not just the ‘you love me so it’s good’ answer.”

you smirked. “i always give honest feedback.”

“lies. you once said my umeboshi one was ‘an acquired taste’—that’s code for ‘i’m sufferin’ but i love you anyway.’”

you laughed, picking up the first one, identifiable by a dusting of furikake on top. “alright then, chef miya. let’s see what you’ve been up to.”

the first bite was comfort—a smooth blend of miso butter and sweet corn, surprisingly mellow. creamy, rich, but not heavy. you chewed thoughtfully, nodding.

“this tastes like… if autumn had a kitchen.”

osamu’s lips twitched. “miso corn butter. you like it?”

“like it enough to fight someone for the last one.”

he chuckled, clearly pleased, and gestured for you to try the second.

this one had a sliver of thin lemon peel tucked beneath the nori. the first bite hit sharp—pickled daikon and a touch of yuzu kosho, with a hint of grilled mackerel. bold. salty. clean.

you blinked. “okay. this one punches me in the face, but in a respectful way.”

“that’s the idea,” he said, clearly trying not to grin.

“name it something dramatic,” you said through another bite. “like… ‘breakup cleanse.’ or ‘kiss me after this and you’ll regret it.’”

he barked a laugh. “i’m not writin’ that on the chalkboard.”

“you’re no fun,” you teased.

finally, you reached for the third. it was smaller than the others, rolled slightly rounder, with no seaweed wrapping—just a glossy brush of soy on the rice. one bite in, and you paused.

then blinked.

then slowly looked up at him.

osamu raised an eyebrow. “too much?”

“it’s… sweet,” you said, brows furrowing. “but… smoky? and is that—?”

“caramelized onion,” he said. “mixed with katsuobushi. finished with black sugar glaze.”

you stared at him. “who hurt you?”

he shrugged. “felt like tryin’ somethin’ weird.”

you shook your head, still chewing. “weird. but addictive. i hate how good this is.”

he looked insufferably smug now, arms crossed over his chest. “so?”

you leaned back on the stool, tapping your lip. “the first is the safe choice. the second is for people who think wasabi’s too mainstream. the third…” you looked him straight in the eye, “is gonna start fights.”

“which one’s your favorite?”

you didn’t hesitate. “the third. but you already knew i’d say that.”

he nodded once, satisfied, then leaned over the counter until your knees bumped.

“you work too hard,” he said quietly, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “let me take care of the rest of the night.”

“you mean feeding me until i can't move?”

he smirked. “exactly that.”

and just like that, the weight from your shoulders melted. you weren’t sure if it was the food, or his voice, or just the fact that he always knew how to meet you where you were—without asking for anything in return.

so you stayed. behind the counter, on your usual stool. picking apart rice grains with your fingers and feeding him bites in between cleaning up the shop. it was quiet. simple.

the kind of simple that only comes after everything else—after distance and longing and workdays spent apart. after months of phone calls, rushed trains, and bags packed in half an hour. after the ache of trying to make something real when miles stood in between.

funny how everything always circled back to that day.

your eyes drifted toward the storefront window, the hyogo dusk painting gold onto the floor, and your mind pulled back—to a year ago, in a city that used to feel like home.

sendai. kamei arena. the adlers vs. the jackals.

the stadium had been buzzing, a sea of noise and jersey colors, and you’d been there more out of obligation than genuine interest—invited by coworkers, not wanting to be the odd one out. the game itself had been intense, sure, but halfway through the second set, all you could think about was food. your stomach had growled loud enough to make the girl beside you glance over. you needed something, anything, to get you through the last two sets.

so during the break, you wandered out to the concession area—fully expecting overpriced hot dogs or soggy fries. but instead, tucked at the end of the row of pop-up food stalls, was a modest setup with a hand-painted banner that read:

onigiri miya – hyogo's own.

he wasn’t shouting like the others. no flashy signs, no mascot. just a man in a black t-shirt, a matching black cap tugged low over silver-streaked hair, and a crisp white apron wrapped around his waist, tied off like he barely noticed it anymore.

he stood there calmly, molding onigiri with practiced ease, his movements smooth and steady as the world around him bustled and clamored for attention. most of the ones on display were already gone—just a few scattered triangles left in the front case, their labels curling slightly at the corners, proof that word-of-mouth had clearly done its job before you even arrived.

but osamu didn’t rush.

he didn’t bark out specials or wave signs in people’s faces. he worked like a man who knew his food spoke louder than anything he could say. each rice ball was pressed with deliberate care, fingers moving like it was second nature—like he was doing something sacred, not just feeding a crowd.

even from a few feet away, you could see the focus etched into his features, the faint line between his brows, the way his mouth quirked thoughtfully whenever he tasted something off the back of a spoon. every so often, someone would try to ask for a substitution or an extra helping of filling, and he’d just glance up with those steady grey eyes and say, “trust me.”

and they did.

so did you. without realizing it, you’d stepped into the line, drawn in by more than the smell of grilled soy or the crackle of seaweed. it was something in the quiet confidence of him—how still he was in a place full of noise.

by the time it was your turn, he barely looked up, just asked, “what’ll it be?” while reaching for another sheet of nori.

you hesitated for a split second, just long enough for him to glance at you.

that was the moment everything tilted.

because when his eyes met yours—fleeting, unbothered, but sharp—you felt something catch in your chest.

there was no dramatic spark, no sweeping music in the background—just a quiet shift, like gravity adjusting without warning. he looked at you like he didn’t need to look long to know what kind of person you were. and maybe that was exactly what made your pulse stutter.

“grilled salmon,” you said suddenly, abandoning your original choice.

osamu blinked once. nodded.

“comin’ right up.”

he didn’t question the change, didn’t tease or smirk like most guys might’ve. he just reached for the next ball of rice, hands steady, eyes flicking down like he already knew exactly how you’d like it—lightly salted, crisped just a little on the outside, no extra sauce.

as he molded the rice, a small line formed between his brows—focused but relaxed. the cap shadowed part of his face, but you could still see the way his mouth moved slightly as he worked, murmuring something under his breath. a habit, maybe. you wondered if he talked to the food when no one was listening.

a minute later, he wrapped the finished onigiri in wax paper and slid it across the counter toward you. warm. perfectly shaped. his fingers brushed yours again—another second, another static jolt under your skin.

“first time tryin’ us?” he asked, voice casual.

you nodded. “didn’t plan on eating. but i smelled yours all the way from the stairs.”

that earned the faintest quirk of his lips.

“hope it lives up to the hype.”

you smiled, already taking the first bite. “if it doesn’t, i’m tracking you down after the game.”

he tilted his head. “bit dramatic, ain’t ya?”

“you’ll see.”

and you meant it.

you tore a napkin from the dispenser at the end of the stall, tugged a pen from your bag, and scribbled your number down without hesitation. the numbers bled slightly into the paper, your handwriting a little rushed but still clear.

you slid it across the counter toward him with the same ease you might’ve handed over spare change.

“if it does live up to the hype,” you said, meeting his gaze, “text me anyway.”

osamu looked at the napkin, then at you. there was a brief pause—measured, unreadable—but the corner of his mouth ticked up, slow and knowing, like he was already one step ahead.

“a bold move,” he said, eyes steady beneath the brim of his cap.

you shrugged, lips curving. “well, i can’t let this opportunity slide.”

he huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, the kind that said he was more amused than he’d let on. like he hadn’t expected that answer—but he liked it anyway.

“you always give your number to guys makin’ rice balls in crowded arenas?” he asked, one brow raised.

“only the ones who look like they know what they’re doing,” you said, tapping your half-eaten onigiri for emphasis. “and wear their aprons like they were born in one.”

his smirk twitched into something dangerously close to a smile. “careful. flattery might get you extra fillings next time.”

you leaned in a little, voice light but certain. “good. then i’ll see you next time.”

and with that, you gave him one last look—just long enough to linger—before walking away, warm rice still in hand, grin still tucked against your mouth.

behind you, osamu watched.

napkin folded in his apron. number already memorized.

a text came right after the game ended.

nothing fancy. no overthinking.

“still think it’s worth trackin’ me down?”

you were halfway through unlocking your front door when your phone buzzed, and the second you saw the unfamiliar number, you knew. no one else could’ve timed it that perfectly. no one else could’ve said just that.

you didn’t hesitate. you leaned against the frame, keys still in hand, thumbs moving on instinct.

“definitely.”

that was it.

no games. no waiting three days. just two people—separated by miles but tethered now by rice, timing, and something that felt like a beginning.

from there, it became a rhythm.

a photo of his new flavor, sent at 2 a.m. a blurry shot of your train window, captioned “hyogo-bound.”

a voice message from him, thick with sleep and kansai accent, muttering, “train again? ya sure i’m worth all this rice?”

and your reply: “you’re worth more than salmon and seaweed, samu.”

during free weekends, you always tried to hop on a train bound for hyogo—sometimes after work, sometimes at sunrise. more or less than 24 hours with him, depending on schedules, delays, how long you could get away with calling it “remote work.” even if it meant sleeping in the corner of his cozy little shop, wrapped in a borrowed blanket while he wiped down counters behind you, the hum of the fridge lulling you to sleep.

you never asked for much. just time. just him.

and he always made room for you in that space between his morning prep and late-night cleanup. sometimes you’d arrive and find a new flavor waiting—your name scribbled next to it on a sticky note taped to the glass display. sometimes he’d greet you with a nod and a cup of warm tea, tugging off his gloves before leaning across the counter and kissing your temple like it was nothing. like it was routine.

other times, you’d stay past closing—bare feet tucked beneath you on your usual stool, helping him fold napkins while he tested new fillings. you’d sneak him bites and steal some for yourself, laughing when he smacked your hand away with a lazy, “oi, that one ain’t even cooked yet.”

but he never minded. not really.

those visits were short, sweet, and stitched together with quiet moments that made it all worth it.

and when the weekend ended, and the train home came too soon, he'd walk you to the station if he could—hood up, hands deep in his coat pockets, eyes a little too soft under the streetlights.

“text me when ya get there,” he’d say, every single time.

“i always do.”

sometimes, there were weeks when the world got too loud. work piled up. meetings ran long. schedules clashed. the shinkansen felt too far, too much—for just a few hours with him.

you’d text him with a heavy heart, thumbs dragging over the words: “can’t make it this weekend. i’m sorry.”

he’d reply with a simple: “don’t worry. rest. i got ya.”

and sometimes, that was it. you’d assume he meant it literally—that he understood, that he’d wait. that he’d keep his side of the rhythm until you could pick it back up again.

but then you’d hear a knock on your apartment door late that night. or early the next morning. and there he was—osamu, standing just outside your door like it was the most natural thing in the world. hoodie pulled over his head, travel-wrinkled duffle slung over his shoulder. one hand in his pocket, the other holding up a neatly packed bento box wrapped in a cloth with little rice ball prints.

no words at first. just that small, knowing look of his. like he’d felt your exhaustion through the phone and didn’t want you eating convenience store food alone again.

“i brought yer favorites,” he’d say, nudging the box into your hands.

the first time he did it, you’d laughed and asked, “samu, did you seriously get on a train at six in the morning just to feed me?”

he’d just stepped past you, slipping off his shoes and tossing his bag by the door.

“nah. five-forty.”

the food was always warm when he arrived—miso-marinated fish, pickled veggies, rolled omelets the way you liked them, and of course, one perfect onigiri shaped the way only he made them.

you’d eat curled up beside him on the floor or on your small couch, sharing bites and leaning into his shoulder when your eyes got too heavy to stay open.

he never asked for anything in return. never acted like it was some grand gesture.

to him, it was simple.

if you couldn’t come to him—he’d come to you.

every time.

of course, there were moments—quiet, aching ones—when doubt crept in. long train rides. missed calls. holidays spent apart. you’d lie awake sometimes, wondering if it was sustainable, if something this good could really stretch across prefectures without tearing.

but osamu had a way of grounding you. of making the distance feel like a small detail instead of a mountain.

he never said too much—didn’t believe in grand speeches—but he showed up. always. with warm hands, a quiet laugh, and food packed with care like it was his love language (because it was).

even on your birthday.

you told him not to come. it was already late, the weather was awful, and you didn’t want him exhausting himself just for the sake of showing up. he said he’d stay put. you believed him.

until there was a knock on your door at 11:47 p.m.

you opened it, heart already racing, and there he was—drenched from the rain, holding a tiny cake box and a towel slung over his shoulder like he knew you'd scold him first. his voice was hoarse from the cold air, but his smirk was clear.

“told ya i’d stay put,” he said. “didn’t say where.”

that night, sitting cross-legged on your rug while sharing a too-sweet cake with plastic forks, the conversation slipped in like breath.

“samu,” you’d murmured, your voice half-laughing, half-tired, “what do you think… are we?”

he didn’t even blink.

“we’re literally dating at this point. probably married.”

you’d choked on the frosting, smacked his shoulder, but couldn’t stop smiling.

and just like that, it was official.

no fanfare. no fireworks. just a quiet agreement between hearts that had already been choosing each other for months.

but then—like fate finally decided to take your side—your company announced its expansion plans. to hyogo.

they said they needed someone capable, someone familiar with the region, someone who wouldn’t mind relocating.

it wasn’t even a decision. it was alignment.

and when you told osamu, he didn’t say much at first. just stared at you from across the counter in onigiri miya, like the rice might spill if he didn’t hold the emotion still.

then he walked around, wiped his hands on his apron, and pulled you into a hug that smelled like shiso and sea salt.

a few days later, osamu suggested—casually, like he was talking about the weather—that the two of you should just live together.

“you’re here now. would be easier if ya just moved in,” he said, setting down a tray of tamagoyaki like he hadn’t just dropped a life-altering sentence.

you’d blinked at him from your stool, halfway through sorting your spice rack.

“i just unpacked my boxes,” you replied with a dry laugh. “let me enjoy paying rent first.”

he snorted, unfazed. “don’t see the point in ya going home when yer already home.”

you smiled at that—softly, quietly. and yeah, a part of you wanted to say yes right there. but you didn’t. not because you didn’t want it—hell, you did—but because you still wanted to build something of your own first. have your own space, even if it was temporary. even if it was just down the street.

so you said, “not yet.” and he didn’t push. just gave a nod like he understood—because he did.

eventually, the two of you found a small apartment tucked into a quieter street just a few minutes’ walk from onigiri miya. it had creaky stairs and a balcony barely wide enough for two, but the light hit the kitchen just right in the mornings and it smelled like home within the week.

now, on slow afternoons, you’d stop by the shop just because you could. no train tickets, no suitcases—just a pair of house slippers by the counter with your name written on the soles in marker.

and osamu? he never said “i told you so.”

but every time you showed up—hair still damp from a shower, sleeves rolled, reaching for a rice ball—he’d give you that quiet, satisfied look.

like this was the part he’d always been waiting for. like maybe, this was the life he’d started shaping the moment you handed him your number on a napkin—creased and half-soaked from your drink, but carefully folded into the pocket of his apron like it was gold.

you caught him watching you sometimes when the shop slowed down—when the sound of the rice cooker humming was the loudest thing in the room. his eyes weren’t hungry or calculating. just… still. steady. as if he was memorizing you, again and again.

you, perched on your usual stool, picking the seaweed off your onigiri before taking a bite. you, humming some song under your breath while scribbling on a receipt pad. you, already reaching for the soy sauce bottle before he even asked if it needed more.

the shop had learned you. you had learned it. you’d even learned him—the way he never said everything, but always said enough.

and on nights like this, when the shutters were down and the last pot had been scrubbed, you both settled into the quiet like it was a blanket. some couples needed fireworks. you two just needed clean counters and leftover rice.

“samu,” you asked one night, your voice a little sleep-warm, cheek resting against the rolled-up sleeve of his flannel shirt, “did you ever think it’d end up like this?”

he didn’t answer right away. just breathed in deep, like he was still taking in the scent of miso and your shampoo. then he glanced down at you, lazy smirk forming like it always did when he was about to say something that’d stick.

“this is perfect,” he said simply. “just sayin’… still got time. might add a second shop. bigger kitchen. maybe even a ring—if yer not too busy workin’ overtime.”

your chest tightened—not with nerves, but with something heavier, warmer. hope, maybe. recognition.

but then his tone softened, and so did his expression. he leaned a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours.

“when you gave me your number, i knew i’d marry you someday,” he said. “not right away. eventually. knew you had your own thing to build. and i wanted you to. still do.”

the weight of his words settled over you like a quiet sunrise. no pressure. no rush. just the truth—his truth. he’d been choosing you from the beginning. not loudly. not with fireworks. but with presence. with every rice ball he wrapped. every train ride. every surprise visit. every “you okay?” when the world got too loud.

and maybe you didn’t answer—not with words, at least. because when you turned to him, leaned in and kissed him, it said everything.

it wasn’t urgent or rushed. just real. a quiet promise sealed between the taste of salt and tea and the lingering warmth of the shop.

he kissed you back with the same certainty he always carried behind the counter—with focus, with care. like loving you was a craft. something he’d chosen to get better at, day by day.

when you pulled apart, his hands stayed on your waist, thumbs brushing slow circles over your sides. he didn’t say much after that. didn’t need to.

but as you helped him store the last batch of leftover rice, you caught him glancing your way again—this time with something new in his eyes.

he looked around the shop—the neatly labeled containers, the dented trays, the sign you helped paint over last month—and then back to you.

“y’know,” he murmured, almost to himself, “i want this. all of it. you. me. this place. i wanna keep makin’ stuff for ya. new flavors, old ones—whatever comes to mind. i want you sittin’ there,” he nodded toward your stool, “tastin’ every single one.”

you smiled, the kind that curled slowly across your lips and settled into your chest.

“and i will,” you said, your voice quiet but certain. “as long as you keep making them.”

and just like that, it was settled. no rings, no grand declarations—yet.

just a kitchen, a counter, two bowls of leftover soup. and a love made of rice, patience, and the promise of always coming home to each other.

always.

[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.

masterlist

[shokoppipan]

Miya Osamu | Headcannons | Relationship

» [Meddle About - Chase Atlantic] «

0:43─〇───── 3:23

⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

ᝰ.ᐟ osamu x gn!reader

ᝰ.ᐟ sfw <33

ᝰ.ᐟ First headcannons so ples dont roast me :b

ᝰ.ᐟ Which Haikyuu character do you wanna see next? Comment down below! ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

Miya Osamu Headcannons ── .✦

꩜ He’s a good cook (obviously), helps Moma Miya in cooking, he can also bake but not as good

꩜ Gets his cooking ideas from YT videos or something he tried from scrops on a whim

꩜ He’s a deep sleeper, stays up late often, but wakes up early

꩜ Unlike Atsumu, he rarely gets sick, and Osamu takes care of his brother when he has like a cold

꩜ He’s the type of guy to have a short temper, but is not really noticed with his cool demeanor

꩜ As seen of fights with him and Atsumu, he he gets more physical than verbal (abuse) and is hell lot stronger than Atsumu (I stand with that yes, look at how he FUCKED UP Atsumu in their last fight)

꩜ I personally think that him going on a different path than Atsumu is fully supported by their mother, but she did ask him something like “Are you sure?”, since she knows that it also means it will seperate the two, not like she dislikes of the idea of him choosing a different career

꩜ Usually the one following with his brothers antics

꩜ He probs said/says more cuss words than Atsumu

꩜ He probably fell when he was on the top bunk of their bed thats why he now sleeps on the lower bunk

꩜ He’s more of a dog person (He probs like a Husky, Labrador or Samoyed)

꩜ Bro is a SNITCH I tell you, even if he was the one at fault he blames it on Atsumu

꩜ He has a long attention span bro can just sit there and think about food

꩜ Bro is someone who just keeps his feelings to himself because he does not know how to express himself, but pretty sure Atsumu knows when sumthins wrong with his twin

꩜ Listens to Atsumu yap about stuff.

꩜ He has a tad bit inferiority complex due to the fact that he’s always compared to Atsumu

꩜ When they have arguments, he’s the one to initiate first cause Atsumu being the baby he is (even tho he’s older) doesn’t budge, so Osamu lets it cool down a bit and after a while hands something he cooked to his bro then they dont take abt it anymore

꩜ Bro is one to give BOMBASTIC SIDE EYE whenever he hears fangirl comments or whenever someone trashtalks Atsumu (he’s the only one who can)

꩜ Bro only ever goes to the internet to watch cooking shows or Gordon Ramsay

꩜ He doesn’t like the idea of being swarmed over by people (ESPECIALLY FANGIRLS)

꩜ Bro is Arctic Monkeys, Chase Atlantic and The Weekend coded, he probs listens with Suna since they have the same music taste

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆

RELATIONSHIP Headcannons ── .✦

꩜ Lets start of with his type:

- Ill say this now and I will stand for it, it doesnt matter what body type his s/o have. He loves you for you. But I’m pretty sure he loves someone who’s chubby. I mean just sayin ╮(︶▽︶)╭

- He loves someone who’s also a food lover. Someone who doesnt get embarass on what they eats

- He likes someone who’s more initiative than him, like someone who just randomly pulls him and does spontaneous activities like cooking, baking, hiking, whatever

- I bet he likes someone with a talkative or more extroverted attitude than him.

- Extra points for someone who KNOWS how to cook and can make good dishes

- Someone who’s simple and who knows how to appreciate simple things

꩜ This man? LOVER BOY. No questions

꩜ Probably just had one to none relationship cause he believes that when you date, it automatically leads to getting married in the future

꩜ Is one to watch romantic movies just to learn how to woo a girl (me Im that girl)

꩜ Osamu is the type of person to be very distant when someone tries to flirt with him thats NOT his s/o (like girl get yo ass outta my face) and does his disgusted look

꩜ I personally think he has trust issues because the first rs he had or probably the first person he liked only wanted to date him only to get close to his brother :(

꩜ Bro KNOWS how to sing, like he has this low tone husky voice, and whenever you’re sleepy he hums as he pats your shoulder lightly, or whenever he’s in the kitchen cooking

꩜ Bro is a WHOLE GREEN FOREST trust me like he’s very observant to the little things about you, he would even know you’re favorite flower first before he gives you a boquet

꩜ Love language is quality time or acts of service, sometimes gift giving and physical touch, bro believes action speaks louder than words

꩜ He’s not one to be very good with words, but when it comes to it, he gives you very comforting patts and hugs, his hands drawing circles on your back n stuff

꩜ He might not be academically smart but his emotional intelligence is like high HIGH

꩜ BACK. HUGS. IN. THE. KITCHEN.

꩜ Pet names either “Baby” or “Darlin” sometimes he calls you “Honey”

꩜ Holds your hand everytime he has the chance to

꩜ This man (timeskip) always has you on his passanger seat and grabs your thighs when he he’s focused on driving

꩜ I just know this guy brags you off to Atsumu and annoying him about it

꩜ He takes you out on a date to like shop or sumthin, but trust me, in special occasions like on your anniversary, he wont treat you out, rather he has like a whole resto at home and all your favorite dishes are served there with candles and shi

꩜ Grocery dates? Coffen dates? YES. ITS A MUST.

꩜ Bro can’t keep his hands to himself and almost always touches you everytime he has that change, and he’s so smug about it HELP

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

©shokoppipan - Please DO NOT, steal nor copy. REPOSTS are OKAY, but with PERMISSION

[bokutoko]

OSAMU 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.

[leahrintarou]

✩₊˚.⋆☾ BALANCED - osamu miya

CW: usage of the petname 'baby' and 'pretty', fluff, maybe a bit of 'angst' if you wanna call it that lol, fem reader (she/her) Word Count: 1.4k

“when will you come by, samu?”

“soon, baby. within another hour, i'll be on my way, okay?” his tone was breathy, and y/n inferred he’d stepped away from a busy situation to answer her call. with the weekend approaching, his shop was bound to be bustling. “what’s wrong?” he asked. after hearing only silence from her end, his breathing slowed.

y/n hesitated before responding, “nothing, but okay, i’ll see you later.”

he sighed at her evasion but chose to let it be.

“baby, i'll be home before you know it. you should take a nap to pass the time. you sound tired anyway.”

y/n nodded despite his inability to see her, and when his name was called faintly in the background, she muttered a quick goodbye before ending the call.

with the line dropped, y/n turned off her phone and tossed it to the other side of the sofa. she was genuinely thrilled for her boyfriend’s burgeoning business, but his infrequent visits were beginning to weigh heavily on her.

she hadn’t realized how much time they used to spend together until it started dwindling. whether it was her busy schedule maintaining her grades or osamu's increasingly tight schedule, their communications, though frequent, were beginning to fail in filling the void. nothing could replace the comfort of physical presence, especially when it came to osamu.

she stood up and decided to heed his advice to take a nap. after all, what else was there to do? her friends were occupied with work or their own classes, she’d finished her studying for the day, and she had no errands left. all she truly craved was relaxation, but for that to be possible, she needed the presence of the person she loved beside her.

her phone vibrated in her hand, and she checked the message from her boyfriend.

samu 🩶 -> ‘i know this is terrible timing, pretty, but i might be getting home a bit later than planned. i need to pick up a few supplies for tomorrow. we’re running low.’

she couldn’t stop the tears from welling in her eyes, blurring her vision. she wasn’t sure if her reply made sense, but she was beyond caring.

y/n -> ‘okay. be safe.’

she set her phone down on the nightstand and rested her head on her pillow. it had been a long, arduous week, and all she needed was him.

---

osamu hurriedly hung his hoodie by the door as he called out for y/n. her silence worried him. he had informed her of a late return, but the exact time had been unclear. he intended to be home three hours ago, but unforeseen circumstances had delayed him. he took steps up the stairs cautiously and gently pushed open the door.

there, y/n lay on their bed, her back turned to him. he called her name, and she stirred in her sleep, prompting him to sit on the edge of the bed. it was dim in the room, but he noticed the dampness of her pillow and her swollen eyes. his heart ached as he placed his palm against her cheek.

her eyes fluttered open, and they widened upon seeing his familiar face. she sat up as he settled on the bed, and she enveloped him in a tight hug.

“were you crying, baby?” he asked, wanting to pull away to see her face, but her embrace was firm, and honestly, he never wanted to leave it.

she mumbled a soft “no,” but the tremor in her voice revealed the truth.

“yeah, you were. look at your eyes…” he finally managed to view her features when she reluctantly released him. “i’m so sorry for being away for so long. why didn’t you tell me you were going through a rough patch?”

“you were busy with the shop and so happy that things were picking up. i’m happy for you too. so much,” she said, using the sleeves of her hoodie to wipe her tear-streaked cheeks.

“there’s a ‘but’ in there, isn’t there?” he asked, reaching for both of her wrists to gently pull them from her face.

“but,” she exhaled, meeting his gaze before looking down at her lap, “i don’t just want you to be here, i need you to be here. nothing is enjoyable without you anymore.” she frowned. osamu smiled and placed a tender kiss on the top of her head, then on her lips.

“i understand, baby. but listen to me.” his hand cupped her cheek, and she leaned into his warmth. “i will drop everything in a heartbeat if it’s you who needs me, okay?” he stated. she nodded and drew herself closer, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne. even the slightest trace of it brought her a sense of tranquility and comfort.

osamu wrapped his arms around y/n, holding her close. the weight of her words and the tears she had shed made him realize just how deeply his absence had impacted her.

“i’ve been so focused on making things work at the shop that i didn’t see how much you were struggling,” he admitted softly. “i promise i’ll make it up to you. we’ll find a way to balance this better.”

y/n nestled her head against his shoulder, her breathing slowly evening out. “i know you’re working hard, and i appreciate it. i just want to feel like i’m a part of your life, not just a contact on your phone.”

“of course you are,” osamu reassured her. “you’re my whole world. we’ll figure it out together, okay?”

he gently rocked her back and forth, his touch soothing her. after a few minutes, he pulled back slightly to look into her eyes. “how about we make some plans for the weekend? no work, no distractions, no studying.”

y/n’s eyes brightened at the idea, her sadness dissolving in the warmth of his gaze. “that sounds amazing, but time won’t stop just because we want to spend time together."

osamu smiled, his heart swelling with relief. he leaned in to kiss her forehead, then her lips again, as if to vow never to let her feel this way again. “you’re right, time won’t stop, but we can make every moment we have together count. let’s focus on the time we do get and make it special. we’ll find our balance, and until then, i promise to make the most of every second i can spend with you.”

as they settled back into their embrace, y/n felt a renewed sense of comfort. the weeks ahead might still be busy, but knowing osamu was committed to making time for her eased her worries.

with osamu by her side, y/n drifted off to sleep, feeling more at peace than she had in days.

“i’ll make sure we always have these moments. you mean everything to me, baby.”

this was written for a certain someone lmaooo

ty for reading! leave a like to show support :D

tag: @lifesucksweswallow & @powpowboom

[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.

[noorpersona]

Confessions: Osamu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, you can tell it's good food.”

“Yer a menace.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[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

[asunflowerana]

Hey beautiful,

I know things are getting tougher then we thought it would this month. We're working like crazy, can't even get home on time to make you a proper dinner, and our last date night was like, four weeks ago? Nah, we can't let that happen again, love. And I know you're thinking that takeout and netflix are enough (don't get me wrong, i'm not complaining at staying home cuddling my girl), but you deserve better.

I won't say what I'm planning, but I hope this week gets better for us, 'cause i'm not having short days with ya anymore. I'll close the shop early today, and you better be ready to be spoiled on a long monday night. 'm too excited too wait for another friday.

Have a good day, beautiful. love you with all my heart.

Your husband,

Osamu.

ps: my turn to pack lunch this week. made your favorite.

[freshlyboughtgoldfish]

Atsumu bursts into the room 

“[Name]! Are you seriously gonna marry my brother?! I thought it was a joke!” He yells at you after he comes barreling into the room. 

It was the night before you and Osamu were going to be married. You open your mouth to respond before Osamu comes barreling into as well but unlike his brother he has his eyes set on Atsumu. 

Osamu lunges and takes Atsumu down and tries to pin him to the ground. And Atsumu in a panic starts yelling.

“I mean I like you, and I’m excited to have a sister but like… you’re gonna have kids!! He can’t be trusted around kids!” 

Osamu pushes and shoves Atsumu while they writhe together on the floor. 

“Shup your trap Sumu!”

Atsum yelps as he feels and elbow dig into his kidney but doesn’t relent. 

“He made me eat worms, and he chased me with wasps. And you think that’s an appropriate man to be raising kids with???” He gets out while trying to get his twin off of him. 

“Sumu, I like your brother, he’s such a great guy and I’m excited to marry him.” You say gently like you’re trying to calm a feral cat. 

“He tried to stab me with knives! He can’t be that nice.” He pants, finally extracting himself from Osamu’s grip. 

He gets off the ground and dusts himself off dramatically and makes his way to the door. He gives you a pained look. “Well if he makes you happy…” he says reluctantly. “Just know that if he gives you a gummy worm don’t believe him.”

And with that his gives Osamu a solid kick in the side before bolting out of the house. You watch your fiancé chase him out of the house and hear a car peel out of your driveway. 

Osamu comes back in and collapses down next to you. 

“So did you actually feed him worms?”

“…he was a very gullible kid. I got him like 4 times.”

“…that’s… oh…”

inspired by this ticktock. Here

[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

[ohgodthevoices]

going crazy over how husband material osamu is, hear me ouuutttt

tags : fluff, time-skip, f!reader, tattoo , he listens to, he cares , and he cook , i’m thirsting m sorry

osamu would be the type of bestfriend that knows damn well you want him bad but keeps on teasing you and acting clueless just to see how far you can go before you crack

as childhood friends, it was normal for you to be touchy and generally comfortable with each other but it raised his suspicions when you now looked away when he was topless around you. it’s not like you were uncomfortable with it ?

you’ve basically lived your whole life with the miyas, you’ve seen osamu wet the bed as a kid, get rejected by his middle school crush you’ve even witnessed him putting his hand in his pants and scratch his butt, seeing him topless in the comfort of his apartment was a casual thing so why the hell would you look away , did he lose his shape ? no, he still worked out frequently even if he’s not an athlete anymore…

either way osamu always took care for you, he was always so careful when it comes to you , sure he’d playfully hit you here and there but it was nothing you couldn’t handle

just imagine him cooking you a nice heart-warming meal, glancing at you every now and then while you’re sitting on the counter looking like a mess after a long exhausting day , wine glass in hand and rambling your worries away. it really became a ritual for you to swing by his place unannounced after a bad day.

he’d open the door with his signature lazy smile “ya had a bad day?” you finally let you shoulders relax “long story..” he steps back, inviting you in “i got time”.

sometimes osamu gets this weird feeling he can’t explain when he realizes he’s seen you grow into a real woman, it really freaked him tf out when you told him you had your first time with some boy he never heard the name of.

he scolds you after a bad decision for sure , but he’s always there to comfort you right after. SO imagine his surprise when during a drunken confession after you finally listened to him and dumped your toxic bf, you admit to him between sobs that broke his heart into pieces

“why can’t i find a guy that actually likes me—?” your face was buried in his now wet tshirt , his strong arms holding you tight as if they were gonna protect you from feeling hurt, your words were muffled, melting together “why can’t i find someone like you samu…im so jealous of the girl that’s gonna be yours” holy fucking shit how was he so blind to never realize this…

thank god that night was complete blurry in your mind , so when you woke up the day completely hung over and found your beloved best friend making you breakfast with a bed hair and his sleeves rolled up showing off his forearms that you find really hot for some reason , your slight blush was explained.

omfg the day he showed up to your workplace during his break with a well crafted lunch box he made full of delicious onigiris because he listens and he remembers that your annoying coworker kept flaunting her relationship to you and it pissed you off and you wanted to show her that you can pull too

ever since he realized the power he had over you, he wouldn’t stop just picking at you and seeing how far he can go, he was basically testing the waters by stretching until his shirt lifts up, hold eye contact for a lil longer than what he should, and how he praises you don’t get me startedddd

“yer actually pretty decent at this” when you cook dinner with him, “look at ya bein all confident and independent !” when you actually tell the waiter they got your order wrong, “yer pretty distractin’ yk that? that’s kinda dangerous.”

osamu was a pretty touchy guy, not overly cuddly or anything but he did enjoy proximity, he’d usually hold your wrist when passing crowds but for some reason he now held your waist, his touch gentle yet firm on you. istg his hand placement is impeccable

there’s just something about him keeping a hair tie on his wrist for you that’s so endearing, so caring and attentive to your lil daily struggles.

it all happened when you got your first tattoo, he had sent you to his friend whom he deemed good enough to ink your body. he was nervous and excited as if he was the one getting tattooed but that’s mostly because you wanted to keep it a mystery, he knew that when he came home after closing the shop he’d find you there already.

there was just something so intimate about him coming back from work and finding you already at his place , he liked it, he could get use to it.

“ ‘m here !” he yelled out closing the door behind him , analyzing you from head to toe as you pop infront of him with his tshirt and shorts on displaying an almost mischievous smile, his eyebrows creasing as he doesn’t see any trace of a tattoo on your arms or legs, maybe it was on your shoulders?

he plopped down on his couch , man spreading “soo… are ya gonna show me or ?” you happily turn to the side, his eyes widen as you lift up the shirt enough to reveal a sideboob tattoo. he sits up the shock visible on his face “holy shit cmere” you obey him , getting closer for him to get a better look. with a swift motion his arm was now around your hip , pushing you to sit on one of his legs

he clearly recognized his friend’s intricate style, the design cupping the side of your boob, he wanted to admire his work but damn he felt a lil jealous that he worked so close to you. he finally looked at you only now noticing your reddish face

his face was just inches from yours, his previously shocked expression fading as he met your eyes. he leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your jaw, and for a split second, everything around you felt quiet, just the two of you in that small space. he couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, though, breaking the tension as he nudged you lightly

“didn’t know you had it in ya to do somethin’ like that” he whispered.

before you could answer, his hand found its way to the back of your neck, gently pulling you in. his lips brushed yours, just a soft, teasing touch, before pulling back slightly with that same smirk. “couldn’t resist,” he muttered under his breath, and this time, when he kissed you again, it was longer, deeper—no more teasing, just the feeling of the moment taking over.

i’m currently such a sucker for time skip osamu he’s all i’m thinking about