i know it shouldn't, but it always surprises just how much men hate women. especially as someone who likes video games, the sheer amount of vitriol that comes from men any time a woman is involved to any degree is mystifying and scary.
i feel like a lot of fandoms pride themselves on being gayer than the source material but have they considered being less racist and less misogynistic than the source material as well . could be revolutionary
“Put him on his knees give him something to believe in” has the exact same energy and depth of meaning as anything Hozier puts out on the regular but since it’s sung by Megan Thee Stallion no one takes it seriously. In this essay I will-
To flesh this out a little bit more: both Megan Thee Stallion and Hozier write and sing really sexual songs, but they’re different in that Hozier’s music is typically “let me worship you” while Megan’s is usually “I’m worshipping myself,” which makes all the difference because it’s an acceptance of power rather than the giving of it. He’s the sinner, she’s the saint. However, taking their difference in genres out of it, people don’t usually seem to take Megan Thee Stallion’s music seriously in comparison to Hozier because a) her lyrics are more overtly and blatantly sexual and b)she’s claiming her sexuality for herself, and that scares a lot of people. The secret, no-one-wants-to-talk-about reason is that she’s a confident black woman, which terrifies people way than sex does. In conclusion, Hozier and Megan Thee Stallion are two sides of the same poetic, sexual coin, but people just don’t want to admit it. Which is WHY a collaboration between Hozier and Megan would be so powerful that it would change the timeline as we know it yes I will elaborate
i just saw a youtube short of brandon sanderson on a podcast. the whole time hes talking hes doing book signings. what a flex. so many bitches on my dick i gotta multitask
brandon sanderson is actually just built different. once on a podcast with patrick rothfuss they were talking about tools to write better and he said "i try to limit myself to 8 hours of writing per day." he took time off of writing during the first year of covid and accidentally wrote four unplanned books. he teaches a class at byu. his wife has a codeword to get him to stop writing in his head because at any given moment you might think he's doing something normal but no he's also writing another novel. stephen king said he's insane
I’m not Christian, I don’t go to church anymore, and my pastor died, but when he was alive I’d sometimes go to his sermons and I remember one time he said “it feels good to hate, but we know that it isn’t allowed, so when we’re told that we’re allowed to hate someone we get so excited that we forget we’re supposed to love”, and if my humble atheist ass might borrow some church talk I’d like to perhaps submit that
Anyhow sometimes on the day to day I feel disgust or revulsion and I have to ask myself “is this a danger to anyone at all or am I just looking for something I’m allowed to hate” and a solid 98/100 times it’s the latter so once again thank you pastor D
i could never handle immortality not because of any existential reasons but because i know itd make my procrastination so much worse. catch me putting off tasks for decades. catch me putting off tasks for centuries. what do you mean that movie ive been meaning to get around to became lost media 40 years ago. what do you mean that landmark ive been meaning to visit has been eroded. oooh i got PLANY of time..............
literally thank god sex isnt real and was just invented by big fiction to emphasize greater social and psychological themes i was getting scared id have to do all that
»You've spent years avoiding the boy who unnerves you, the one who looks just like your best friend. Until you can't anymore.«
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TAGS: best friend's brother, undertones of enemies to lovers but it's more like "avoiding each other to lovers" LMAO, penetrative sex, possessive breeding kink, sneaking around (platonic), sneaking around (not platonic), suna rintarou cock blocking what could have been the most amazing car sex
a/n: i need everyone to lock in please. lock in for possessive breeding kink miya osamu who's kind of a little shit. lock in please. and thank you so much to the person who commissioned this!! this was a crazy ride from start to finish LMAO
[commission honee here!]
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Miya Osamu’s eyes have always scared you.
Atsumu’s can be the same at times – cold, detached, empty of emotion. But it’s rare, that threatening quiet in his face reserved for volleyball or a moment of true anger.
But Osamu’s eyes are always like that. Always cold, always empty. Always unreadable.
It’s the very first thing you notice, on your very first day of school. The twin brothers standing together at the welcome assembly – one excited and rambling about something unheard, the other hovering passively beside him. One with eyes full of light, the other with eyes devoid of everything, both lost in a bubble entirely theirs while their parents talk to one of the teachers.
It’s those eyes – empty, not full – that find you first, on a quick pass of the room.
You look away quickly, returning your attention to your mother, who still has your little hand in hers. After a moment, you glance at him again, wondering if he’d really, truly caught you looking.
His eyes are still on you. Staring, watching. Empty.
His brother nudges him for something then, and he finally pulls his eyes away.
Your little brain holds the memory of those eyes for the rest of the morning, something about it really bugging you.
It’s entirely bad luck that you’re assigned to the same class as those twin brothers – the Miya twins, you learn. It’s even worse luck that Miya Atsumu is a boy you’ll come to adore very quickly, your personalities aligning perfectly in a way that could only be truly cosmic bad luck.
Such universally tragic luck that your best friend’s eyes are the very same that’ll haunt you in your dreams, through elementary school into middle and high school.
A friendship with Miya Atsumu means, by default, a life spent in orbit with his brother.
A boy who, on all counts, is just a quiet kid, seemingly an introvert. A boy who puts in only the necessary energy to play alongside his brother on the Inarizaki Boys’ Volleyball team, a boy whose temper could only ever be drawn out by his brother. A boy who’s harmless to everyone, including you.
But that boy is the same boy you feel watching you when you aren’t looking.
The same boy who sits on his bed while you and Atsumu do work on the floor and crack jokes. Scrolling on his phone and only contributing when directly addressed, his eyes finding the side of your face over the top of his phone.
The same boy who simply stares on the rare occasion that you find his eyes, too – accidentally bumping into him around corners or finding yourself alone with him in the Miya household for just a moment.
He never looks away first in those moments, and you begin to realize – far too many years too late – that he enjoys it, making you look away first, especially as you grow up. That the little smirk that tugs at the corners of his lips – his eyes never changing, no matter what emotion is on the rest of his face – is his way of telling you he’d won. That your inevitable break of eye contact is you admitting defeat to him, that he will always have the upper hand.
You only begin to dislike Miya Osamu in college, when you watch as he makes friends with ease. That the emptiness in his eyes is not a deterrent to the rest of the world, because he always makes sure to smile and joke and agree to hang out. That the emptiness you see is not, in fact, a lack of emotion.
That, instead, it’s your inability to read the emotion that is there. And that Miya Osamu will go out of his way to make it harder for you, that you’re the only person he’ll continue to show nothing to.
You make the reckless choice a few months into college to confront him. You find him alone, in the apartment he shares with his brother, on a day when you’d thought Atsumu would be there.
“He’s not here.” Osamu greets you with that and nothing else.
You blink in surprise, still caught off guard that it wasn’t your bright, blond friend who had answered the door.
Osamu starts to close it, but you jam your foot in his way at the last second, uncharacteristically annoyed.
“What’s your problem with me?” you ask, preparing for anything and everything. Preparing for him to tell you he finds you insufferable, that he’s tired of you always being around.
But he just looks you over, brows lifting over those empty eyes as he consider your question.
“I don’t have a problem with you,” he says plainly, offering no further explanation. You grow more upset at that.
“Then why do you always look at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you dislike me.”
“I don’t dislike you, Y/n.”
It’s the first time he says your name. It catches you off guard.
“T-Then-” you stutter, the sound of your own name said in Miya Osamu’s voice bouncing around your head and making it hard to think. “Why are we not friends?”
He blinks and furrows a brow, and it’s the first time he ever shows you an emotion. “Because you don’t like me…?”
“What?” You stare up at him. “Of course I do.”
Those empty eyes fill with disbelief – it’s relieving, knowing you actually are capable of reading him sometimes.
“No, you don’t. You just stare, and stare-” He smirks. “-and stare and stare and stare and stare. I think this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had.”
“Well-” You flush angrily. “It’s really hard to have a conversation with you when this is the only look you’ve ever given me!” You point at those eyes, empty again. He lifts his brows.
“What look?”
“That one! The look of nothingness. The look that’s empty of… any-” You cough, embarrassed. “-of any looks.”
His eyes don’t change when he smiles mockingly down at you. “The look of nothingness that’s empty of any looks. Got it," he says with a solemn nod. “Very insightful.”
You properly dislike him then – standing in the stairwell of his apartment building, humiliating yourself while he makes fun of you. You nearly hate him.
You leave without another word, hearing as he chuckles to himself and closes the door.
It takes over a year to have another proper conversation with him. In that time, you’d shifted from staring in discomfort at him to glaring and looking away every time he’d make eye contact.
But the era of disliking Miya Osamu ends with a single conversation, initiated late one night during the summer before your third year.
[11:21 PM]
Miya Osamu: i dont hate you
Miya Osamu: my face is just like that
You stare down at your phone, unseeing. It’s the first time he’s ever texted you.
You: what?
Miya Osamu: the look of nothingness is just my face
Miya Osamu: i dont dislike you
You: you make other faces with other people
You: ive seen a non-nothingness look before
You: but never with me.
He calls you. You reject it on pure instinct.
Miya Osamu: you did not just reject my call
You: it was fight or flight
Miya Osamu: ???????
He calls again. You pick up that time.
“Hello…?”
“Fight or flight. Really?”
“Yes,” you say, already getting annoyed. “And it’s telling me to hang up on you at my earliest convenience.”
“Jesus, okay. Will you give me five minutes?”
“Will you make fun of me?”
“Probably.” He laughs then, because you sigh in exasperation. You’d heard that laugh before, of course, with other people. But having it directed at you is new, unfamiliar. “I’m just trying to convince you that I don’t hate you. My face really is just like that.”
“Everyone else thinks you’re some wonderful, peaceful version of Atsumu,” you argue. “All our friends think you’re the cool brother and that Atsumu’s the chaotic, crazy one.”
“I mean. That’s not exactly a lie.”
“Then how come I’ve never gotten that sense from you?” You want to scream it from the top of your lungs, but you don’t want to wake your roommate, a wonderfully crazy blonde named Tanaka Saeko.
“I don’t know, Y/n. You’ve always been weird around me.”
“Because you’re weird,” you say without thinking.
“... Thanks?”
“No, I-” You sigh. “I’m just frustrated. Why have you always been so cold to me?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I haven’t been. My face is just like that.”
You roll your eyes. “But only with me.”
“Yes. And Tsumu.” When you say nothing, trying to figure out what that means, he laughs in your ear. “You think I don’t know what my face looks like to other people?”
You swallow hard. “You’ve been emoting for everyone else’s benefit?”
“Smartest thing you’ve said all night.”
You ignore it, just picking at a piece of lint on your pants while you think of what to say. “Then why didn’t you do it with me?”
“Because you were always at my fucking house, Y/n. I can’t keep it up 24/7.” He makes a fair point. “And you’d already hated me for whatever reason.”
“I didn’t hate you back then. And only a little bit nowadays.”
“Right. That’s helpful.”
“I’m just-” you start, but he cuts you off.
“Look. It was obvious that I was never the reason you were around, anyway. That’s fine – that’s usually the case. But then why would I fix my face for you? That’s tiring.”
You sit with that for a moment, a bit stunned at his admission. “What? I would have wanted to be your friend.”
“No, you wouldn’t have.” He sighs, clearly tired. “You’ve always looked at me different.”
You say nothing, knowing he’s right. You’d always avoided him, afraid of being perceived by him. “Sorry. You kinda scare me.”
“... What? Why?”
You switch topics, avoiding the question. “What did you mean, it’s ‘usually the case’ that you’re not the main reason people are around?”
“Uh-” He laughs in disbelief. “-you’ve met my brother.”
“So?”
“So… Girls don’t talk to the Miya twins for Miya Osamu,” he jokes, but you find yourself annoyed by that.
“I have so many problems with what you just said.”
“I’m not even being self-deprecating-”
“I’m not some stupid fangirl for your brother,” you cut him off. “Have you thought that of me this whole time?”
He seems genuinely taken aback when he mumbles a response after a moment. “... Sorry. But – You don’t like him?”
“No!” You purse your lips, hoping you haven’t woken Saeko. “No. I don’t. Fuck.”
“Sorry.”
“Whatever.”
There’s silence, and then he clears his throat. “You said I scare you.”
“Yeah.” You throw caution to the wind, still a bit incensed that he’d thought all these years that you were playing some kind of long game on his brother. “Your eyes scare me. They always have.”
“... I don’t exactly know what to do about that,” he says, perplexed. “I could try smiling more?”
“No, thanks. Your eyes don’t change when you smile. That would be creepy.”
“My eyes don’t- Then what the fuck were you mad about this whole time? Who cares if I don’t smile at you then?”
“I can still be mad you don’t treat me like other people!”
“You’re fucking insane, you know that?”
“Yes,” you say with ease. “I’m insane. You have serial killer eyes, and I’m insane.”
“Goodbye, Y/n.”
“Goodbye, Osamu.”
—
Not much changes after that conversation. You go back to avoiding him whenever he’s in the same room, and he goes back to saying nothing when you’re around. There’s a shared understanding that the conversation you had that night won’t happen again. That the moment of complete honesty between you – which had lasted all of four and a half minutes – won’t be happening again.
He goes back to being nothing more than your best friend’s brother.
You graduate college, and Atsumu’s recruited to Osaka to join the MSBY Black Jackals.
Osamu follows him there, and so do you.
He opens an onigiri shop, just a train stop away from the Jackals’ home gym.
You’re admitted to the university there for graduate school.
You orbit around each other, just like you always have. Planets that orbit around the sun that is Miya Atsumu, destined to never cross paths again.
There’s only one person involved who isn’t happy with the arrangement.
—
“I just don’t understand.”
“You never understand. Your cognitive abilities are low generally.”
“Insulting me will not get me to hang up. I get off on that.”
“Wow-” You make a face and sandwich your phone between your ear and shoulder while you lock your bike. “-There is no world in which I needed that information.”
Atsumu laughs loudly in your ear. “I get off on making you suffer, too.”
“Dude! Get a hobby or something. Please.” You shake your head, hauling your backpack over your shoulders and making your way to the Nutrition department. The building’s only a five-minute walk away, and you hope you can get Atsumu off the phone by then. You have a lab meeting in 20 minutes, and you need to catch your advisor beforehand.
“I don’t get why you and Samu can’t be friends. It’s so fucking awkward being in the same room with you two.”
“Tsumu, it’s not happening.”
“Well, did you fight?”
“No!” You shake your head, exasperated. “I keep telling you no. We just aren’t compatible as people.”
“But you and I are so compatible-”
“Yes, and you hate being compared to your brother.”
“I just want to be able to have him over for movie nights or somethin’.”
You sigh. “Then have him over, Atsumu! He’s your brother, and our apartment is our apartment. I don’t make rules by myself.”
“But I want you there, too!”
“I will be! I always am!” You check your watch as you walk up to the building. You’d turned the five-minute walk into a two-minute walk. “Look, I gotta go, I have a meeti-”
You’re stopped short when you glance up, sensing someone’s presence as they approach the building, too.
Miya Osamu stares back, eyes wide. He’s holding a large takeout order from his shop, clearly here to deliver to someone. He glances quickly at the plaque for the building, realizing belatedly that it says Department of Nutritional Sciences.
“Y/n? You there?”
“I gotta go,” you say, distracted, your eyes on Osamu’s. “See you at home.”
Those empty eyes fill briefly with recognition, and his gaze tracks your phone until it disappears into your pocket.
“Tsumu?” he asks, foregoing a greeting.
“Yeah.” You move toward the door awkwardly. “Delivering?”
“Yeah.” He says nothing else for a minute, following you inside. And then, as you’re waiting for the elevator, he pulls a paper from his pocket, showing you the order address. “Where’s Room 4140?”
Your heart drops momentarily, and you give him a pained smile as you step into the elevator together. “That’s my advisor’s office. I can just take it.”
He shakes his head, watching the floor numbers change. “I need him to pay me.”
“Her,” you correct.
He swallows. “Sorry.”
You ignore it. “I’ll take you there. I need to talk to her, anyway.”
The elevator dings, and you lead him down the hall. He’s silent, but you can tell he’s looking around at the posters and flyers on the walls, taking in the space you inhabit daily.
He stops walking, and you turn back, finding him outside your office door. He’s staring down at the name plate. And then he glances at you with what you think is blank curiosity.
You check your watch as you return to him. You could take an extra minute or two to drop your bag off.
You unlock the door for him, pushing into the office. Osamu follows you in, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room while you put your bag in your desk chair and extract your laptop. He turns in a slow circle, examining everything with that empty look.
The shelves on the walls, furnished with your stacks of books, large chunks of your monthly paychecks given to the titles he’s looking at now. The piles of papers on your desk – graded assignments from students and papers for your own work, marked up with green highlighter and scribbled notes. The smaller stack of books sitting on a coffee table in the corner, the ones you access daily and need within reach.
He sets the takeout down on the extra chair and reaches for a book you’ve read countless times, the annotation flags and dog-eared pages catching his eye.
You appreciate that he handles it with care.
“Y'know," he mumbles. "When you said you were going into nutrition, I really kept imaginin' cookbooks and pots on fire." He cuts you a glance. "You do, like, actual science and shit."
You shift your weight, feeling examined. "Cooking is science."
If he disagrees — and you get the feeling he does, because he grimaces and looks away — he doesn't say it.
That's a lie. He does say it.
"I see cookin' as more of an art."
You shrug. "It can be both."
"Not if you boil it down to just molecules and chemistry." He sets the book down carefully, despite disagreeing with its contents. "That takes the love out've it."
"I see knowledge as love. Understanding as love." You gesture weakly to the room around you. "If you yearn to understand something deeply, it can't be loveless. Definitionally."
He purses his lips but only nods. "To be loved is to be known, or whatever."
You take that as him trying to move on from the argument. You decide not to push it.
"I didn't know that you-" He waves generally at your office – at the books and stacks of papers, at the piece of your life that’s truly disconnected from him. “I mean, I knew. But. We don’t really-”
“It’s fine,” you say, gesturing toward the door. “This is kind of a separate part of my life.”
“Well-” He scoops up the takeout and waits for you while you lock the door. “-this is your life.”
“Still,” You smile awkwardly as you lead him to your advisor’s office. “I don’t expect you to know what I do.”
“...Right.”
You walk in silence to the suite of offices where your advisor’s is. You knock on her half-open door, peeking inside. “Professor?”
“Ah, Y/n! Perfect timing-”
You push into the office, smiling at her. She’s always been your favorite, bold and full of excitement about everything. At the moment, she’s standing on her tiptoes by her shelf, reaching with all her might for a book on top.
“Help me with that book, would you? An undergrad wants to borrow it.”
You put your laptop down, leaving Osamu at the door to rush to her side. She steps out of the way, and you push onto your toes for it, struggling. You have no clue why she's asking for help — you don't have much height on her, honestly.
You hear when she realizes there’s extra company.
“Oh, goodness, hello!”
“Hello, Ma’am.” Osamu assumes his business tone, pleasant and kind. “I’ve got your bulk order of 25 onigiri.”
“Perfect! Wonderful! Lovely!” Your advisor shuffles around her desk for her wallet, always a bit disorganized. “Our lab assistants will thank you graciously for keeping them fed and happy – Y/n here included!”
You flush, focusing on the book that’s just out of reach. “Yeah, thanks, Osamu,” you say in a strained voice.
“Hm? Do you know each other?”
Osamu doesn’t respond, but you feel a presence much taller than you at your back a moment later. His arm reaches past yours, able to easily reach the top shelf for the blue textbook with the bent spine.
“This one?” he asks in your ear, free hand pressed carefully to your lower back so you don’t stumble. You try not to jump at his touch, unfamiliar and shockingly warm.
“Yeah, that’s- that one-” You nod when he wraps a hand around it, looking up at him and realizing belatedly just how close he is. He realizes it, too, as he’s turning to hand you the book. His nose brushes yours, and then he’s stepping back with wide eyes, blinking rapidly.
You blink back, almost dropping the book when he releases you completely. “Uh- Thanks. Thank you.” You hand it to your advisor without meeting her eyes, because you know exactly the look that’s on her face.
She’s an incredibly nosy woman.
“You know each other quite well, I’m guessing.”
You cough, shaking your head. “We grew up together.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
You laugh at her tone, embarrassed. “Please pay the man for his services, I’m begging you.”
She just giggles to herself and hands Osamu some cash. “I look forward to ordering from Onigiri Miya for many lab lunches to come.”
Osamu’s face is even and neutral, but you think you see the slightest tinge of embarrassment in those eyes of his as he’s turning away.
—
A week later, you get a text around lunchtime.
[12:54 PM]
Tsumu: I REQUIRE YOUR PRESENCE
You glance at your phone, your fingers stilling on your keyboard as you stare at his text in confusion.
You: uh
You: present?
Tsumu: PLEASE BUY ME LUNCH
Tsumu: I DONT HAVE TIME
You roll your eyes, already saving your document and reaching for your backpack.
You know the MSBY boys are preparing for a home game that’ll make or break their sponsorship into the national circuit – Atsumu’s started leaving home earlier than usual, the front door locking sometime around 4 in the morning. It had taken his return to the apartment long after dinnertime on the first day for you to realize that training had begun, and he’s kept it up for two weeks straight.
[12:56 PM]
You: taking food requests for the next 12 seconds and then the kitchen will close
He’s responding in an instant.
Tsumu: ONIGIRI
Tsumu: MIYA STYLE
You stop outside your office, staring down at your screen. He must be joking.
You: does it have to be miya style???
Tsumu: bro i have the most VIOLENT craving for samu’s tuna mayo onigiri
You huff, shoving your phone into your bag and marching down to the bike rack outside. You make your way toward Osamu’s shop, praying the entire ride there that he’s out on deliveries. That he’s miraculously got some order to your department again, for the exact span of time you’re not there. That he’s needed across town, that you won’t need to make any kind of awkward small talk.
His car is sitting out front when you pull up to the shop.
Fuck.
He’s standing at the counter when you walk in, taking someone’s order.
Double fuck.
The door jingles behind you as he’s chatting quietly with the customer and scratching down their order, and he looks up at the notice of a new arrival.
“Of course – Can I get you anyth-”
He meets your eyes over the man’s shoulder and stops talking mid-sentence, pen hovering over his notepad.
You stare, and he stares back.
And then he blinks and lowers his eyes, finishing his sentence as he stares down at the order.
“-anything else, Sir?”
You get in the long line, fidgeting with your phone while you wait. Osamu’s eyes burn through the side of your face in moments between interacting with customers, and, by the time you join him at the counter, you’re sweating nervously.
“Hi,” you say with an awkward wave, stepping up.
He just blinks back, examining you. “Hi.”
You glance over your shoulder, disappointed to see that there’s no one waiting behind you, the lunchtime rush ending with you, apparently.
“Uh-” You train your eyes on the menu over his head, seeing with a quick flick of your gaze to him again that he’s waiting with notepad and pen and surprised disbelief coloring his empty eyes. “Can I get three tuna mayo?”
Osamu lifts his brows, understanding crossing his expression. He lowers his eyes to scribble on the order ticket. “Tsumu’s training?”
“Yeah,” you laugh nervously. He’s starting to ring you up, so you rush to scan the menu again for your own food. “And then, uh…”
You feel when his surprise becomes palpable, his eyes flying up to stare at you while you try not to burn the menu down with your anxiety.
“Is-Uh-” You scratch at your brow. “I’m not sure… Uh-”
A quick glance reveals that he’s starting to smirk, his shock fading into smug amusement while you struggle to compose yourself in his restaurant.
You clear your throat. “Any recommendations?”
That smirk widens, and his brows tent in the middle playfully. “You don’t have a favorite onigiri flavor?”
You swallow. “I like most flavors. It’s hard to choose.”
“Everyone has a favorite onigiri flavor, Y/n.”
You want to crawl in a hole and die. “I want to branch out, I guess.”
“Branch out,” he repeats with amusement, nodding as he lowers his gaze and writes on the ticket. He doesn’t tell you what he’s chosen, just ringing you up at the register and slotting the order through the window leading to the kitchen. You pay silently, and then you stand awkwardly at the counter staring up at him. He stares back, and you’re reminded of growing up with a boy who’d always refuse to look away first.
“Are you…” You break first, just like you always do. “...having a nice day?”
He purses his lips, a smile threatening to shine through just before he fixes his face back into neutrality. “Yes, Y/n. I’m having a nice day. Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Thanks.”
A suffocating silence blankets the space between you.
It’s broken only by the quiet ding of the bell from the kitchen, a plate of onigiri appearing at the window. Osamu turns away to grab it, and you flee, returning to the waiting area to sit.
You sit there for ten minutes, cursing Atsumu’s very existence and scrolling through social media without really seeing anything.
Eventually, Osamu approaches you with a takeout bag, setting it carefully on the bench. Your eyes fly up at his sudden appearance, and you find yourself staring up at him yet again. He stares back blankly, those grey eyes flitting around your face before settling on your eyes.
“Uhm,” you break, reaching for the bag and standing. He’s a lot closer than you expect, your body bumping straight into his, and you stumble back, nearly tripping. He wraps a hand around your elbow, steadying you and then putting distance between you once you’re stable. Your face burns – your skin burns – so you cradle the takeout against your chest nervously. “Thanks.”
“Sure.” He says nothing else, just stepping out of your way when you make a beeline for the exit.
The jingle of the door mocks you on your way out.
You bike to the Jackals’ gym, reliving every moment of that interaction and hating how nervous you’d been. By the time Atsumu meets you outside, you’ve got half a mind to smack him over the head with the takeout containers.
“Aw, don’t be mad!” he laughs, following you to a picnic table and digging into his lunch. “Please? I’m gonna need you for the next few weeks-” He pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket, pushing it into your palm. You see on first glance that it’s a lot of money. “Maybe this will help you guys become comfortable with each other.”
You stare at him, your own lunch untouched. “Just how much onigiri ‘Miya style’ are you gonna be craving?”
He doesn’t respond, just grinning through his tuna mayo rice ball. You open your lunch with a heated sigh, anticipating a lot of Miya Osamu in your future.
Inside the box is a set of three different rice balls, an assortment of flavors. You warm, remembering your fumbled admission that you don’t have a favorite, and take a bite of each one. They’re each oddly perfect in their own ways. The spam teriyaki is salty, but it’s balanced wonderfully by the soothing flavor of the rice. The salmon yaki onigiri is just perfectly crispy, the salmon melting on your tongue and the inside cool compared to the grilled exterior. And the tuna mayo… You can see why Atsumu’s favorite is tuna mayo – Miya style.
You eat quietly, shooting a glare at Atsumu any time you feel him watching you, and wonder how Osamu would react if you were to text him. You’re overwhelmed with that urge, entirely new and unfamiliar. You juggle the choice the entire time you're eating, staring down at nothing.
"Where's yer head at?" You meet his eyes, surprised by the examining look he's giving you. He tilts his head. "School stuff?"
It's either "school stuff" or "I'm busy thinking about your brother, which I do way more than you think I do".
You clear your throat. "School stuff."
He gives a sympathetic hum. "You'll figure it out. You always do."
You just smile, the two of you enjoying your lunch in silence. It's rare that he's quiet, but Atsumu has learned to leave you be when you're lost in thought.
When he's busy looking at his phone, you extract yours from your bag, typing discreetly.
[1:35 PM]
You: i can understand why atsumu and my advisor both default to onigiri miya for lunch
You flush hard and lock your phone, letting it drop into your lap while you focus on eating. You think it’s okay that you texted him, but you’ve also never been the one to initiate a conversation. Will he think it’s weird? Were you too familiar with your text? What if he gives you a dry response that you can’t work with? What if-
Your phone buzzes against your thighs. You snatch it up, hoping Atsumu hasn’t noticed your nervous energy.
Miya Osamu: you tryna butter me up?
The relief that floods you is giddy, and you know you’ll be spending a long time tonight overanalyzing that exact feeling.
You: why? is it working? can i get a discount?
Miya Osamu: depends on if you chose the correct one as your favorite
You: what is this, a test?
You: arent you supposed to promote ALL your menu items?
Miya Osamu: well obviously theyre all perfect
Miya Osamu: the question is if youve identified the most perfect of perfect
You: youre a bit odd
Miya Osamu: that discounts not lookin so hot rn
You: okay okay
You: i can see why tsumus favorite is the tuna mayo
Miya Osamu: is that your final answer?
You: uhhhhhhh
You: can i have 3 to 5 business days to think about it?
Miya Osamu: you get 10 seconds
You: what!!!
Miya Osamu: 5 seconds
You: how is that fair????
Miya Osamu: 3
Miya Osamu: 2
You: SALMON YAKI
You: FUCK
Miya Osamu: ….
You press your hand to your mouth, trying not to make it obvious that you’re grinning like an idiot.
You: well???
You: did i get it right?
Miya Osamu: come back tomorrow and find out
You: oh i see
You: youre upselling me
You: this was a scam
Miya Osamu: and youre gonna fall for it
Miya Osamu: arent you :))
–
Osamu doesn’t bother to hide his satisfied grin when you trudge through the door to his shop the next day.
“Welcome to ‘Onigiri Miya’,” he says in his best customer service voice.
“Welcome to ‘Onigiri Miya’” you mock under your breath. His smile grows just milliseconds before he evens his expression out. You march up to the counter, a scowl painted on your face. He smirks back.
“What can I get you?”
“Three tuna mayo, please,” You grumble.
“And three salmon yaki?”
You just give him another mocking noise and roll your eyes. At this point, you don’t even care if you get the discount. You just want to get in and get out with minimal damage to your reputation.
He says nothing, scratching the order down and sliding it through the window. You see, though, that when he charges you, he only charges you for Atsumu’s. Your scowl immediately lifts into a small smile.
“So, I got it right?”
You see his eyes land on your mouth, watching your smile for a moment before he takes your money and glances away.
“It was the tuna mayo.”
Your mouth drops open. “What-”
“I’m giving you the discount this time because you clearly left your dignity in your office to come all the way down here.” He’s smiling to himself as he turns to head into the kitchen, and you’re left standing alone at the counter, embarrassed.
Miya Osamu might be the most irritating man you’ve ever met.
—
You see him two days later, sitting on your couch when you walk in the door. Suna is there, too, lounging across your furniture like he lives here.
"Hey, Y/n," the lanky man greets lazily, shoveling popcorn into his mouth as he flips through channels.
You grimace down at him, if only so you don't have to greet Osamu. "Is my TV remote going to be greasy and gross when you leave later?"
He snorts. "It's greasy and gross now. Wanna feel?"
You make a noise of disgust and turn away, looking around for your roommate. "Tsumu?" you call, peeking into his room.
"Went to pick up the pizza," Osamu comments quietly, scrolling through his phone.
You stare down at him, trying to hide your surprise when his gaze flicks up to yours, empty and grey. "Oh, okay. Sounds good." You force yourself to remember that this is your apartment, not his or Suna's. You don't need to stand here awkwardly. "'Kay. I'm gonna get changed and stuff."
You turn and make your way down the hall, only shooting Suna a middle finger when he calls 'without me?'. His cackle is heard even when you close your bedroom door.
You change and wash your face in your connected bathroom, trying to figure out how to handle tonight. It's not like anything's changed between you and Osamu — occasionally texting is hardly an update in your relationship. Nothing's new between you.
He's standing inside your bedroom when you come out.
That's certainly new.
"Uh-"
He'd been looking over your conference posters, hung proudly on your walls, but he turns now, his expression blank. You stare, wondering how to ask what he wants.
He just stares back.
You break first, moving around the room and tidying up. "What's up?"
"Not much," he mumbles. "Just bein' nosy."
You pause. Miya Osamu has never shown you an ounce of interest before, let alone enough interest to poke around your bedroom. "Okay? I mean-"
"You gonna keep comin' around?" he asks suddenly, his eyes trained on one of the many graphs on your posters. "T'the shop?"
You blink, staring at the back of his head. He's got the Onigiri Miya cap on, like he always does, but it's backward now, the logo staring right back at you. When he glances over his shoulder at you, you realize it's been a while since you've met his eyes outside of the shadow of his hat.
It's strange… They don't scare you as much anymore.
"I s'pose so," you mumble. "Tsumu's been sending me every day because he doesn't have time."
He grunts. "Dumbass needs to be eating healthier lunches. Onigiri every day's bad for you."
You smirk. "You tryna get rid of me, Samu?"
You say it like Atsumu does, tilted and sarcastic, but the syllables of his nickname come out different when it's you.
His head whips to the side, eyes wide as he stares at you.
You want to curl up in a ball and hide from him.
He just blinks a few times, almost dumb with surprise. Finally, he turns away. "Nah," he says weakly. "You can keep comin' round." He clears his throat. "If ya want."
You try not to notice that the tips of his ears are red.
The moment ends with the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut.
"Pizza!" Atsumu calls from down the hall.
Osamu all but flees from your room, you hot on his heels.
Atsumu hasn't noticed that you're both coming from the same place, but Suna's stare is piercing and examining as he eyes Osamu and then you. When you furrow your brow at him, he just smiles and gets up, groaning about how hungry he is.
The movie night is uneventful, if you count Miya Osamu's thigh pressed against yours and his arm tossed across the back of the sofa where you sit as uneventful.
You don't even know what the damn movie's about.
—
When you enter Onigiri Miya a week later, you’re painfully nervous.
You should feel fine coming in here now, what with Atsumu sending you on an onigiri mission every afternoon at exactly the same time. You’ve gotten used to interacting in-person with Osamu at the very least on this level, the one where he stands at a counter with his notepad and pen and stares into your very soul while you stumble through Atsumu’s order.
But today, Atsumu hadn’t asked for lunch, complaining on the phone that he's got a stomachache from eating so much onigiri every day.
Somehow, though, you’re still here. There's a part of you that knows it's because he'd told you it was okay. There's a larger part that's ignoring the implications of that.
It must be a habit, you’d rationalized to yourself on the bike ride here. Habit to ride your bike across town around lunch time almost every day. Habit to stand in the impressively long line, keeping your eyes on Osamu’s face while he works the counter. Habit to turn away the moment he glances in your direction, feigning immense interest in the wall decor.
Habit to walk up to the counter with a slight tremble in your legs, your steeling breath always the last thing you do before you have to look right up at him and greet him uncomfortably.
“Hi,” you say now, your awkward wave a habit, too.
“Hi,” he echoes, his empty gaze always just the slightest bit unnerving on first impact. “Three tuna mayo and three salmon yaki?” He’s already writing it down, his eyes lowering to the notepad.
“Uh-” You gather strength from the absence of his gaze, clearing your throat. “No, just-just the salmon.”
You hear when his pen stops scratching on the ticket, and you have to take another steeling breath, because his eyes are flying up to meet yours, his sharp gaze flooding with surprise.
“What?” he asks, unblinking.
You hate that your voice shakes when you respond. “J-Just the salmon. Three salmon yaki.”
His eyes flick between yours once, twice, and then a third time. He doesn’t look away when he tears the ticket from the pad and lets it fall to the counter, and he writes the new order without taking a single glance at the sheet.
Finally, he blinks and looks away, and you deflate with a sigh that’s far too loud to be coincidence. He slots the ticket through the window and turns back, ringing you up silently. As you’re paying, though, he mumbles a question, quietly curious.
“How much time do you have for lunch?”
You swallow. “It doesn’t really matter, as long as I get my work done today.”
He nods, staying silent for another minute while he gets your change. “Kinda like me, I guess.”
You grin to yourself, too busy pocketing the spare coins to notice when he tracks the small change of your mouth. “Yeah. Kinda like you.” You gesture to the waiting area and give him a tight-lipped smile, wandering over to your usual seat.
When he comes over to the bench, you stand, ready to bike your lunch back to campus and eat in your office. But he doesn’t move to hand over the bag, just clearing his throat.
“How much work have you gotten done?”
You blink, confused. “Most of it, I guess. I just have some papers left to read.”
“Oh. Okay.” He meets your eyes awkwardly and looks away. You realize what’s happening only when he makes no move to hand you the bag.
He'd said it's okay. It's okay for you to keep coming.
Maybe it's also okay for you to stay.
“Oh-” You flush. “I-” Your eyes watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows hard. “I have time. The papers won’t take me long.”
He scans the room while he thinks, and then he just nods, turning on his heel to head down a hallway leading to the back. You follow, looking around at the space as you go.
“Never seen the back of a restaurant before.”
You hear him breathe out a laugh, leading you to a door at the end. “Ever seen an office in a restaurant?”
“Can’t say I have.”
He shoulders the door open, and you step gingerly into the room.
It’s a medium-sized space, with a nice desk and chair situated in front of a large, spanning window. There’s a grey couch in the corner, with a darker grey rug tucked underneath. There are shelves on the walls, with binders and cookbooks and cardboard boxes. A small coffee table in front of the couch holds menu designs and papers that look legal.
“Wow,” You set your backpack carefully by the door and look around, spinning a slow circle in the middle of the room – not unlike how he’d been in your own office. “Restaurant offices are really somethin’.”
“It’s kind of a mess,” He says, ears tinged a bit pink, and sets your lunch on his desk.
“I like it. It looks like you.” You’re not entirely sure what that means – maybe it’s the grey, or maybe it’s the disorganization that looks like only he can understand it. But it looks like him.
Osamu says nothing, just moving to the coffee table and gathering the papers. You sit in the chair across his desk, trying not to take up too much space while he picks up. After a minute, he murmurs ‘I’ll be back’ and disappears back into the hallway.
You wait, eyes tracing the labels on the binders stacked next to his desk. There are budget folders, test recipe folders, and even one that says ‘Rejected Receipes – DO NOT MAKE AGAIN’. You reach for it with a smile, pulling it into your lap.
Thumbing through, you can’t help but laugh. “Peanut butter and banana onigiri?”
“Atsumu was really convinced about the validity of dessert onigiri.”
You jump, turning to find Osamu at the door, a small smile on his face.
You laugh again. "You spent ingredients on an Atsumu idea?"
He grimaces playfully and crosses the room to sit on the couch. "Never again."
"You need a better taste tester," you joke. "Someone who understand the science of onigiri."
"The science, huh?" he asks, staring right at you. "Don'tchu mean the art?"
You roll your eyes, a smile lingering. "I'd argue they're the same."
"I wouldn't," he bickers. "But maybe that's why both are valuable." And then he leans forward, elbows on his knees. "What'dya say?"
You blink and then point at yourself. "Me?" When he quirks his brows in response, you laugh. "I'm not, like, a professional taste tester just because of my degree."
"Never said nothin' about your degree, Y/n."
You swallow, because his eye contact is too strong. Always too strong. "Okay. Sure."
He stands quietly, pointing at the bag of your food. "Eat," he commands. "I'll be back."
You listen to instructions, nibbling on your salmon yaki onigiri and wondering how the hell you got here.
He comes back after ten minutes, balancing a small platter with a plate, a bowl, and a tea cup. You watch him put it on the coffee table, staring at the ingredients.
The green tea is easy to identify, and the single yaki onigiri on the plate could be anything, really, but you'd wager a guess it's salmon. The bowl of broth is harder, but you just lean toward it and sniff, recognizing the dashi scent instantly.
It's not hard to piece together what he's making.
"Ochazuke?" you ask quietly, watching as he mixes the two steaming liquids. "Isn't it usually tea or dashi, not both?"
"'s why I need a taste tester," Osamu mumbles quietly. "Wanted to try somethin' new, but I can't trust my sous chef." He shoots you a quick grin. "He's a kiss-ass."
You smile back. "Oh, poor Samu."
Yes, his reaction is still the same. No, you hadn't done it just to test that theory, you swear.
"Here," he grunts, chewing on his bottom lip. He sets the onigiri in the tea-dashi mixture and pushes the platter to you, handing you a spoon.
You lift the bowl, giving it another sniff. The tea gives it a bitter undertone, but it's not unpleasant. You break the onigiri slowly, mashing it against the bowl with the spoon and watching pieces of salmon float to the top.
Osamu watches carefully when you take a bite.
You chew slowly, tilting your head this way and that. Osamu's knee starts to bounce. You smile to yourself.
"Nervous about somethin'?"
He grimaces. "No, 'course not."
You contemplate making him wait until you eat the whole thing, but you can't help yourself once the first bite is over.
"Do you want the good or the bad first?"
He narrows his eyes. "I didn't realize you'd have 'bad's."
"Shoulda asked your sous chef if you wanted your ass kissed," you say, grinning at him. "It's not a big thing, I promise."
He sighs. "Hit me, then."
"The tea is too overpowering."
He squints. "And that's not a big thing?"
"Not if you fix the ratio," you say, shaking your head. "Either you steeped the tea too long or there's too much of it, but either issue is an easy fix. Based on the smell, it should have a little undertone of bitterness, but the taste sticks to the back of the tongue in a way that smothers the dashi." You set the bowl back on the platter. "My advice is to start with half a cup, not a full cup. And steep for thirty seconds less."
He blinks. "Those are very precise instructions, Y/n."
You blink back. "Cooking can be a science, Osamu."
Nothing more is said between you for a minute. And then he nods down at the bowl of drowned onigiri. "And the good parts?"
You smile — a real one, one that you're not sure he's ever seen.
"If you fix the ratio, Onigiri Miya will be famous."
—
You end up going to Onigiri Miya every day for lunch, even on days when Atsumu asks for something else. Even on days when he doesn't ask at all.
Even after their training ends, right up until the day of the Jackals' sponsorship game.
At some point in the days since that first lunch together, Osamu brings up the thing that neither of you had wanted to talk about: Atsumu.
"I'm sure he'd be thrilled to learn we're hanging out, y'know."
You'd swallowed and looked away, face warming. "You know how annoying he can be when he's thrilled."
It's an excuse. He takes it.
"Yeah. I'd eat my own hair before I admit Tsumu's right about somethin'."
And just like that, a secret is formed. A secret between you and Miya Osamu, where nothing had existed before.
It's dreadfully attractive, sneaking around to meet your best friend's brother.
—
It happens before either of you is ready to admit this is more than just a budding friendship. That this is more than just sneaking around for the sake of not hearing Atsumu's gloating.
It's sneaking around because there's something else to hide, something that neither of you is willing to admit or address.
But it gets addressed anyway. It goes a little something like this:
The sponsorship game comes and goes. The Jackals win. There's an afterparty at a bar, one where Atsumu gets too shit-faced and the room is too crowded for anyone to notice that you and Osamu are sitting in a corner, talking low and with your heads close together. It starts with simple jabs, jokes made at his brother's expense and then more made between you — the result of weeks spent alone in his office, the taste testing nothing but an excuse.
An excuse, one that only your eyes can admit and only after three drinks. One that only he can hear in the way your gaze drifts to his lips and back, a smile tugging at him every time you flush.
A rushed goodbye, pressed into Atsumu's chest as you tell him that you've had too much to drink and that Osamu's going to drop you off at home. A questioning look ignored, your expression innocent as you wave and pretend you can't hear his confused noise. Suna Rintarou equally ignored, even as his gaze follows you and Osamu out.
The door of the bar, slammed open by Osamu, his other hand wrapped tight around your wrist, both of your stone cold sober by now.
He drags you to his car, three steps ahead while you scramble after him. You’re not sure if you’re actually reading this right. If this is going somewhere, or if he really is just going to drive you home. But you desperately — desperately — want it to be the former. After so many years of dreading his presence, you don’t want to say goodbye to him tonight.
You get the feeling that the heated look in his eye when he glances back at you is a promise that you're not going to be disappointed.
When you finally make it to his car, tucked away under the shadow of a tree in a far corner of the parking lot, you wonder if it’s just enough coverage for you to make a move unseen, or if you need to wait.
Osamu opens the passenger-side door for you, and you stand just inside of it, staring up at him, like you always do.
He stares back. Like he always does.
It goes on like that for seconds — entire moments — and the familiarity of it is a little comforting.
And then his eyes drop to your mouth, just long enough to be perceptible.
You lean in before you can talk yourself out of it. All you find is the palm of his hand.
"Get in the car, Y/n," he mumbles, his voice gruff and full of something you can't place. "We're in the middle of the street."
You pull back quickly and open your eyes wide, your heart dropping as you wonder if you've just made an ass of yourself.
He just stares down at you, eyes on your mouth. "Get in car, Y/n," he whispers.
You've learned that you're very good at listening to instructions.
You stare at nothing as you wait for him to close your door and make his way around to the driver's seat. You stare at nothing at all, your mind empty of everything but the realization that this night could end very well or very not well.
It's quiet in the car when he settles in. You let it linger until it hurts, and then you turn.
He’s got his gaze right on you, sharp and heated and full of emotion — an emotion you can’t place, an emotion you’ve never seen from him before.
The planets that orbit Miya Atsumu finally meeting somewhere in the middle — at full speed, with no hope of stopping.
The crash isn’t so pretty, but it sure does feel nice.
You don’t know who moves first, but his fingers are tangled in your hair and your arms are flung around his neck before you process this night isn’t going to end with you crying alone in bed.
His mouth is searing hot against yours, and you think there’s a whimpering noise that escapes your throat when you’re not paying attention. Osamu says nothing, gives no verbal indication of his thoughts or how he feels. But he does press his hand flat to your back and draw you to him, pulling you halfway across the console so he can kiss you better.
After that, it’s a quick trip over the console entirely and right into his lap.
He angles his head up and slides his fingers back into your hair, cupping the back of your neck as he pushes his mouth up against yours. You kiss him eagerly, your heart pounding in your ears and your face radiating heat. You realize that he’s not doing much better when you cup his jaw and feel his pulse racing against your fingers.
You pull away, and the intoxicating sound of Miya Osamu panting fills the car as you drop your mouth to the juncture of his neck. A breathy moan cracks in the back of his throat, followed by the quiet ‘fuck’ that falls past his lips. His hands drop to your waist, and you feel when his head falls back against the headrest.
“Fuck,” he repeats, sounding like he’s very quickly coming undone. It eggs you on, and you bite down on his throat before soothing it over with a pass of your tongue. He shudders under you, a stuttered moan echoing in the car.
“Y/n-” His fingers find the back of your head, tangling and pulling taut to lift you away. You whine at the tug of your hair, wriggling in his lap, and then his mouth is on yours. He kisses you hard, teeth nipping at your bottom lip. You hold his face and return the fervor, and he clamps down on your hips and pulls you closer, pushing your thighs apart until you’re seated right over the zipper of his jeans.
It’s only then – when you push down into his lap and pull a strained groan right out of him – that you realize that he’s hard.
Your stomach flips excitedly, and every nerve ending in your body lights up and burns under your skin.
You roll your hips experimentally, just the slightest shift of your thighs over his, and are gifted the wonderful experience of feeling Miya Osamu’s control slip. He tenses under you, one hand flying to cup the back of your head, the other holding tight to your hips and coaxing you forward again – urging you silently to keep going.
It’s embarrassingly easy to convince you.
This push of your hips down over his is just as charged as the last – more, really, because now Osamu’s eyes are open and locked tight on yours. His hand in your hair keeps your face close, your lips brushing against his with every miniscule shift of your body and your breath mingling in the marginal space between you. His eyes are hazy, distracted, but he keeps those eyes unyieldingly on you, and you find yourself trapped in his gaze, just like every moment before this.
When he rolls his hips up, the bulge of his jeans pressed under your skirt and right up against your core, the heat building in your navel spills over and fills your body with a burning, molten desperation.
“Samu,” you whine, staring right into his eyes when your hands drop to the button of his jeans and your forehead presses urgently to his. He keeps eye contact, rocking upward again and pushing on that little spot that shoves you further and further into dangerous territory. One hand falls to your bare thigh, fingers disappearing up your skirt and stopping right at the line of your panties, his thumb pushing up against your inner thigh.
He tilts his head up, using his grip on your hair to bring you close so he can kiss you. You return it needily, your lips parting with ease when you feel his tongue against your bottom lip. He pushes into your mouth, his breath heady and uneven, betraying his own desperation as you breathe each other in.
You shift your hips, his thumb slipping and pushing up against your clit. You gasp loudly, and he shivers, but it’s followed by a grin when he realizes what he’s done. He pushes that little spot again, his touch gentle but certain – you feel when his smile slips, though, because you’re rutting shyly against him, and it pulls a drunken half-moan out of him.
“Y/n,” he whispers against your mouth, a hard swallow following. You shiver in his lap, entirely willing to do anything and everything he asks of you.
“Samu,” you say, your fingers prying the button of his jeans open. “Can I…” You linger at the zipper, tugging in question.
He nods, his own touch sliding down your panties, and you know he means to push them aside. Your stomach swarms with butterflies at the realization of what you’re about to do with Miya Osamu.
You get the zipper down, and he lifts his hips, mouth pressing briefly against yours, heated and full of anticipation.
But before you can get his pants down to his thighs, there’s a slam on the front hood of his car.
You jump, biting down on a scream, and Osamu pulls you against his chest with a sharp inhale, his eyes flying over your shoulder to look through the windshield. Whatever he sees there causes him to mutter-
“Oh, fuck.”
“What the fuck are you two doing?!” There’s a voice screaming outside, one you distinctly recognize as Suna Rintarou. “Are you trying to get charged with public indecency?!”
The molten heat in your navel runs ice cold in an instant, and you can’t do a single thing except let Osamu lift you off his lap and over the console back into the passenger seat. You curl up there, your face burning with humiliation as he gets out of the car.
He joins Suna outside, running his fingers through his hair with a sigh, and you hear muffled, unintelligible conversation. Suna gestures in exasperation at Osamu’s undone jeans, and you wince when the twin quickly fixes himself, his embarrassed flush visible even from here. You hide your face in your hands, wondering who else might have seen you and how this could have gotten so out of hand so fast.
The men talk in serious, clipped tones outside for a minute before Suna is groaning and dropping his head back. You hear him laugh, but it sounds deranged, like he can’t believe he’s been caught in the middle of this. And then he turns to look you right in your eye through the windshield.
You sit up straight, nervous as he rounds the car to your window and knocks awkwardly. You fumble to open the door, and Suna crouches by your side with a sigh of exhaustion.
“You want me to drive you home?”
You blink. “Huh? I thou-” You look over at where Osamu’s starting to come meet the two of you, a wary look on his face.
Had he asked Suna to take you home? Does he not want to be alone with you again?
“Uh,” you mumble, your face burning with humiliation and the prospect of being rejected by Miya Osamu in front of a mutual friend. “Sure. I guess. If that’s what he said-”
“Oy,” Osamu interrupts, pushing two fingers roughly into the back of Suna’s head. “Can you fuck off? We’re fine.”
You look between them, confused. So… Osamu hadn’t just tried to get out of taking you home?
Suna looks back at him, scoffing. “Oh, sure, you guys are totally fine. Totally not gonna mess around when you get back to her place, right? Do you remember who her roommate is, or would you like a mirror?”
You blink.
Oh.
Osamu pushes Suna again, voice strained when he drops it an octave and warns, “Fuck. Off. Rintarou.”
You swallow, watching them share a meaningful look before Suna is shrugging noncommittally and standing to full height.
“Whatever. You go ahead and get caught – may the best twin live, I guess.”
And then he leaves, waving back at you as he fishes his keys from his pocket and heads to his own car.
You stare up at Osamu, willing him to look at you – willing, after years of begging not to be seen, for him to meet your eyes.
He doesn’t, just quietly closing the door and coming back to the driver’s seat.
You sit together in silence, watching as Suna’s car disappears into the street.
Osamu plucks the keys from the console and starts the car.
He drives in silence.
Osamu shifts beside you when he stops at a red light. "I need to know something.” When you say nothing in return, just staring at the side of his face, he sighs quietly. “Is this going to fall apart when my brother finds out?”
You blink, startled by the question. It's not entirely unexpected, but you have no idea what to do with it. "Meaning?"
“Meaning-” He’s firm about it. “-that you know how he is. How he can get when there are-”
-secrets.
You imagine how Atsumu would react – he’s territorial, possessive. Stubborn and childish and annoyingly good at holding a grudge. You can already hear it, the way he would explode if he found out–
‘When I told you to try getting along, I didn’t mean you should fucking jump into bed with him!’
Yeah. Miya Atsumu would not take this information very well.
But you find that you don't care as much as you thought you would. That even when you'd used him as an excuse — when things between you and Miya Osamu changed, not even a week ago — you hadn't really cared about Atsumu's reaction at all. Because you know he'll get over it, whatever it might be.
And there's a part of you that remembers the Miya Osamu from college, the one who'd accepted that his brother was the focus of everything. That he'd always be in Atsumu's shadow.
Maybe that's why he'd been so quick to accept your excuse. Because you were giving him a chance for the two of you to find some other orbit.
"No, Osamu," you say, a little strong. "It's not going to fall apart. Not for me."
"Even if Atsumu-"
"I don't really give a fuck what happens if Atsumu finds out." His eyes find yours, wide and surprised. You just stare back. "Do you?"
He stares for a moment.
And then you're being smacked up against the window from the force of him turning the car around.
"Wha-" You glance around, realizing you're heading away from your apartment now. "What-"
"He'll get over it," Osamu mutters, switching lanes and taking turns with an urgency that hadn't been there before. "You can just stay with me 'til he does."
You can't say that sounds like a bad idea.
—
The journey into Miya Osamu's apartment consists of stumbling over your feet and fumbling to rip his t-shirt off. You don't get much time to look around, all of your attention on the way he's guiding you to his bedroom, his mouth never leaving yours.
"Nice place," you joke. "Great decor."
"Shut up," he scoffs, scooping you off your feet and pinning you to the wall by his bedroom door. His mouth is unbearably hot, tongue searing against yours and teeth tugging down on your bottom lip after every pant. "Can I admit something?" he asks after you plant your hands on his chest and put distance between you so you can breathe.
"Hm?" Your head is spinning. "What is it?"
"I never thought-" He swallows hard, still holding you in place with his hips. "I never guessed that this would-we would-"
You laugh breathily, curling your fingers into his hair. "I thought I was gonna have to avoid you for the rest of my life."
He presses his body against yours, flattening you to the wall. "Yeah? Still plan on doin' that?"
You only have time to roll your eyes before he's pushing his mouth against yours again. "Already tryna get rid of me?" you ask between kisses, your breath shaky.
He just laughs through his nose, carrying you into his room. After dropping you on the bed and climbing over you, he answers your question. "Nah." He shakes his head. "You're mine now. Turns out I actually like havin' you around all the time."
You don't need to tell him how that statement affects you. How it affects you to learn that all these years of circling each other — lingering in his periphery, always in orbit — hadn't been the annoyance you'd thought it was. That he prefers you just like that, maybe even a little closer.
You don't need to tell him that. He can see it clear as day, because you're dragging him down to you and whimpering against his lips.
The distance between this moment and the moment he's pressing his tip against your entrance feels like everything and also nothing at all in the grand scheme of you and Miya Osamu.
As it turns out, when he'd uttered the words 'you're mine', there had been an undertone you'd missed.
You find it the moment he pushes into you. His head drops back, a noise leaving his mouth that cuts somewhere betweel a growl and a sigh.
"Fuck," he groans. You're too busy trying to pull the breath from your lungs to respond in kind. "Fuck," he whispers again, to himself this time, and stares down at the spot where he's starting to rail into you. "All mine — you're all mine."
Nerves flip in your stomach, and you whine low — the way he's looking at you, the way he's worshipping you is enough to set your skin on fire. "Samu-"
"Yeah, baby?" he mutters, driving his hips into yours and using his grip on your waist to slam you down on his cock at the same time. "Feel good?" When you nod fervently, he laughs, the sound a little unhinged. "Feel good to be stretched out like that, baby? Stretched out by me?"
"Samu," you groan, your back arching and your hands clawing at his arms. "Please, Samu-"
"What? What is it, huh?" he coos. "Want me to show you that you're mine?" You clench around him hard, and he moans in response. "Yeah, you're mine. You want to feel it, though, don't you?"
"Yeah," you pant. "Wanna feel."
"Wanna feel it when I make you mine?" His voice starts to shake and his breathing grows harsh. "Gonna fill you up — fill you up 'til you're leakin'." He presses his palm against your stomach, right under your navel, and bites out something that you think might be more for him than for you.
"Fill you up 'til it takes." You gasp, clenching hard, and he moans low. "Yeah," he pants. "Gonna make you mine."
The pulse of his cock deep inside you, the tip kissing right up against your cervix, is accompanied by the warmth of him coming. You feel it spill, feel it coat your walls and then push around his cock until it's spilling past your entrance. He must feel it happen, too, because he's moaning and grinding you down harder on his cock.
The realization that this is driving him insane is enough for you to clench down hard, your walls fluttering around him in time with your heartbeat as you come.
"That's it," he whispers, panting hard and collapsing down over you. His mouth finds yours, and you let him kiss you while you come down from your high. "That's my girl."
You don't bother cleaning up, too busy basking in the glow that comes with Osamu staring down at the mess he's made and then looking at you like you're the best thing that's ever happened to him.
You fall asleep without meaning to, which, on one hand, is great for you, because you wake up in Osamu's arms and feel the peace that comes with him rolling over on top of you and showering you with affection.
On the other hand, you didn't go home last night. To your roommate. Who is now at his brother's door, banging on it with both fists.
"I swear to god, Samu, if she's in that bed, I'm committing a crime!"
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