a/n; my friends!! sorry this took so long crying (T_T) I've been working a bit of overtime haha, this features my precious osamu and cute miya twin moments ahhh, I hope you like! they means a lot to me hehe thank you for reading! (thank you for the sweet messages too, someone commented about onigiri miya in the previous story with tendou so I added my 'samu here!)
a momager and her silly olympic team.
special delivery. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.
when the onigiri man visits team japan and brings the flavor in a court full of sweat! (p.s. atsumu loses his cool).
more olympic team shenanigans here!
So cranky because when he walks into the Team Japan lounge, yawning into the back of his hand, he sees his twin standing at the center of the room.
Genetic photocopy. Womb-mate. Culinary menace.
Paris. Olympics. Team Japan.
Osamu barely has time to register the sound of his name before you’re running toward him full-speed, shoes thudding against the tile, arms already outstretched. He manages to steady himself just as you launch into him, throwing your arms around his neck and practically knocking the wind out of him.
“Oof—easy now, darlin’ girl,” Osamu laughs, catching you with a grunt, one arm winding around your waist. “Ya tryin’ to kill me or just testin’ my reflexes?”
You grin, eyes bright, cheek pressed to chest. “Maybe both.”
“What if I dropped the food?”
Your head lifts immediately. “You brought food?”
He jerks his chin toward the sleek, oversized suitcase parked besides the door, black with a silver zipper and suspiciously large for a trip.
“Insulated. Onigiri. Limited flavors. Special editions… and maybe some of your favorites,” he says with a smug glint in his eye.
You gasp, fingers digging slightly into his shoulders. “You absolute legend.”
“You say that now,” he murmurs, “but wait till you try the spicy miso. It’s grilled.”
“Charred edges,” he adds with a boop to your nose, seducing your soul with rice.
And right as you’re about to lose your mind—
—Atsumu’s voice cuts through the lounge.
“The hell are you doin’ here, ‘Samu?! Showin’ up unannounced, flirtin’ with my manager?!”
Osamu just smirks, not even trying to hide the way his arm’s still casually looped around your waist. He lifts his free hand to ruffle your hair, gentle but annoyingly fond and a little too pleased with himself. “Relax. I brought gifts. Hugs were the natural consequence.”
Atsumu turns to you, completely offended. “Are ya kiddin’ me?! You never run at me like that!”
“Because I don’t trust you to catch me.”
“Sweetheart,” Atsumu drawls, flinging his arms out. “We’ve known each other for years!”
“And I still have knees I’d like to protect,” you say, pulling back slightly as Osamu chuckles under his breath.
“She’s got a point, ‘Tsum.”
Atsumu stares at the two of you—at your arms still loosely wrapped around Osamu’s neck, the way you’re smiling up at him—and his whole face crumples. He slumps on the nearby couch, whining something incoherent.
“So what,” he grumbles, lower lip actually wobbling, “ya just see my face on his and suddenly forget who the Olympic-level twin is?”
You snort, clearly amused, and begin to ease away from Osamu’s arms—who, to his credit, lets you go without complaint. He’s got that soft, knowing look on his face, like yeah, yeah, go cheer up the dramatic one.
“C’mere, drama queen,” you murmur, leaning down and gently pinching Atsumu’s cheek. His skin squishes between your fingers, and he blinks up at you with a pouty glare that’s barely holding together.
“I see you, ‘Tsumu,” you say, tugging just a little. “But I see ‘Samu too.”
He swats your hand half-heartedly. “He ain’t even wearin’ the uniform—!”
“Yeah,” Osamu cuts in, smirking, “but I brought onigiri. So I win.”
“Bro—that’s not even—that’s not how winnin’ works!”
“You bring sweat. I bring flavor. Tell me honestly, which do you prefer?”
And on cue, the lounge door creaks open.
Suna pokes his head in, face blank. “Flavor,” he says flatly. “Obviously.”
Aran appears behind him, stepping into the room with a knowing grin. “We prefer flavor, duh.”
Atsumu’s mouth falls open as he shoots up from the couch. Osamu smiles cheekily.
Before either twin can escalate, you step forward and reach up to pinch both of their ears between your fingers.
“Ow—!” they cry out in perfect sync, squirming in opposite directions.
You tug just enough to make your point. “I prefer flavor…” you say sweetly, then give each ear a little tug. “And sweat.”
You huff, letting go of their ears and stepping back. “Now… don’t start fighting here.”
Atsumu glares at Osamu. “...He started it.”
“I’d win,” Osamu replies without looking up.
You throw a napkin at both of them. “Behave. Or I’m switching to Ushijima.”
“Wait, what—!” Atsumu whips around.
And from behind you, a deep voice calmly replies, “Yes. I possess flavor and sweat.”
“MY GUY’S GOT RANGE, ‘TSUM-‘TSUM!” Bokuto shouts, barreling into the lounge.
The team finishes the last of the onigiri on the walk over. Hinata swears the spicy miso made him run faster, and Bokuto loudly insists he's "emotionally stronger" now.
The court they’ve reserved is wide open, nestled within one of the main Olympic training centers, and a few spectators and media types have started gathering around the fences, phones out, murmuring excitedly. It’s hard not to stare; after all, Team Japan is stretching at the far end of the court, full of gold medal potential and chaotic charisma.
You settle onto the bench just off the sideline, stats clipboard balanced on your lap. Iwaizumi is beside you, reviewing serve patterns on a tablet. Osamu plops down on your other side, lazily popping open a fresh onigiri he smuggled in under the radar.
"Seaweed and salmon," he mumbles, holding it out in case you want the first bite. You take it without hesitation.
“Feels wrong to eat while they’re sweating,” you mutter between chews.
Osamu shrugs, biting into the other half. “Balance. They provide the sweat, I bring the flavor, remember?”
You roll your eyes and reach up to flick his forehead with a light snap of your fingers.
“Ow. The hell was that for?”
“You’re too smug,” you say, trying not to smile. “And too proud of your rice.”
Iwaizumi snorts. “And somehow you’re still everyone’s favorite today.”
The three of you watch as Team Japan starts moving through warmups, the controlled chaos of routine drills unfolding across the court. They cycle through sharp serve patterns, one after another—clean tosses, sharp footwork, bodies moving like a well-oiled machine with just enough mess to still feel human.
You catch the bickering mid-rotation—Bokuto screaming “I GOT IT! I GOT IT!” while absolutely not having it and colliding with Hinata, Sakusa judging all of them silently from the back line, and Suna sneaking his phone up to snap a picture.
But your eyes drift, repeatedly, back to Atsumu.
He’s serious when he plays, sure. But today, there’s something different about him.
“He’s been more obnoxious than usual since you got here,” Iwaizumi mutters, glancing up from the tablet just in time to catch Atsumu flashing a very flirty grin at a girl in the stands.
You follow his gaze and sure enough, Atsumu’s running a hand through his hair mid-drill, doing entirely too much for someone not currently being televised.
Osamu unwraps another onigiri. “He’s always obnoxious.”
“But you know what I mean,” Iwaizumi says. “He’s performing.”
Osamu hums. And yeah, he does know what Iwaizumi means.
Because Atsumu’s been louder since his brother arrived—snappier, more dramatic, borderline theatrical. The little grumbles, the fake offended gasps, the “why are you even here” rants? Classic deflection. Typical ‘Tsumu.
The way Atsumu’s grinning when he plays. Not his usual serious, laser-focused look—no, this is different because it’s looser… lighter. He’s calling out sets with a spark in his voice, cracking jokes between rotations, laughing when Suna bumps into him mid-pass, talking back when Aran scolds him, and even listening when Kageyama yells at him to toss higher.
He’s got bounce in his step again.
Osamu watches him for a moment—how easily he slips into rhythm with Hinata, how quick his smirks come when the crowd reacts, how he serves with swagger instead of just pressure.
And how every so often, in between drills, he looks toward the bench… toward Osamu.
Yeah, his presence probably threw him off for half a second. Twins are annoying like that.
But it’s clear as day to Osamu—
And maybe a little smug that his brother’s on the sidelines to see it.
Osamu chuckles under his breath, popping the last bite of rice into his mouth. “He missed me.”
Iwaizumi side-eyes him. “Don’t tell him that.”
“Oh, I won’t,” Osamu grins. “I’m savin’ it for when he screws up his next serve.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “You two are unreal.”
Osamu leans back on the bench, eyes still on his twin—quietly proud and not saying it outright, but... yeah.
Practice is going fine until Bokuto happens.
He’s been sprinting, diving, and yelling for thirty minutes straight. And finally, mid-receive, he skids to the sideline, chest heaving, hands on his knees.
“I… I need a break,” he pants. “I’ve… used up all my power points.”
His shoulders slump, his once-bouncy hair now drooping pitifully over his forehead. He blinks slowly, dazed from pure enthusiasm burnout, sweat clinging to his skin in streaks. Then, with zero warning, he lets out a tiny, exhausted whine and lunges toward the bench, digging into Osamu's bag.
Osamu watches him, mildly horrified, from his seat.
Bokuto nods while ripping open the onigiri and taking a bite. He points a single, rice-sticky finger at Osamu then towards the court.
“‘Samu-‘Samu,” he says, mouth still full. “You’re up. Sub in for me.”
Osamu blinks, clearly caught off guard. “...Me?”
He glances at Bokuto, who's still sitting cross-legged on the floor, munching away at his onigiri, then at the open court, where Hinata is already waving excitedly for him to hurry. He laughs under his breath, but it's quiet and a little uncertain.
“C’mon, ‘Samu,” you nudge, elbow brushing his. “You know you still got it.”
He hums low in his throat, brushing a hand through his hair. “Don’t know about that. Haven’t touched a game ball in months.” He gestures vaguely toward his sweats and hoodie. “Ain’t exactly dressed for it either.”
“That never stopped Bo,” you point out, grinning.
He doesn’t smile back right away but looks out at the court—at the blur of red jerseys, the sound of shoes against hardwood, the rhythm of calling and movement. Something settles in his chest… or maybe something stirs.
“You could still hang with them,” Iwaizumi says simply. “Easy.”
Osamu scoffs softly, wanting to argue but can’t quite bring himself to. “Dunno ‘bout that,” he mutters. “I’m more built for kitchen sprints now.”
Iwaizumi snorts. “Then sprint to the net. I wanna see something.”
Osamu doesn’t move as he watches Atsumu set a clean toss and Hinata spikes it down the line. His jaw tightens.
You lean toward him, voice gentle. “You miss it, don’t you?”
“…Sometimes,” he says eventually. “Not the grind. Not the press. But bein’ out there?” He nods toward the court. “Yeah. It felt good. Real good. Back when it was just… us. Just playin’.
“Then go play. Just for a bit.
You tilt your head toward the court, a teasing note in your voice.
“Some blondie’s waiting.”
Osamu holds your gaze, searching for something in your expression. Reassurance, maybe.
He turns back toward the court, and his eyes find him.
Atsumu stands at the far side of the net, one hand resting on his hip as he pretends to be distracted by something Kageyama is saying. His expression is neutral.
But he keeps glancing toward the bench, stealing quick little looks—at you, at Osamu, at the empty spot that used to be filled beside him. His body doesn’t show it, but his fingers tap lightly against his thigh, buzzing with something unspoken: that specific restlessness he only gets when he’s waiting for his twin to catch up.
He doesn’t call out to Osamu, but he’s standing just off to the side, leaving space.
Osamu watches, and you can tell he sees it. The quiet anticipation. The part of Atsumu that still remembers what it felt like to set for his brother and wants that, even if he’ll never admit it.
You nudge Osamu’s arm again.
“Go on,” you murmur. “He’s already making room.”
When you slap his back, like come on, he exhales a little laugh and finally stands, brushing his hands on his thighs and stretching his arms overhead.
“…If he sets me something short just to mess with me,” he mutters, “I’m rollin’ it straight at his face.”
You grin. “I’ll let you.”
He jogs toward the court with no knee-pads, no warm-up, and no prep—and yet still manages to blend in with Team Japan.
Iwaizumi smirks from beside you. “Watch him steal the show.”
The second Osamu sets foot on the court, something shifts.
It’s subtle at first. He moves easy, smoothly. Takes a serve in perfect form, pivots without overthinking it, reads the blockers like he’s been doing it yesterday instead of years ago. But when Hinata tosses him a ball on a broken play—something off-tempo, awkward, meant to be recovered—Osamu adjusts mid-air and absolutely buries it down the line with a loud, satisfying crack.
The gym goes quiet for a second.
Then a few fans in the stands erupt.
“I thought he’s just an onigiri man!”
Atsumu stares from across the court, jaw slack, arms frozen in mid-set stance. “Wait. The fuck—”
Osamu lands with a light bounce, retrieves the ball, and tosses it casually back to Hinata.
Atsumu squints. “You… you said you were outta shape.”
“You just assumed I stopped winning,” Osamu calls back.
Suna coughs loudly from the back line. “That’s tough, bro.”
Bokuto, half-recovered, cheers wildly from the floor. “HE’S STOLEN THE SPOTLIGHT!”
“I’M THE OLYMPIAN!” Atsumu yells, voice cracking. “Why is nobody remembering that?!”
Hinata doubles over laughing, Komori can barely receive the next ball, and even Sakusa has the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes as he mumbles something about ego collapse under his breath.
They rotate again, and Osamu slips smoothly into the setter position.
“Wait, wait. ‘Samu’s setting?” Hinata says, wide-eyed.
“I wanna get it!” he calls out, practically skipping to the front line, already bouncing in place, hands shaking with excitement. “‘Samu, I’m open! Right side, give it to me!”
Osamu smirks, lifts his hands, and jump-sets with perfect, effortless grace—a soft, arching toss that hangs like art in the air.
And then, a shadow moves in.
Out of nowhere, Ushijima appears.
He steps in front of Hinata at the last second with silent, terrifying efficiency and steals the set out of midair.
The ball explodes off his hand and slams down into the opposite corner. The gym reverberates.
Hinata just stands there, mouth open, mid-jump, frozen. “Ushi-kun… that—that was mine.”
Ushijima turns slowly. “It looked graceful,” he says simply. “I wanted to try it.”
Atsumu screams from the sidelines, “GRACEFUL?! I HAVE NEVER BEEN THIS DISRESPECTED IN MY LIFE.”
Osamu’s smiling as he walks to retrieve the ball. “Was that good for ya, Ushi-kun?”
“Yes. It was perfect. The tempo was excellent.”
“SWEETHEART, GET HIM OFF THE COURT!”
“HE’S LITERALLY TAKING MY JOB!”
The chaos has finally settled.
The gym lights fade. The chatter dims. The city hums.
Shoes have been kicked off. Towels tossed. Hair damp from quick showers and limbs heavy with a good kind of soreness.
You step out onto the small balcony connected to Team Japan’s shared suite, the cool breeze brushing over your skin. The Eiffel Tower twinkles in the distance, glittering gold against the deep blue of the sky. It's quiet now—soft, late-night quiet, just the hum of the city below and the warmth of a long day behind you.
Osamu is already leaning against the railing, a hoodie thrown over his head, sipping from a bottle of water. He looks peaceful now, thoughtful. He’s got a fresh onigiri in one hand—of course—and a far-off look in his eyes, like his mind’s still on the court.
You drift toward him quietly.
"Not bad for a guy who claims he only runs kitchen sprints," you murmur.
He chuckles under his breath. “Gotta keep the legend alive somehow.”
"Did it feel good?" you ask quietly. "Being out there again?"
He nods. “Yeah... it did. Still fits better than I thought.”
You smile, reaching for his hand. “Told you it never really leaves you.”
“I thought I was done with all that,” he continues. “The pressure. The grind. The constant... noise. But bein’ on that court today... it just felt… easy.”
You hum softly. “Like breathing?”
He nods once. “Exactly… but… it’s different now,” he adds. “‘Tsumu’s the one chasin’ medals. I’m just the guy makin’ lunch.”
“The guy makin’ millions off rice triangles.”
That earns a smile from him.
You bump your shoulder into his. “‘Samu… you didn’t quit volleyball. You just started feeding the whole damn country instead.”
“It’s true,” you say, nudging him again. “And besides... it’s not like you can’t still play. You stole the spotlight today in joggers and no warm-up.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I should.”
“You’re right,” you shrug. “You should just keep cooking... and casually humiliating Olympic athletes on your days off.”
He looks at you then, and there’s something soft in his gaze—something raw.
“You think I made the right call?”
“I think you made your call,” you say, eyes steady on his. “And you made it big. You didn’t follow someone else’s dream. You built your own… and it’s feeding people. Comforting people. Like me.”
Osamu stares at you, eyes dark under the soft balcony light. His lips twitch, about to say something but doesn’t quite believe he should—like he wants to take your words in, but can’t fully let himself.
So you sigh, reach out, and pinch his cheek.
He jerks slightly, swatting at your hand. “Oi—what was that for?”
“That was for looking at me like I just said something stupid,” you say, still holding his cheek between your fingers. “You do comfort people. You feed them. You run entire restaurants. You built an empire out of rice. That’s insane.”
He grumbles, but doesn’t pull away.
You soften just a little, thumb brushing his cheek now instead of squeezing it. “It is you, y’know.”
He tilts his head, skeptical. “What’s me?”
You grin. “The big deal. The success story. The secretly hot one.”
Osamu snorts. “Secretly? Wow, thanks.”
“I’m serious!” you laugh, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Sure, ‘Tsumu made it big... Olympics, stadiums, fame. All that jazz.”
He raises a brow, waiting.
“But you?” You point at him. “With your restaurants all over Japan? Your millions in revenue? Your rotating seasonal menu, guest chef appearances, chef groupies—”
“Chef groupies. Christ, darlin’.”
“Oh, trust me—! They exist!”
He groans, dragging his hand down his face, but he’s laughing now, eyes crinkling at the edges.
You lean back against the railing beside him, smug.
“Point is,” you say, a little softer now, “you made something that’s yours. You didn’t ride with ‘Tsum. You built your own, one grain of rice at a time… besides, who gave him his muscle gains, hm? All those protein-packed onigiri? That was you. You built him too.”
“Yeah, sure,” he muses, unconvinced.
“No ‘Samu, I’m serious! You literally handed him his macros with a side of wasabi! He might’ve made it to the Olympics, but you kept him fueled enough to get there.”
“You done makin’ me sound like his personal chef-slash-parent?”
You tilt your head, playful. “Are you denying it?”
His lips quirk up. “...No. Made that boy from rice and spite.”
You bump his side with yours. “Damn right.”
The teasing fades for just a moment, replaced by something quieter.
“You know he’s proud of you, right? Even if he doesn't show it.”
Osamu's jaw ticks once, chewing on the thought. You know he knows, but it’s different hearing it out loud.
You smile gently. “He wears number eleven. For you.”
You and Osamu are just about to head back inside when the sliding door creaks open.
Hinata pokes his head out, hair slightly messy from his shower, hoodie zipped all the way up to his chin. His eyes are big and pleading, the universal expression for I am small and require affection.
“Can we join you?” he asks sweetly. “Bokuto said we’re having a team bonding moment.”
Before you can respond, the rest of the door slides open behind him—the gates of chaos breaking.
Bokuto appears next, already halfway through dragging out two throw blankets, face glowing. “I brought supplies!”
“Not a bonding moment without snacks,” Komori chimes in, slipping out after them, holding a bag of gummy worms in each hand.
“Did ya really start cuddlin’ without me?” Atsumu demands, coming through the door.
“Ya don’t deserve cuddles,” Osamu deadpans, but you can already see the corner of his mouth twitching.
“I agree,” Suna murmurs, sliding into a corner of the balcony, phone in hand.
Aran follows, exasperated but resigned. “Y’all have no concept of personal space.”
“You’re still here though,” you point out.
He sits anyway. “Yeah, yeah.”
Kageyama walks out next, face red. “I didn’t ask for cuddles, I just didn’t want to be excluded.”
You smirk. “That sounds like cuddle-adjacent behavior to me.”
He mutters something inaudible and folds himself into the corner furthest from the pile, but you catch him scooting closer five minutes later.
And then, Ushijima emerges… silently… with a pillow. “I believe physical proximity promotes trust.”
Bokuto gasps, eyes shining. “That’s what I said!”
You giggle softly, shaking your head, then glance up to see Iwaizumi lingering by the door.
Trying very hard to look like he’s just checking on everyone and not remotely interested in joining the chaos.
You raise an eyebrow. “Ooh… look who’s creeping closer.”
Iwaizumi glares halfheartedly. “I’m not creeping.”
You pat the open space beside you. “C’mon, Iwa. Join the Trust Circle.”
“I’m good right here,” Iwaizumi insists.
But then Komori shifts to something on Suna’s phone, Hinata flops to steal Kageyama’s gummy worms, and suddenly there's a very convenient open spot right next to you.
You pat it again. “Hajime.”
And somehow, without any formal plan, blankets are layered across the balcony floor, pillows are tossed down, and Team Japan turns into a puppy pile of national athletes, settling shoulder to shoulder, knee to thigh, sprawled in sleepy heaps.
“I don't wanna sleep,” Atsumu grumbles from somewhere near your feet.
“You’re literally half-asleep on Bo’s leg,” Aran says.
Bokuto beams. “I radiate comfort.”
From the other side of the pile, Sakusa sighs. “If anyone so much as breathes on me—”
You smile and reach over instinctively to tug lightly on a strand of his hair.
“Hey!” he scowls, vanishing beneath the blanket.
A few seconds pass in silence. Breath slows. Bodies shift into comfort. The occasional mumble drifts between teammates.
You all look up just in time to see the Eiffel Tower burst into glitter—thousands of golden lights flickering to life against the ink-blue sky, dazzling and unreal.
For a moment, none of you speak.
Because in the heart of a city full of light, surrounded by warmth and limbs and the soft weight of people who feel like home—
areudirty
theartofmadeline
vaporwave
gummygunk
origamiaround
tangentwithtanner
prguitarman
dededos
