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reina/reins. 25+. she/her. byf/dni. pfp by @/amefurin on ig
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The Burden of Being - There was an Osamu who loved you once. Who loved Onigiri Miya so much he spent most of his waking hours there, supported loyally by the members of Hyogo Ward. A fire changes that and he and his twin brother adopt their old high school motto: we don’t need the memories. Now they’re gone and memories are all you have. So as an homage to the man you love, you reopen his restaurant back up for him.
Iwaizumi drabble - dropping off Oikawa at the airport means alone time. finally.
MENUS
main menu (haikyuu); happy hour (miya osamu); specials (other fandoms)
COMMUNITY ACTIVITY
Solito by Javier Zamora. About You by The 1975. Hell’s Paradise: Jigokuraku. Isagi 🫨 Isagi Isagi Isagi 🫠
osamu’s beige flag is that after taking your convo out of the dms and giving him your number, you’re immediately greeted with a pickup line. which would have been sexy had it not been surrounded by a green bubble
how easy it is for osamu to move into your place. he can sleep over with just a quick run to the konbini for a pack of underwear since he’s got an extra set of his uniform in his backseat for emergencies.
and oh? it’s a pack of underwear so he can stay over for another day at least which means he should buy some groceries to repay you. oh and a toothbrush.
the cycle repeats, worlds colliding without either of you noticing, until somehow, it’s a life shared.
This is flirting. He's flirting. It's not overly obvious, but he keeps glancing at your lips every now and again, and he's eager to make jokes, even if it means holding up the line. The old man behind you is standing so close you can almost feel his breath.
'That's all,' you say. 'thank you so much for helping me pack these.'
'Anything for a pretty lady.' And you hear the older gent behind you snort and mumble under his breath. To which the cashier shakes his head, a red tint rising on his skin.
You smile, because it's the correct response and shows him - and everyone that see, you're in on it too, and it's all good. You're not going to throw a fit over it but you do know that it's not going to go any further. 'Well, thank you. You have a good day now.' You hurry off without asking for the receipt and join Hanma where he's standing at the cigarette kiosk, pocketing a pack of Marlboro reds. (He hates them but a small supermarket definitely doesn't have the good stuff).
He wordlessly takes the bag and begins walking, a little too fast for your comfort and that immediately is a bad sign.
And he refuses to make any quip as you exit the supermarket and make the walk back to your house. (Your house mind you, not the both of yours. You're not even sure why he insisted on coming with you today anyway - he was supposed to have left in the morning )
And when you open the door, he takes your bag straight to the kitchen, his spine straight, lips a thin line, eerily quiet as he deposits the milk and butter in the fridge.
'Shuji.' You say, your hands on your hips in the kitchen doorway.
He mumbles a response, something like a hum as he bends down towards the fridge.
'Are you going to tell me what's got you like this?'
'Not sure what you mean.' but still hiding behind the much smaller fridge door.
'You know exactly what I mean.'
He straightens then, a can in his hand, a surprisingly blank look on his face, facing you as he clicks it open. 'Don't play dumb, you know exactly what it is,' he says, and it dunks you entirely in cold water as he stares at you, blank and open. 'Why'd you let that guy flirt with you, huh?"
Ah. You thought it was this. You were prepared to be wrong though.
You frown, dumbfounded but also defensive, teetering on the edge of the kitchen. 'What does that have to do with you?'
'You're acting obtuse on purpose. There's no way you're being this naive and deliberately dense.'
A hole sinks in your chest. 'Excuse me? What's that meant to mean?'
He chuckles. Empty, low. Dangerous. 'Oh come on, you're a smart girl, we both know it.' He steps forward, hip skimming the edge of your countertop, filling the room , filling the space, swallowing the light entirely. 'You shouldn't have let him flirt with you like that. The only reason I even let it happen was because I didn't have enough bullets on me to shoot up the entire store.'
You huff out a frustrated breath, incredulous rage simmering in your stomach. 'Shuji,' you say, measuring each word slowly. 'I can flirt with whoever I want. We're just fucking, aren't we? This is not exclusive.' (A rule he made himself, that you kept to despite everything, despite how bad- and how much you've already broken it. In various ways. The only reason this arrangement has gone on so long is because you kept your feelings to yourself. And buried them. If it meant keeping him in your life, you could keep pretending it was just sex)
He steps forward, a muscle twitching in his jaw, feathering in his cheek. 'Is that what it is? Huh? Just fucking?'
You measure the words carefully, taste the bitterness of them. 'Shuji,' you say, aching in your chest, a confusion clear on your face. 'I don't understand, seriously. You can't get jealous over me flirting with another man when you're the one who said we couldn't have any real feelings involved. You're the one who reminds me that fucking is all it is. That we could never be together for various reasons, and who I barely see other than to have sex with.' You shake your head, your ache deepening. 'You don't get to go back on it just because you're having feelings you didn't account for now.'
'Why not?'
'Why not?' you laugh, hollow. 'Because I've been pining for you for months is why. Because whenever I even considered the possibility of anything more with you, you were quick to remind me that it was just sex, that we weren't exclusive, that we were both seeing other people. I don't have to concede for you just because your other girlfriends aren't giving you attention anymore'.
Heat simmers in his blood, indignation, anger flaring to life but more than that.... Regret. Maybe.
'You think I said it because I've got other girls? Is that what you think it is?'
You rub your temples and on instinct, turn back towards the front door, opening it wide and standing between, watching him follow you with indignation in your periphery.
'I don't care, that's just it. Whether you have or you haven't, it doesn't matter anymore because i've grieved what could've been and have accepted it now. I'm not going to go back on it so quickly just because you're only now realising that it doesn't feel like just sex anymore.' Quieter, a whisper. 'And it never was, not for me.' .
You flick your eyes up, to him standing unmoored in your living room. His jacket still on but hurt written clear across his face, the fine lines and full lips turned down, a frown worrying at his eyebrows. 'Then why did you stay? After all this.'
'thats obvious, isn't it? I knew telling you would mean I'd lose you entirely. I was fine with you using me if I kept you for a little while longer.' You avoid his eye, kick absently at the carpet. 'I thought with enough time you'd come to love me, as much as I've always loved you.'
The shock is palpable, a flash of white hot heat across his face. A slap, a punch to the cheek. 'Sweetheart...'
'And now I'd like you to leave.' You gesture to the open door, hold your arms to your chest, close your fists to hide the trembling, the rim of your eyes stinging.
'Leave?'
You almost think he'll refuse. Had it been any other day he would. But the naked hurt is burning his cheeks and he'd like to get to his car and you're shaking visibly, unshed tears thick on your lashes and he doesn't have the energy to play right now.
He stops, abruptly on the doorstep, turns to you. 'There's no other girls. And the only reason I said couldn't - we couldn't - was because you do not want this life, sweetheart. You do not want to walk around with a target on your back for being around me.'
You whisper, a tear making headway across your cheek, a quick sniffle that does nothing to bely your true feelings. 'That was my decision to make baby, and you took that from me.'
He looks down, then up at you, so pretty still, always obviously, because you are. 'I know. But I don't regret what I did.'
And he steps out, the sun clear on his skin, pale yellow against his brown curls, holding your face in his mind as you close the door.
osamu’s son spends a lot of time at onigiri miya during his formative years. this also means the little man has watched plenty (maybe too many) of uncle mumu’s games because imagine osamu’s horror when he sees his own kid, his very blood, hold his fist up the same time his brother does on tv.
the little man does it with less seriousness, feet kicking out from under his high chair and unfettered joy from mimicking the miya on tv. osamu’s got to admit it’s cute, if it wasn’t for the fact that it feels like pure betrayal and he’s immediately changing the onigiri miya tvs to paw patrol bc who the hell cares what the other patrons want.
there’s an au in my mind where ushijima falls in love with a ballerina. which no one would have ever guessed with his detached demeanor during the first performance of yours he witnessed. but you develop a relationship anyways that’s indefinitely long distance. both of your jobs have you working in separate cities, only keeping contact in fleeting text messages sent an hour too late past one of your bed times due time difference.
you think ushijima prefers it this way with his stoic personality even if it leaves you wanting. so when you find that your schedules collide finally, you have to tell him.
you: i’m performing in madrid the same time you’re there!
an hour after, your phone still lacks a response from him. it’s not abnormal but excitement has you double texting.
you: someone booked us for a special event i think
ushijima catches you before you fall asleep this time. instead of a text, he calls.
“it was me,” he says without greeting.
your puzzled response has nothing to do with being drowsy.
i don’t often entertain the idea of the miya twins falling for the same person, but if you were their childhood friend, man.
as the three of you age, the twins begin to favor you for more than just friendship. change becomes obvious in body and mentality. the ever observant osamu notices his brother’s new interest in you and despite himself and his own feelings, he bows out regardless of any competition beginning. because he thinks atsumu loves you just a little more than he does.
thinking about firelord zuko who very quickly discards tradition as soon as you’re married.
he never walks ahead of you, always a few paces behind like he has a better view or he’s appreciating a sight only to be seen once in a life time. your fingers stay interlaced beneath heavy cloaks that bare the emblem of his home nation, but nowadays yours is stitched into the fabric with threads imported from your own. right above his. right above his heart.
zuko who’s shadow takes shape in the darkness, allowing your light to filter through a room full of opinionated others. he knows the extent of your capability extends beyond the wildest dreams, far greater than those who stand around you waiting for the crack in your visage. you’re strong, even if you stand a few heads shorter than him, your voice is loud and oftentimes the most correct in a room full of static and noise. he’d never let you feel less than, he never speaks for you, lips only parting to clear the buzz in the air and to allow attention to fall to you.
fire lord zuko who insists on being your right hand at every table — leaving you to take a seat at his head. he can’t stand the thought of eating meals at opposite ends — where the distance makes him feel lost, too far from home. he eats to your right where he can listen to the mundane up close, watch the way your lips curl around bites of food or a the words that make up tale from your tribe. he listens like the world has stopped for the two of you, like a nation in need of rule can wait another day for its lord and his princess.
in a similar fashion, he tends to you like a devout follower. even if there are handmaids and tailors and people to help. every door you’ve ever walked through is held open by him. for you. he lifts the straying edge of your train with a certain reverence, treating extra fabric like it’s an extension of you. zuko twirls the braids into your hair in the fashion that you like, undoes the lacing strings of your attire with fumbling fingers that only know the roughness of flames after a late night — because even though his mess of your garments is embarrassing, it makes you laugh in a way that warms him like honey notes in milk before bed.
zuko preps the water that laps at the tension in your shoulders and eases it away with hands that move like molten lava. rose petals bob along the surface, perform twizzles in the ripples of water that ebb around the lines of your body. worn down by work, diplomatic duties but tended to by unspoken love and adoration. zuko sinks into the tub behind you, bare and warm — his chin on your shoulder and face in your neck because that’s the only place he’s found safe enough to call home.
when you’re married to zuko, life is not instantly easier and the traditions of others still find their way into your relationship as performative duty… but he carries part of the load. he makes it simpler for you, because loving you, is simple too.
Rest in Peace to Renee Good. ICE shooting an innocent 37 year old mother attempting to protect her neighbors is not an accident or an act of self defense, it is an act of terror designed to dissuade other people from stepping in, documenting ICE violence and reminding immigrants of their rights. Her son is now an orphan and the president of the United States is calling her a ‘professional agitator’ on social media.
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