#hq.fics

[kuroowo]

Consider this:

Miya Atsumu, kicking his feet and giggling into his pillow when he sees a text from you asking him out on a date. Crushing hard and blushing even harder, as if you two haven’t already been dating for 3 years.

[kuroowo]

Suna “Google searched how to prepare for a picnic date & best parks in Hyogo & how to impress the person you like without coming off as too desperate but then didn’t clear his history and forgot about it until you asked him what’s the weather like for the afternoon picnic date he set up only for the previous searches to stare right back at you two and now his cheeks are on fire while you’re cooing and kissing him all over his face” Rintarō

[kuroowo]

Vampire!Osamu keeps a bunch of blood in his giant special walk in fridge. Rows and rows of blood bags after blood bags, all categorised and labelled by their tartness, blood type, umami, expiry date, and sweetness. Whenever he wants a snack or a a full meal, that’s where he goes to cherry pick his choice.

It’s also password encoded because he’s sick of Atsumu stealing them whenever he’s too lazy to hunt. But ever since you’ve allowed him to feed from your body a few months ago, he decidedly handed over the 7-digit code to his twin to clear up his stock. It was instant in how Osamu realised that no other blood, regardless of how sought after or curated they were, could ever satisfy him the way yours does. Warm and hedonic and utterly gorgeous the way it slides down his throat — he’ll have to find a way to replicate it soon because it’s the fifth time in a month now that he’s accidentally overindulged, causing you to faint in his arms, again. It’s the best meal in all his life, but that doesn’t mean he wants to lose you in the process…

…especially not when Atsumu catches a whiff.

Continued here !

[kuroowo]

A gentle twirl in the night. Your loving hand in the palm of his. The moonlight’s glow blankets your very being. Heaven’s halo in the way your hair moves, the way your smile saccharine, the way your laughter chimes — Miya Osamu’s world titls, and he is more than enchanted.

He can’t wax poetry on how your presence graces those beside you with blessings. He can’t sing melodies that seem to follow your every kind gesture. He can’t capture the essence of your soul in art his hands are incapable of making. Alas, perhaps just a little regrettably, it wasn’t in his repertoire. Not that you care in the slightest, though. No, never. Not when sincerity pours from every word he speaks to you. (How could he not?). A warm, affection thorough in the way he looks at you, regards you, takes you in as if you’re the only one in his world. (You are.). Clumsy, yet sweet, reliable, in the way he stands by your side nonetheless. And why wouldn’t he? You, who has taught him the delights in the littlest things. You, who has shown him tenderness in every depress and every mundane. You, in all your glory before him, choosing him to dance in the arms of. So otherworldly. So charming. So—

“Beautiful.”

[kuroowo]

Part of my Vampire!Osamu AU

Vampiric gastronomy purely because Vampire!Osamu saw animal blood based dishes from various cuisines online the other day and now he’s practically on his knees, begging for some of yours. Not that he hadn’t tried it before (making dishes from human blood). Of course he has, who does anyone think he is? But! He’d been so into drinking straight from the source that the possibilities hadn’t even occur to him until he saw the blood cubes and stew and so on and so on.

You let him (take your blood, again) because one, you never could resist Osamu’s adorable, pleading, puppy eyes and two, it means he’d stop biting your neck for a bit (it’s getting a bit tiring having to explain to your friends that yes, you’re completely fine and no, it isn’t against your will). Your best friend rejoices, fist pumps and whoops out loud and all, before taking almost-too-gentle, careful measures of everything. The feeling of a normal needle, as supposed to the feeling of two pointedly sharp fangs, digging into your skin feels a little odd. A little lonely even. Not that you can or will or want to explain why, but when you glance at the way Osamu frets over you(r arm), a pang pierces you and you’re not sure if you have the means to explore that right now. So you don’t. You pack it deep away and instead, you watch him fondly in his new endeavour, mixing and stirring and tasting every step of the way — a dance practiced with love in the kitchen.

Nothing beats drinking right from your neck, Osamu quite shamelessly declares, but he thinks the closest that comes to it right now is held between two wooden chopsticks in his hands. Jiggly and soft and melts away in his mouth — cubes jellied purely from your blood, sat for awhile on a warm little dish. It was a delicacy in its own right.

One where only he gets to enjoy, to hoard, to savour. His, and his alone.

[kuroowo]

Continuation of this Vampire!Osamu AU

Contrary to popular belief within the vampire community (and the supernatural and the ‘normal’ and essentially all spaces the twins occupy), despite the differences in the presentation of themselves, the Miya Twins™️ are classified as identical twins for a reason. Identical in their faces, their physiques, their hunger, their drive, their determination, their playfulness, and most of all, their tastes. The difference comes in play when it’s down to the details of the matter. Atsumu and Osamu loves volleyball, but Atsumu craves it more. Atsumu and Osamu loves food, but Osamu appreciates it more. (Nearly) Same differences, but equal ground of their own spaces to carve their selected passion into. So it only makes sense that if Osamu is to be driven to near heaven with every mouthful of your blood, then theoretically, so will Atsumu.

That makes up a quarter of the reasoning in the bleach blond’s head when he catches the ferality blazing in Osamu’s bright red eyes, hunger almost akin to a wild beast even as his twin takes another audible gulp of your blood. Osamu, who is ‘technically’ the more composed one of the two. Osamu, the first one of the two to get ahold of his wits and common sense when they were first new to the concept of control. Osamu, who damn near snarls when he catches sight of Atsumu’s golden brown swirling with edges of maroon. As if he was young and uncontrollable again. As if he was starved and not in his right mind again. And maybe he wasn’t. And maybe, definitely, the main reason why Atsumu wants a taste of you too if it’s managed to reduce Osamu to this. Especially when the saccharine scent of your rich lifeblood permeates his every sense, driving him nearly as haywire as his brother looks.

Saliva fills Atsumu’s mouth, his vision tunnelling to the skin broken on your tender neck, and he feels the entirety of his fangs sharpening against his own will. He can’t say this is the first time he’s experienced this. After all, he’s lived for quite awhile now. But it’s definitely a first in a long, long time. Where the entire room closes in on him with air as heavy as it is heady. Is he breathing? Can he even breathe? He doesn’t even need to breathe, what the hell is he talking about? And yet, the blond’s chest heaves as if he’s desperate to because what else is he supposed to do other than drown in the smell of your blood? Ambrosian and inviting and—

Oh. That’s right.

“Fuck off, ‘Tsumu.”, and Osamu growls. Growls. Like an actual animal staking its claim. Frantic and selfish in his self-entitled rights to keep you all to himself. But the Miya twins are the Miya twins and they are identical twins for a reason. Just as one is headstrong-stubborn, so is the other.

“I don’t think I will, ‘Samu.”

[kuroowo]

(Fictional) Men who are obsessed with you, but in a ‘nonchalant’ way.

I’m not talking about Miya Osamu pasting 10,000 photos of you on his walls or stalking you or kidnapping you or isolating you or killing you. That has its own appeal, I’m not going to lie, but its not what this post/HC is about.

I want Osamu knowing and memorising every bit of information about you that he’s coincidentally stumbled across (whether from you directly or your friends or someone random he’s heard talking about you). I want Osamu to be the first to wish or congratulate you on anything, and he insists on taking up your time after that with a long drawn call or date/almost date. “It’s customary.”, he says, and who are you to deny his pout? I want Osamu to drop everything he’s doing (or at least try to leave early or worry about until he can leave) at the very whisper that you’re not feeling well (mentally, physically, or both). I want Osamu to think about you whenever and wherever and it doesn’t even phase him how much he does it because it makes him too happy to care. Whether he finds his thoughts always drifting to you, whether he thinks of you (and buys it for you) whenever he sees something you like (especially stuff that you mentioned in passing), whether he automatically replays treasured memories of you two whenever he passes by a spot you’ve carved yourselves into, etc. etc. (If AFAB) I want him to subconsciously-but-not-so-subconsciously track your period, taking care of you without even having to ask anything of him. I want him to subconsciously memorise your routine and then adjust his own routines to fit with yours.

BUT nobody knows about his sort of mild obsession with you unless they pay very, very close attention. Osamu doesn’t bring you up in every conversation, nor does he latch onto the topic like a blood hound when you’re mentioned. But if you’re sharp enough, you’ll notice his rapt attention locked on like no other. He doesn’t cancel meets or promises with his other friends & family just to spend every second he can with you either, especially if he agreed beforehand. He’d either reschedule or leave a little early/arrive a little late if it coincides with something going on in your life. Osamu doesn’t beg to bring you to events if you’re not able to make it, but you’d be on his mind for at least half of the entire night. What you would’ve worn, the food you could’ve eaten together, or the people you’d both be speaking to. Hell, Osamu himself doesn’t even notice how much space you occupy in his head until Atsumu points it out because he’s usually not as attentive, as sweet, as taken, as distracted as he is with the others before you.

Osamu doesn’t think Atsumu’s right, but if it’s not harming you or him or anyone for the matter, then should he really care? He thinks, with a very dismissive shrug of his shoulders, no.

[kuroowo]

Miya Osamu reversing time with the help of a magician to exactly 6 years ago. It’s the night of his second ball again and he’s in the same suit wore — warm blue haori, long and woven with silver intricacies matching his regal stature. Osamu adjusts his collar for the hundredth time, irritating his twin for the thousandth time, until he resorts to grabbing some fresh before another petty squabble breaks out.

The night of your debutante ball. The night of his first betrayal.

He can’t fuck this up again. Not with this one in a million, billion, trillion chance given. No, he won’t be able to stand having your grief carved into his nightmares a second time, it’ll be too much. Once already was too much. Osamu determines to make things right and take your side, proudly, this time. Loudly, as he should’ve, declaring your innocence in the staged poisoning no matter what because the cascade of events caused by his blunder is too gravely to repeat. So the Prince strides in, eyes scanning the hall for you, almost too nervously to match his usual reputation, to match the nonchalance in the first timeline. Until the trumpets sound and the door pushes open, Osamu’s heart pounds in his ears as he eagerly tries to catch a glimpse of your eyes again, shining and sparkling against the beautiful cotton blue of your garment as he remembered, as he loved—

Except it’s not blue nor is it silk nor are your eyes shining and sparkling. Black as dark as night flows along your body, glimmering with each click of your pristine heels. Your eyes are relaxed, almost bored, until it sharpens into a devastating glare when you catch his doe eyes again. It shocks Osamu into a flinch, being the receiving end of your heavy disdain. He thought he’d dreamt it, but the sweat on his temple tells him otherwise.

It makes him want to keel over and hurl.

Why is this happening? This isn’t supposed to—

“I told you, Prince.”, a devilish voice whispers, “A price is paid for every spell, and yours…”

“No—”

“…is her.”