Husband Ushijima Wakatoshi who never fails to hunch his large frame down to one knee, thick rough hands from years of playing professional volleyball tying your laces when you don’t notice them first. You tell him it’s okay. He doesn’t say anything, but the way the sides of his eyes crinkle slightly tells you he’ll do it again.
Husband Ushijima Wakatoshi who always listens intently when you rants or share snippets of gossip or talk about your day. He offers thoughtful hums, agreeing nods, and grunts of disapproval, providing unfiltered opinions when he must. He doesn’t say a lot; He doesn’t need to.
Husband Ushijima Wakatoshi who comes home as soon as he can after practice, taking a quiet moment to gaze at you before heading into the shower. He so badly wants to tuck you into his arms and memorise your laugh that’s buried into his neck, but he knows the considerate thing to do is to wash up first. It takes a lot of effort not to hold you the second he steps into your shared home; He hopes that you are proud of his self control.
Husband Ushijima Wakatoshi who makes sure to note down every good restaurant or cafe or scenic spot he’s visit with his team and colleagues, because he knows you’d love to be there too. He looks out for your favourite things in everywhere he goes just so he can bring you there when you both have the time. His phone’s photo gallery might very well be yours with the majority of content being you and the things you like.
Husband Ushijima Wakatoshi who isn’t the kind of guy who tells you he loves you over and over again, but you can hear it in every little thing he does.
a/n: Not beta read, idk how many word, this was written in 30 mins I THINK. This might’ve been done before, but I’m not quite sure. Feedback is greatly appreciated. Love u kisskisskiss!!!!
You’re an awful cook. Your husband, Miya Osamu, is reminded again of how much he loves you. (..◜ᴗ◝..)ᢉ𐭩
It was uncommon that you found yourself standing stiffly in your kitchen, scrutinising the contents frying atop the stove. Most make the reasonable guess that it was because you were married to the Miya Osamu, who had took it upon himself to prepare all of your lunches since way back in high school —that which Atsumu had a good few things to grumble about.
While that may be a perfectly fair assumption, it was more so that you were not quite proficient in the kitchen. Or, as Osamu not-very-gently puts it, "yer a terrible chef, my love".
Your husband’s birthday was fast approaching, and what greater idea than to serve him a romantic dinner. While he was away at his restaurant, you figured you would practice your culinary skills before the day of.
That is if you had culinary skill to begin with.
Beads of sweat trickled down your forehead, and your lower lip had already begun to tear with the numerous times you had sunk your teeth into it. You contemplated if the tense air was due to the thoroughly charred chicken cutlet, or the clock ticking down the minutes to your husband's impending return. In fact, you were not too sure which you would rather deal with first. From the eyesore mounted up in the sink, to the wafting stench of char assaulting your nostrils, it had begun to feel all too overwhelming. You would feel almost apologetic, if not for the man you knew you married.
You see, Osamu would never criticise you; You were never worried about that. You have cooked for him before, and you both knew how that had turned out. Osamu, however, was undoubtedly and unfortunately a teasing bastard.
He would never let you live it down.
That tormenting epitome of gluttony, that endless pit of a stomach, that reincarnation of beelzebub, that-
"M' love?"
Shit.
Scrambling to action, your hands flailed and snatched at every stray utensil you saw, struggling to catch the dripping sauces in your wake.
“What the hell is goin’ on here?”, the dreaded voice exclaimed amidst the kitchen frenzy, halting you like a deer in headlights. The headlights being your husband, with an expression laced with bewilderment and, annoyingly, amusement.
Struggling to regain your composure, you cleared your throat, ignoring the warmth of embarrassment burning the back of your neck. The state of your kitchen was almost devastatingly laughable.
“Welcome home,” you replied flatly, pointedly ignoring the surrounding blasphemy. The eyebrow raise you received in return only added to the flush of your cheeks.
Osamu’s gaze scanned the scene, from the sizzling wok to the bowls of batter, and to the stray fruit sitting idly on the counter. What was that smell? He had to investigate that later.
After he kissed the love of his life.
Taking only two strides to you, his amused grin grew with every second that your composed facade fell.
Warm calloused fingers pinched at your cheeks, forcing your eyes to meet his. You promised yourself you would not feel bad, but taking in his softened expression only added to the guilt hanging heavy over your shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” you muttered begrudgingly, nudging towards the oily mess on the stove, “wanted to make you something nice for your birthday.”
A gruff laugh resounded from your husband’s chest in response as his palm circled around to your back. You were all too suddenly aware of his presence before you, how warm and stable he was pressed against you amidst the mess you had made. You would have felt flustered at the closeness if you had not already from the onslaught of teasing you knew would come. With a deep inhale, Osamu shook his head, still wearing his signature lazy grin.
“Thank you, my love,” he sighed earnestly, before adding under his breath, “but you do remember why I’m the chef, right?”
You had barely gotten out a word of retaliation before Osamu leaned in for a peck, his smiling lips pressed against yours. Even then, he pulled back as quickly as he had approached; That bastard.
Osamu leaned away from your shared warmth, battling his own want and tearing himself away from your tender arms. A sound between an endeared chuckle and a weary sigh resounded from your chest as your gaze followed your husband’s deft movements. He expertly sifted through the debris left in your wake, thick and scarred fingers curving around the scattered mess of utensils and ingredients.
Your mouth parted in protest, but Osamu caught you before words could even form, voice warm and gentle.
“I’ll handle it, m’ love.”
And he did. He always had.
It was hard to suppress the surprise at your husband’s lack of teasing despite your embarrassing failure. Yet, as you leaned against the kitchen door, the unmistakable warmth in your chest burned as unfaltering and inextinguishable as the love Osamu knew how to give you.
From his careful and undivided attention, to his almost impulsive bouts of passion, the love Osamu put into his craft seeped seamlessly into the love he had for you. Osamu stood unwavering in what he wanted and what he cared for, and you had lived that truth since the first bento box presented on your school desk.
No matter how exhausted, no matter whatever else plagued his mind, Osamu knew his place in the kitchen. Osamu knew his place in your arms. He knew that, whatever it was, if he could just watch you savour the home-cooked meals he prepared just for you, it would all have been worth it.
a/n Sorry for the LONG wait! Can u guys tell that I love domestic bliss (..◜ᴗ◝..)? Sorry if this was insanely delusional… Feedback is always welcome. Love you all to bits, & I hope you love this too :3
