#m.atsumu

[shibaraki]

reckon atsumu calls osamu ugly while they’re in the middle of an argument and osamu just stares at him in complete silence waiting for him to realise

[shibaraki]

constantly plagued by atsumu being the older twin I bet he tries to use it as a trump card but nobody ever believes him when he tells them

[shibaraki]

god look at him. look again. is this not the best thing you have seen today

[shibaraki]

need atsumu to sit on my face asap nothing else can fix me

[shibaraki]

atsumu is the type to pout when you run errands without him. he’s so dramatic about it too. don’t u know grocery shopping is his LOVE LANGUAGE

[shibaraki]

saw a tiktok where one twin brother had a family and his kids would call the other twin ‘uncle daddy’ now I can’t stop thinking about the miya twins

[shibaraki]

atsumu leaning idly against the counters as you mill about the kitchen. deciding to lift himself and sit on the surface, vying for a moment of your attention, because he knows it bugs you. he wasn’t expecting that you’d settle between his legs, your soft hands squeezing appreciatively at his bare thighs and sliding up beneath the hem of his shirt, massaging gentle circles into firm skin as you feel across the expanse of his chest. his lips part expectantly when you push up onto the balls of your feet, pulled into your magnetism, mouth wet as your noses bump, an air of anticipation in the small space between your bodies. a vulnerable giddiness sparks low in his belly, heat rushing to the surface and painting his neck pink, breath hitching with the flinch of his abdomen away from insatiable fingers. he whines when the distance remains, and he can hear the smile in your voice as you speak, tracing your thumb along the inside of his waistband.

“what?” you murmur, “if you want something you should ask for it”

[shibaraki]

whenever a new season starts up you’ll frequently arrive home to find your husband in the kitchen with his phone propped up haphazardly atop the counter, bickering away at Atsumu on speakerphone as he walks back from practice. Osamu will soften at the sight of you in the doorway, you’ll exhale through the pervasive smog of sentimentality, and he’ll mouth a silent welcome home over his twins mutterings.

the warm acknowledgment is no invitation, and you’ve no desire to interrupt. intuitively, you’d always known that those moments would only ever be for them.

some days you’ll be privy to muffled boasts of a new serve record or a half hearted jibe at Osamu’s chosen profession, others you might hear nothing at all. just the quiet hum of passing cars, or a short gust of wind that distorts the audio, or an exasperated sigh between the silences that it might start ta’ rain soon, and ya still have my umbrella at home, shitty ‘samu. their voices will carry throughout the house until they have had their fill of familiarity and comfort, and you wait contentedly while they walk home together again — as they always have.