#m.osamu

[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]

roommates to lovers with osamu but instead of some big confession he randomly kisses you goodbye at the door as he’s leaving for work one day like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you don’t register it happened until he’s already gone and he spends half an hour sitting in his car head on the steering wheel having a crisis

[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]

osamu will usually drift off not long after his head hits the pillow, a few moments spent watching you with heavy eyes as he dips in and out of consciousness. tonight he’s wide awake, laid on his back to stare at the shadows on the ceiling. you’re cradled to his front, chin braced against your arms where they’re folded on his chest, watching the restlessness buzz through his skin.

“is it time yet?” he mumbles. phone face down atop his collar, you overturn it and flinch at the abrupt white light as his screen turns on.

“one more minute,” you reply, clicking into the clock app once your vision adjusts to watch closely as each millisecond passes by. it’s a comfortable silence, and his warm hand strokes along the length of your spine while you wait.

forty five. thirty. fifteen.

“ten seconds,” he abruptly blinks himself awake and you’re quick to pull up atsumu’s contact, thumb hovering over the call button. right as the digits at the top of his wallpaper change to midnight, you hasten to hit call and hold the device to his ear. at your waist, he squeezes appreciatively.

atsumu picks up immediately, and you know it’s because he was waiting on the other end, hoping to be the one that got through first. his protests are slurred and tinny in the speakers, the sound lifting a tired grin at the corner of osamu’s mouth. “shut up for a second would ya’,” he laughs, accent thickening with fatigue, “m’trying to wish you a happy birthday”.

you aren’t able to hear atsumu’s reply, but it’s clear that he’s whining. whatever it is, it causes osamu to meet your gaze, fingers toying idly with the hem of your shirt. “well, what can I say,” he murmurs, love visibly bleeding into his expression, “‘guess this year I had some help”

[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.

[shibaraki]

I love how often osamu is portrayed as the calm laidback twin when he was always beating tf out of atsumu

[shibaraki]

Osamu could definitely do the boob heart shape thing. I know he could and I would like to see it

[shibaraki]

always got my hands on osamu’s waist and lower back. I know he’s sick of me but where else am I supposed to put them smh