Osamu whips around on instinct, confusion quickly taking over when he sees you storming straight toward him.
Fast. Angry.
Gorgeous.
He’s sure he’s never seen you before, but the way you’re looking at him, it seems you’ve definitely seen him.
You’re frowning, anger written all over your face, but all he can think is how unfair it is that someone this pissed off can look that good.
He barely has time to process what’s happening before you’re right in front of him, foot tapping, arms crossed, irritation rolling off you in waves.
“Hey asshole,” you snap, “I know you think you’re too good for this group project but if you don’t get your shit together I’m gonna shove your volleyball so far up your ass you’ll be tasting it for years”
Osamu blinks.
Once.
Twice.
“…Huh?”
“Don’t ‘huh’ me, you fake blonde” you fire back instantly.
Oh.
The dots finally connect in his brain, this is not about him. Unfortunately, that realization comes just a second too late, because you’re already going again, words sharp and relentless.
“Just because you think you’re hot shit doesn’t mean you get to ditch your part and leave the rest of us hanging!”
The dumbstruck look on his face does nothing to calm the anger burning in your stomach. You scoff, eyes rolling on instinct, “Helloooo? What, did you finally take one too many balls to the head?”
He knows he looks stupid right now. Feels it, too. Mouth slightly open, eyes stuck on you like he forgot how to function.
God.
He’s in love, has to be.
He opens his mouth, ready to correct you, maybe even flirt a little..
“Get your part done” you cut in, “You look fucking stupid in a hat, by the way”.
Ouch.
You flash him quick, biting smile, spinning on your heel and leaving in a silent fury.
He just stands there, heart beating way too fast for someone who just got verbally torn apart for no reason.
“…Man,” he mutters under his breath, a slow grin spreading across his face, “…Atsumu, yer so screwed.”
He continues his walk home like nothing happened, but your face is already burned into his brain.
That little frown.
The attitude.
The confidence.
The way you didn’t hesitate for even a second to go off on someone twice your size.
Yeah.
He doesn’t even bother fighting it.
He’s in love.
————————————————————————
A/N: Osamu “yes ma’am, whatever you say ma’am” Miya 🫡
he’s down bad.. got yelled at for no reason and thought hm yeah I want them bad
colorblind panic, twin confusion, one accidental confession, and a boy folding faster than a lawn chair in a typhoon.
wc: 1.4k request, i love osamu
i was actually struggling so much with my taglist that it’s crazy to have to go through them every upload 🧚🏻♀️
the gym smells like varnish, sweat, and destiny wearing a cheap wig.
inarizaki after practice is a zoo that learned how to jump serve. shoes squeal. someone yells about lost tape. the echo turns everything into a rumor. to you, the whole place is grayscale soup, shadows stacking on shadows, sound doing most of the heavy lifting. people forget colorblindness doesn’t mean blurry. it just means the world decided to be dramatic and took away the highlighters.
you’re clutching your phone like it owes you money.
today is the day. the big day. the day you tell yourself in the mirror, out loud, that you’re not going to die from a confession. your heart, meanwhile, is beating like it’s trying to qualify for nationals without you.
osamu miya is the problem. the solution. the entire syllabus.
you’ve rehearsed. you’ve practiced in the shower. you’ve practiced while walking. you’ve practiced while eating rice and nearly choked because your brain went, what if he laughs. what if he says thanks like a customer. what if he thinks you’re joking. what if—
no. no spiraling. that’s why you’re here. atsumu will help. atsumu always has opinions, even when nobody asked. especially then.
you spot him across the court. same height, same build, same posture that says twin. hair? irrelevant. your eyes offer you two identical silhouettes and say good luck.
you jog over, heart in your throat, brain switching to emergency mode.
“atsumu,” you say, too loud, too urgent, grabbing his sleeve because if you don’t anchor yourself you might float into the ceiling. “i need help. like. now-help.”
the twin looks down at your hand, then your face. there’s a pause. a suspicious pause.
you barrel on before the universe can stop you.
“i need help confessing to osamu.”
silence drops like someone unplugged the gym.
somewhere, a volleyball thumps once and rolls away, abandoned.
the twin in front of you blinks.
once.
twice.
you don’t notice. you’re already pacing in a tight circle, words spilling like you shook a vending machine too hard. “i mean i know it’s dumb, and i know i shouldn’t ask you because you’re his brother and that’s probably illegal in some countries, but i can’t do this alone. my chest feels like there’s a marching band in it. and he’s so— he’s just— he looks at me like i’m something he already decided on, and that’s terrifying, and i keep thinking i should say something casual but then my mouth wants to say something unhinged like please marry me or please never leave, and those are not first-confession words, right?”
you finally stop and look up.
the twin’s mouth is doing something strange. not smiling. not frowning. something feral-adjacent. like a fox just realized the henhouse door is open.
“ya want advice,” he says slowly, voice softer than you expected, “on how to confess. to osamu.”
“yes,” you say, nodding hard. “please. you’re my last hope. don’t tell him i’m asking you this. i will simply pass away.”
another pause.
he lifts your hand off his sleeve very gently. like it matters. like it’s fragile. he doesn’t let go immediately. just adjusts your grip so your fingers are curled around his wrist instead, thumb brushing bone.
“ya sure about this,” he asks.
“yes.”
“real sure.”
“yes!”
“ya can’t tell twins apart today?”
you squint. “i never can. not unless you stand next to each other. you know this.”
he exhales. a laugh tries to escape and gets swallowed whole.
“alright,” he says. “i’ll help.”
relief floods you so hard your knees wobble. you squeeze his wrist without thinking. “thank you. thank you. okay. okay. what do i say. do i compliment him first? is that weird? i like his hands. is it creepy to say i like his hands. they’re just— they look like they know what they’re doing.”
his grip tightens.
“hands’re good,” he says, voice gone rough around the edges. “means ya noticed.”
“i notice everything,” you say miserably. “that’s the problem.”
he tilts his head, studying you like you’re a puzzle he’s already solved but wants to admire anyway.
“tell him the truth,” he says. “simple. honest. don’t dress it up too much. he ain’t the type that needs fireworks.”
“but i feel like fireworks,” you whisper.
something dark and pleased flickers across his expression.
“then say that,” he murmurs. “say bein’ around him makes things loud in your chest. say ya chose him. people like bein’ chosen.”
you nod, absorbing it like gospel. “okay. okay. and then what if he says he doesn’t feel the same.”
the gym feels colder.
he steps closer. your toes nearly touch. he smells like soap and sweat and something warm and grounding. food, maybe. comfort.
“he won’t,” he says, too sure.
you laugh weakly. “you don’t know that.”
he leans down so his forehead almost touches yours.
“i do,” he says. “trust me.”
your heart stutters. you swallow.
“okay,” you breathe. “okay. i’m gonna do it. i’ll go find him.”
he doesn’t move.
you look up. “uh. are you gonna—”
“no need,” he says. “he’s right here.”
the words take a second to land. they slide around your brain like marbles.
then click.
your stomach drops through the floor.
slowly, painfully, you look at his face again. really look. the curve of his mouth. the steadiness in his eyes. the way he’s holding you like he already knows where you fit.
“wait,” you say. “wait. you’re—”
“osamu,” he finishes for you, smiling now. “hey.”
the gym comes back in a rush. sound crashes in. blood roars in your ears.
you make a strangled noise that might be a scream trying to become a word.
“i— i thought you were— i’m so sorry— i didn’t—”
he chuckles, low and fond, and cups your cheek before you can combust. his thumb brushes under your eye, grounding, steady.
“it’s alright,” he says. “kinda perfect, actually.”
“i just asked you how to confess to yourself,” you whisper, mortified.
“ya did.”
“that’s the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“nah,” he says. “most romantic.”
you stare at him.
he waits. patient. like he’s been waiting a long time.
your heart decides to be brave without consulting you.
“okay,” you say, voice shaking but clear. “fine. i’ll continue.”
you take a breath so deep it feels like it scrapes your ribs.
“i like you,” you say. “i like you a lot. being around you feels like my life gets turned up. like everything’s louder and better and scarier. i think about you when i shouldn’t. i choose you even when i don’t mean to. and i’m scared, but i don’t want to be quiet about it anymore.”
the gym is silent again.
osamu’s face goes very still.
then his hands slide to your waist, firm, certain, like there was never another option.
“good,” he says softly. “i was hopin’ ya’d say that.”
you blink. “you were?”
“been hopin’,” he admits. “for a while.”
he leans in, forehead resting against yours, breath warm. “i was already yours. ya just caught up.”
your laugh comes out wet and shaky. “that’s not fair.”
“never said i played fair,” he murmurs.
he kisses you then. slow. careful. like he’s savoring something he cooked himself. the world narrows to the press of his mouth, the way his thumb traces your jaw, the way his other hand anchors you like you might drift away if he lets go.
when he pulls back, your legs feel like suggestions.
“so,” he says, eyes bright. “we’re confessin’, yeah?”
you nod, dazed. “yeah.”
“good.” he brushes his nose against yours. “i’m keepin’ ya.”
there’s something in his tone. something possessive and warm, like a blanket that also locks the door.
you should be nervous.
you just feel safe.
later, when the gym empties and the lights dim, osamu walks you out, fingers laced with yours like it’s obvious. like it’s always been this way. at the door, atsumu squints at you, then at his brother, then groans.
“seriously,” atsumu says. “i leave for five minutes.”
osamu grins and pulls you closer.
“she got the better twin,” he says.
you laugh, leaning into him, grayscale world suddenly feeling very full.
and somewhere deep in his chest, something settles, satisfied, already planning a future where you never have to tell twins apart again because you’ll always know where you belong.
n: now, do not mind that things sound a lil dark, idk what came over me to add some possessive tones in there.
when you started dating atsumu, you didn't realise it meant getting to know not one, but two people. you've been together for a little over a month now and even if you haven't yet met osamu, you sometimes wonder which twin you actually know better.
logically, it should be your boyfriend, right? but then one evening, while cooking red beans, you pause and think, ‘ahh osamu probably wouldn’t love that seasoning’. that's when it hits you—your boyfriend has the habit of bringing up his brother way more than he’d ever admit. only a few weeks into your relationship and you’re already stocked with random facts like: “ya know ‘samu loves matcha cookies, but it's disgustin' right? chocolate cookies are just better” when you’re at the grocery store. and “those are 'samu's favourite snacks. he hit me once just 'cause i ate 'em. they're not even that good. he's such a dickhead.” when you're watching a movie.
every time, he insists on the fact that he likes the exact opposite of whatever osamu does. but you don’t say anything. because, well—deep down, you realise that's just his way of loving his brother, fondly and absolutely.
so when you finally meet the infamous osamu for the first time, you make sure to prepare him his favourite dish (too bitter to atsumu's taste), get his favourite beer (“'samu loves kirin, i prefer asahi!”) and even light a candle with his favourite scent (apple pie; even though atsumu would have chosen salty water).
“that's so good. how’d ya even know i liked that?” osamu asks, his eyes wide.
you steal a glance at your boyfriend, who’s completely clueless, and smile.
disclaimer: accidently mixed up bighit and hybe, sooo DONT come for me
vol. 1: #damn
previous next series masterlist
martin's recently been on his A-game, debuting in a boy group, having the fans he's always wanted. on the big screen making people who don't even know him, proud of him.
it's been three months after debuting his new group "CORTIS" and he couldn't be happier.
one thing leads to another and martin has found himself doomscrolling on various social media's until on post in particular catches his attention. Hybe. Hybe Label's new post. their new girl group. he doesn't think much of it until he sees the one person he thought he pushed aside, the distraction he needed to get away from, who he thought he'd never seen again until his eyes landed on you. y/n, the girl he talked to for months, the girl he led on, and the girl he ghosted all together. and now she's debuting? damn, she looked gorgeous. he couldn't deny that.
as he's sprawled across his bed, a questions start to pop into his head. 'do i miss her?' 'does she remember me?' 'damn...i wonder if she thinks about me.' his silent questions still the air, not his normal airflow throughout the house, more tense. like it has some meaning or something that martin needs to understand before it's way too late.
he's reading through comments, trying to find anything about her again, though he tries to keep a low profile. while looking through the comments, james texts the groupchat.
a/n: ew this lowkey sucks but uhhhh, ive had this done for like two weeks debating if i should post...
Could i have a soft drabble with osamu, just him and reader cooking together in a warm, kind home?
Thanks a bunch hun❤️🧡
Rain is pelting the windows, blurring the world outside into a greyish thing. The dryer beeps, and you leave your perch by the window to pull out laundry, slipping into one of Samu's hoodies in the process.
You hear him whistling before he's even through the door, bringing with him the smell of rain and your neighbour's cigarettes.
"Hey," he leans in for a kiss as you walk past. "You smell good."
"You too," you tell him, pulling him in for another kiss. He tastes like cool air and a curry bun he must have sneaked in during his grocery run. "Laundry is done."
"Great. Are you hungry?"
"I could eat."
"They had a new Chili Oil at the store, how does Ramen sound? Or do you want something fried?"
"Both?"
"Good choice," he nods, his mind already in the kitchen even if his body is still pressed against yours.
"Samu?"
"Yeah?"
"Kiss me properly before you start cooking, okay?"
His smile is boyish and bright, and his kisses taste the same. "As you wish."
Juanki and Samu got inducted into the International Tennis Coaches Hall of Fame!
They also received the Bob Brett Mentoring Award and were given the title of an ESTESS International Master Professional by the Professional Tennis Coaches Association (PTCA) for their magnificent coaching careers.
