beach msby4 and beach femsby4 !! first (proper) colored hq art
found out recently that when u edit a post with a new version of your art it doesn’t update previous reblogs, and now i’m forever haunted by the fact that there are like 10 variations of my drawings out there. how am i supposed to live laugh love under these conditions
so now i’m trying to be more careful before posting, tryna wait a day or two after finishing the art so i can spot mistakes 🙂↕️
When you slam open Atsumu’s bedroom door and plop yourself onto the carpet next to him, he barely looks up from his phone.
“Ever heard of knocking?”
You lay belly down on the floor and scream into the worn fuzz of the carpet.
“Gross. You know our bare, unwashed feet walk on this floor right?”
He offers you a pillow and you take it, squishing it between the floor and your face. Atsumu waits for your breath to run out.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Atsumuuuuu…” you bemoan. “I’m going through a crisis.”
He says nothing, continuing to scroll on his phone but you can tell you’ve garnered some of his interest.
“I have a secret. Like one that I can’t tell anyone.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s so shameful. I’ve been keeping it to myself for, like, ever.”
“Yeah, I bet I couldn’t guess what it is.” The sarcasm is completely lost on you.
“Yeah. You’d make fun of me. It’d be material for you to tease me for a lifetime,” you pause, take a deep breath. “I-
“-have a big fat crush on my brother?”
You gape. “What?”
He looks up from his phone. He blink at you, like you’re any simpleton. “You,” he says slowly, punctuating each word, ”have a big, fat, embarrassing, crutching, debilitating crush on my brother.”
“I didn’t even realize you knew so many big words-”
“What?”
The two of you freeze up.
“‘Samu!” Atsumu exclaims. “Thought you weren’t gonna be back until later tonight.”
“I wasn’t.”
He gives no other explanation. You stay still, hoping that if you don’t move or breathe, he won’t notice you. The silence stretches.
“Ohhh.. kay. Well, I better go. You kids-”
You jolt awake at that, in disbelief that Atsumu would flee alone after what he’s done.
“I’ll go with!” You turn and run, making monumental efforts to avoid a dark eyes trained on you.
You’re about to squeeze past when a hand slams against the doorframe, arm now blocking off your exit. Osamu stares hard at you while your gaze stays glued to the exit beyond, though it’s more like you’re staring at his bicep which is now stationed at your eye level.
“I’m just gonna go…” you hear Atsumu mumble, ducking under Osamu’s arm barrier, stealing your escape route.
“Jackass-” you mumble.
“Hey.”
The low voice comes from right above your head.
“Osamu,” you greet, still staring at his arm. “I gotta go. I have plans-”
A finger comes up to lift your jaw. It’s careful, but still forceful. When your eyes finally meet his, the one finger turns into two which grip your chin in place.
“Was what Atsumu said true?”
It takes a lot for you to hold back a stutter. “Sounds like you heard him loud and clear to me,” you say, ready to slap his hand away.
“I did.”
“Then why are you still asking-”
“If it’s true,” he leans down, talking slowly. It makes you start to hyperventilate. You need a paper bag or something. “I don’t wanna hear it from my stupid brother.”
His eyes are mesmerizing, captivating. Not even the many, many years of knowing him dulls the effect of his straightforward gaze on you. You think you hear someone concede, “it’s true.”
“What’s true?” he whispers. He’s so close you feel his words ghost your mouth.
Autopilot talks. “That I have a big fat crush on you.”
He eats up the next millimeter of space.
“Yeah?” he murmurs against your lips.
Suddenly, his neck is caged inside of your arms and you’re licking up his familiar minty breath and surely this all isn’t your doing because your brain is still catching up.
His smile widens against your lips and you can feel the smugness radiate off him.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have interrupted, then.”
That clears the fog. You shove his shoulders away and try to ignore the fact that he doesn’t go very far.
“Why?” you demand.
He kisses you again. “‘Cause my brother’s got a big mouth.”
You tilt your head in confusion. Osamu takes it as an invitation to slot his face better against yours.
His kiss almost makes you forget your train of thought, but that’s okay because he answers your question anyway.
“And he probably would’ve blabbed that I have a big fat crush on you too.”
four drink rule - suna rintarou/f!reader (1.6k)
sfwish, a bit silly, alcohol mention, enemies to something, samu dying a hero's death
atsumu slumps down into the banquette seating lining the wall of the club, exhausted.
there's a mysterious stain on the upholstery next to his thigh; the music is so loud it's rattling his teeth; and it's so hot in the crowded, rowdy space that the thin material of his dress shirt is sticking to him, even with the three top buttons undone.
this was supposed to be a night out with old friends.
this was supposed to be fun.
but now he just wants to go home.
"how many's she on?" his twin appears before atsumu, a drink in each hand. osamu mercifully hands the full one over to him.
atsumu accepts the drink gratefully, not a damn clue what it is, and takes a healthy swig. it burns a little on the way down, and does little to parch his actual thirst, but it's better than nothing. he swallows, panting lightly as he drags the back of his hand over his slick mouth.
"three—"
osamu nods, turning his head to scan the crowd of bodies.
"—what about suna?"
osamu takes a sip of his own drink, a less gluttonous one than his brother had. he turns back to his brother and gives him a pointed look as his adam's apple bobs.
he sighs, and the sound seems to come from deep within him. "three."
"who's watchin' him now?" atsumu asks.
"aran-kun."
atsumu's brow arches at his brother's response. "aran's supposed to be watchin' her."
they share a look. the beat in the song playing over the sound system drops. they're moving towards the thick of the crowd before they know it.
they find aran relatively quickly, near the bar where osamu had left him with suna, but he is horrifyingly alone.
"where is he?"
"where is she?”
the twins speak at the same time, tones equally accusatorial.
aran rolls his eyes lightly, shaking his head. "relax, they got into one of their spats and she stormed off a while ago, and he said he was gonna go see if he could steal a cig off someone outside while i got another drink."
both of the twins nod, slightly relieved.
osamu’s eyes sweep the surrounding area for a moment.
"aran-kun... where's your drink?"
aran looks over at the bar where he must have left his glass, but finds nothing there but a ring of condensation where his drink once sat.
he looks back to the twins to meet two identically wide pairs of eyes.
"god damn it.”
atsumu runs his hands through his peroxide blonde hair, gripping the strands roughly in frustration. “aran! the Four Drink Rule is in place fer a reason! it’s sacred!”
"yeah, yeah I know," aran sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he squeezes his eyes closed.
atsumu stomps his foot—actually stomps it, like an overgrown child—and laments ”this never woulda happened if kita-san were here!"
“kita-san’d never be caught dead in a club, but at least they behave themselves when he’s around," his twin reminds him, more composed than his genetic counterpart. the more level-headed of the two evaluates his options momentarily. “tsumu, you go check outside and see if you can find that dickhead. i’ll look for her. aran why dontcha take a lap and see if you can find ‘em in any… dark corners.”
aran’s nose crinkles in disgust.
“why do i get the worst job?” he gripes.
“yer the one that lost track of ‘em,” osamu says sternly, and aran can’t refute his logic even if he hates it.
they part ways, and osamu approaches the bar—waiting for the bartender to turn her attention towards him as his fingertips tap the sticky surface of the bartop impatiently.
finally the woman approaches.
“sorry to ask ya this,” osamu sighs, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, “did a girl come through here recently? real feisty, probably ordered a lemon sour with no ice, about—“
he intimates your approximate height to the bartender.
“—yea high?”
the bartender actually laughs a little bit at how defeated osamu seems, nodding her head.
"yeah, I served her a lemon sour with no ice a couple minutes ago. maybe 10? only remember her because she told me i wasn't allowed to tell some big guy with bleached hair. she made me pinky promise and everything.”
osamu knocks his fist between his eyes. yeah, that was definitely you.
“everything okay?” the bartender asks warily, watching osamu cycle through all five stages of grief in the expressions on his face.
“oh yeah, we’re fine. thanks fer yer help though, miss, and ‘m sorry about the trouble.”
atsumu, aran, and osamu all meet up again where they’d left each other—a few minutes older and substantially more grim.
“couldn’t find ‘em.”
“he wasn’t outside.”
“she got a fourth drink.”
they all relay their findings one after the other, the bad news compounding.
osamu looks at atsumu. atsumu looks at aran. aran looks at osamu. then the order repeats itself in reverse.
“i’m not doin’ it,” atsumu is the first to speak up, staunch and adamant. “i’m tired of baby sittin’ those two brats every time we go out. if they wanna down four drinks and end up suckin' each other’s faces off and bumpin' uglies in a nasty ol’ bathroom that’s their problem!”
“but we’re the ones that have to deal with the fallout, ‘tsumu!” his brother argues. “suna’s gonna complain about her not replying to the stupid memes he sends like a lovesick idiot for the next two weeks, minimum. and she’s gonna blame us for not stopping her!”
“i agree with atsumu, we’ve been doing this for years. if they can’t admit they like each other that’s between them and god.” aran shrugs, equally exasperated with the foolishness. he’s been dealing with this for too damn long.
osamu tilts his head back and looks up at the ceiling, watching the way the club lights flicker across the black tiles overhead.
“if you guys help me figure out where they are, i’ll be the one to break ‘em apart.”
“deal.”
“fine.”
it doesn’t take them long really, once ginjima informs the three of them that he spotted you and suna slipping into an out of order washroom near coat check not fifteen minutes prior. suna’s hand had been, according to akagi’s chipper contribution, so far up your shirt it looked like ‘that scene in alien when the alien pops clear outta their chests!’
osamu stares at the out of order sign on the bathroom door for longer than he cares to admit; mustering his resolve, saying a prayer, lamenting the day of his own birth, etc.
he casts a look down to the other end of the dimly lit hall (predominantly used by staff) to where atsumu, aran, and a few other of their friends are watching him like spectators standing on the dock to send ill fated soldiers off to war. atsumu waves him on encouragingly.
osamu sighs.
he pushes the door open.
“haa, please, rintar-MMPH!”
osamu fights back a gag as the door swings closed and the bathroom falls deathly silent.
he hears the drip of water from a leaking tap, the distant thrum of bass from the music outside.
“you two are gross, y’know that?”
osamu can see suna’s shoes under the door of the bathroom stall nearest to him. your shoes slowly appear on the ground just in front of suna’s, dropping down into view from above.
“i’m not leavin’ without the two of ya, so put yer junk away and get the hell out here,” osamu demands, crossing his arms over his chest.
“my junk’s not even out yet,” suna mutters sullenly from behind the door, and he hears a smack a moment later.
there’s a bit of shuffling that osamu doesn’t want to picture and the stall lock clicks open.
well, at least you two had the decency to lock one door.
the stall door opens a crack, only to slam closed again a moment later.
“hey!” osamu hears you complain.
“you know we don’t actually have to go out there, right? he’s not our boss.”
“get your grubby hands off of me,” you hiss, and there’s another audible scuffle. finally the door to the stall is wrenched open, and you step out.
your hair is a mess. your skirt is creased. your makeup is running. osamu doesn’t dwell too long on the way you’re walking like you’re weak-kneed in the interest of preserving his own sanity.
“god i can’t stand you,” you hiss over your shoulder towards the stall where suna is also emerging, looking equally dishevelled—though notably more smug than you do.
“i’ve got a seat i can offer if you’re looking for one,” suna says, a smirk tugging the corner of his swollen, rosy lips up. there's lipstick streaking across his mouth, jaw, and neck.
“i’m never doing this again,” you say adamantly, grabbing your purse off of the bathroom counter beside osamu, where you’d evidently hastily cast it aside, avoiding his judgemental gaze as you do so.
osamu wants to echo your statement.
you tug the strap of your bag up over your arm and stomp towards the door of the bathroom with your lipstick still smeared down your chin. osamu turns to look at his friend, his expression flat and unimpressed, but suna’s preoccupied watching you go, eyes glued to the doorway until the door swings shut behind you—the ignored OUT OF ORDER sign fluttering sadly.
it’s quiet again once you’re gone, and suna turns to look at osamu with a dopey, self-satisfied smile. he sighs happily.
cw: alcohol, mildly suggestive, don’t take it seriously
"You need to stop talking to my boyfriend," you cross your arms and stare defiantly (drunkenly) at the black-eyed beauty who's been brazenly threatening your relationship.
"I work with him," Sakusa says, looking as nonplussed as Sakusa gets. Mostly, he looks pissed off (sober). This doesn't deter you.
"Don't you think it's breaching professional boundaries? To let him obsess over you all day and not shut him down?"
"This seems like a conversation you should be having with him."
"I do," you complain. "But all he does is - that!" You gesture to Atsumu, whose head is cocked to the side as he watches the two of you, a dopey grin on his face.
"He always looks like that. Surely you knew this before you entered a long-term relationship with him."
"He used to only look like that at me," you pout. "Now it's 'Omi-kun' this, 'Omi-kun' that. He's in love with you, Sakusa. Just take him. He deserves to have what he loves."
"I am not interested in your sopping puppy of a boyfriend, or in your strange way of asking for a threesome," Sakusa says.
"Threesome?" Atsumu perks up.
"Down, boy," you sigh. He scoots up close to you, nosing at your neck, pressing delicate kisses that surprise you with their intention and precision. Sometimes you forget he's such a good kisser, though he's always quick to remind you.
"Let's go home," Atsumu offers, your home, the one you share with him.
Sakusa rolls his eyes and turns to talk to Meian.
"You should know by now," your boyfriend keeps talking, even as you're shrugging on your coat. "How much I love making you jealous, how badly I want you when you mark what belongs to you."
"You wanted a threesome with Sakusa," you shake your head fondly, running a hand down his thigh.
"Well," Atsumu nips at your ear. "You can't see the way he looks at you. You're not the only one who likes to show off what's yours."
“You have crazy eyes,” Oikawa says offhandedly, setting a glass down and leaning hard on a wooden table, long legs crossing over each other elegantly.
“I do not,” Iwaizumi retorts. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Mhm,” Oikawa pushes his head into the other man’s line of vision, dodging as Iwaizumi unfolds his arms to make an attempt at pushing him away, his gaze locked on the other side of the deck all the while. “Nothing’s happening, that’s why the vein in your forehead is about to pop. You’d think he’d notice the big dumb guy staring at him this whole time.”
“I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” says Iwaizumi, casually posing his arm to rest on the table, open palm up.
“Maybe he has noticed and he’s just ignoring it?” Oikawa squints, dropping his (prescription, but don’t you dare tell anyone) sunglasses down his nose for dramatic effect. “A braver man than me, then.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Iwaizumi says, but his fingers twitch, not quite a fist and not far from being one. His eyes are an olive orchard burning. As Oikawa said: crazy.
You are: oblivious, blithe, gorgeous. The tops of your shoulders are sun-warmed and you’re swirling a glass of red in your hand, the contented lilt of your smile familiar to him after many nights watching your favorite wine stain your lips. He sees you sway a little, your eyes popping wide as you realize all too quickly that you might be a little further past tipsy then you’d thought, and the bastard you’re talking to puts his hands on you. One on your shoulder, one on your waist to steady you.
Hajime’s always had a penchant for parkour when he’s drunk, and you and he have been taking sips of each other for days now. He slams a palm down on the hard wood, momentarily airborne as he jumps over the table and cuts through the other people standing around to get to you.
“Hey,” he says, grin looking a little feral as he watches the hands on your waist come off. The guy’s movements are jerky, looking at him like what the hell, man? Iwaizumi has no idea why.
“Hi, Haji,” you say, your lips curling into a warm smile. “This is Naoto. He’s from the same place I am, actually.”
“Cool,” Hajime says, extending a hand to shake like he learned at networking mixers at UCI. Naoto stares at him for a second and then takes it cautiously, wincing as Hajime crushes his fingers in his best arm-wrestling champ grip. “Good to meet you.”
Naoto clearly does not think it is good to meet him. He steps back upon release and makes a rushed goodbye to you, citing a group of friends he suddenly needs to find urgently. You smile and wiggle your fingers at him vaguely, already far more focused on the sun setting over the waves past the terrace than you are on whatever is happening between the two of them. Hajime steps up behind you, sliding a hand over your waist, his palm covering the surface area touched by Naoto. You put a soft hand over his, stroking slowly over his calloused knuckles, and hook your other arm back to tug him forward so he’s pressed against your back, bending so he’s cheek-to-cheek with you, watching the water undulate.
“You havin’ a good time?” His voice is a little rough from the clear liquor he and Oikawa were drinking paired with the effort of keeping his voice quiet, his concern just for you.
“Yes, sir,” you say, taking another sip from your glass. You hold it across your chest and he wraps his fingers around the delicate stem, putting his mouth right over the print yours left. “You?”
“Of course,” he says. “It’s beautiful out here. I think Shittykawa got sunburnt on the beach, though.”
“His fault for being pale,” you wave your left hand dismissively. He wants to pin you like a butterfly, your wrist arched gracefully against the darkening sky. “He has all those fancy skin creams to stop it from flaking, too.”
He feels a little bad for abandoning his best friend, but when he turns his head to check on him, the other man has reunited with Makki and Mattsun, who are all clustered together while taking photos of the two of you. Oikawa’s features specifically are spelling out something very smug and that will be very annoying for Hajime later. Iwaizumi concludes that he will probably survive thirty seconds without direct entertainment from him.
“He gets bad flush, too,” he thinks aloud. “Maybe it’s nothing.”
“See?” He hums and rubs his thumb over your top where he’s holding you with the right hand, soothing circular patterns. He can almost feel you purring. “I can always tell when you’ve started drinking for the night because Kawa gets red and you start running around and climbing things.”
“I don’t,” he protests, but it dies in his throat. You shake in his arms as you laugh.
“You always do. You tried to climb up my balcony once, remember? You said you could beat the elevator up.”
“I would’ve done it if security hadn’t come out,” he grumbles. You take your glass back and put it on the railing. It’s perilous, but Hajime doesn’t say anything. If it spills over your outfit, he’ll follow you back to the room and help you change.
“When I met you, I didn’t expect you to be the crazy type,” you say, turning so your lips brush his skin as you speak. “You seemed so steady compared to Kawa.”
“Only crazy about you,” he says. You sigh happily and melt back into him. He exhales slowly, a controlled breath, and wonders how a bastard like him got so lucky.
(kageyama, after drunkenly hooking up with you, struggles to understand what he's feeling in the days that follow. he sits with hinata in a busy cafe one afternoon, hands clasped pensively under his chin as his coffee goes cold.)
tobio, unprovoked: what does it mean when the thought of someone you've known for years and who has only ever annoyed you suddenly makes your dick hard?
shoyo, visibly trembling, all the colour draining from his face: what the fuck did you just say
what a beautiful time of year everyone is growing veegtables for me spacifically, one problem though you need to make fences shorter im sure its a mistake but i cant reach some of them
Stormy landscape; rays of sunlight breaking through clouds and falling on lake and green meadow, hills beyond - Penry Williams - c.1855-1885 - via The British Museum
cw: extremely suggestive (all dialogue, no action), mostly just ridiculous. everyone is so horny to the point of being weird sorry
there’s a narrow beam of light thrown between the wing curtains that you’re being so careful to stay out of. you were holding cue papers at some point, but now you’re not. you’ve been frozen ever since the first time you looked into the light.
you okay?” akaashi, your lovely, patient, kind manager says. “i’ve never seen you look so nervous before a speech.”
“i’m battling with my flesh,” you say.
“okay,” he says, rolling his tongue in his mouth briefly. “and what exactly does that mean?”
“the japanese olympic volleyball team’s personal trainer is here,” you say.
“yes,” akaashi says blankly. “you’re engaged to speak to the national teams. that’s what we’re doing. are you having a stroke?”
“a stronk,” you correct him. “i watched the games just for the three seconds of screentime he had per match. oh, i need him so bad. he’s in the audience right now. i can’t talk into that microphone, i’m just going to start begging him to come up onstage and fuck me.”
“okay,” akaashi says again. then he doesn’t say anything else.
“i wouldn’t even need to touch him. we could have, like, hot tantric sex where i just get to look at his face and maybe his shoulders. why did i say yes to this event?”
you peek back through the gap in the curtains and make an embarrassing noise when you locate the shoulders in question, spreading the fabric of a suit jacket wide.
“demonic compulsion, i suspect. wow, i wish you didn’t pay me so much so i could quit now,” says akaashi.
“sucks,” you say. “i’ll give you a bonus if you let me run away out the back door.”
“no,” akaashi says firmly. “you are going to get up on that stage and you are going to give the least horny speech of your career if it’s the last thing you do. i don’t care if you walk off and have an personal-trainer-or-whatever-induced aneurysm. you aren’t going anywhere.”
“but my flesh,” you whine.
despite it all, you get up on stage and hopefully present something relatively normal. you were blacked out for all of it, but akaashi gives you a thumbs up when you stumble into the wings on shaky legs—you’d seen him, through the spotlights, some kind of halo in your vision while his dark eyes were squinted toward you and his mouth a plush line you needed to bite—so probably you didn’t close out with and iwaizumi hajime, athletic trainer, this is a personal standing invitation to my home.
you mill around on the main floor for a bit afterwards, hoping your flushed cheeks and jumpiness aren’t visible to anyone. you don’t see iwaizumi anywhere, though, and akaashi sticks to you like some kind of service animal except the service is making sure you don’t explode your career by propositioning an olympian-by-proxy, so your nerves start to settle.
“i’m gonna freshen up,” you tell akaashi, who nods distractedly. you squint in the direction of his line of sight, toward a group of athletes looking uncomfortable in their formalwear—ah. “use protection. i can’t have you going on maternity leave.”
“bokuto-san can’t get me pregnant,” akaashi mutters, “but we’re going to try.”
“okay,” you echo his response from earlier, but he seems too dazed to notice the snark.
you step out of the bathroom, trying to fluff up your hair with your fingertips, when you hear a male voice drift down the corridor.
“—shut the fuck up, oikawa.” you know that voice. you’ve listened to every interview recorded. it’s like a voice line from a video game.
“you are way less intimidating than usual,” snorts the more melodic argentinian player.
“hard to be scary iwa-chan when you’re down this bad,” says another voice, one you don’t recognize.
“hey, don’t be mean,” says oikawa. “we’ll watch the bathroom door while you jerk off thinking about the keynote speaker.”
there’s a wordless growl. you can’t feel your knees.
“i’m not going to—” he says roughly. “what i’m going to do is get myself together and then go out and introduce myself like a regular human being and if i do a good enough job we’ll leave together and i’ll eat her out until she cries and then i’ll propose in the morning.”
“like a regular human being,” says the strange voice dryly.
“i should be locked in a cell,” says iwaizumi. “is it normal to be attracted to someone’s elbows? her blouse had the sleeves rolled up and i could see the elbows through the sleeve placket.”
“it’s not,” oikawa says comfortingly. “you are a huge freak and she will never be interested in you like this unless she is severely disturbed.”
you are, thankfully, severely disturbed. how does placket sound like a dirty word in his mouth?
“please leave me to die,” says iwaizumi. you hear a few faint, murmured acquiescences and the sounds of footsteps fading.
you only have a few precious moments between the departure of his friends and the disappearance of iwaizumi behind a door.
you walk so quickly you almost trip.
reflexively, the gentleman he is, he catches you.
“are you alright—” he starts. “oh, shit. did you hear any of that? i’m so sorry. i’ll leave the country right away—”
you notice, your skin burning under his touch, that he’s supporting you by the elbows. never before has that been an erogenous zone. all your freshening up out the door—you can see sweat beading on his upper lip you want to lick off.
“if you’re going to jerk off thinking about me,” you say, steamrolling past his squawking, embarrassed denial, “can you at least have the decency to ask for my help?”
TAGS: enemies to lovers, more like constantly annoyed to lovers lmao, friends with benefits, roommates!au, college!au, roommates!miya4, childhood best friend suna who doesnt believe in boundaries, like… he REALLY doesnt believe in boundaries, extremely inaccurate depictions of being a business major and opening a business, mutual pining but make it totally unaware idiots to lovers, somnophilia, CNC, overstimulation, possessive!osamu, banter during sex, INSANE sexual chemistry, sometimes you really just gotta fuck the guy you hate just to see what it's all about
a/n: MIYA OSAMU SOMNO STANS FOR THE FUCKING WIN!!!! thank you so so much to the person who commissioned this fic <3333
[commission honee here!]
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You've always hated him. You're not really sure why. You think maybe he might have always hated you, too.
You meet him in high school. He and his brother are in the same class as you, but you don't pay them attention at first. Not until you realize that Suna's started hanging out with them.
"Oh, that's lucky," he says, about a month into your first year. He's standing at the classroom door, phone in his hand as he peers at you and then drags his gaze to the twins on the other side of the room. "Less work for me."
Atsumu's easy enough to get along with. He matches your humor, though he jokes early on that you and Suna must be dating. When you both make matching faces of disgust — when you mutter that it's not possible to fall in love with a boy who burps in your face and used to put sand down your pants in the sandbox — it becomes clear that you and Suna will never happen.
Osamu doesn't find you funny. You don't need him to, but it grinds on your nerves to watch his empty eyes land on you, nothing forgiving behind them. When you ask him about it one day, catching him alone in the hall, he just lifts his brows.
"Nope, nothin' against you. Yer just kinda there."
You decide then, without meaning to, that you dislike him. "Just kind of there?" He nods, shrugs.
"Just kinda there."
"Are you projecting right now?"
You watch his eyes glint with something rude, his jaw clenching.
"What's that s'posed to mean?"
You lift a brow. "Nothin'. Just that your personality's just… kinda there."
His nostrils flare. It seems he's also decided. He dislikes you.
—
It continues through high school. You circle each other reluctantly, kept in place by Suna's insistence and Atsumu's childlike attachment to his friends. You all get into the same college, and you're forced to watch as Osamu agrees to sign the same lease that Suna had made you sign, the same lease that Atsumu managed to force Sakusa Kiyoomi to sign after learning that the man would be attending school with you all.
It's amazing, finding out that you can become such fast friends with someone you've just met but that you and Osamu can barely stand to be in the same room.
You find out that Osamu's a business major. You only find out because you are, too. Even if he wants to strictly sell onigiri and you want to strictly sell sweets — ice cream, cakes, sweet drinks to rot your teeth — it still feels like you're competing with him. Same classes, same projects, same extracurriculars. He's everywhere, for four years straight.
Same apartment, too.
He's not a terrible roommate, but he's your least favorite. Kiyoomi is tidy and respects your space, respects you. Suna categorically does not respect your space, but he's always been that way. Already lying in your bed when you come home, sitting at your desk when you need it most. He's like a cat in many ways, but you leave him to it because he's him. Atsumu matches your vibe no matter what, always ready to go out and party but also willing to sit on the couch with you if your energy's low.
But him. Miya Osamu? He's always got a problem with you. And you've always got a problem with him.
It's not about the roommate duties. Yes, you leave your shoes disheveled by the front door too often, and you aren't exactly sorry when he trips over them. Yes, he leaves too many dishes in the sink, and you've watched him pile them up when he's particularly annoyed at you. But, for the most part, he's clean, and you're clean, and you stay away from each other.
It's not about being roommates. It's about being near each other. All day, every day. It's about waking up every day knowing you're going to see Miya Osamu for more than half of your waking hours. It's about the fact that, even late at night when you're working in the dim light of the dining room, he's going to find his way to the same spot, claiming he can't focus in his room.
It's about the fact that, on the nights when he doesn't, you kind of wish he would.
You hate him.
You want to, at least.
You wish he didn't hate you.
But he does, so… you hate him, too.
—
"Alright, that's it for today. Don't forget that your proposals are due tomorrow at noon."
You sigh, packing your bag quickly. You hear Osamu behind you, talking to one of his friends. He should be lost somewhere in the lecture hall — he is lost, you can't see him even when you glance back — but you always hear him. Always recognize that low drawl, like your ears are attuned to him.
"Nah, nowhere close. Every time I try to work on it, I get stuck."
You listen, agreeing silently. The final project has been kicking your ass. It's the notoriously difficult capstone project for business majors, due just weeks before graduation. Design your business, from conception to execution.
It's the program's way of saying, "You want to own your own business? Prove it."
It should be a simple culmination of everything you've learned, but it feels like you're standing at the edge of a cliff and your program director is putting his foot on your back and kicking you off.
Find an open space and meet with the leasing agent. Report on the quote they give and decide its feasibility for your business, based on your projected profits and costs.
You have a full day of tours set up with an agent soon. They're all joint tours with another student, the agent claiming that this happens every year because your school is known for its gruesome expectations.
You sigh, standing and feeling the effects of the stress in your bones, your back, even the damn strain in your eyes.
You follow the long line out of the lecture hall, your gaze finally catching on Osamu, just a few people ahead of you. He's caught by an arm reaching out of one of the aisles, its fingers manicured.
"Osamu!"
You flinch. Whoever she is, her voice is too loud, too squeaky.
"Do you have plans tonight? I've been thinking-"
"Nah, I'm good." That low drawl cuts her off, quiet but sharp. "I've got this stupid proposal to do."
"Oh," she says, clearly caught off guard. You laugh under your breath, knowing very well how off-putting Miya Osamu can be. You see him clearer now, his frame blocking part of the aisle as he talks to the girl in front of him. He's glancing around like he's looking for any excuse to leave. You start to push past him, avoiding his eyes. "Well," she tries again. "Do you wanna work on it toge-"
There's a hand wrapping around your bicep, yanking you back. You make a noise akin to getting the air punched out of you, your balance thrown off as you stumble back into a solid chest.
"Wh-" You lift your head. Grey stares back. All too familiar.
"Nah," he says, eyes scanning your face before he turns back to the girl. "I've got someone. Sorry."
You want to rip your arm out of his grasp. You want to laugh in his face. You want to ask him what the hell he thinks he's doing, who he thinks he's talking to.
But you can't. You're just caught in his gaze, back on you and entirely him. Grey and deadpan, too close and too far at the same time. Looking at you like he knows you. Like he knows you better than you want to admit.
"I-" you fumble, eyes flicking between him and the girl who now looks like she's bitten into something sour.
"Oh," she mumbles. "I didn't realize you were taken. You're never together."
He's not taken, you want to say. Yell, even. But you're too flustered, glancing between them until you're dizzy.
He doesn't correct her, doesn't tell her that what he meant was that he has someone to work on the project with. Which he doesn't, if you want to really set the record straight. But that's not what she understood, and he doesn't correct her.
The girl steps past you both, nudging you with her shoulder much harder than necessary, but you don't get angry. You're still so lost.
Osamu unhands you, but he keeps staring. You blink once, and then you turn and walk away. Your head is fuzzy, static in your ears, but you just hike your bag up higher on your shoulders and follow the flow of students out the door.
You can feel him behind you. His warmth is familiar, like his clothes mixed with yours in the dryer. His scent is still washing over you, like the cologne on your bathroom sink.
You almost miss the hand that's waving you down, a few feet outside the lecture hall. It's one of the guys you did a group project with once, many months ago.
"Y/n, hey," he says, easy and calm and all thousand-watt smile.
You stutter to a stop, blinking rapidly. Why are you so caught off guard today?
"Hey," you say, approaching him. What's his name? "How are you?"
"I'm really good," he says, and then he laughs. "Besides this stupid proposal."
You laugh back, the sound empty. "Yeah. It's not great."
His eyes light up. "Well, are you doing anything today? I was gonna work on-"
His gaze finds a spot over your shoulder.
The cologne is on your bathroom sink, uncapped. You always nag him to put it away. You always tell him to stop putting his laundry in the wash with yours, too.
"She's got plans."
You should say something. But it's so damn hard sometimes.
"Oh," the guy says. "Didn't realize."
He wanders off before you can correct him. Because the assumption is still there, even when no one says it.
You never remembered his name.
You turn, finally ready to tell Osamu off.
He's already gone, taking grey with him.
—
"He's such a dick," you whine, tossing your bag down at the foot of your bed. Suna's sprawled across your comforter, scrolling on his phone.
"You say this every day," he yawns.
"He's a dick every day."
He just laughs, nodding in that placating way he's taken up every time you complain about Osamu. "You're so right, loser. When're you gonna fuck?"
You land a swing straight to his kneecap, silently setting up your laptop at your desk while he howls and clutches his limbs behind you.
"Get out. I have a proposal due at noon tomorrow."
He just whimpers pathetically behind you, and then you hear him rustling around in your bedside table. Something pink and solid smacks against your desk before tumbling to the ground.
It's your dildo, mocking you in the daylight.
"Take it," he whines. "You'll feel better after. Less violent."
You pick it up and clamber onto the bed, silencing his screams of terror with one of your many pillows as you hit him over and over again with the blunt side of the toy.
You door opens behind you after a few minutes, Suna's muffled cries for help inevitably drawing attention.
Atsumu stares blankly at you two, taking in the sight of you beating Suna's ass with a dildo. Osamu's behind him, gaze equally empty.
Suna's eyes catch on them. "Oh, thank god, you're here," he cries out. "The stress is getting to her. She needs to be fuc-agh-"
You've started beating him with the dildo again, your face burning because you'd caught the way Osamu's gaze had caught on the toy before flying away.
The door shuts behind you. You start to earnestly suffocate Suna with your pillow. His laughter a few minutes later is the only sign he's still alive.
—
Several hours and just as many cups of coffee later, you're slumped at the kitchen table, the rest of the apartment quiet and dark. Your head is in your hands, the proposal sitting open on your laptop and your notes scattered all around you.
This project has to be some kind of torture tactic. One last punch in the face between you and graduation.
A door down the hall opens. You know it by heart, even without the sound of his footsteps.
He's quieter than Atsumu and Suna, and Kiyoomi sleeps by ten every night without fail.
"What do you want, Miya?" you mumble, face still pressed into your hands.
"Nothin'," he mutters, dropping his notebook on the table lazily and taking the seat across from you. "Can't focus in my room."
"Can you focus in a different room than this one?"
He scoffs. You hear him start to type on his laptop. "Not tonight, Y/n, please. I'm not in the mood."
You sigh through your nose, trying hard to bite back a response. Knowing that he's going through the same things you are, that graduation is coming up for everyone and that you and Osamu have the same pressures weighing down on you these days.
You also know that the longer you talk to him, the more you'll want to bring up what happened earlier in the lecture hall. And you certainly don't want to do that. You don't have it in you to face whatever that was, not now and definitely not in front of him.
You choose to leave him alone for tonight, if only so you can get back to your own work. He sits silently across from you, typing on his laptop and taking notes on the page next to him. He sighs a few times, and so do you. You get up to make more coffee at some point, and he does the same a few minutes later. He taps one foot, knee bouncing, and your typing becomes louder.
It goes on for an hour.
"Could you quit it?" you finally snap, glaring at him. "You're shaking the table."
He just shakes his head, still working. "You're the one who's typing like you have a point to make. It's so fucking loud."
You groan, staring down at the time on your screen. It's almost three in the morning. The proposal is due by noon. You don't have nearly enough, and by the way he's been carding his fingers through his hair and tugging at the roots all night, you can guess that Osamu doesn't, either.
He starts to roll his neck from side to side, massaging at his shoulder with his eyes closed. He looks exhausted.
"Everything feels fucking tight," he complains. "I feel so wound up."
You wonder why he's telling you this, but you understand the feeling. "Yeah," you mumble, sighing quietly. "I feel like a rubber band about to snap."
"You act like it, too."
You scoff, starting to argue, but he's smirking to himself, eyes still closed. You sit back, eyelids heavy and head aching slightly.
"'m just so tired," you whisper. "I dunno if any of this shit's good enough."
He nods. You're amazed that he's being so easy about this, but you suppose you're being easy about it, too.
"Feels like they taught us what to do but forgot to warn us before pushing us out of the plane."
You laugh quietly, the image of a cliff coming back to you.
"Kinda wish I'd had more fun," you admit. "Slacked off more, gone to more parties, had more sex."
He doesn't even blink, completely unfazed by your crude thought. "Definitely wish I'd had more sex."
You laugh, self-deprecating. He does, too.
"Wish I found a situationship to keep on speed dial for nights like these," you sigh.
He makes a sound of agreement, doodling absentmindedly in his notebook. "Woulda made things more tolerable."
You both sit in silence, studying your respective laptop screens. Avoiding work, avoiding the part where you can only sigh and keep going.
But eventually, he stops doodling, his pen hanging there, suspended, while he stares down at nothing. You stare at the same spot, at the same nothing.
For all that you and Miya Osamu hate each other, eight years is a long time to learn a person.
"No strings," he mutters.
Your heart flies to your throat, lodging tight. You swallow around it and speak, a croak that cuts off at the end.
"No one needs to know."
He shifts. You feel his eyes on you, feel when they glance away. "Not tonight. The deadline."
Your knee starts to bounce. "But after tonight, it can be whenever we want."
His body twitches visibly. Your gaze finds him. His eyes are widening slightly, and there's a pink tinge warming his cheeks. He looks embarrassed.
"When you say 'whenever'…"
You stare. He makes eye contact and breaks it immediately, his gaze neutral but that warm embarrassment taking up way more space.
When it clicks — when you realize what he's saying — the embarrassment finds you, too. You didn't think you'd ever find out that this is a thing for him. You'd never really given it much thought before, to be honest. The idea of whenever, what that really means.
But now that you're thinking about it, giving it room to breathe… you can see why it's a thing. Why it's a thing for him, and why you don't hate the idea of it being a thing for you, too.
You clear your throat, swallow around the lump. "Whenever means whenever."
His eyelashes are pretty when they flutter like that.
"'Kay," he eventually bites, voice thick and heavy.
Yours is weak, fragile. "'Kay."
He stands, grabbing his notebook and his laptop and disappearing from the kitchen table. You hear his door close and lock.
Good lord.
—
You start to leave your bedroom door unlocked at night. He does, too.
During the day, everything is the same. He drinks the last of your milk and you drink his protein shakes. You argue over dishes in the sink and shoes by the door. But for the first few nights after that conversation, things are quiet. As the sun sets, you start to get nervous, quiet. He starts to hide in his room more.
Nothing happens, not for a week. In that time, not a single one of your roommates notices a difference. You take it as a good sign, take it as a silent kind of blessing that even Suna hasn't caught the lingering glances you keep accidentally throwing Osamu.
He must think the same, because your door finally cracks open in the middle of the night on Friday, after everyone's made it home safely from the bar. After Atsumu and Sakusa and Suna have all presumably fallen asleep or answered their booty calls' summons.
After you should be asleep. After you would be asleep, if not for the way he'd been looking at you tonight. Like it's okay to not be working just for tonight.
Your mattress sinks with his weight, and you feel him lay his fingers on your calf. He shakes gently.
"You awake?"
You find his eyes in the dark. "Need something?"
He sighs, the sound shaky. "Maybe."
Eight years is a long time to learn a person.
You don't question how easy it is to wrap your fingers around his wrist and tug him toward you, or how easy it is for him to cage you in and drop his lips to yours. You don't question why you don't feel uncomfortable or upset at the press of his mouth — warmer and softer than you'd expected — when everything else about him causes you such great distress. You don't question the quiet moans that pass through your lips when he slides his hands under your t-shirt, the low rumbles that get caught in his chest when he starts to touch you.
You just let yourself need him and don't question when he lets himself need you, too.
It's not prolonged, the first time you sleep with Miya Osamu. There's no extended foreplay, no jokes or moments of intimacy. It's sex, the kind you have when you're too drunk and desperate to bother pretending this is anything else.
Except you're not drunk, and neither is he.
So you're both just desperate.
You want to say it's a general feeling, that you just haven't gotten laid in a long time. But you can tell from how your body reacts to him — when he pries your thighs open with his, when his fingers card through your hair and tug hard, when the little sounds leaving his mouth make you clench hard around him — that this isn't about needing a quick lay. This is about him.
You should be embarrassed. Humiliated, even.
But it's him that's acting like that. Doing all this. Shoving himself between your thighs carelessly, his breath heavy. Tugging your head to the side with his fingers in your hair so he can press hickies into your throat. Moaning quietly when your back arches on a particularly hard thrust, the words 'fuck' and 'just like that' falling past his lips.
"You look good like this," he whispers at some point, his face flushed and his grip on your hips tight enough to leave bruises. "Full of me. Open for me."
His words speak of something more intimate than what this is, but it makes your tummy swim with feelings you don't want to think about. Your walls flutter around him involuntarily, and your head presses back into your pillow with a quiet whine.
His breath leaves him in one hard punch of air, and his eyes squeeze shut. His cock starts to throb inside of you, his arms trembling as he holds himself over you.
"Where d'you want it?" he bites, hips stalling.
You're panting, probably a lot louder than you should be. "Don't make a mess in my bed, Miya."
He laughs humorlessly, shaking his head. "Always so difficult," he breathes. "'s okay. I'll just make a mess inside you, instead."
You want to tell him off for enjoying this so much, enjoying the spill of warmth against your walls the way that he is. But you like how it feels, too, like how he pushes his hand down against your tummy as he rolls his hips flush into yours. Like how he looks, his mouth hanging open a little bit and his chest heaving unevenly as he stares down at you through half-lidded eyes.
You think maybe he's done, that maybe it's time to clean up. You wait for it, the inevitable emptiness and the cold that'll settle over your sweaty skin. The slight disappointment.
But he just pulls out and stares down at where his cum is dripping out of you. He catches it with the tip of his cock, making good on his promise not to make a mess. He pushes back into you slowly, nothing more than a sigh and slight shudder. His shoulders tense up slightly, and you see him shiver almost unpleasantly, but he doesn't say anything, just starting to roll his hips in the same pace as before.
"What…?" you whisper, staring down at the spot where his cock disappears inside of you.
Osamu just grabs you by the hips and starts to fuck you in earnest again. You gasp, clinging to him hard. His eyes are screwed shut, and his breath is sharper than before.
You realize only when he moans, slightly pained, that he's overstimulating himself to make sure you come.
That he's enjoying it.
You're smacked with a wave of arousal that manifests in your walls clamping down around him and your back bowing off of the mattress, nails digging into his forearms as you cling desperately to him. As you come, open-mouthed and starry-eyed.
The aftermath is humiliating.
You're both sweaty and panting. There's thumbprints bruising your skin. Scratches lining his. The air around you quiets, which means you'd both been louder than expected. Osamu stares down at you, half-exhausted and half-examining, like he's evaluating if this is what he needed.
It's humiliating to think that only you got what you needed. From Miya Osamu of all people.
But then his shoulders sag and his thumbs start to trace circles around your hip bones, almost like he's apologizing for the grip.
"You good?" he breathes, still out of breath.
You nod, sleepy but tense. Still tense around him, even after all this. "You?"
"Yeah," he chuckles. "Better than before."
It isn't comforting. It isn't what you want to hear. But it's Miya Osamu, and you know that neither of you is willing to say what the other wants to hear.
But then you catch it — the way he glances down, eyes tracing the cum that's starting to drip out of you again. Eyes registering that it's him that did that. He's the one who filled you up. He's the one who made you like this.
Something flickers in his gaze that you can't place, but your body knows what it is. Your body likes the look in his eye, so much that your hole flutters and clenches, right as he watching.
His eyebrows fly up and his gaze finds yours. It's heated. His face is warm.
You're reminded of the moment that you realized that there are things Miya Osamu is into. But now it's about you.
He doesn't speak, and neither do you.
He just notches the head of his cock against your entrance, the question lingering in the fact that he doesn't go anywhere.
Your breath catches, anyway. A grin flickers across his face, gone in a moment.
Not a single word passes between you, but the urgency — the desperation — is back. The things between you in this moment-
Overstimulation.
Possession.
-become clear. You hear them even without words. The smack of your headboard against the wall, stronger and louder. The panting, the heavy breathing, the choked moans that pass through both your lips.
It's a shame, really. There's no way your roommates can't hear this. You know you're in for the mockery of your life.
But you can't bring yourself to care.
What a shame.
You come first this time, loud and only muffled by the hand he clamps over your mouth. Your legs twitch and shake, fighting the slight pain of coming so hard so soon after the first time, but he just grips one of your thighs and bends you in half. It only takes two more strokes — hard, rough, sloppy — for him to come, too.
He makes a mess in your bed this time, cum pooling between your thighs and under your ass, but you don't care. You can't care. Even when he shudders and collapses on top of you, you can't care. You just need to sleep.
You do.
He's gone when your alarm goes off the next morning.
—
You don't see him until class, hours after waking up alone in your bed. Part of you — the part that craves touch and affection — had been disappointed, almost offended. But the larger, more rational part of you was relieved, because when you'd come out of your room, Suna had promptly bombarded you with questions of who you brought home last night.
"It sounded like a good time," he'd commented, seemingly unaware of who had visited your bed last night.
You'd flushed, humiliated, and muttered something about the noise, that you would be better about it next time. He'd lifted his brows and grinned.
"So there will be a next time."
You'd just flipped him off and gotten ready for the day, careful to cover the hickies lining your throat.
Now, several hours later, you're shocked to find Miya Osamu dropping down into the seat beside you with a sigh, his bag heavy at his feet.
You turn, wide-eyed, and take him in.
His clothes are rumpled and his hair is disheveled, like he'd rushed out of the house this morning. There are hickies in the crook of his neck.
But he looks good. There's a glow to his skin and he looks like he slept well. And a quick flick of his eyes to yours betrays that he's pleased you look the same.
"What's this about?" you ask, slowly turning to face the front of the lecture hall again. You feel him shrug.
"Nothin'." There's a long pause, and then he says, "It felt bad leavin' like that. This morning."
You blink rapidly, nodding. You wonder if this is already becoming more than what you agreed to. And then you wonder if maybe he's just that kind of guy — the kind that's incapable of being cold, even when he's the one who said 'no strings'.
It would be dangerous for you if he is. It would be bad for you to learn that he's a good guy, that he's able to give you what you need even outside of the dark of your bedroom.
"You good?" he mumbles, opening his notebook and spinning his pen around his fingers a few times.
"Yeah," you whisper. Your professor starts to lecture, something about the upcoming deadlines for the project. You swallow hard, feeling a strange urge to make Miya Osamu happy. "If you want-" You clear your throat. "Tonight. Whenever."
His knee jerks hard, knocking against yours accidentally, and his pen falls to the floor. He rushes to retrieve it, that word floating between you in the silence.
Whenever.
"If you want," you hurry to add, realizing it's been less than 24 hours and you're already propositioning him for another night. "Up to you-"
"Yeah," he coughs, glancing around. You peek up at him, a little pleased to see the burn of his cheeks. "Sure. Sounds good."
"… Okay."
"Okay."
—
At dinner that night, Suna catches onto the fact that something's amiss, and it's not hard to see that Atsumu's figured it out, too.
Maybe it's the fact that you and Osamu don't argue over every tiny detail — who's cooking, what the meal is, who sits where, whose turn it is to do dishes. Maybe it's the fact that you just start cooking silently, and he wanders into the kitchen when he smells the aromatics, vegetables chopped quietly behind you. Maybe it's the fact that you don't address each other at all during the meal, which means things are already two hundred percent more peaceful than usual. Maybe it's the fact that, when Sakusa asks that someone pass him the salt, both you and Osamu reach for it at the same time and then flush with warmth when your fingers intertwine.
Maybe it's any of those things. Maybe it's none of them. After all, Suna Rintarou needs no excuse to corner you in your room after dinner, whispering furiously.
"You fucked him!"
You whirl around, shocked that he's followed you into your room and locked the door. "What?"
"You fucked him, you fucking fraud!" he whispers again, grabbing you by the shoulders and shaking you. "What happened to you hating him?!"
"I-" You stare up at him, eyes wide. "It's complicated!"
He just deadpans at you. "It's probably not complicated."
"We're just-" you fumble, still being shaken by him. "I dunno! We're just relieving stress or whatever!"
He starts to laugh. "That's the oldest play in the book, babe."
You scoff, affronted. "That's all it is! We're both stressed because of the project-"
"Yes, yes," he says, that placating nod making its return. "You're just stressed, and it's just a little time to relax, and it's totally not going to lead to feelings, even though he's already acting different and it's making you act different, and-" His voice pitches up, mocking you. "-Why's he looking at me like that? Does he like me? Do I like him? Is this more than sex?"
You smack him hard on the chest. "Shut up."
He stares, following you to your bed, where you flop facedown and he flops sideways, still staring.
"It's already happening." He doesn't sound shocked, but he does sound amused. "You fall fast, I gotta admit."
"It's not already happening."
"Whatever you say," he sighs, relaxing on his back and extracting his phone. "Oh, Tsumu's asking me to save him." He stands, sighing.
"From what?" Your heart jumps, because you know already.
"Samu's beatin' his ass for asking too many questions."
Your face burns, even hidden in your pillow. "I should follow his lead and beat you, too."
"Yeah, but you won't," he sings, already unlocking your door. "Because I'm right."
—
You fall asleep with your door unlocked.
You're not alone when you wake up.
—
Your body reacts to him first. It only took one night with him, it seems, for your nerve endings to memorize his touch.
The line between dream and life is very thin, your mind wandering in dangerous directions that have everything to do with the circles being pressed against your most sensitive spot. His fingers are warm, warmer still when he buries them inside you. His mouth is the warmest, tongue searing hot as it traces the bruises he'd kissed into your throat just a day ago.
"Fuck," he whispers, and you hear the gravelly edge of it in your bones, echoing around your dream-state. "You're not even here and you're this wet?"
You whine, echoing in your head, and start to whisper his name, certain that if you say it loud enough in your head, he might just hear it in real life.
But it turns out you hardly need to try, because he's clamping a hand over your mouth and shushing you gently, fingers still working you open.
"Gotta be quiet tonight. They're dyin' to catch us."
The line between dream and life is very thin indeed.
His eyes are heated when you find them, his skin flushed as he lies behind you with his hand between your thighs. You wonder if he realizes just how pretty he is when he's embarrassed.
"Y'said it was okay," he starts, but he still looks a little nervous.
The idea that this is his first time trying something like this makes your tummy swarm with nerves, your walls clamping down around his fingers before relaxing.
"It is," you whisper, eyes half-lidded and ass pushing back against him. "Totally, completely okay."
He shoves his face into the crook of your neck and groans, shaking slightly. You take advantage of his weakened state and reach back, your fingers pushing against the band of his sweats. Your hand finds him easily — he's not subtle about the nervous jerk of his hips when you touch him or about the heavy, rattled sigh that falls past his lips when you start to stroke him like this.
For the first time in your life — today, in class, and right now, with your fingers wrapped around his cock — you want to make Miya Osamu happy.
"What is it, huh?" you whisper. "You like takin' advantage of me, Miya?"
He groans, his head shaking jerkily even as his cock twitches, like he can't decide what the truth is. You can tell there's something there, but that must not be it.
"You like knowing my body knows you, even after one night?" You're exposing yourself by saying this, and you both know it. He curls his fingers hard and pushes his thumb against your clit, his other hand still hovering over your mouth to catch you when you start to cry out.
"Think you like that part more," he grunts back, his laugh airy and tight. "Someone's got a crush."
"Fuck you," you whine, muffled by his palm and made even more laughable by the roll of your eyes into the back of your head. He must see it, because he's smiling against your cheek. You can feel his eyelashes on your skin, fluttering when you brush your thumb over the tip of his cock.
"Not tonight," he whispers, chest heaving against your back. "I don' need my brother knowing what you sound like when you fall apart on my cock."
You shiver, hearing that edge of possession in his voice. It showed itself to you in other ways last night, but this clearly isn't a one-time feeling.
"He already knows," you mock. And then you push in ways you shouldn't, and you know that. "Suna, too."
The effect is immediate, Osamu's grip on your mouth tightening. His fingers push deeper into you, curling and then spreading apart. Your muscles lock up, and you gasp pathetically into his palm. He pushes his hips against your fist, rough and rude.
"You done?" he bites. "You having fun?"
Yes, you think, your nerve endings singing for him. The most fun you've had in a long, long time.
But you know how to make it better.
"You know what I think?" you pant. "I think you like the idea of fucking me while I'm sleeping because it means I trust you."
Miya Osamu starts to break.
His breath catches and his cock grows heavy in your palm as you slide it along his shaft, wet and fast and loud.
You push.
"You like knowing I hate you and that I'd still let you do whatever you want to me."
He breaks.
You push.
"You like having me all to yourself."
He breaks and you push.
"That's what it is, isn't it?" you mumble, feeling him start to throb in your hand, precum leaking all over your knuckles. Your tummy swirls when he groans, when his sounds start to become open-mouthed and stupid against the side of your head.
You can't help yourself.
"Isn't it, Samu?"
Miya Osamu breaks.
You break, too. You don't want to admit that it's because he's moaning nothing but your own name into your hair, broken and depraved and carrying something you've never heard from him before. Something you never thought could happen between you.
—
He's still there when you wake up the next morning. Your face is pressed into the crook of his neck. You can feel the weight of his arm draped over you and the hard muscle of his thigh between your legs.
When you pull your head back to look at him, his eyelids flutter open.
You stare up into his eyes, and he just stares back. No words are shared, and neither of you moves to separate from this position. You just examine each other under the slivers of sunlight streaming through your curtains. You just let your gaze drift to his mouth and then away. Just watch when he does the same.
You're not dumb enough to avoid the fact that 'no strings' fell apart in under two days.
You choose to ignore it. For now, at least.
Two loud bangs hit your door, followed by three more, multiple sets of fists on wood. You jump, wide-eyed, and sit up.
"What?"
"Open up, loser!" It's Suna. "Samu's not in his room, so he must be in yours!"
"Damn near a decade of hell, and then you guys do this shit?" That's Atsumu.
A quieter voice, closer to the wood. "Might I suggest sex in Osamu's room from now on? You and I share a wall."
And that's Kiyoomi.
You groan, hiding your hands in your face. The mattress shifts beside you, Osamu mumbling a quiet 'I got it'. He yanks the door open, his frame taking up the entire doorway.
"Can you guys fuck off?" You watch him gesture somewhere to his right, where Kiyoomi is audibly protesting. "Not you, Omi."
"Is that a yes to the room change?" the man mumbles, deadpan as ever.
"Sure, Omi."
Suna's gasp is as dramatic as it's been all your life. "So you are in here!"
Osamu gestures to his own body. "You saw me open this damn door, di'nt you?"
"Don't do it, Y/n!" Atsumu yells, trying to break into the room. Osamu wrestles him back with a yell. "He's a bad lay!"
Suna slips through the door as Osamu gets distracted with fistfighting his brother. Your bed jostles under his weight.
"So?" he says with a grin, eyes sparkling with mischief as he leans back on his elbows. "Is he a bad lay?"
You roll your eyes, knowing you can't hide from him. "Of course not. Would I fuck him twice in two days if he was a bad lay?"
Suna's grin is that toothy, bright one that you grew up with. He lowers his voice. "And those feelings we talked about?"
Your knee starts to bounce. He snorts, shaking his head.
"Knew it," he sings quietly, satisfied.
"I didn't even say anything."
"Didn' need to."
You don't deny it.
—
'No strings' looks a lot like immediately falling into something with Miya Osamu. You want to blame him, want to say that he's the one getting attached, but you know that's not the truth.
Over the course of the next week, he sits with you in every class and you choose not to comment. If anything, you start to glance back at the door and around the room when he takes too long to get there. You start to get that funny little tummy swirl when he steps over people just to get to you, every time.
He starts walking with you to your next class together — or maybe it's you. Because you wait, hovering awkwardly by the door when he stops to talk to his friends briefly. You wait, wondering if you're waiting for nothing, if you're showing your hand by waiting. But every time you even start to think of walking away, of leaving first, you catch his glance. You catch the fond look in his eye, the amused raise of his eyebrows.
He's making fun of you, but there's something in it that tells you not to go.
So you don't.
You just give him the same look when you see him waiting for you outside of your last class every day, even though you've never given him your schedule. You just smile when he rolls his eyes and try not to look like you're rushing to catch up with him when he turns to leave.
You start seeing him in the doorway of your bedroom more often, his gaze curious as he hovers over where you're working at your desk. Your gaze just finds the laptop and notebook he has in hand, wondering if he'll ask the question on his tongue or if he'll just hover until you tell him it's okay.
He always chooses to hover, only moving when you give him a silent sign that it's okay. You don't tease, too busy trying not to get nervous when he closes and locks your door on his way to your bed. He takes up your space like it's his, for hours a day, and you just let him.
You let him take your space, let him see the way you struggle to focus on your work when his presence fills your room. You let him ask stupid questions — 'what'd you get for number six?', 'when's the paper due?' — because you know that he's doing exactly what you're doing: making excuses. He's making excuses to talk to you, making excuses to get your attention the same way you're making excuses to give it to him.
He just asks his stupid questions and grins, pleased, when you put your pen down and turn in your seat to scold him for distracting you. He just grins and says 'you gonna answer me or what?'. He just waits for you to get out of your seat and stomp over to your bed, where he's long made himself comfortable. And the moment your knees hit the mattress, that scowl painting your features like you aren't yearning to fill that spot next to him, he just reaches out and grabs you by the waist, dragging you in.
You just let him, the same way you let him do everything else.
You never notice the way the sun fades outside your window, never notice the time that passes with your hands buried in his hair, his lips pushing and pulling in time with yours. Even when you don't have sex — you can't actually remember the last time you had sex in this room — time passes with Miya Osamu.
He only leaves when everyone else is home, lips pink and swollen and sweats tented in the front as he kisses you one last time and heads to the kitchen to cook dinner. You just watch him go, glossy-eyed and nerve endings calling for him to come back. On the days that you cook dinner, instead, you always turn at the last second, catching the way he looks at you. Glossy-eyed and warm, like something under his skin might be calling for you, too.
Even the roommate-related arguments feel different. You do your best to keep your shoes organized, and it's not hard to notice that he keeps up with his dishes. But even when you do hear him trip on your sneakers, swears falling past his lips, you just stick your head around the corner with a sheepish grin and mutter your apologies. He just rolls his eyes and threatens to shove your shoes up your ass, amused exasperation lacing his voice. And when he lets his dirty plates stack one too many times, you just lean down in front of everyone and whisper threats of a sex ban into his ear. The dishes are always magically done within the hour.
Suna doesn't comment, and Atsumu doesn't comment. They just look on with interested, knowing expressions. Kiyoomi does comment in his own Kiyoomi way, pointing out dirty pots to you and pointing down at piles of overturned sneakers whenever Osamu's in earshot. You're perfectly happy to let him use the situation to his advantage, because anything's better than getting called out about the distinctly not casual way that you and Miya Osamu are behaving.
And then it becomes impossible to ignore, at an unimportant time on an unimportant Wednesday afternoon.
—
"Shit, shit, shit-"
You scramble off the crowded train and race out of the station, glancing at street signs and then the map on your phone before bolting in the right direction. You're late to your appointment with the leasing agent. You just hope she and the other student haven't already started the tour.
The other student, whose voice you can hear from around the corner.
"'s fine, we should wait for her."
"Well, okay. Just a few more minutes. I don't want to waste your time."
"I'd rather wait. She's never late fer things, so she's prolly freaking out."
"Oh-You know her?"
You skid to a stop at the corner, eyes wide. When you step out into view, he finds you immediately.
His brows lift, lips tugging at the corners as he fights an amused grin.
"Yeah," he says, looking over the agent's shoulder. "I know her."
You blink away the shock of seeing him and rush toward them, your face flushed and your appearance a complete mess from running. "I'm so sorry-"
The agent turns, smiling politely. "Lucky timing," she jokes. "We were just about to go."
You nod, apologizing again as you shake her hand. "Thank you for waiting." You direct your gratitude to her but mostly over her head at Osamu. "I couldn't find my application packet and missed the earlier train-"
She cuts you off again. You think you see Osamu's brows twitch in annoyance.
"Well, it is important to be prepared. Countless business deals have fallen through because of poor plannin-"
"She said she was sorry," Osamu comments. "And she's never late like this. Things happen sometimes." When the agent gives him the same look you are — dumbfounded shock — he just nods at the empty storefront before you. "Can we go in?"
She just gives a quiet scoff and mutters something about 'stupid kids' before heading inside. You plaster yourself to Osamu's side once her back is turned, his elbow in your grasp.
"Thank you," you breathe.
He just shrugs, planting his hand on the small of your back. "She's too uptight. 's not y'r fault."
You let him lead you forward, staring up at the side of his face. "How'd you know it was me on the appointment?"
"Saw your name on her clipboard. Knew somethin' wasn't right when you didn't show." He drops his hand when the agent glances back, and then he whispers something quick, sticking his hand out for you to shake it. "Let's find you your bakery, yeah?"
You take his hand, smiling politely at the agent as you shake it. "Onigiri Miya starts today, or whatever."
His laugh, pleasantly surprised, follows you through the door.
You're on your best behavior for the rest of the day, asking all the questions you've learned to ask and taking all the notes you know you'll need later. Osamu complements you perfectly, asking questions whenever you're busy writing and poking his head into corners when you're grilling the agent about downpayments and repairs and everything else.
When the agent gently suggests that you take a look around instead of asking her questions the whole time, you just nod at Osamu, who's crouched near a wall with some suspiciously exposed wires, the safe rubber part trapped between his knuckles as he examines the way they were cut.
"He's got me," you say, returning to your laundry list of questions.
You don't realize he'd been in earshot until two tours later, when the agent — by this point rather annoyed with the way you two have tag-teamed her — remarks that Osamu's not taking any notes. She asks how he possibly plans to keep track of the details and if he plans to run his business in the same way. Your back is turned, your notepad propped up against the wall as you jot more notes, so you don't realize that he's pointing at you.
"She's got me."
You glance over your shoulder at him, catching the look in his eye before he turns away.
The agent just sighs. "And when you're running your shop? Who's gonna have you then? Do you plan to open a joint shop where one of you takes care of the bills and the other takes care of the maintenance?"
She laughs, clearly expecting you both to look ashamed or even laugh along with her. But Osamu just finds your eyes.
You can see his mind start to work overtime, and you follow the thread he leaves behind for you.
"Maybe," you bite. "With the places you've shown us so far, it seems like there might not even be two viable places for us, anyway."
The agent is appropriately offended, but you've gotten tired of her attitude over the last few hours, and you know Osamu had lost his patience before the tours even started.
"Fine," she snaps. "There's two more places left, anyway. Maybe you'll find those viable."
You shrug, gesturing to the door. "Maybe. Shall we?"
Osamu is quiet on the drive to the next location. You would be nervous if you couldn't tell that he's thinking very hard about something. Not the life contemplation sort of thinking. More like he's doing calculations and needs to concentrate.
When you step out of the car, ignoring the agent's snarky comment about the day coming to a close, you see two empty storefronts lodged, side by side, in the middle of a strip of stores, just off of the main road.
The thought that crosses your mind — dangerous, personal — is reflected in the light that fills Osamu's eyes. Your gazes lock over the hood of the car. He flushes, and you do, too.
You follow the agent through the usual motions — downpayment, overhead rent, maintenance policies, repairs and renovations.
"It's the same for both stores," she says at one point. "All the businesses on this street are owned by the same person."
You try not to let your hopes get the best of you, but Osamu's completely ruining your attempts.
"So, in theory," he starts, walking around the space and nodding, seemingly pleased by what he sees. "We could knock a hole in the wall and put a door there?" He points at the wall connecting the two stores.
She lifts her brows, finally catching onto what he's planning. "In theory," she says slowly. "But I'd have to ask the owner. He has the final say."
He just nods. You're too busy glancing between them, your breath caught in your throat.
"Can you ask him how he feels about the whole wall comin' down?" he finally asks, a little quieter.
You swallow around the knot in your throat. "Samu," you mumble, a warning.
His eyes glint when he looks at you. "In theory, of course." And then he addresses the agent. "What was the downpayment again?"
She gives the number.
He looks to you, brows raised and that stupid, dangerous smile tugging at him again. "I have that."
You hold your notebook to your chest, knowing he can see the tremble of your fingers. "I have it, too."
He nods slowly. "You shook on it. Earlier."
You ignore the agent's look of confusion, just shaking your head and extracting your application papers from the packet in your bag.
Eight years is a long time to learn a person.
"Onigiri Miya, or whatever."
You turn away so he doesn't see the warmth in your cheeks when he addresses the agent.
"We'll take it. Both of 'em."
—
The front door slams and bounces off of the wall when you and Osamu burst through, your legs wrapped around his waist and his fingers tangled tight in your hair and your lips bruising from the pressure of his.
"Oh, hell no!"
You feel him wave off his brother, barely managing to let your own apology when your back crashes into Kiyoomi's arm as he's scuttling out of the way.
Suna calls out from the living room, laughing maniacally. "What the fuck happened to you two?"
You release the stack of papers that's crumpled in your hand, letting them fall to the floor. Osamu just uses one hand to shove your shoes off of your feet as he's kicking off his own, and then he stumbles down the hall with you in his arms. You hear Kiyoomi start to read off the papers.
"They signed leases?" The flip of more papers. "Oh. They're next door to each other."
Atsumu groans. "Damn near a decade of this shit-"
Suna just keeps laughing. "Congratulations, loser!"
Osamu's door slams and locks, your back pressed to the wood, just as Atsumu's suggesting they all go out for a few hours. You wait until the front door closes before you let yourself focus on the task at hand.
"So," he mumbles into your mouth. "You ready to talk about that little crush you got?"
You roll your hips into him, dragging your teeth down his throat and sucking bruises into his skin. "In theory?" you joke.
"Shut up," he grunts, yanking you off the door and crossing the room in two strides. Your back hits his mattress, and you can't help the sigh that falls out when you pull him down on top of you. His bed smells like him, and there's a tug of something more than lust when it hits you. You know what it is, that swirl of emotion that comes with knowing you're going to keep ending up here.
His mouth is urgent on yours, and his fingers are shaking slightly as he tugs desperately on your clothes.
"Keepin' these," he breathes, your panties yanked down and tossed across the room. You shiver, nodding.
"Yours," you breathe back, a moment of weakness.
Or maybe it's strength, because you feel invincible when you hear the moan that he presses against your throat when you utter that word.
"Mine, yeah?" he whispers after a moment, his jeans shoved down to his knees. You let him pry your thighs open, your nerves twisting and turning when you hear his question. Something tells you he's not asking about your underwear.
You nod, pulling him in for a kiss, but he stops at the last second.
"Say it."
You whine, biting down on your lip. "'m yours, Samu." When he grins, his smile bright and real and open, you turn your head, squeezing your eyes shut. "Fuck, this is so embarrassing."
He just laughs against your skin. "You have a crush on me," he teases. "That's fucking embarrassing."
You beat a fist against his shoulder. "You asked me to own a business with you."
"Yeah," he sighs, clearly pleased. "I have a crush on you."
You flush hard, meeting his eyes. You know he can see the affection you're all but radiating, because he just keeps beaming down at you.
"'s fucking embarrassing," you mumble fondly, searching his gaze. He lets you.
"You cool with it?"
You swallow your answer, gasping at the push of his cock past your entrance.
"Samu-"
"You okay with this?" he pants, bottoming out in one thrust. "You okay with me?"
Your back arches, unfiltered moans falling past your lips. "More than okay."
He fucks you hard, like he has something to prove to you. His whispers feel like honey on your skin, your name and his feelings mixing easily with moans he presses against the line of your throat.
It doesn't take long to fall over the edge with him. There's weeks of something between you, built into signs ignored and silences shared.
There's years, really. Years of nothing and everything, falling apart when you do. Words unsaid, bubbling to the surface when he moans your name but staying hidden all the same. Saved for later, when you're both ready to admit it.
When you're both ready to admit that it's always been there.
you're so pretty. like, you're absolutely gorgeous. have you thought about tidying your room slightly to temporarily but significantly increase your quality of life? you are so beautiful
you kabedon suna and watch him almost come undone on the spot, full body tensing up, the tip of his ears blushing, accidentally filming all of it (and replaying it later over and over again when he's back home, pants barely unzipped before he shoves his hand down, stickiness from when he came into his pants earlier)
vs
you kabedon osamu and he just cocks his head to the side and holds your gaze, almost bored if it weren't for the hungry gleam in his darkened eyes; who just goes "are you done? did you have your fun?" with a leg sliding between yours, nudging them further apart, "is it my turn now?" before your knees go weak
