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#i am miya
shoulmate · 7 months
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"Hello there."
The voice, the face, that slides into view across the table from you is one you didn't expect to see. Grimacing you ask "...Miya Atsumu?"
"In the flesh," he says with a grin and a hooded gaze.
You look around for an explanation you don't find. "...Can I help you?"
He shrugs nonchalantly. "Nope. Just wanted ta say hi. Introduce myself, though that hardly seems necessary since ya already know who I am."
You stare back at him in disgust as he runs a hand through his blonde hair; you think you hear a stifled laugh but can't see anyone laughing. Everyone in this area of the library is unfalteringly focused on their work.
When you don't say anything and just stare at him with something akin to disgust he drops his voice in what you assume is an attempt to be seductive. "And...you are?"
"Uninterested." Your attention returns to the textbook in front of you but he doesn't leave. Doesn't move. He just says your name.
That gets you to look at him again.
"So it is you..." he smiles wryly and your intuition swells ominously. "I thought I recognized ya...We used ta live near each other."
"I'm aware," you reply unamused.
He puts a hand on his chest in mock horror. "An' here I thought ya'd be happy ta find out an old friend goes ta college with ya."
"Oh Atsumu..." you smile venomously with narrowed eyes, "there's only one Miya I'd be happy to go to college with and it's not you." You gesture at him dismissively. "So if you don't mind..." but your words trail off as he chuckles lowly.
Victoriously.
Irritation curdles your guts. Atsumu was a menace throughout your childhood; you used to say his twin was the only good thing about him but you're not sure how either of them matured and you're not sure you want to find out.
You're about to tell him off as he turns his head and, with surprising consideration for the people working, softly calls out "ya hear that?"
You feel your soul leave your body as Atsumu's almost-carbon-copy appears at the end of the nearest aisle and rests an arm on the shelves, flexing an unfortunately-muscular bicep.
The wry smile that looked haughty on Atsumu lifts Osamu's lips in a humble way that makes you feel like you're going to need resuscitation.
"Hi there."
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snailobituaries · 1 year
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Miya Folick - Get Out of My House
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noranb · 1 year
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hinata laughing at atsumu's stupid jokes and atsumu being.. atsumu
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chosobaby · 2 years
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nsfw / fem!reader
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surprisingly, miya atsumu knows how to not be loud; you used to think you were the quiet one in the relationship.
during movies, he’d usually lean over to tell you how he knows that actress from somewhere, a finger pointing at the screen, and the entire cinema would hear. back in college, you’d be whispering about a professor that annoyed you, and when he’d answer you, he’d speak loud enough for the whole room to know.
when he’s on the court during a game, he’d announce his team’s next strategy like it was a public service announcement. he’d laugh so proudly after too, and the pleading looks you’d get from sakusa to get your man to shut up would make him laugh even harder.
so you couldn’t believe it when you found out that miya atsumu knew how to stay quiet — well, it was really him finding out that you could be louder than him, because how could he believe it when his meek and quiet little girlfriend could moan so loud for the whole city to hear?
he’s pounding into you from behind, your hips slowly being mottled with shades of purple and yellow from the strong grip his fingers had on them, and you’re so loud; he’s already gagged you with your soiled panties and shoved your head down into the pillow, but still, you’re so fucking loud.
“be quiet for me, princess,” his voice quietly rasped, right hand squeezing your bruised hip as a warning. “don’t want the neighbors hearing how needy you are — just me, yeah? only your tsumu can hear.”
he thinks he hears a muffled yeah amongst the unintelligible babbles and groans, but he still grabs you by your hair and pulls your head back to his shoulder. his right arm wraps around your waist, pinning his chest to your back, and his left hand releases your hair to throw your panties out of your mouth before wrapping around your neck. his hips continue to piston in and out of you and he’s sure you’d collapse without his hold from how much your legs are shaking.
“you gonna stay quiet for me now?” he chuckles, right hand dipping down to play with your clit.
and as soon as you’re about to say that you can’t, your climax hits you out of nowhere. your eyes squeeze shut and tears drip down your face while your mouth opens in a silent scream.
“so good for me, baby,” he groans, watching how good you look when you cum, “so fucking good.”
but he doesn’t stop, and he continues hit that spot with every thrust, fingers unceasing in its movements.
“stay quiet for me a little more, princess? i’m not done.”
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blurry-low · 2 years
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Meet-ups
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reverie-starlight · 7 months
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sweet little atsumu ramble/rant/HC-but-not-really-cause-this-has-to-be-canon thing bc I adore him and need him stat and I miss writing for my husband.
he would absolutely love the pet name angel. the first time you call him that, he gets SOOO shy after. he's blushing and smiling so wide, letting out a little laugh and hiding his face in your neck because it caught him off guard...
you call him angel once and he is immediately a pile of mush in your arms. osamu could insult him and this supposedly intimidating 6'2'', confrontational pro athlete's only defense would be "well your opinion doesn't matter actually, cause my baby said I was an angel this morning, so suck it, you bastard"
cue an exasperated sigh from his twin. like, he is such a big baby, it's crazy.
he'd be most appreciative of the nickname when you're both cuddling in bed and he's in your arms, a hand carding through his hair. it's bliss for him.
and you'd better believe that he gets hellbent on making sure that he makes you feel the same way you make him feel with a nickname, so he's testing out a whole bunch of them until he finds the one that turns you into mush.
I'm gonna be sick I love him so much.
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cynopcis · 9 months
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warning: suggestive
Atsumu loves you in the afterglow.
Though of course he loves you regardless, right now in this moment he feels a tenderness in his heart he can’t fully comprehend. He takes a deep breath as he tries to regulate his breathing despite your weight on him. He cradles you in his arm as you hum random tunes with your head against his chest. He wonders if you can hear his heart beating just for you.
He lets his fingers absentmindedly wander across your back while his other hand is intertwined with yours. You wiggle when his fingers stop to pinch the side of your waist.
“Tsumu, stop.”
“Hmm,” you realize that he’s mind is drifting elsewhere. You bring your intertwined fingers to your mouth and bite him, “Ow!”
“Heh,” you smirk against the crook of his neck, “that’s what you get.”
You kiss the spot where you bit him, “Penny for your thoughts?”
“It’s nothing,” he says, “was just thinking of you.”
“I’m right here,” you pout, “pay attention to me.”
He smirks and switches your positions, he lays beside you with his face tucked into the crook of your neck. You shiver as you feel his breath against your skin and gasp when he nibbles. You feel his hands wander lower and lower.
“Are you not tired yet?”
“I’ll never get tired of you.”
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catskid100 · 2 months
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hiiii this is for the Sakusa Kiyoomi lovers
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h4mmiee · 1 year
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[80s AU] welcome to sunny’s ! 
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ranarenee · 2 months
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If anybody ask, this is a joke.
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kentoangel · 1 year
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[❤︎︎]﹒₊˚﹕YOU WERE DIPPED IN HEAVEN your husband (miya osamu) makes you feel beautiful
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nsfw content, mdni ୭ৎ ࣪ ׅ ⊹ fem reader. he calls you baby, angel face, good girl and refers to you as mom + mrs. miya. it’s mentioned that reader feels insecure about their appearance. kitchen sex < 3 cunnilingus. fingering. lactation kink. ‘samu praises ya! cum eating. mentions of food and (obviously) your kid
a/n. he has been plaguing my mind u guys (๑♡⌓♡๑)
reblogs + interactions are super appreciated. mwah!
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heaven is a place on earth with miya osamu.
especially at one in the morning, once your three month old baby is (finally) sleeping soundly, once you and your husband are in the kitchen making pasta — to soothe your cravings, to have a moment together before going to sleep.
but right now, you feel like you’ve gone through hell and had a fight with the devil. twice.
“can i ask you something, ‘samu?”
your husband chops tomatoes. “shoot, baby.”
“do you think i’m doing okay? as a mom?”
osamu notices the tremble in your voice by the fourth word that leaves your lips, notices tears in the corners of your eyes with a single glance.
softly, he places the knife down — wipes his hands on his pants. gently, he holds your hips — turns you around and pulls you into his chest, backs away from the stove until his back hits the kitchen island. tenderly, he cups your face with one big hand — stares into your doe eyes, rests his forehead against yours.
he almost huffs. “angel face, why would ya think you’re not?”
“b-because! a friend said i looked too worn out, said i should a-at least try and get more sleep.”
“yer friend’s a little bitch.”
a little laugh erupts from your mouth and osamu smiles, glad you’re not sobbing in sadness. if he could fight your insecurities, hold them by the neck until their last breath — he would do it in a heartbeat.
“trust me, angel face.” he murmurs, swipes his thumbs on your eye bags soulfully. “you’re doing amazing, ‘kay?” an emotional sob wracks your body, your husband heaves a breath — he doesn’t like seeing you so broken.
“th-thanks, ‘samu. i just — i just feel so ugly sometimes. my eye bags are huge a-and so many of my shirts are r-ruined.” your eyes leave his, your head droops. “and now my night gown is so, too.”
osamu looks down, follows your line of sight. your nipples are erect and wet patches of milk stain the silk of your soft pink gown.
“you’re beautiful, baby — and yer doin’ great as a mom.” his hand trails down and down until it’s gripping your waist. “let me show you, mrs. miya — let me show ya how beautiful ya are.”
and then, your husband is kissing you.
gently, he turns you around — softly mounts you atop the counter. he grips your plush thigh lovingly, presses his chest to yours, has you wrap your legs around his waist.
he really does think you’re beautifully — thinks you were dipped into heaven before being placed on the earth, believes the moon kissed you before sending you to him.
miya osamu is the luckiest man alive; to have you in his arms is better than being guaranteed a spot in heaven.
his mouth leaves yours, trails down to plant wet kisses on your neck and collarbone and even your shoulder. he pulls on your night gown, admires how milk drips down your breasts.
a bulge forms in his pants and he’s almost ashamed, but why should he be? when he has a deity in front of him with a million stars in her eyes, waiting for him to sacrifice himself completely?
“look — yer gorgeous.” he’s incredulous, really. because he can’t — for the life of him — believe you felt ugly.
your husband cups your breast, squeezes ever so gently, lowers his head until his lips are latched around your nipple. and he sucks — drinks your milk, wonders why he hasn’t done so before, groans.
you moan at the sensation of the vibration, let out a shaky breath as osamu swirls his tongue on your nipple. he doesn’t know where to look, doesn’t know what to appreciate first — your face, contorted with bliss, your heaving chest, the outline of your pussy peeking out of your night gown that has risen up.
he gives your other leaking breast attention, suckles until his jaw aches. and he gently pushes you back, has you lay on the countertop.
miya osamu could devour you whole.
“yer so pretty, mrs. miya — divine.” his middle finger prods at your clothed pussy, rubs up and down slowly, traces a million and one hearts.
and miya osamu isn’t usually the typical romantic, but for you he’d go to the ends of the earth.
he moves your underwear to the side, inserts his middle finger at a leisurely pace. but he’s needier than you, he really can’t help himself as he goes all the way in just to see your face twist in pleasure.
is he selfish to want to suck you dry? you look better than an angel, body — nipples, especially — glowing under your kitchen’s dim light.
as his fingers pull out to rub at your clit, he leans down to drink up the milk that has spilled from your breasts.
you’re breathless. “f-feels really good, ‘samu.”
“‘m glad. god. you’re so pretty, baby — and yer doing so good for me.”
his praise makes your pussy clench at nothing, makes you lift your hips up. he’s shamelessly drowning in your pleasure.
and finally, your husband goes down and down and down — until he’s about to devour you.
“o-osamu!”
his thumb circles your soaking wet clit, his tongue cleans up every drop of your lust.
“do ya hear yourself, baby — sounds like an angel singin’.”
his tongue massages your walls, hits you so perfectly because god — he wants to make you see stars.
miya osamu starts to believe you’re the only meal that can soothe his cravings, the only one for him. he feels so full of love, he starts to believe he won’t be able to eat.
“‘m gonna cum!”
“c’mon baby, ya can do it — be a good girl and cum all over me. for me.”
and once you do, osamu drinks you up.
you’re breathing heavy, you’re so sweaty — but osamu tells you again and again how beautiful you are, his love filled promises sealed with kisses.
your husband helps you up, rests his forehead against yours, laughs softly. “i love you, ‘samu.”
“i love you too, baby.” he plants a soft kiss on your lips, hopes you’ll see that you even taste like heaven. “and i’ll be sure to punch yer friend in the face.”
you laugh and the stars align in miya osamu’s heart.
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taglist ! thank u for being interested ໒꒰ྀི⸝⸝o̴̶̷᷄ ·̭ o̴̶̷̥᷅⸝⸝꒱ྀི১
@discordkittenjoestar / @5ugu / @chuuyasboots / @kovjiro / @bbiemilk / @unstaaableaf / @soumies / @ushiko / @atesumu / @kitfsune / @crypt7d / @yuutakittie / @thatswhyoshoesraggedy / @melio54 / @chubbyhoney / @salmon-ro3 / @sookisaurus / @seanicsiren / @soranihimawari / @the-0nly-rose / @miyasann / @khinux / @ms0milk / @useless-bicth — in bold could not be tagged :(
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aishime · 7 months
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I dont often see fanart of Tomoe even tho shes super badass, so i took matters into my own hands
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youta · 2 years
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the clock hit three in the morning a few minutes prior to atsumu entering your shared apartment as quietly as possible to not wake you up. you only expected to see him the next day, but he decided to drive back from a city hours away after the last match this season and short celebrations.
the past few weeks you haven’t really had time for each other; work had you swamped and tsumu had match season, meaning multiple days and nights away from you. he wanted to sleep next to you without having to worry waking up on time and only coming home late at night after practice.
as he steps into your bedroom, his lips tug into a warm smile noticing your sleeping figure. you are wrapped up in a blanket, the tv still playing in the background– you must have knocked out while watching your favorite show. he realizes just how terribly he missed everything about you, even a glance of you made him feel better.
carefully to not wake you up, he quickly washed up and changed out of his clothes and turned off the forgotten tv. slipping in the bed beside you, the feeling of being home finally hits him. you could be anywhere and he still would feel the same way– you are his home.
unconsciously, you snuggle up to his warm body and his arms immediately wrap around you, holding you close. atsumu presses a kiss on your temple, his way of wishing you good night.
he hasn't slept this good in probably weeks, and neither have you without even knowing he was there. in the morning, you are already awake when he opens his eyes.
"hey," you smile at him and press a kiss on the corner of his lips. "didn't expect you to be here."
"wanted to surprise you," atsumu chuckles, his voice still raspy from just waking up.
"nice surprise," you admit with a smile, letting him pull you closer to him. his arm is around your hips now, his finger drawing soft circles on your skin under your shirt.
"i missed you." he whispers and kisses you softly. atsumu wishes his schedule wasn't as hectic, but you would never let him quit his career before it was time to, you always knew what you would commit to. he admires your patience and love for him so much, it's a gentle reminder that lets him know you feel the same way he does. you are each other's homes and will always be.
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fish-with-more-eyes · 1 month
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i did not plan to make a vday drawing and have zero time today but i got hit with this idea so. have some silly 25min blorbos
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paperultra · 25 days
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THE FIVE NONSENSES
[ SOULMATE!AU ] Pairing: Miya Osamu x Fem!Reader x Miya Atsumu Summary: Like most people, you do not meet the Miya twins so much as they are thrust upon you. Unlike most people, you are thrust upon them as well. read on ao3 | read on quotev
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CHAPTER THREE: SMELL Word Count: 8,205 words Warnings: Swearing
“Hey, you! Join the photography club!”
You narrowly dodge the flyer thrust in front of your face, knocking back into someone in the process. Flustered, you move in the opposite direction, only to knock shoulders with another student walking the other way. Both of your apologies get lost in the noise.
“Join the basketball team! Winter Cup finalists two years in a row!”
“Improve your focus in calligraphy club!”
“Join kyudo club!”
“Join marching band!”
With a small huff, you grab the strap of Osamu’s schoolbag and squeeze through the crowd. Osamu looks over his shoulder at you, and you meet his raised eyebrow with a grimace; not long after, a hand presses between your shoulder blades to usher you forward.
“Dammit,” Atsumu grumbles, digging his phone out of his pocket. “Where’s the volleyball club?”
“Hell if I know,” Osamu says. “Call Aran.”
“’S what I’m doin’, dumbass.” Punching a few buttons, the other boy presses his phone against his ear with visible impatience. “Aran!” Your cheeks burn with embarrassment as Atsumu’s voice carries high over the clamor surrounding you, causing several students to swivel their heads. “Where the hell’s the volleyball club? … Class 1-7? Seriously?”
Hanging up without so much as a thank-you, Atsumu quickens his stride down the congested hallway. Osamu follows suit, and you end up seizing the back of his blazer as the three of you head to Class 1-7, evading arms and signs and flyers the entire way.
Having visited the school before to watch Ojiro play, you had known that Inarizaki High School is big; navigating it as a student on the first day of school, however, is a whole different animal. You hadn’t realized it was this big. Or this crowded. After a year of being large fish in a small pond, you now find yourselves in an ocean.
At least you have the twins to rough it with.
(It should be noted that your thankfulness varies wildly from hour to hour.)
Near the entrance to Class 1-7, you spot Ojiro wielding a bright sign advertising the volleyball club. He easily stands head and shoulders above most of the other students, and the sight of a familiar face helps you relax – even though you’d just seen him at graduation a few weeks ago, he somehow looks older here, comfortable and self-assured in the raucous halls of Inarizaki.
“Yo! Aran!” Osamu and Atsumu call out, running up to the second-year. You, still holding onto Osamu’s blazer, are unceremoniously yanked along.
Ojiro perks up and grins widely when you all reach him, freeing one hand to bump fists with the twins. “’Bout time you guys showed up. Thought ya chickened out or somethin’,” he exclaims, then nods at you with a grin. “Good to see you here too, [L/n]-chan.”
You smile back. “Hi, Ojiro-senpai.”
(Of all the people the twins consider friends, which have always been rather scant in number, you like Ojiro Aran the best.)
“Chickened out?” Atsumu scoffs. “No way. You scrubs are gonna need us if ya wanna win nationals this year.”
A laugh bursts out of Ojiro’s chest. “Don’t ya think you’re gettin’ a little ahead of yerself?”
“Yeah, well, what’s new?” Osamu pipes up. He elbows his brother’s side, jabbing a thumb at the doorway when the latter chokes up and glares. “Hurry yer ass up, ‘Tsumu, we haven’t even signed up yet.”
You cough. Ojiro laughs again, leading the three of you into the classroom.
There’s a ton of students already inside when you enter. In one corner of the room is the girls’ volleyball club, and in the other is the boys’, though many are mingling and wandering around to chat. A few are upperclassmen wearing the Inarizaki volleyball team’s jacket – the rest, you assume, are first-years hoping for a chance to join.
It’s not surprising for a school that’s gone to the Spring Tournament almost thirty times. Most of these applicants will be benched for their entire high school career.
Following Ojiro to the desk for the boys’ volleyball club, you encounter the two people sitting behind it.
“Arata-senpai, Kobayashi-senpai,” Ojiro announces, clapping one hand on Osamu’s shoulder and the other on Atsumu’s, “got a package deal for ya.”
The first thing you notice about Arata is how tall he is when he’s sitting down. Then he slowly stands up, and your eyes widen as he keeps going and going, finally stopping about half a head taller than Ojiro.
Arata breathes in, vulpine eyes narrowing, before he slams his hands down on the desk with a loud thwap.
“If it ain’t the Miya twins!” he chirps, voice much peppier than expected, and you choke back a surprised laugh. “I watched yer match last year at nationals. You two think ya have what it takes to be part of a powerhouse?”
“Why talk big when we can just show ya, senpai?” Atsumu says, as if he hadn’t been gassing himself up to Ojiro moments before. He pulls out his signup sheet, already filled out in his usual large, messy print, and slides it over to the captain, leaning over the desk with one hand on his hip. “Got yers, ’Samu?”
“Yup.” Osamu slides his over as well, handwriting slightly neater.
Arata takes the sheets happily. Your gaze falls upon his hands by chance, and then it remains there, taking stock of the scribbles of purple and red decorating his skin.
Ojiro whistles. “Looks like yer soulmate’s havin’ fun with some gel pens,” he comments, pointing at Arata’s hands.
“Hm?” The other boy blinks and takes a moment to inspect the words curving below his knuckles. His brow furrows, and he squints before finally breaking out into a goofy smile. “Ah,” he says, and his voice takes on a distinctly fonder, dreamier tone, “guess they are. They’ve been practicin’ hiragana a lot lately. See? Pretty good, eh?” Arata stretches his hands out face-down, showing them off.
(You can barely read the characters.)
“Neat,” Atsumu says, though his tone has flattened just slightly.
“Right?” Arata doesn’t seem to notice. “We’re gonna finally see each other in person next summer after I graduate. They’re graduating high school this June in Spain …”
“He’s really excited,” Ojiro mutters to the three of you, “in case ya couldn’t tell.”
The volleyball captain’s cheeks turn an endearing shade of pink. “What’s wrong with that, huh, Ojiro? I’m gonna spend the rest of my life with them, so it’s a good sign I’m lookin’ forward to it.”
Next to you, Osamu shifts and shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants. You feel his elbow brush against your arm, bare skin separated by layers of fabric.
The rest of your life.
A strange feeling forms in the pit of your stomach. It’s the same kind you get whenever your parents ask about Osamu, and whenever you see couples wearing matching outfits at the mall – a feeling a little less than longing, and a little more than guilt. Like you ought to be doing more, saying more, expressing more. Feeling more.
You wonder what it is like to be Arata, infatuated, proudly flaunting the colors on his hands.
The girl sitting at the desk finally speaks up.
“I thought we were talkin’ about volleyball, not yer love life, Arata.”
Your gaze moves away from Arata’s wrists and onto the girl.
Still sitting, she and the captain paint a picture of a mouse and an elephant, her tiny form complemented by large, expressionless eyes and a small nose. The maroon jacket hanging off her shoulders looks one size too big.
And yet, when her gaze flicks over and meets yours, you’re overtaken by a sudden chill.
Scary.
Arata jumps and glances down at her. “O-Oh, right! Sorry, Kobayashi-chan, I guess I got carried away.”
“It’s fine.” Kobayashi continues to stare at you, and you start to feel slightly uncomfortable. “’S why I’m here.”
“Yeah!” Coughing, Arata rubs the back of his neck and turns his attention back to the twins. “Gettin’ back on track … if it isn’t obvious already, Kobayashi-chan is our manager. She’s real good. Real detailed.”
“But I’m also in my third year, which means we’re currently lookin’ for a new manager for next year,” Kobayashi supplies. “So if ya happen to know any first-years who’re qualified and willing to apply for the right reasons, please let me know.”
Your brow furrows at that.
“Whaddaya mean, ‘the right reasons’?” Osamu asks.
A sheepish laugh escapes Arata’s throat. “Well … the volleyball team’s pretty popular, so we get a lot of folks wantin’ to be manager just to get closer to the team and see if one of the members is their soulmate.” He sighs. “It’s not that I wanna keep any soulmates apart, but those kinds of applicants slow down the search, and obviously, we want a manager who actually wants to manage.”
Ah. Already, some of your peers already seem like they’re on a time crunch to find their person. Soulmates are getting to be a bigger and bigger deal as you get older, and with that comes certain expectations. It’s not hard to figure out why some would hope to have someone popular and athletic.
“Sorry, don’t know anybody like that,” Atsumu replies at the same time Ojiro says your name.
You look at your senior, surprised.
He directs a finger upwards. “Ya know volleyball pretty well,” he points out. “Wanna apply? You already manage the twins, after all.”
“Oi, what’s that s’posed to mean –”
Arata seems to finally notice you, eyebrows raising. “Oh! Sorry, didn’t see ya there,” he exclaims. “What’s yer name?”
Reluctantly, you step up next to Osamu and introduce yourself.
“[L/n]-chan. So ya know the twins?”
“I’ve lived on the same street as them since elementary school.”
“Really! Ya must know them well, then.”
“More than well,” says Kobayashi.
She points down at your hand. Arata follows her finger, and you resist the urge to curl your pinkie when his mouth drops.
“Oh, damn, you’re soulmates with – er, uh –”
Osamu and Atsumu just stand there, watching the captain flounder. After a few seconds, you reach up and tug Osamu’s earlobe sharply.
“Osamu,” you say, both as an answer and as a scolding, ignoring the muttered ‘ow’ coming from your right.
Clapping his hands, Arata nods. “You’re soulmates with Osamu-kun! Wow, that’s amazing. And you’ve been together since elementary school? He’d think and play better with you just bein’ there.”
You smile, embarrassed.
“That doesn’t make her the right candidate, Arata,” says Kobayashi. “Even if she really wants to manage the team, she might still prioritize Osamu-kun over everybody else. The last thing I want is a manager who picks favorites.”
She says it so bluntly, so seriously. Your smile weakens as her words hit a sore spot you didn’t know you even had.
There must be a good way to disagree. The two truths of the matter are that being a good manager would mean risking being a bad soulmate, and that being a good manager is a risk you can afford. Osamu isn’t the type of person who needs to be worried about. He gets scraped up, but he doesn’t mind it, and he knows his limits. If a player got hurt right as Osamu called you for something, you know you’d check on the other player first. Even if the other player was Atsumu. (Maybe.)
Osamu simply does not need you to take care of him. You don’t know how to express this without seeming like you don’t care as much as you should.
Atsumu cuts in before you can organize your thoughts into words.
“She wouldn’t,” he says, “unless it’s me. But ’Samu and I are soulmates, so we’re already at our best when we’re on the court.”
The upperclassmen before you tilt their heads simultaneously.
“… Wait,” Arata says after a while, slowly. “You’re tellin’ me that Osamu-kun has two soulmates?”
Osamu glances at you, eyes half-lidded, and you can only meet his eyes for a few seconds before you have to look at the ground.
“Guess I’m favored,” Osamu replies.
“Wow.” Huffing out a laugh, Arata crosses his arms. “Two soulmates … huh. I wonder how that works …” Kobayashi grunts and he clears his throat. “S-Sorry. Anyway, [L/n]-chan, if you’re interested in the manager position, just fill this out and give it to Kobayashi-chan. We’re taking applications until July first or until we find someone, whichever comes first.”
He hands you a sheet of paper, and you take it tentatively.
“My phone number’s at the top in case you have any questions,” Kobayashi adds. Her voice lowers, but its monotony remains. “And if ya end up applying, know that I won’t show any favoritism just because of yer soulmate.”
You take in a breath through your nose, fingers curling into the application in your hands. “Yeah, of course.”
She nods once, then leans back in her seat. The set of her mouth relaxes just slightly, and she crosses her arms, morphing from a cutthroat manager to a tired senpai.
“See ya after school. Good luck,” she says. Her eyes bore into yours. “To all of ya.”
There’s a moment of silent surprise between you, Osamu, and Atsumu. Then all three of you bow as Ojiro and Arata chuckle.
“Thank you!”
The twins, predictably, become one of three first-year regulars on Inarizaki’s boys’ volleyball team. You place your manager application in the top drawer of your desk, which you pull out frequently over the next three weeks just to stare at the blank form, unsure about the whole thing.
Saturday afternoon rolls around, and you’ve taken the paper out of your binder and set it on top of your desk at home when your phone buzzes.
Osamu: you home
You: yeah
Osamu: ok
And that’s it. You stare at your screen for a few seconds, unblinking, before you shoot up from your seat and scramble to your dresser to get changed.
Five minutes and a bit of haphazard cleaning later, there’s a few firm knocks on the front door, followed by incessant banging. You stalk over to open the door before it’s knocked off its hinges.
“I could hear you,” you tell Atsumu, unimpressed, as the two enter and shuck off their shoes.
“I know.”
He deftly dodges the kick you aim at his ankle. This usually happens nowadays, unfortunately, but it doesn’t stop you from trying.
“’S just you here?” Osamu asks, shuffling into some slippers and walking further into the house. His gym bag hangs from his shoulder, big and bulky, and you look at it curiously.
“… Yeah?”
“Fer someone left home alone all the time, you’re duller than a rock,” Atsumu says. “Folks’re gone and ya don’t even throw a party? Geez.”
You narrow your eyes as he grins. “Maybe I just want peace and quiet after havin’ to sit in class with you all week, Atsumu. Anyways, why are you guys here?”
You receive no answer. After eyeing the kitchen, Osamu turns and heads down the hallway, prompting you to follow. You’re further confused when he enters the bathroom and sets his bag on the countertop.
As he unzips it, Atsumu squeezes past you and reaches into the bag, pulling out a –
A shower cap.
“… Is the shower at yer place broken or something?”
“No,” Osamu says, and he pulls something else out. “Ma’s home.”
You stare at the box in his hands. Then you look back up at the twins.
“She’s gonna kill you.”
Watching Osamu and Atsumu bleach each other’s hair is like watching a train wreck in slow motion.
Their dark T-shirts have speckles of orange on them, there are bits of foil littering the sink and the bathroom floor, and the acrid stench of bleach filling the bathroom is starting to creep down the hallway. You can only hope it doesn’t linger past Sunday night when you go back to the dorms.
“If you screw this up, I’m shaving yer giant head in yer sleep.”
“I’m doin’ it better than you did, ya scrub!”
You stand outside, shirt collar pulled up and over your nose, as Atsumu finishes combing through the top part of Osamu’s hair. It’s an incredible thing to witness: Osamu sitting on the shower seat, hunched over and holding a sheet of foil over his undercut while Atsumu hangs over him, wearing one of the shower caps to keep his own hair out of the way. It’s also a disaster.
You lift your phone up to snap a quick picture.
“Oi! What’re ya doin’?”
“Making a present for Ojiro.” Upon viewing the photographic evidence, you realize something. “You’re not gonna tell Auntie that you dyed yer hair at my house, right?”
“Don’t worry about that,” Osamu assures, letting Atsumu hold onto the foil while he pulls on a shower cap. He sets a timer, and the two of them hurry out of the bathroom to escape the fumes. “She won’t be thinkin’ about the details when she finds out.”
“Like she’d ever blame ya, anyway.” Atsumu scoffs. “You’re the favorite and you ain’t even her kid.”
“Well, I don’t wanna take my chances.” You recall the countless number of times the twins had received a whooping for something stupid they did, and the countless number of times you had just barely managed to slip under the radar by keeping your mouth shut. “Y’know, she might make ya dye it black again if the school doesn’t like it.”
“Please. If anything, they’ll thank us fer givin’ them an easy way to tell us apart.”
“Is that why you’re dyein’ yer hair? You’re already in different classes.”
“It ain’t fer class,” Osamu says. “It’s fer volleyball.”
Atsumu presses his back against the wall and slides down to the floor, pulling up a game on his phone. “Some of the scrubs still can’t tell us apart on court,” he sniffs. “’M tired of it.”
That, you think, makes a lot more sense.
Osamu and Atsumu have always taken full advantage of being identical twins. You’ve seen them pull just about every stunt in the book – switching the way they part their hair on random days, pretending to be the other when one of them gets in trouble, making money off classmates who bet on knowing who’s who (and lying on more than one occasion). Looking alike isn’t usually a point of contention between them.
When it does bother them, volleyball is usually involved. They don’t always wear different shirts or numbered jerseys at practice, and you’ve been to enough of them to know that this can cause issues at the beginning of the year. The coach calls out the wrong name, a teammate calls for Osamu when they mean Atsumu, things like that.
They get especially miffed when one gets praised for something the other did. Atsumu, in particular, hates that the most.
“Ya have anythin’ to eat?”
Head snapping up, you look at Osamu and nod halfway through absorbing what he’s just asked. “There’s leftover onigiri in the fridge and snacks in the cupboard,” you reply, stepping over Atsumu’s outstretched legs to lead his brother towards the kitchen.
(“Heat up an onigiri fer me,” Atsumu calls out.)
(“Get it yerself, lazy-ass,” Osamu shoots back.)
In the kitchen, you fish out the last two onigiri the twins’ mom had given you yesterday and present them to Osamu.
“Here. You and Atsumu can each have one.”
“These the ones with salted salmon?”
You nod.
Osamu thinks for a moment. His lips purse, his eyelids droop, and even though he kind of looks like a lunch lady with that shower cap on, it’s cute.
“I’ll make ochazuke and yaki onigiri,” he decides. “What do ya want?”
“I’ll just have some chips or something. I just ate lunch, so I’m not that hungry.”
He stares at you, then accepts the onigiri from your hands. “Okay.”
Putting the rice balls on the counter next to the stove, Osamu retrieves a small plate, a bowl, and a mug from the cupboard. He finds most of everything else pretty quickly – the cast iron skillet under the oven, the spatula in the drawer right next to the fridge, and the soy sauce and oil in the lower corner cabinet. The only thing he asks for you to locate is the green tea, which you get from the depths of the second shelf in the pantry.
While he works, you grab a bag of your favorite chips and pop it open, leaning against the unused counter on the other side of the stove to watch.
You like it whenever Osamu cooks. The click of the stovetop turning on, the curve of oil being poured into the skillet, and you’re rocking gently in a small boat, curled up in an overstuffed chair on a rainy day.
(It’s an extension of how he feels, you’ve learned – for as much as Miya Osamu loves volleyball, he loves food just a teeny bit more.)
When the oil is hot enough, he unwraps one of the onigiri and places it in.
You turn the opening of your chip bag towards him as he wipes his hands on a towel. “Here,” you offer once he notices.
“Thanks.”
Atsumu’s onigiri sizzles in the skillet while the water for Osamu’s tea continues to heat up. Osamu mirrors your posture on his side of the stove, messily crunching down on several chips, and the two of you wait.
“Didja apply for the manager position yet?”
You swallow too early, rough shards of chips cutting down your throat. Fighting the urge to cough, you shake your head and reach for the water you’d left on the table this morning. “No. Still thinkin’ about it.” He hums. “You guys haven’t found one yet?”
“Kobayashi-senpai’s real picky.” He flips the onigiri over with one sharp push of the spatula, brushing soy sauce over the freshly grilled side. The water boiler beeps right after, and he seamlessly transitions over to pour the hot water over the teabag in his mug. “Most of the applicants we saw were annoyin’, anyway.”
“Oh.”
You recall the last practice you’d attended, watching from the balcony with your homework as the team ran laps around the court. The applicant on trial that day had watched them go by a few times, still and proper, before suddenly turning to Kobayashi and excusing themselves from the gym. They never came back.
On the walk back to the dorms that evening, Atsumu explained that the student had a counter for how many times their soulmate would pass by them.
(“Waste of time n’ space,” he’d complained. “Who’d wanna be with someone that desperate?”)
“Ya wouldn’t be half bad at it.”
“… Yeah …”
“If ya don’t wanna apply, just say so.”
“It’s not that. I just don’t know if I’ll wanna do it for the next three years.”
“Whaddaya want to do, then?”
“I dunno.” With a sigh, you set your bag of chips down. “I mean, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to apply.”
Osamu shrugs. “If ya are,” he says, turning off the stove top, “don’t do it just ’cause of me.”
Your teeth sink into your lower lip, sharp and knowing as he flips the yaki onigiri onto the plate he’d pulled out earlier.
After calling Atsumu, who had migrated to the living room couch while he had been waiting, the twins scarf down their afternoon snack in no time at all and raid your cupboard for the complimentary snacks your parents usually bring back from their trips.
Halfway into his fourth wafer, Atsumu’s timer goes off.
“Oh, shit.” Shoving the rest of the wafer into his mouth and silencing the alarm, Atsumu gets up and eagerly makes a beeline to the bathroom.
“… Do ya think it worked?” you mutter as you and Osamu stand up more slowly.
“I dunno.”
A loud swear explodes from the bathroom.
You look at each other sharply. Wiping the crumbs from your lips, the two of you run over to investigate.
As you get closer, you hear the sink running, then Atsumu muttering underneath his breath.
When you peek into the bathroom, your eyebrows shoot up into your hairline.
Holy shit.
“Holy shit,” Osamu says, leaning past you to get a better look. “’Tsumu, ya look like a carrot.”
“Shaddup, ’Samu,” Atsumu moans, rinsing his hair angrily. “I know. Fuck.”
Hair bleach on dark hair, as you find out, works similarly to hair bleach on dark fabric. Contrary to the sandy blond the older twin had desired, the result he had gotten is instead a bright, burnt yellow-orange matching the stains on his T-shirt. Not carrot, necessarily, but definitely not blond.
“Ugh.” Nose and forehead wrinkling, Atsumu leans toward the mirror, pinching a section of hair between his fingers. “It … it ain’t that bad, right?” His pitch rises with the slightest hint of denial. “I’m pullin’ it off.”
“It’s that bad,” Osamu says.
“’Samu!”
“Maybe you can bleach it again?” you suggest.
“And then his hair falls out? Bad idea.”
“Dye it, then, like you are.”
“We don’t have money left to buy a different color.” With a sigh, Osamu puts his hands on his hips. “Damn. Sorry, ’Tsumu.”
Atsumu groans and thunks his forehead against the mirror, dripping water all the way down its surface onto the counter. His frustration is so palpable that you can feel it prickling your skin.
If he hadn’t been so excited before, you’d probably poke fun. You should poke fun, but the disappointed twist of his lips and the droopiness of his sopping wet hair just makes you feel bad. He looks like a wet puppy.
Dammit.
You take your phone out.
Osamu tracks the movement. “Whatcha doin’?”
“Lookin’ something up.” You press on the first link you see, skim the webpage quickly, and put your phone back into your pocket. “I’m headin’ out fer a bit. Stay here.”
“… ’Kay.”
“Whatever,” Atsumu grumbles.
After grabbing your wallet and checking its contents, you head outside to drag your bike out from underneath the vacant carport. And as you hop onto the seat, pedaling down towards the nearest drugstore, you tell yourself that Atsumu better thank you on his hands and knees once you get back.
“Blue shampoo?” Atsumu’s tone is suspicious as he slathers the back of Osamu’s hair in grey dye.
“It’s supposed to cancel out the orange.” Turning the bottle to face you, you read the description beneath the brand name. “‘Eliminates brassy, orange undertones.’ See?”
“It ain’t gonna fuck up my hair even more?”
“’Course not,” you retort, all hopes of veneration quickly fading away. “I ain’t an asshole, Atsumu.”
His eyebrow twitches, hands slowing. You take the opportunity to place the bottle sideways in the crook of his neck, forcing him to tilt his head to hold it in place.
“Oi –”
“Go try it. I’ll finish Osamu’s hair.”
“Yer so bossy,” Atsumu grumbles, but he lets you nudge him out the way, peeling his gloves off and grabbing the shampoo.
You snap some gloves on in turn, keeping one eye on Osamu’s hair and the other on Atsumu as he ducks his head beneath the sink faucet. They’d pretty much finished up applying the dye for Osamu, at least from what you can tell, so you start combing through the locks with your fingers to make sure everything is covered.
Miya hair is very thick. Soft, too. You hope all this bleaching and dyeing won’t ruin it too much.
“Hm,” Osamu hums abruptly.
You stop. “What?”
“Nothin’.” You furrow your brow but resume, only to just barely hear him mumble, “… Feels nice.”
Oh.
A smile crawls onto your lips without warning, the space behind your ribcage suddenly cozy and soft.
“Alright, I’m doin’ it,” Atsumu announces. You look up just in time to see him squeeze a dollop of shampoo into his hand. “Euch! It’s so blue!”
“Why do ya sound so surprised?!”
“Shaddup, I just wasn’t expectin’ it to be so dark! … Smells okay, though …”
While the shampoo does its work on Atsumu’s hair, you take a little extra time combing Osamu’s. He remains quiet and still, thumbs tapping idly on the dark screen on his phone. You wait for him to make more snide remarks at Atsumu’s expense or complain about the smell of the dye, but he doesn’t.
You eventually finish up while the water still runs blue and sudsy into the bowl of the sink. Osamu mutters a thank you and ambles off after eyeing his brother for a few seconds. You linger for a while longer.
(God, you hope it works. If not for Atsumu’s sake, then for your pride and your wallet.)
After what seems like forever, he rinses out the last of the shampoo, wrings his hair out a bit, and straightens up to look in the mirror.
You examine his reflection as well. It’s less orange, yes, but still not as light as he had wanted, more gold than sand. Not necessarily good, but certainly less bad.
Atsumu fixates on the more muted shade of his hair for a minute or two. His lips press downwards at the corners, and then they part to say your name.
You blink.
“What?”
“Why’d ya buy the shampoo?”
He sounds almost accusatory, but not quite; there’s an undertone that you very, very rarely hear in his voice. He meets your eyes in the mirror, hair a dripping, tangled mess.
“… ’Cause I felt bad fer ya,” you admit unwillingly. Atsumu makes a face, and you sharpen your tongue, because that is what feels comfortable with him. Normal. “And I didn’t want to hear ya mopin’ and complainin’ about it all week.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” he persists. “I coulda pulled it off.”
You scoff. “Just ’cause you’re taller than most of the school doesn’t mean they wouldn’t’a noticed. And anyways, it’s better now, ain’t it?”
“I didn’t ask ya to buy it.”
“Ya didn’t even know what it was until I told you.”
“An’ if I did, I still wouldn’t’ve asked!”
“Yeah, ’cause yer prideful ass would rather die than ask fer help!” you snap, jabbing his bicep with your finger. “God! I knew ya wouldn’t even say thank you!”
“Well, if ya knew I was gonna be a dick about it, why’d ya waste yer money?!”
“I felt bad fer ya!” you screech. “My mistake!”
“Yeah, yer mistake!” Atsumu shouts back.
Chest heaving for breath, you glare at him. He glares in return. Temper pinks his face and the tips of his ears, flares his nostrils and curls his lip in that fierce and familiar way. In the back of your mind, you know you are doing the same.
Asshole.
You’re angry, yes. And offended, and exasperated, and and and –
And hurt.
“It’s so hard,” you say, your voice deciding to crack at the worst time possible, “to be nice to you sometimes, Atsumu.”
When the words leave your throat, his face grows blank in that way you’ve always hated, his mouth pressing into a fine line.
“So?” he replies.
You roll your eyes. “Forget it.”
Casting one last glance at the bottle of shampoo next to the sink, you clench your fists and turn to leave. What a waste of money. This is the last time you’re ever going to feel bad for him.
A hand wraps around your elbow upon your first step outside the bathroom.
“… Are ya cryin’?”
“No,” you bite, wishing he hadn’t asked because now you do feel like crying, just a little bit.
Atsumu pauses for an excruciating moment. You can practically feel his distaste for whatever words he’s about to say.
“I’ll pay ya back,” he mutters. “Fer the shampoo.”
“No.”
“Whaddaya mean, no?”
“I don’t want yer money.”
“Well, what do ya want, ’cause I ain’t owin’ ya anything.”
“I want a thank you.”
“… Can’t I just –”
“No.”
Atsumu throws his hands up. “Fine!” he says. “Thanks fer buyin’ somethin’ I didn’t ask fer! There, ya happy now?”
“I want ya to mean it,” you say quietly.
“I did mean it.”
You cross your arms.
He groans. Glancing around as if checking for hidden cameras, Atsumu slowly pushes his bangs away from his face and wipes his nose, sniffing.
“… Fine,” he eventually grumbles at the floor tiles. Cheeks puffed, he looks up at you from the corner of his eye and scratches the back of his head. “The shampoo fixed it a little bit,” the words struggle their way out of his mouth, “so … thanks … fer gettin’ it fer me. Ya didn’t have to.”
He looks like he’s just eaten soap, his ears still red, and that’s how you know he’s being sincere. Your shoulders relax a little bit.
“You’re welcome,” you say.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Atsumu’s expression, almost doleful for just that moment, blooms into something more sarcastic once you accept his gratitude. He gestures at the doorway behind you. “Can I go now?”
“Dry the mirror and the counter first.”
“But I said thank you.”
You throw a towel at his face and walk away, more satisfied than not.
“How’s Osamu-kun doing?”
You prop your phone up against the wall behind your desk, tilting your pen between your fingers. “He’s fine, Ma.”
“Did ya tell him how good his curry is? He makes it better than me.”
“Yeah, he says he’s glad you guys like it.”
After resolving the blue shampoo issue with Atsumu on Saturday, you’d gone back to the kitchen and found Osamu chopping vegetables and tofu next to the sink. At first, you figured he was hungry again, but upon your questioning, he’d only denied it.
(“’S fer you.”
“… Fer me? No, you don’t have to –”
“Yeah, I know. Ya don’t like the curry at the cafeteria, so bring mine back to the dorm and save it in the fridge fer later. If ya don’t want it, leave it fer yer folks to eat when they get back.”)
He didn’t leave much room for debate. And since he was using your family’s food to make it anyway, you accepted, a bit perplexed but happy nonetheless. You hadn’t expected him to remember your complaint about the cafeteria’s bland curry.
The amount he made was enough to fill two Tupperware containers, one of which you left for your parents when they returned two days later. Needless to say, they were delighted.
“What a thoughtful boy. He’s so good to you, honey.”
You smile, walking back to your desk. “Yeah.”
(“Ya like dark chocolate in it, right?”)
Your mom sighs. It’s a familiar sigh, and you click your pen, knowing what she is about to say before she even takes a breath.
“I just don’t know why he hasn’t asked ya out yet.”
You can hear your dad speak up between chews in the background. “It ain’t like how it was back when we were young, dear. Soulmates these days don’t like makin’ things so formal and official.”
“Oh, I know, but wouldn’t it be sweet? I was so happy when we went on our first official date.”
“The one at the konbini ’cause I couldn’t afford anythin’ nicer?”
“Yes. I loved it.”
“I know. You were smilin’ the whole time.”
“Glad you’re still in love,” you say dryly when they giggle over the phone, your nose wrinkling when your dad comes into view to give your mom a loud smooch. During these moments, you wish you’d called instead. “I’m still here.”
“Oh, I know, I know. Honey, you should bring Osamu-kun somethin’ fer his next game! A snack fer afterwards. He’ll like that.”
“Okay.” You’ve done that before. The first time you gave him an orange in your first year of junior high, he and Atsumu squabbled over dividing it for five minutes. Now you get double portions whenever you have the compulsion to bring something after games, just to keep the peace.
“Speaking of games …”
Here we go.
“… Have ya applied to be the manager for the volleyball team yet?”
“Um.” Glancing at the wall to your right, you click your pen some more, taking your time to answer. “I filled the form out …”
“[Y/n]! If ya dawdle, someone else’ll snatch it up. When’s it due?”
“July first or until they find someone.”
“Turn it in tomorrow!”
“Okay, okay.”
Your mom sighs again, and she places a bowl down onto the table. “… Otherwise, are ya okay? I’m sorry we missed ya at home.”
“It’s fine. I hung out with Kokomi and the twins. How was yer anniversary?”
“We’ll make sure we’re home next time you’re on weekend leave. And it was lovely! Oh, honey, ya should’ve seen the fish yer pa caught …”
You talk with your parents until they finish their dinner, hanging up once they’ve started cleaning up. As soon as the video cuts out, you release a breath and turn your phone face-down.
You don’t know why you’re so nervous about applying for the manager position. It’s the natural thing to do, because it’s natural to want to be involved with something Osamu is interested in, his own opinion on the matter notwithstanding. You think you might like being a manager. It’s not like you want to do something else more.
Getting rejected by Kobayashi would be horrible, though.
Maybe you’ll wait a little longer to turn your application in. Polish it up some more, and such.
After volleyball practice ends, and after everyone who had lingered behind to practice some more is ready to call it a night, Atsumu tells you and Osamu that he’s staying a little longer to practice his jump float serves.
“Are ya sure? Cafeteria’s servin’ all-you-can-eat pasta for dinner.”
“I’ll be done before it closes.”
Osamu doesn’t look convinced. To be fair, neither are you; Atsumu often loses track of time when he stays behind, resulting in an extra hungry, extra irritable Atsumu.
“Atsumu,” you say.
He huffs at you. “Seriously, I will!” he insists, before turning to walk back to the end line. You, Osamu, Ginjima, Akagi, and Ojiro all look on helplessly as he throws a volleyball into the air and gives himself a running start.
“Don’t worry,” Kobayashi says, grabbing your attention just as he jumps. She holds up the key to the gymnasium. “I’ll kick him out before he misses dinner.”
Ojiro, ever the responsible one, lets out a noise of protest. “Senpai, I can lock up. You should go.”
“No, it’s fine.” Though her tone is impassive, she makes it clear that her mind is set as she waves him off. “I’m goin’ out to eat with my boyfriend later, anyway.”
You blink.
Though Ojiro is visibly reluctant, he acquiesces. “… Okay. Thank you, Kobayashi-senpai.”
“Mmhm,” Kobayashi hums, and her gaze falls upon you. “Make sure they get to the cafeteria in one piece, [L/n]-chan.”
“I will, senpai.”
You wait outside while the guys change out of their gym clothes and gather their things. Once they exit the building, you join them, listening idly to their chatter about today’s practice as the five of you trek towards the cafeteria.
“Hey, Ojiro-senpai, Akagi-senpai,” Ginjima speaks up during a lull in the conversation. “What Kobayashi-senpai said earlier …”
Attention piqued, you look at your upperclassmen for their reactions to Ginjima’s question. Next to you, Osamu does little to hide his curiosity as well.
Ojiro and Akagi, in turn, share a glance, and Ojiro raises an eyebrow at Ginjima.
“Yeah?” Ojiro replies.
“Well, y’know …” Ginjima presses expectantly, “when she said that she has a boyfriend, did she mean …?”
“That’s somethin’ you can ask Kobayashi-senpai about, ain’t it?”
You imagine doing just that and cringe.
Ginjima’s eyes widen, and he clears his throat. “Well –!” he replies, a bit too loudly. “I would, but I don’t want her to think I’m bein’ judgmental or somethin’. Plus, I’m just a first-year …”
“Aw, I think it’s fine if they know, Aran. It ain’t like she’s hidin’ it or anythin’,” Akagi says. Ojiro looks up for a moment in thought, then shrugs tentatively, and Akagi smiles at you and the two boys. “Kobayashi-senpai’s not datin’ her soulmate. They’re pretty serious, too.”
Ojiro rests his hands behind his head. “He’s a nice guy. Comes to games sometimes.”
“Oh, I see …”
You nod slowly, absorbing this new piece of information. Kobayashi has a boyfriend. A boyfriend that she goes on dates with, one she really likes. You wonder how long they’ve been together.
You wonder if Kobayashi’s met her soulmate yet.
“E-Excuse me! Hello!”
The quick patter of footsteps interrupts your train of thought. Glancing behind you, you stop short when you see one of your classmates running up to your group, waving one hand and holding a camera in the other. The golden orange of the sky burnishes her red hair.
“Naruko-san,” you and Ginjima greet at the same time. Ginjima laughs.
“Sorry to bother ya!” Naruko bows and quickly straightens, holding her camera up and smiling nervously. “I-I was just takin’ some pictures for photography club, and I was wonderin’ if you guys would mind me takin’ a picture?”
“How long’s it gonna take?” Osamu asks.
“Not too long. Five minutes? U-Unless y’all are in a hurry to get somewhere …”
“Not too much of a hurry. Just wanna make it to dinner.” Ojiro smiles, patting Osamu and Akagi’s backs. “Where do ya want us?”
Naruko brightens, her cheeks going red. “J-Just keep walkin’! The lighting’s perfect right now, and I wanna take a picture of yer backs with yer volleyball jackets on.” She glances at you, and her expression grows more nervous. “Er …”
You lock eyes with her for a few seconds before catching on. Nodding, you take a step towards Naruko to join her.
Osamu’s hand grasps your shoulder.
His hold is loose, but you bite back the urge to slump over at the sudden warmth of it, pausing instead to look back at him.
“Where’re ya goin’?”
You answer tentatively. “I don’t have a team jacket.”
“That’s fine. You’re walkin’ with us too.”
“Yeah, but …” You wet your lips. “Like, visually, it’ll look weird if one person doesn’t have one on …”
The corner of Osamu’s mouth twitches, and he frowns. You watch as his gaze moves past your shoulder. A sudden, brief twinge of irritation, not belonging to you, zings through your ribcage.
“Why’s that matter?”
“Yeah. C’mon, it’ll be fine,” Ojiro says.
“It’s okay!” Naruko suddenly blurts, and you jolt slightly, looking back at her. She bounces on her feet, voice even higher pitched. “I can do a more candid shot, now that I think about it! A-Actually, Miya-san, could ya give [L/n]-san yer jacket? And Ginjima-san, you can keep yers around yer waist …”
Her sudden change in idea perplexes you a bit. But Osamu seems to be satisfied, and he shrugs his jacket off, placing it over your shoulders.
After a bit of hesitation, you slide your arms through the sleeves.
(It’s just as warm.)
“Ooh, [L/n]-chan’s wearin’ Osamu’s jacket,” Ginjima teases behind his hand, and your face heats up.
“Okay.” Behind you, Naruko lets out a wistful-sounding sigh. “I’m ready. Y’all can start walkin’ now, just like ya were before.”
With only a bit of self-consciousness, the five of you follow her instructions. There are only a few clicks of the camera before Naruko calls out her thanks and goes off without another word, leaving you and the boys to speculate whether you’ll ever see the results.
“How cute,” Akagi comments. “She looked like she was gonna throw up, though.”
“I hope those were conflicting statements.”
“Okay, Aran, I wasn’t implying …”
While the two upperclassmen start to banter, you move to take Osamu’s jacket off, only for him to stop you.
“’S fine,” he says. “You can wear it if ya want.”
“Oh. Okay.”
And so you do.
The boys’ first practice game in July is brutal.
Many of your peers have come to watch. It’s a favorite after-school pastime of Inarizaki’s student populace, you’ve quickly discovered, to hop from one athletic club to the other simply to spectate and speculate. People pack the balcony and peek around the doorway, catching the scent of blood and sweat.
Between the crowd’s cheering and jeering, the squeak of sneakers on the gym floor, and the sound of palms ramming into volleyballs, the atmosphere is sharp, almost electric – something that you feel tingling on your skin as you stand on the sidelines, Kobayashi right by your side.
Atsumu delivers another devastating service ace. It ricochets off the corner of the other side of the court with a thunderous boom.
“Did you catch that, [L/n]-chan?” Kobayashi asks, arms crossed. “That was one of his better ones.”
“Ah, sorry, I didn’t.”
“Hm.”
You watch the slow, satisfied stretch of Atsumu’s smile, and wait patiently. “It’s okay. He ain’t done yet.”
Indeed, Atsumu is just getting started. You spare an amused glance at Osamu in front of the net, his hands locked protectively behind his head, before turning back to Atsumu as the volleyball is thrown back to him.
Raising your camera, you adjust the focus, finger ready on the shutter button.
Toss. Run. Jump.
Click.
On your other side, a girl pumps her fists and cheers.
“Wow! Another one!” she gushes.
You smile behind your lens. “Ya always sound so impressed, Tsubaki-chan.”
“I’m just excited! We’re crushin’ them in the last set!”
“’Course we are,” says Kobayashi. “Our offense is that much better. I’m a little disappointed.”
As your upperclassman patiently points out each player’s strengths and weaknesses, you keep an eye on the team and crouch low. You’ve got plenty of photos now that the game’s nearing its end – lots of sets, a few spikes and digs, some flashy jump serves. Hopefully, some of them have turned out halfway decent. Even though you’d widened the aperture to make up for the gym’s crappy lighting and adjusted the shutter speed for blurring, you still worry about your timing.
By the time Inarizaki scores the winning point, you’ve moved to the opposite end of the court and have to race back to capture their reactions.
One thing you like about the volleyball team is how expressive they are. Joy, passion, pride – off the high of a victory, they bare everything, whether it’s through their expressions or the way they move or both.
Tsubaki says your name excitedly as soon as the teams have finished thanking each other, tugging on your arm. “Can I see the action shots, [Y/n]-chan?” she requests.
“Ah, sure.”
You turn the camera towards her, and she leans in as you scroll through the photos, her grin widening.
“Wow! Yer timin’s amazin’. They look so cool!”
The praise brings summer to your cheeks. “Thanks,” you reply genuinely. After a moment of hesitation, you lift the camera again. “Smile, Manager-san?”
Tsubaki doesn’t hesitate to broaden her already present grin, throwing up a peace sign for good measure. Kobayashi looks your way as well, and you take one shot, knowing it will be kept.
“Cute!” Tsubaki exclaims.
Two shadows loom over your shoulders as the girl bestows you with another compliment. When you turn your head to the right, your nose nearly brushes Osamu’s cheek.
“Ya got any good shots of us, [Y/n]?” Atsumu asks expectantly.
“Yes, actually, I did,” you reply, going back through the camera roll with a particular image in mind. You’re only vaguely aware of the warmth they exude as they budge into your personal space, the smell of sweat lingering on their skin. “Here.”
You’re particularly proud of this one. It had been a split second of pure luck, standing on the sidelines when a window of opportunity opened for a fast-tempo set. You had felt it – you knew Atsumu would set to Osamu, and as Osamu jumped, arm reared back as Atsumu sent the ball to him, you had captured it.
Somehow, you always get the timing right with them.
“Cool,” the twins approve proudly.
“Email that one to us, will ya?” Atsumu says. “I ain’t lettin’ you photography nerds hoard it away.”
“She’s sendin’ all these to Arata-senpai, ya dolt.”
“Hey, I wanna see!” Gintama breaks into your little group, trying to sneak a peek in. “Did ya get one of my spikes?”
“Yeah, how about my jump serve?”
“That super cool block me and Ren did in the second set!”
“Didja get one of Coach?”
One by one, the team gathers around you, eager for a glimpse of their successes. The crowding is uncomfortable, but you try your best to show them what you can anyway, feeling a rare sense of pride about your own accomplishments.
You’re happy with your choice.
Tsubaki will be a great manager. Even when you first met her, you knew she had everything she'd need for the job – a passion for the sport, a desire to help others succeed, and an endless amount of perseverance. Inarizaki couldn’t ask for a better person to replace Kobayashi next year. She’ll do well in what she’s decided to do.
And so will you.
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em1e · 5 months
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osamu miya who carries bandaids and those instant ice packs around in his bag when he realizes just how often u injure urself accidentally
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