This Is Atsumu After We Had Our First Girl After The Twins

guys i have never nor will i ever play LADS but captain caleb edit popped up on my fyp (lmk if anyone wants the link to that) and stuff abt him keeps showing up, also sylus so i dunno.

osamu x reader

wc: 600 i thibk

it’s late, the kind of late where the streets outside are quiet and the sky is painted that deep navy blue that comes right before black. the shop is technically closed, but the lights are still on, casting a warm glow over the wooden counter and cozy chairs. you’re sitting on one of the stools, chin in your hand, watching osamu move around behind the counter like he’s done this a thousand times.

because he has.

“you sure you don’t mind me hangin’ around?” you ask, even though you already know the answer. it’s a question you throw out just to hear his voice.

he glances over his shoulder, one brow raised. “d’ya ask me that every time just so i’ll tell ya to stay again?”

you smile. “maybe.”

he shakes his head, but there’s the smallest grin tugging at his lips as he turns back to the rice cooker. he’s got his sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with bits of rice and sesame. it’s quiet for a bit, just the sound of him moving around and the soft hum of whatever old jazz song he’s got playing in the background. this place is his, every inch of it, and you like being here because when you’re here, it feels a little like you’re his, too.

he finally sets down a fresh plate in front of you—two onigiri, perfectly shaped. “try these,” he says, leaning on the counter to watch your reaction.

you bite into it and tilt your head. “hmm… secret recipe? or are you just trying to impress me again?”

“yeah,” he says, clearly pleased. “thought i’d try somethin’ different.”

you chew slowly, savoring it. “samu, this is unreal. you’re gonna have people lining up just for this.”

he shrugs, but the tips of his ears are pink. “yeah, well… ‘m glad you like it.”

you glance at him, your heart doing that quiet little stutter it always does when he looks at you like that—like you’re not just another customer who stuck around too long. like maybe he’s been waiting for you to stay.

you set the plate down and rest your arms on the counter, leaning a little closer. “you know,” you say softly, “you could probably close the shop and still feed me every night. i wouldn’t complain.”

he snorts. “you plannin’ on freeloadin’ off me, is that it?”

“maybe,” you tease, nudging his arm. “but only if you let me help out sometimes.”

he looks at you for a second—really looks at you. then he says, a little quieter than before, “you already help, y’know. just by bein’ here.”

your throat feels tight all of a sudden, and you duck your head to hide your smile. he’s not the kind of guy to say things like that often. when he does, it always sticks.

he walks around the counter, standing beside you now, and taps your leg lightly with his knee. “c’mon. help me close up. then i’ll walk you home.”

you hop off the stool, brushing crumbs off your clothes. “deal. but only if you promise to let me come by tomorrow.”

he pauses in the middle of wiping a table and turns to you, eyes soft. “you don’t gotta ask.”

and maybe it’s not a grand confession. maybe it’s not a dramatic moment under fireworks or in the rain.

but it’s enough.

and when you leave the shop with his hand brushing yours, with leftover onigiri in a paper bag and the promise of another quiet evening just like this one, you think—this might be the start of something really, really good.

happy birthday to keishin ukai we’ve been married for 5 years now almost 6. (love at first sight.) We have over 12 kids, and i love him and his dilf self.

@dearru @earier

F1 AU mclaren's annoying driver lol oikage hate(love) this man

this is me and atsumu when we got married:

this is atsumu now:

pregnancy cravings with miya atsumu.

Pregnancy cravings never really made sense to Atsumu. Then again, he never got to the part of anatomy and physiology when he was studying physical therapy before he decided to go pro as a volleyball player.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t supportive; no, he prided himself on being a great husband. And now, with you, his wife, pregnant with your first child, he was determined to be the most supportive, loving, and accommodating partner ever.

Nothing was going to stand in his way—not distance, not logic, and certainly not impossible cravings.

It started simple. Like it always did.

You wanted a specific pastry from a bakery on the other side of Japan? Done. He booked the fastest delivery service he could find, and when that wasn’t an option, he flew there himself, picked it up, and brought it back.

Talk about rich.

Homemade food? Good thing Osamu had drilled the basics of cooking into him, though he still got yelled at by his twin when he accidentally burned rice. But hey, effort counted, right?

Then, the cravings started getting weird.

You’re sitting on the couch with a blanket over your lap when you look up at him with serious eyes. “I want Osamu’s cooking.”

Atsumu blinked. “Alright, I can ask him—”

“But I don’t want to eat it. You eat it.”

He frowned, confused.

“Huh? Ya want me to eat ‘Samu’s cookin’?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Atsumu scratched his head, wondering if this was some kind of test. “And that’s gonna make ya feel better?”

“Yes.”

“… Even if ya don’ eat it?”

“Uh-huh.”

Atsumu blinked. “That doesn’t make no sense.”

“Atsumu, please don’t question me.”

“Yes, Ma’am!” He grabbed his phone and immediately dialed Osamu. “Oi, ‘Samu, I need ya to cook somethin’—no, not for [Name]—for me.” There was silence on the other end before Osamu sighed heavily and reluctantly agreed.

That night, Atsumu sat at the dining table, stuffing his face with his brother’s food while you sat across from him, smiling in satisfaction as you watched. Osamu just did his part as a supportive brother for his twin.

The next day was even worse.

“A seedless mango,” you murmured, rubbing your belly.

...

“A what?”

“A seedless mango. I want it.”

“… [Name], sweetheart, baby, I love ya, but that don’t exist.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I want it.”

Atsumu groaned. “Where am I gonna get a seedless mango?”

“Figure it out, please?”

He spent hours searching online, calling fruit vendors, and even asking Osamu if his suppliers had some secret black market seedless mango (Osamu asked him if a volleyball that was going 120 km/h hit his head).

No luck.

In the end, Atsumu cut up a normal mango, carefully removed every trace of the seed, and handed it to you with a hopeful grin.

You took one look at it and frowned.

“It’s not the same.”

Atsumu wanted to cry.

-

“I need you to wear a face mask.”

Atsumu blinked at you from your bed. “Huh? Why?”

You huffed quietly, fidgeting with the sheets. “Because your face is annoying.”

Atsumu gasped, hand clutching his chest. “My face?! The one ya love so much?!”

“Yes.”

“The one ya vowed to look at forever in sickness and in health?!”

“Yes.”

“The one ya called ‘beautiful’ when I asked ya if I was hotter than ‘Samu?!”

“I love you, but right now, your face is irritating me.”

Atsumu stared, utterly betrayed, before sighing in defeat. He got up, went to the closet, grabbed one of the disposable masks he’d bought during flu season, and put it on.

“There. Happy now?”

You smiled sweetly. “Very.”

Atsumu flopped onto the bed with a groan, pulling the blanket over himself. As he lay there, sulking, you scooted closer and rested your head on his chest.

“I love you, you know that?” you murmured.

He grumbled. “Ya sure? Feels like ya hate me sometimes.”

You chuckled. “No, I love you. My hormones just don’t.”

He sighed. “Yer so lucky I love ya more than life.”

“I know. Pregnancy is so weird.”

And the worst has yet to come.

-

Atsumu should be asleep by now, but no, he had to be individually popping popcorn. One kernel at a time, as per your request.

He initially told you, “Yer kiddin’.”

You were not.

And that was how Atsumu found himself in the kitchen at three in the morning, painstakingly popping one kernel at a time in a tiny pan. Every time he accidentally popped more than one, you, who were sitting on a stool with your hands on your belly, would click your tongue disapprovingly.

“You put in two, Atsumu.”

“This is torture,” he grumbled, but he kept going.

-

“I want ice cream,” you said.

Atsumu perked up. “Oh, easy. What flavor?”

“I don’t know.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Uh… okay. I can get a few different kinds?”

“I need to taste them all.”

Atsumu frowned. “Like… all the flavors?”

“Yes.”

“… Babe, there are like fifty flavors at the ice cream shop.”

You nodded. “And I need to taste all of them before I decide which one I want.”

Atsumu let out a long, suffering sigh, but being the devoted husband he was, he marched straight to the ice cream parlor and ordered a ridiculous amount of sample cups. The poor employee stared at him in disbelief.

“You… want every flavor?”

“Yeah.”

“Every single one?”

“Yeah.”

“Sir, that’s—”

“My wife is pregnant, and if I don’t do this, I might not make it to the end of the week.”

The employee, upon hearing this, immediately started getting to work.

When Atsumu got home, you took one spoonful of each, nodded, and, after going through every single cup, announced:

“I don’t want ice cream anymore.”

Atsumu fell to his knees. Defeated.

-

“I need you to stand in the corner for a while.”

Atsumu looked up from his phone, confused. “Huh?”

“The corner. Stand there.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just feel like you should.”

Atsumu squinted. “Babe, are ya makin’ me into a damn decoration?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

Atsumu sighed but did it anyway. He stood in the corner of your living room for a full ten minutes while you sat on the couch, happily watching TV. At some point, Osamu FaceTimed him, took one look at the scene, and hung up.

-

The next day, you called him while he was at practice, which was rare in itself because you did just leave messages whenever you knew he was practicing.

“Babe,” you said in a tone that made his stomach drop.

“… Yeah?”

“I need you to bring me a cheeseburger.”

He let out a relieved laugh, wiping the sweat off his brow. “That’s easy! I’ll grab ya one on my way ho—“

“But replace the buns with pancakes.”

Atsumu froze. “Come again?”

“You heard me.”

“I dunno if I did, sweetheart.”

“Pancakes. Instead of buns. Oh, and I want honey to go with it.”

Atsumu nearly dropped his phone.

“Yer messin’ with me.”

“I’m really not.”

And you weren’t. That evening, he stood in the kitchen, flipping pancakes with the precision of a professional chef before assembling the most unholy creation he’d ever laid eyes on—a cheeseburger with pancake buns, honey drizzled over the meat.

You took a bite and hummed softly. “Oh my god, this is better than sex.”

Atsumu, who had spent hours perfecting his technique in the bedroom, felt personally offended by that.

-

“Atsumu,” you murmur. “I need you to switch sides of the bed with me.”

He sighed. “No.”

“Atsumu.”

“[Name], baby, darlin’—I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because my side is closer to the door in case of an intruder.”

You chuckled quietly. “Tsumu, please. I need to sleep on that side.”

Atsumu stared at you, conflicted. He had never—not once—slept on the other side. It was unnatural. Wrong. It went against the very foundations of your marriage.

But you were looking at him with those tired, hormonal, pleading eyes. And he was sure you’d tell him you could barely see your feet now and often experience heartburn, all because of his unborn baby.

With a heavy sigh, Atsumu switched sides with you.

“You’re a good husband,” you whispered, patting his cheek.

Atsumu, lying in the unfamiliar position, staring at the wrong wall, whispered, “I’m a broken man.”

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