You let your head fall back against the pillow, your eyes already drifting closed as sleep begins to pull you back under again. It's only then, just as you're comfortable, that the next sound tears through your bedroom.

Your bedroom window, old and creaky, is slid open. The curtains stir as something, a big something, slips past them. There are no footsteps or creaks of the floorboards to prove it happens, just the rustle of the curtains as more breeze flies through.

"...P–Peter."

The name slips from your mouth before your mind has even fully caught up. It has to be him, he's the only person reckless enough to slip in at three in the morning, and the only one who would consider your fourteenth story window as a perfectly reasonable front door, despite having a key.

There's no response, so you reach for the lamp. A soft, yellow glow fills the bedroom, your eyes taking another second to adjust before immediately settling on the wall.

Peter's halfway up your bedroom wall, crouched close to the ceiling with his weight resting on his feet. He has one hand on the opposite wall, as if he needs it to keep him balanced.

He's still not turned to look at you, opting to watch the city through the gap the wind creates in the curtains. One shoulder in his suit has been ripped almost clean off, exposing bruised skin beneath streaks of drying blood. There's more dried blood along the side of his face, disappearing beneath his jaw and into the collar of his suit. Fresh crimson still trickles from a cut above his eyebrow, his curls clinging damply to his forehead.

You chew your bottom lip as you take him in. It's become the norm for him to crawl through your window at night after patrol, but never this late and never looking this banged up. Dating Spider-Man has its perks but now it brings you an uncomfortable swirl in your stomach.

"Pete?"

When he finally looks over to you, the breath in your throat catches. His eyes, usually so soft and brown when they look at you, are gone, replaced by darkness. You blink a few times, as if that will reset your sight and give you something more familiar.

It doesn't and your brow furrows. You've spent enough time looking into Peter's eyes to know every shade of brown that they could be in a different light. This wasn't that. The colour has been swallowed whole, replaced by a black glossy enough to catch the light from your bedside lamp.

Over time, you've learnt to just roll with the things that happen to and around Peter. Now, for the first time really, he's beaten, he's bloody, his eyes are pitch black, and he just stares at you.

It's probably one of the most unsettling things you've ever seen, which makes it deeply irritating that your first coherent thought is still 'God, he's attractive'.

"That's... new," you finally say.

His head tilts ever so slightly, the movement smooth enough that it reminds you he isn't entirely human, as if him clinging on your wall without a regard for gravity wasn't reminder enough.

"What happened, handsome?" You ask softly.

One corner of his mouth twitches at the nickname, it's barely a smile, but it's enough to loosen the knot that has been tightening in your chest from since you turned the light on.

"Suit yourself," you say.

The silence feels wrong on him. Usually, Peter feels silence the way other people breathe. He apologises, makes terrible jokes, and talks himself into circles until you have to interrupt him just to get a word in. Even after the worst patrols, he somehow finds the energy to ramble on about the criminal who threw a microwave at him or complain about New York's pigeons' vendetta against him.

Tonight, he just watches you. His gaze follows you as you kneel beside the bed and pull out the first-aid kit you stashed there for times like this. It tracks the movement of your hands while you sort through gauze and antiseptic, placing them on the bed.

"Come here."

This, he obeys immediately. Usually there's some sort of protest, "I'm fine." "You don't need to fuss." "It's not even my blood."

But today, he walks down the wall, each step carrying him lower until both feet settle quietly onto the carpet. He walks the short distance over to you, stopping close enough that you can smell the rain and city dust beneath the metallic tang of blood.

There's tiny cuts scattered across his jaw, already looking like they're healing. "You really got beat up, huh?"

He nods in response.

"The other guy look worse than you?"

Another nod.

"Good."

It's your turn to watch him, your eyes trailing down from where his hair is still damp to the way his muscles bulge out of his suit. A hum of approval slips past your lips, and the corner of Peter's mouth lifts again.

"Missed you." His voice is rough, quieter than usual, as though he hasn't spoken in hours. Knowing Peter, that is unlikely.

"I missed you too." You reach for the antiseptic. "Suit off, sit down."

It's a routine you've done time and time again. He's out of the suit in no time, then on your bed in only his boxers. His chest and stomach is no better than his face, scrapes and bruises littered across him.

You kneel between his open legs, soaking a cotton pad with antiseptic before lifting it towards the cut above his eyebrow. "This is going to sting."

Normally, he'd flinch before you'd enough touched him, already complaining about your bedside manner despite being the one who'd shown up at your window and begging you to take care of him with those puppy-dog eyes.

But, the antiseptic touches raw skin without so much as a wince or bad joke about how it hurts worse than anything he fought as an Avenger.

The furrow in your brow deepens for the second time today as you carefully clean his face. "Peter."

His black eyes flick briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. "What?"

"You've been staring at me for the past... I don't know. Like five minutes."

"I know." Is his simple response.

There's something in his voice that somehow manages to sound not quite like Peter but also entirely like Peter at the same time. A hint of brown peaks through his eyes as you study him.

You find yourself looking away first, pretending to concentrate on cleaning the cut along his jaw even though you've already wiped it clean.

When your thumb accidentally brushes against the corner of his mouth, any hint of brown disappears, replaced by pitch black again as there's a faint hitch in his breath.

The effects of his reaction rolls through your body in a way that you're not sure you can admit out loud. Although he doesn't show it, he's probably in pain, and the worry you'd had initially is very quickly being replaced by a burning desire.

"I think we're done."

You stand to throw the used cotton aside. The moment you try to leave, warm fingers close around your wrist. It's not tight enough to bruise, but it's enough to stop you in your tracks, to stop you from even thinking of pulling away.

The tug on your arm is done with hardly any force at all, but it still has you tumbling forward. Your hands land on his shoulders to steady yourself, and he lets go of your wrist only to settle one hand against your waist.

Lifting you with ease, he puts you on his lap.

For a brief second, he looks almost puzzled by the contact, as though some part of him is only catching up to what the rest of him decided several seconds ago.

As your fingers trace down the lines of his chest, over the faint bruising, his eyes drop to your chest, watching how your chest begins to rise and fall faster as your heart thuds in your chest.

His nipples are already erect, so perky and tempting and you can't help but slide your thumbs over them. It's as if the touch sparks something within him, his hands tighten on your waist, drawing you closer until there's barely any space between your bodies.

The streets of New York sound even more distant as the sounds of ragged breathing fills the room, it's all consuming and desire pools in your stomach without even being touched.

"Pete," you moan, and the restraint snaps.

Peter's hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you down to crash his lips to yours. It's not really a kiss, it's too messy and too desperate, and he groans in your mouth as your teeth accidentally catch the cut on his lip. Still, he doesn't pull away. In fact, he craves more.

His hands run over your back and then down to cup your ass, tilting your hips forward in an attempt to press you harder against him. He hums quietly against your mouth, the sound vibrating somewhere deep in his chest.

Somehow, he calms down enough that his lips move against yours in a way more resembling real kiss, his tongue sliding over yours. The motion has heat prickling under your skin and a throb blooming between your thighs. Your nails scratch at his back, adding to the collection of marks there.

Without breaking the kiss, Peter eases you both backwards. You barely notice you're being moved until you suddenly feel him, all of him, press against you. He arranges you so he's flat on his back, your knees on either side of his hips.

The thin fabric of your panties is damp in a way that you're sure he can feel through his boxers. He's done nothing so far to warrant that.

"Fuck," you groan against his mouth as you shift against him. The friction sending little sparks of pleasure through you, but not enough to satisfy the ache.

He pulls back just enough to look up at you. You could always tell what he was thinking through his eyes, but they're still black, probably darker than before if that's possible. But, the expression on his face gives you all the reassurances that his eyes can't.

"My senses are going crazy." It's the first sentence that was more than two words he's pulled together all night, so you sit up straight, looking down at him. He closes his eyes, drawing in a deep and ragged breath. "Fu-. You smell so..."

The praise went straight to your core, more wetness dampening your panties and Peter whimpered.

He didn't open his eyes immediately, taking another long, shuddering breath of air as if your scene was an intoxicant he couldn't get enough of.

Shifting in his lap, you grind down against him with as much pressure as you could manage. His hands on your hips twitched, his fingers digging into your skin with enough pressure that you knew it would bruise tomorrow. Good.

His eyes lock on to yours, the void in his gaze terrifying in a way that only made you ache more. "I can hear your blood rushing. I can feel... no, I can smell how warm and wet you are."

Leaning forward, you drag your chest against his bare skin until your noses almost brush.

"So, then you know I'm ready for you." You kissed the bottom of his jaw, where a bruise has formed. "I'm begging for it." Another kiss and shift against him. His full body tremors underneath you. "I need you."

Before you can blink, his hand flies up to wrap around the back of your neck, and then the room spins. Peter's over you in an instant, pressing his erection against your core.

There's a wet patch on his boxers where his precum has pooled and each roll of his hips coats his boxers as it glides over your damp panties.

"Fuck... Pete."

Your nails find their way to his back again, leaving him with marks that you know he'll appreciate in the mirror in the morning.

Peter whimpers, hair flopping over his face and eyes half-lidded as he moves faster against you. You reach up, thumb flicking over his nipples in time with his grinds against you. Electricity runs through his veins at every wipe.

"I-I'm not- I'm close already," he stutters, his dick twitching in his boxers.

"But I want you inside of me," you all but whined.

"Okay, yes."

If you weren't as aroused as you are now, you would have laughed at the unnecessary acrobatics as he jumps back to pull your panties off in one swoop. The cold air hits your soaked folds, and his throat bobs as he watches the way it glistens in the light.

"Hurry up," you begged, legs closing slightly. It was a silly thing to feel so self-conscious in front of the man who's been between your legs more times than you could count, but he's also not seen you this desperate before.

He stands to pull his boxers down, a soft moan escaping his lips as the fabric catches on his sensitive tip. He turns to look at you as you swallow hard. His dick is beautiful, slightly curved and thick in a way that fills you up completely every time. It's flushed a pretty pink at the tip. Your tongue moves in your throat, craving the feeling of how heavy it would feel on you.

Settling between your legs again, Peter spreads your legs wide. He rubs the tip of his length through your slick folds, his precum and your arousal mixing. He uses the tip to circle your clit with extra pressure, and you cannot help the grind of your hips.

Peter taps his dick on your clit once, then once again, running it through your folds again.

Your hands hook under the backs of your thighs, pulling them to your chest and exposing yourself to him. "Peter, please."

"I'm sorry, baby," he coos.

Just the tip is eased past your hole, and it's enough for your mouth to go slack, eyes rolling back as the stretch burns so well. He continues to push in slowly, face scrunched as your walls wrap around him like a specialised glove.

Every ridge, every vein, and every pulse drags hits against the walls of your pussy. He fills you up completely, thick and veiny, and neither of you move for a moment, too lost in the feeling.

"Won't last long," he grits out.

Sweat already beads at his forehead. Sex with Peter is usually a stamina war, he goes rounds and rounds before even tiring. But whatever's happened to him has heightened his senses in a way that he cannot yet control, the feelings overwhelming him to the point of almost overstimulation.

"That's okay, take what you need."

He begins to move, pulling out so just the tip is left in before pushing back forward. He finds the right angle immediately, hitting against your spot and making your toes curl.

Without missing a thrust, Peter grabs hold of your ankles, using them to spread your legs further. The new angle has you both sighing, moans mixing in the room with the sounds of his skin clapping against yours.

"Feels s'good, s'tight," he groans. "Touch... self."

Three of your fingers immediately find your clit, circling with the pressure that you know you like. It only takes a few tightly pressured circles for the first waves of your orgasm to shake through your body.

Peter watches your body arch as your orgasm hits you in full force. You clench around him and that combined with the pure ecstasy on your face has him burying himself deep inside of you, giving you a few more frantic thrusts before he's whimpering and groaning, his nerve endings going haywire.

Seconds later, he's shooting hot, ropey cum into you. He falls forward but keeps his body hovering over yours. Your hands cup his cheeks, pressing kisses to his face as you both come down from your highs. He mumbles praises to you between kisses, making your heart squeeze.

"Feeling better, Pete?" You ask.

"Yeah, thanks to you," he sighs. He sits back on his heels, still buried inside of you.

As you watch him, his eyes slowly clear of the black, his soft brown eyes finding yours.

He squeezes you again, and then lets you go. You take a step back. "I got fuckin' shitfaced after my game Friday and came looking for ya, but Mori said he kicked ya out for spitin' in some dude's face." 

Atsumu talks, and you stand on your toes to look over his shoulder, because it's Sunday night, and you know that whever Atsumu goes, the other one is sure to follow. You fall back on your heels. "Yeah, I definitely did that." 

"Asshole probably deserved it," Atsumu says, and somehow, his arm finds its way over your shoulder again. He's like that. Touchy and needy and clingy. It doesn't bother you as much as it used to. You rest your head on his shoulder. "Y'know, Bokuto got kicked out a club that night too. Called me all drunk and whiny thinkin' I was his damn boyfriend." 

Atsumu keeps rambling. You half-listen, eyes closing, occasionally humming in response. It's easy being around Atsumu, easy to like him like you do. He doesn't really expect anything from you. You nuzzle your forehead against the crook of his neck. He smells like spicy cologne and sweat. You can feel his words vibrate in his throat. 

"-and I tell 'im, 'Bokkun, this is like the third time ya sent me yer dick. I'm startin' to think it's not an accident,'" Atsumu continues, and you're swaying to the sound of his voice. You could fall asleep right here in the alley behind your favorite bar.

"Oi, Tsumu! Keep yer hands to yerself. Ya don't know where she's been." 

And there it is. 

As easy as it is to like Atsumu, it's about ten times easier to hate his brother. Osamu is, and always has been, a fucking dick. At least to you. You turn away from Atsumu's hold to glare at him as he approaches. 

Osamu saunters up from behind with this look of disgust and annoyance that he really only seems to have for you. It makes your spine straighten out. You drop your cigarette to the ground and stomp it out. 

"I'd take my chances with her before you," Atsumu shoots back, nose crinkling. "Ya smell like fish and garbage." 

If you weren't too busy glaring at Osamu, you would've noticed the unsure way Atsumu's arm twitches towards you. 

Osamu's hard stare is on you when he says, "Are ya sure? Cause I could smell the chain-smoking alcoholism from the bar."

"Miya, I'm so happy to see you I could kill myself," you bite at him. "Did you have another good day of giving all your customers listeria?" 

"Yer wit is unbelievable, y'know that?" Osamu bites back. Something that feels like hatred bubbles in your blood. 

The first time you met Osamu, Atsumu had drunkenly introduced the two of you with slurred words and hands clasped over each of your shoulders. And all you had ever heard from anyone was about how fucking great Osamu was. That if you liked Atsumu, you would love his brother. 

But Osamu had given you a once-over with narrowed, harsh eyes, and turned to his brother to say, "This is her?" 

Atsumu gave him a wide-eyed, panicked look and quickly nodded. He tried to sound as sober as possible when he said, in a higher octave than usual, "Yeah, Samu, this is her." 

Osamu just scoffed and turned away, and he didn't bother to say anything to you, then or for the rest of the night. So you hated him. You hated him because he was rude and fucking nasty and the exact opposite of everything anyone had ever told you about him. 

And ever since then, every interaction with him has been nothing more than snide remarks and outright disdain. Atsumu has asked you, more than once, to try to get along with his brother, and every time, you scrunch up your face in disgust. You aren't about to beg for kidness from someone who has no intention of giving it to you. 

You could go on hating Osamu for as long as he hates you. You don't really mind. 

Atsumu breaks the tension by clapping his brother on the back. "Let's get a drink, yeah? I'd kill for a fuckin' dirty Shirley right now." 

Osamu snorts, and turns to return to the bar, but you remain where you are. "Actually, I think I'm gonna head home." 

Atsumu pouts. "What? I didn't even get to spend any time with ya." 

"Just let her go. I didn't wanna put up with her all night, anyways," Osamu calls back, looking over his shoulder. 

You shoot Osamu a look. "Kill yourself." You turn to Atsumu, and soften. "I'll talk to you later, kay?" 

You won't. Atsumu will text you at least five times and you will respond maybe once. You will not see him again until he has enough free time to return to this same bar you're at almost every night. It's cyclical. 

His eyes glisten. "Okay. Yeah. I'll see ya later." 

Atsumu reaches out like he's going to touch you again, but he stops himself. Osamu has already returned to the bar. 

You wake up to your phone buzzing. Your head hurts and it's annoying. With closed eyes, you slap your hand against your nightstand until it finds your phone. You're not surprised at the name that pops up. 

Miya Atsumu (10:11AM): sorry I didn't get to see you that much last night Miya Atsumu (10:11AM): also sorry samu is a dick. I'll make him apologize too  Miya Atsumu (10:12AM): he won't mean it but I'll still make him  Miya Atsumu (10:12AM): but still I miss you. hang out with me soon

You're not stupid. You know Atsumu is in love with you. 

He hasn't exactly been subtle about it. You could see it in his eyes the first time you met him - wide and wet and practically sparkling. Atsumu stared at you like you had breathed new life into him. When he asked you for his number, his hands were shaking. You witnessed his heart shatter when you told him that you'd like to be friends, really. 

You thought it might fade, his little crush. Thought that maybe the more he saw of you, the more boring and uninteresting you would become, and that shine in his eyes when he looked at you would dull. But Atsumu never grew bored of you. It seemed he always wanted more of you, asking constantly to see you and showing up at that goddamn bar and sending you tickets to his matches. Atsumu's not afraid to beg for what he wants. 

Vision still blurry from sleep, you quickly type out, I'll always be at the bar, and hit send. Then, you silence all notifications. 

You mostly pretend not to notice. You turn your gaze away when his expression goes too soft and you ignore the brush of his knuckles against yours. You never address touches that last too long or a possessive arm over your shoulder. Atsumu probably thinks you're shy. He also probably thinks you care more than you do. 

It's just too easy, letting it happen. Letting him think that there might be something there. Letting him get closer and closer. You like Atsumu, you like his attention and you like the way he looks at you. And if Atsumu doesn't mind giving and giving without getting anything in return, then you don't mind taking. 

Your head throbs as you rise out of bed. You're tired and already in a bad mood and you have work in an hour. As you waddle from your bedroom to the shower, you check your phone and see that Atsumu has already texted you twice more. You toss your phone on the kitchen counter as you pass. You can deal with it later. 

You still haven't dealt with it when you're three hours into your shift, leaning over the counter and looking out onto a mostly empty coffee shop. You're on your third shift drink. Your coworker Kiyoko cleans the already-clean espresso machine while you do nothing. 

"Any plans for the weekend?" Kiyoko asks you while she runs a clean rag over the milk steamer for the sixth time.

You shrug. "I dunno. Probably go to The Lucky Cat and get drunk." 

Kiyoko gives you a look - the same bored and unimpressed one she always gives you. "You do that every night." 

"At least I'm consistent," you mumble. "What about you? Any big plans?" 

She hums. "My boyfriend is coming up for the weekend. Going to stay over and go to the MSBY match." 

You almost mention Atsumu, but you hold back. "When are you two going to just move in together?" 

Kiyoko pauses. "I don't know. I guess when the time feels right. Maybe when we get married. I don't know." 

"Married," you repeat back to her, "that's a big commitment." 

Someone on the sidewalk stops and looks through the shop's windows. They frown, and keep walking. "We've talked about it before," Kiyoko says, abandoning the espresso machinen and tossing the rag over her shoulder. "There's still things we want to do, but it's definitely in our plans," she looks at you. "What about you? You ever want to get married?" 

You snort. "No," you say, surely and succinctly. You've never imagined yourself as anything other than what you are now - completely on your own and completely independent. When you picture it now, being someone's loyal little wife, it makes you nauseous. 

You try to be happy for Kiyoko, but there is a part of you that thinks she's fucking stupid for wanting it. 

Kiyoko looks out over the bar, searching for something else she can busy herself with. "Well, to each their own." 

You have a feeling that she feels bad for you. 

You like your life. You like being on your own and yeah maybe you hate your shitty, boring job, and maybe your apartment could be nicer and cleaner, but you figure it's worth it to be your own person. It's worth it to never feel weighed down or held back and it's worth it to do whatever the fuck you want to do. 

Whatever the fuck you want to do being drinking every night at The Lucky Cat. 

You know the bartenders by name. Mori rolls eyes his at the sight of you and cracks open a Sapporo before you even sit down at the bar. "Thank you!" you call out to him as he turns his back to you. He flips you off. 

You like it here. You like the music that plays and how comfortable the bar seats are and you like that everyone here knows you. You've been coming here since college, when you stumbled in after spending a long, cold night alone. It started out as a few times every month, which spiraled into every week, which quickly became every night. Most nights you just have a beer or two. Some nights you get so drunk Mori has to put you in a cab. 

It's dead tonight, which is fine. You don't mind being one of the only people in here. You take a sip of your beer and lean back into your seat. You feel at ease here. Relaxed. 

Of course, it doesn't last very long. 

You tense up on instinct when Miya Osamu slides into the bar seat next to you. You drop your head behind your shoulders and groan. "Oh my god, what the fuck are you doing here?" 

Osamu's mouth curls up in disgust. "What, I can't get a fucking drink?" 

You grab your beer, and slide off the bar stool. "Go somehere else and leave me the fuck alone." 

You're ready to make a beeline for a dark corner to drink in, but Osamu follows you. "Wait," he says, "I wanted to talk to you." 

Osamu keeps following you as you move through the bar, like an annoying little gnat. "I don't want to talk to you." 

"Well, that's too fucking bad, because I need to talk to you, so can you just stop?" 

You do, turning on your heel to glare at him. "I'll tell Mori to kick you out." 

Osamu flinches. "Mori likes me better than you." 

"What the fuck do you want, Miya?" you snap at him, hoping that if he gets to his goddamn point, he'll leave you alone sooner. 

His stare is hard and unforgiving. His voice is flat and harsh when he speaks. "If you care about Atsumu at all, you'll go to his game this weekend." 

You frown. "What the fuck are you talking about?" 

"The game he's been begging you to go to?" Osamu drawls out slowly, like you're too stupid to understand. You raise your eyebrows at him. "The one he's been texting you about all day?" Nothing. Osamu blinks. "Fuck, you're not even reading his texts, are you?" 

"Fuck off, okay?" you grumble, pulling your phone out from your back pocket. "I've been at work all day." 

It's hardly an excuse, considering you spent nearly half of your shift mindlessly scrolling on your phone. You never did clear out your silenced notifications, though, and when you look now you see that you have plenty. 

Miya Atsumu (10:14AM): you should come to my game this weekend if you can  Miya Atsumu (10:15AM): we're playing against the red falcons which is cool because I played with their outside hitter in high school Miya Atsumu (10:39AM): it would mean a lot to me if you came  Miya Atsumu (11:53AM): I set aside a ticket for you  Miya Atsumu (1:04PM): just text me if you can't make it 

You almost feel bad. You close your phone and toss it between your hands. "Oh." 

"Yeah, oh," Osamu repeats. "Look, I don't know why Atsumu bothers with you, but clearly you're important to him, so show up at the fucking game or just stop pretending to be his friend. It's just painful at this point," he says, and his voice is calm and monotone but his harsh words poke at you. It's irritating. 

"Can you fuck off?" you snap. "Atsumu is my friend. Just because I'm not on my goddamn phone all day-" 

"Cut the bullshit, okay?" Osamu cuts you off. "All you do is treat him like shit. I'm sick of it." 

Your face twists up in anger. If Atsumu has any issues with the way you treat him, he would've said something to you instead of just taking it. He's an adult. You tell Osamu as much. "Atsumu can tell me himself if he has a problem. Until then just mind your fucking business." 

Osamu stares. "Atsumu is my business." 

Everything about Osamu irks you. His dull affectation and his strange, overbearing protectiveness. He treats his brother like some tiny dog he has to look after and treats you like you're a great hindrance to this task. You hate his smug, satisfied smirk and the way he crosses his thick arms over his chest. Miya Osamu is irritating in every possible way he can be. 

Without breaking eye contact with Osamu, you raise the bottle of beer to your lips and swallow a mouthful. Osamu scoffs at you. "Y'know," you start when the beer hits your belly, "I think I'm too sober to deal with you. Get out of my face." 

You push past Osamu, brushing your shoulder against his arm as you do, and move to return to your bar stool. After you, Osamu calls out, "Just go to his goddamn game!" 

You don't look back. Osamu makes no move to follow you. You flip him off for good measure. 

As you settle back into your usual seat, Mori gives you a grave look and shakes his head, like some disappointed father. "Oh, fuck off," you quip. 

Your phone's almost dead when you pull it out again. You use one hand to kill the rest of your beer and the other to write back to Atsumu, "I'll be there, can't wait." 

Fuck, you hate Osamu. 

Osamu has a problem, and it's you.

If it's not Atsumu gushing about everything you do - the way you laugh, the joke you told at the bar two weeks ago, how you start to look at him when you get too drunk - it's all about the tiny ways you break his heart. Never texting him back, blowing him off to go to that same fucking bar, flat out ignoring him for straight days.

When Atsumu first introduced you to him, Osamu thought it was a joke. He didn't believe that you were the girl his brother had been waxing poetic about for months. You were nothing like the bright, bubbly girls who loved fun and sex and life that Atsumu usually liked to bring home. You looked moody and mean and you had this sneer on your face that looked permanent. Osamu thought Atsumu was fucking with him, because you looked like the type of girl that he would want.

But Atsumu was dead serious about you.

Atsumu told him one night, watching as you drunkenly fell into a cab, "Fuck man, I think I wanna marry that girl."

Osamu felt something strange pull at his chest when he said that. He didn't like it.

He doesn't like you. He doesn't like your attitude or the way you treat his brother and he certainly doesn't like this special kind of hatred he seems to only feel for you.

And he doesn't think you're right for Atsumu. You're too miserable, too static. Osamu get the distinct impression that you could stay in one place for the rest of your life and be completely satisfied in your own stagnation. Atsumu doesn't need that. He needs growth, movement, change. Atsumu doesn't need you.

Osamu thinks about you more than he would like to. He'll be working in his kitchen and suddenly notice that his grip around his knife is too tight or that his expression is pulled down into a scowl and he'll realize it's because your face is in his mind. He hates thinking about you, but does it often - worrying about what you're going to do to his brother next or dreading the next time he'll have to see you. 

Osamu is aware that it's sort of not normal. 

He's looking for you now, poking his head out of the Onigiri Miya stall every couple of minute to see if can spot you in the crowd. You're supposed to be here - Atsumu said you would be here - but he wouldn't put it past you to bail. That's exactly the kind of thing you would do. Osamu chews on the inside of his cheek as he watches crowds of red and black jerseys pass. There's this anxious pit in his stomach he would love to get rid of. 

It gets worse when he does see you. 

He notices you halfway through the first set, when most people are in their seats actually watching the game they paid to see. But here you are, walking right up to his onigiri stand. 

Osamu eyes you as you approach. You're wearing loose jeans that are covered in bleach stains and a sweatshirt that has a tear in the neckline and holes in the sleeves. You look like you didn't even try. 

A lot of the time, Osamu finds himself wondering if you feel the same way about Atsumu as he does you. He thinks not, most of the time. There are some moments, though, when your gaze lingers on Atsumu a little too long, or you touch his arm as you laugh. But now, you show up to his game looking like you threw on whatever clothes were on top of your dirty laundry pile, and Osamu has a hard time believing that you care what Atsumu thinks of you. Or anyone, for that matter. 

You give him this look when your eyes meet Osamu's. For some reason, it makes him nervous. He never knows what you're going to say. 

"Miya," you greet, sounding too smug for his liking. 

He wears his favorite expression for you - a nasty, straight-on glare. "Yer supposed to be watchin' the game." 

You shrug. "Got hungry. Gimme a salmon." 

"No," Osamu says, "ya can fuck off." 

A smirk grows on your face. Osamu doesn't want to give you the satisfaction of being visibly irritated, but he just can't help himself. You're just so fucking irritating. "What, you're too good for my money, or something? I'm a paying customer here. Gimme a fucking salmon." 

Osamu grinds his teeth together as he looks at you, torn between denying you the joy of his food and ending the interaction quicker. "No," he settles on. "Go watch the game and quit fuckin' buggin' me." 

"God, you're such a dick, you know that?" you tell him. 

Osamu chuckles mirthlessly. "Oh, I'm the dick?" 

"Yes," you nod, "you're the dick, Miya." 

His skin feels tight. Osamu puts his hands on the edge of his stall and leans in towards you. "If I'm a dick, then I don't even know what ya are. Yer genuinely the worst, most selfish, inconsiderate-" 

"Excuse me? Can I order?" 

Osamu's face burns bright in humiliation at the realization that you're not alone. Standing behind you is a man who looks like he might just be as embarrassed as Osamu feels. 

Osamu swallows a lump in his throat. "Oh, yeah, of course I can take yer order," he says, shaking his head, trying to rid it of thoughts of you. 

"Don't eat here," you say to the man as you look directly at Osamu one last time, "this place gave me food poisoning." 

Osamu watches as you go, and thinks I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. 

Maybe you ignore Atsumu so often because you have such a hard time saying no to him. When he actually corners you, and with those big fucking eyes, asks if you'll go out with him and his team to celebrate their win, the word no is on the tip of your tongue. But he takes a hold of your hand and squeezes, and what actually comes out is, "I'd love to." 

Now, you're sandwiched between a drunk Atsumu and an even drunker Bokuto and everyone's talking over each other so loudly you can't think. Meian spilled soju on your pants as he passed it over you to get to Thomas. Atsumu has a casual hand on your thigh that he's trying to play off as accidental. Your head hurts. 

Osamu's there, because of course he would be, seated directly opposite you, nursing his one beer. And every time your eyes start to drift over towards him, you find Osamu is already looking at you. 

It's making you feel almost ill. 

Atsumu's thumb starts to move against the fabric of your jeans, back and forth, slowly and smoothly. Maybe you should find it nicer than you do, but it sets you on edge, makes your shoulders tense up. You find Atsumu's touch to be so overwhelming it's almost painful. You stare straight ahead at Osamu, and for some reason, he stares back, expression blank. 

"Hey," Atsumu whispers in your ear, and you jump. He's too close, breath hot on your neck. "Ya okay?" 

You give him a curt nod, and swallow the spit in your mouth. "Yeah," you say unconvincingly. "Actually, I think I just need a smoke right now." 

Atsumu perks up. "Do ya want me to come with ya?" 

"Nah," you say, "stay here and keep getting drunk. I'll be back in ten." 

He nods, and squeezes your thigh before you stand. You try not to think about it as you walk towards the back alley. 

It's misting rain when you get outside. It takes three flicks of your lighter to get your cigarette lit, but once it does, smoke floods your lungs and your shoulders start to relax. Atsumu's getting bolder, and you don't know what to do about it. 

Maybe you'd be his girlfriend, if he asked. It's not like you have anything better to do. 

You don't have very much time to think about it, though, because the restaurant's back door bursts open, and Osamu is there to ruin your peace. 

The door slams shut behind him. He takes two long steps towards you. "What the fuck are ya doin' out here?" he questions immediately. 

You blink. "Smoking a cigarette." 

Osamu's eyes fall to your hand and the cherried cigarette between your fingers. He takes a deep breath. "Yer not runnin' out on him, then?" 

And now you're annoyed, because it's always the same shit with him. "Fucking hell, Miya, are you his fucking chaperone or something? Are you just gonna be around babysitting us for the rest of your life?" 

His jaw hardens. "I'm hopin' ya won't be around for that long." 

You're not sure why, but that one hurts, cuts right through your chest. You try not to let it show on your face, but it definitely rattles in your voice when you say, "What is even your problem with me? All you ever do is give me shit and that's all you've ever done from the second you met me. What the fuck did I ever even do to you?" 

"Ya didn't have to do anything to me," Osamu is quick to reply. "Yer just not good enough for my brother." 

"And what the fuck does that have to do with you?" you argue. "If Atsumu wants to be my friend-" 

"Stop it," Osamu interrupts. 

"Stop what?" 

"Stop being dense. Ya know that's not what he wants." 

You hold your breath. The air between you and Osamu is thick and you don't want it in your lungs. You don't know what to say - you just bite down on your tongue. 

"That's what I don't like about ya," Osamu says, his voice cutting through the silence, taking another step closer to you. "Ya just fuckin' bulldoze yer way through people's lives and ya don't give a shit about the consequences. Yer leadin' him on." 

"I'm not," you protest, but it's pointless. You both know that you are. 

"Yeah, ya are," Osamu insists. "Ya are and ya don't even give a shit about him." 

You can hear your blood rushing past your ears. You take a step in his direction. "You don't know shit, Miya. Stop acting like you know me. You know your brother, but you don't know me, so don't say I don't care." 

Osamu leans in closer to you. "I know you," he says, voice lower. 

He smells like salt and soap. His eyes burn into yours. "You don't know shit." 

He does it, then. Osamu grabs you by the back of your head, and pulls your mouth in to meet his. 

It repulses you, at first, makes you sick. But Osamu tastes sweeter than you thought he would. When you raise your hand, you think it's going to be to push him off of you. But your hand finds his hair and roots in it, pulling him as close to you as he can be. 

It's almost ugly, the way he kisses you. There's spit between your lips and his teeth knock against yours more than once. But when Osamu kisses you in that dark, wet alley, something starts to brew in you, starts to claw at your chest. You lean into him more, mouth open for him. It occurs to you there, his tongue slipping against yours, that you want him. 

Osamu backs you into a brick wall, pressing you against it when his teeth bite at your bottom lip. A little noise makes its way out of the back of your throat. Osamu's hands find the back of your thighs, and he lifts them over his hips, your legs wrapping around his back. You drop your cigarette to run your hands over his chest. 

You don't have time to wonder what he's thinking or what the fuck he's doing. You're only concerned with the feeling of his tongue in your mouth and his hands burning against your thighs. 

And then the door clicks open. 

Osamu drops you so fast it makes you dizzy. You blink, and he's five feet away from you, holding his breath, looking at Atsumu. 

You glance between the two of them and try your hardest to keep your expression neutral and your breathing even. Atsumu looks too drunk to notice anyways. He leans against the doorway. "Whaddya two doin'?" Atsumu asks. 

You look to Osamu, waiting for him to say something, but he doesn't say anything, just stands there with his eyes fixed on the ground. You shake your head. "Nothing," you tell Atsumu without meeting his eyes. "Your brother's just yelling at me again." 

Atsumu's saying something, but you don't really hear. You're sure it's something disparaging about Osamu. You look up to see Atsumu is holding his arm out towards you. You walk to him, falling into his side without looking at Osamu again, and you're left with a wetness between your jeans and the taste of him on your tongue. 

Osamu hopes he he can solve the problem by ignoring it. 

It's not hard to avoid you, considering you're only ever at one place. When Atsumu wants to make his weekly Sunday night trip to the Lucky Cat, Osamu feigns exhaustion and opts to stay home instead. Atsumu goes on his own, and Osamu spends the whole night imagining you pulling him into a corner, and telling him what Osamu did. He doesn't get very much sleep that night. 

He doesn't know why he did it. Osamu just remembers looking at you and the hatred in your eyes and feeling like his skin was burning, and touching you was the only remedy. He remembers the taste of strawberry soju. He remembers the way your flesh felt between his fingers. It makes him bite down on his lip and palm the growing ache between his legs. 

Osamu's not sure which is worse, what he did or how badly he wants to do it again. 

Atsumu notices that something's wrong. He comes into Onigiri Miya one afternoon, hair still wet from his shower after training, and watches Osamu with skeptical eyes. "What's with ya?" Atsumu asks. "Yer all jumpy and weird." 

Osamu is stuffing his onigiri, shoulders practically up to his ears. He forces them down. "Dunno what ya mean." 

Atsumu stares. "Yeah, sure." 

It's brutal, lying to him. It's not something Osamu has a lot of practice in. It makes his skin itch and he can't get rid of this constant nauseousness no matter what he does. Osamu keeps picturing Atsumu's face when he finds out what happened, can't stop imagining that wide-eyed look of betrayal. He's just sort of hoping that all of this guilt will fade away with time, because he certainly can't tell him the truth. 

Which is why Osamu can't see you again. He doesn't ever want to feel what he felt before he kisses you. He's afraid of what he'll do. 

Whenever Osamu isn't lamenting about how he betrayed Atsumu, he finds himself thinking of you. He wonders what you're doing and what you think of him kissing you. 

Osamu settles on the thought that you must think he's a fucking freak. What else could you think? He went from yelling at you about not being good enough for his brother to kissing you without asking. Not just kissing you, devouring you. Grabbing at you and biting at you and trying to get closer and closer. 

It's not like you thought highly of him before. 

Osamu's closing the restaurant, and thinking about you again. It's been about a week and a half since he's seen you, lips swollen and out of breath, returning to his brother's side. He wouldn't say that he misses you, exactly, but it does feel like something is missing. He feels this ache without you around, and he's not sure how much of it is the guilt. 

Everyone else went home, and Osamu is dragging his feet while he closes, mopping twice and deep cleaning his fridges. If he goes home, either he will sit alone with his thoughts, or Atsumu will show up and bug him about what's wrong. Cleaning is better. 

He's about elbow deep in his display case when there's a knock at the door. He pauses and listens, thinking he must have misheard. But when he resumes his cleaning, the knocking comes again, louder and more forceful. He groans, ripping off his gloves and preparing his customer service voice to say the obvious sorry, we're closed. 

But when Osamu opens the door, it's you on the other side. His heart beats irregularly and his gut lurches. His mouth is suddenly too dry to say anything. 

So you talk for him. "What the fuck is your problem?" you ask, pushing past him and making your way into his restaurant. 

Osamu closes the door, somewhat dumbfounded. He thought if he just avoided the bar and the coffee shop where you work, he'd never see you again. He never imagined you would seek him out. Not like this. 

He looks at you, standing in the middle of his restaurant with your arms crossed over your chest. Osamu notices you look cuter than he's used to seeing you, wearing a skirt that cuts off at the top of your thighs and a pretty color flushed across your cheeks. Osamu can't help but wonder if that's for him.

Osamu doesn't say anything. He feels like he can't; he just looks down at the floor. You don't take this. "Hey, Miya, I'm asking you a question. What the fuck is your problem? Why have you been avoiding me?" 

Not why did you kiss me, but, why have you been avoiding me. Osamu looks up at you to find you glaring at him. You look pissed. And then, Osamu feels it again. His skin starts to prick. 

He becomes aware, then, of the floor to ceiling windows that encase the restaurant. Anyone on the street could look in and see you two. He steps towards you and grabs you by the wrist, leading you towards the kitchen in the back where no one can see. Osamu is hyper aware of every inch of his skin that has contact with yours. 

You follow him without word, and when the kitchen door closes behind you, Osamu releases your wrist and steps away, running his hands through his hair. "Fuck," he says, "why'd ya come here?" 

"Because you kissed me and then went out of your way to avoid me," you tell him. "Did you think I was too stupid to notice?" 

He was hoping you hated him too much to care. Osamu shakes his head. "I can't see ya again." 

You frown. "Why the fuck not?" 

"I can't do this to Tsumu," Osamu says. "Ya know he's fuckin' in love with ya." 

"Atsumu is not my boyfriend," you assert. "I don't owe him loyalty." 

"Yeah, but I do," Osamu snaps. "That's the very least I owe him." 

"He doesn't have a claim over me," you argue. "He doesn't own me, or you either." 

Osamu's self control is already hanging by a thread, and every time he looks at you, that feeling grows. And here you are what? Arguing that it was okay for him to betray his brother? Making a case for him to do it again? Osamu ignores the urge to step closer to you. 

He looks pained. "It's not right." 

"Why?" you press. "I'm not going to marry Atsumu. He knows that." 

He doesn't, Osamu wants to say. Atsumu looks at you, and sees his wife. Osamu's chest feels like it's going to split in two. 

Osamu doesn't move, but you take a step forward. "Why did you kiss me?" you ask him, softer now. 

He swallows. "Because I couldn't help myself." 

You move closer. "You want me," you say, rubbing salt in his wound. "So why shouldn't you have me?" 

Osamu stares as you get closer and closer until your hand is on his chest and he can't breathe. "This just proves my point. Yer not good enough for Atsumu." 

You look up at him. "But am I good enough for you?" 

Osamu kisses you then, takes a hold of your face and leans down to press his lips against yours, and he thinks yes. 

It's gentle at first, lips moving softly and molding against each other. But once Osamu starts with you, he has trouble controlling himself. His tongue slides against yours, and something rumbles in his chest. Osamu grabs you by the waist, and lifts you until you're sitting on the edge of his meticulously cleaned prep table. He can clean it again. 

Your chest is flushed against his, and it's not close enough. His hands reach down to the tops of your bare thighs, and he squeezes. Your back arches and you press into him further. It's not enough. 

His head is empty now, the only thoughts he has are of you and how you move against him. He slides his hands behind you and pulls you closer until your legs are on either side of him, and your core is pressed against the growing bulge in his pants. You moan. He loses it. 

"Fuck," he mumbles against your lips. "Please let me fuck you." 

He wants to feel you on his tongue and on his fingers, but he reasons in the moment that there will be time for that later. The need he feels for you is urgent. You pull away to nip at his ear. "Yeah," you tell him, breathy and low. "Fuck me, Miya." 

It's all he needs. 

His hands are under your skirt in an instant, grabbing at your underwear and pulling them down with such force that the table shakes. Your hands are fumbling with his belt buckle. Not quick enough. He removes your hands and does it himself. 

"You're desperate, Miy-oh fuck." 

Osamu silences you by pressing into you. Your arms go around his shoulders, and your lips attach to his neck, He needs more. 

Being inside of you isn't close enough. Osamu wants to be closer; he needs more of you. He drops his head down to the crook of your neck and bites down, his molars leaving imprints on your skin. His hips stutter into you. It's not enough. His hands grip at the soft flesh of your hips. It's not enough. 

When Osamu fucks you on that table, your skirt bunched up at your hips and soft moans in his ear, he can only think of what a piece of shit he is. When you open your mouth and a desperate and warm, "Osamu," falls out, he finishes. 

Osamu watches as you pull your underwear up under your skirt. "This can't happen again," he tells you, trying to sound firm, but it comes out as more of a plea. 

You scoff. "Yeah, sure." 

It does happen again. You expected it to. 

You're sitting in your usual bar stool with your second Sapporo in your hand. When Osamu takes the empty seat besides you, you look at him and laugh. He's got a hat pulled down over his eyes and he's keeping his face pointed down to his lap. He looks fucking ridiculous. "You look like you're here to meet your drug dealer." 

"Fuck off," Osamu quips half-heatedly. "I had to see ya again." 

You don't look at him again. "Thought Mori wouldn't recognize you in your little disguise and we would what? Fuck in the bathroom?" 

Osamu's voice is strained when he says, "I just wanted to talk to ya." 

You hum. "Yeah, I'm sure you did." 

"Look," he says, ripping his hat off his head and turning towards you. "I'm really fuckin' tryin' to y'know, not be a shitty person here." 

"But what?" you cut him off, turning to meet his gaze. "You want me too bad to do the right thing?" 

Osamu glares. "I hate ya." 

"It doesn't feel like you hate me, Miya," you tell him. "It actually feels like you like me so much, you'll sneak out to a bar when you know your brother's at the gym, just so you can see me without him knowing." 

"Ya have to tell him," Osamu pleads. "Ya have to tell him ya don't have any feelings for him." 

You look away. "Don't tell me what to do." 

He has a point, though. It is kind of scummy to lead on Atsumu while fucking his brother. But you try to imagine life after rejecting Atsumu, and you just picture him further away from you. No more resting on his shoulder or waking up to texts from him and no more casual comfort. No more Atsumu at the tip of your fingers. You think that maybe, you would miss your friend too much. You raise your beer to your lips and take a swig. You can be scummy, you figure. You don't really mind it that much. 

"Ya can't have us both," Osamu tells you. 

"And who the fuck says I want you?" you snap at him. "You kissed me. You begged to fuck me." 

It's no use playing pretend with Osamu. He felt the way you kissed him, felt the wetness between your legs. He knows. "I'm not fuckin' stupid," Osamu says, and you know it. 

"Whatever," you grumble, and kill your beer. Osamu watches as you slap cash down on the bar. "Tell him yourself, if you feel that bad." 

You move to leave, but before you can get very far, Osamu grabs you by the arm and holds you in place. You look him in the eye. "Wait," he says. His fingers move against your bicep. Your face gets hot. 

He fucks you in a storage closet, using one hand to hold your leg up over his hip and the other to cover your mouth to muffle any sounds you make. His fingernails dig into your skin. "Fuck," he grunts. "Ya feel like yer made for me." 

Osamu's stuffing himself back in his jeans when you ask, "Are you gonna say this is the last time again?" 

He shakes his head. "No point." 

"You look different" Kiyoko says, leaning against the coffee bar. "Happier, I think." 

You're making yourself a drink, filling the cup up to the top with ice and pouring cold brew over it. You drink it black. "You think?" 

Kiyoko nods. "Definitely. It's in the eyes." 

You've been fucking Osamu for three weeks now. He never texts you, never calls, just shows up at The Lucky Cat before you can get too drunk and takes you back to his apartment. He doesn't make you breakfast or kiss you goodbye when you leave in the morning, but he's different now. Fights with you less. Holds onto you tighter, kisses you more while he's bottomed out. Tells you that you look so pretty split open on his dick. Runs his hands through your hair and tells you what a good job you did. 

It's nice, you think. You like what you have with Osamu, like the way he feels inside of you and how big his hands feel against you. It's nice not arguing with him, too. Actually, it's just kind of nice to be around him. You don't talk about much when you're not having sex. You both just sort of move in silence until you fall asleep in his bed and he's waking you up the next morning to tell you he has to go to work. Turns out, if you're not at each other's throats, you don't have very much to talk about. 

And you definitely don't talk about Atsumu. 

You still see him, mostly on Sundays, when he comes to spend time with you at the bar. Osamu doesn't accompany him anymore, so it's just you and Atsumu, drinking until the early morning. 

Ironically, fucking his brother made you like Atsumu more. He's funnier now, better to be around. Or maybe you're just in a better mood. You lean on him while he talks and listen to his stories with eager eyes and when he texts you in the morning, you actually reply. 

You only feel a little bad. 

"I've been sleeping better," you tell Kiyoko, which is kind of true. You're definitely sleeping less, but the sleep you do get on Osamu's bed, when you're fucked out and exhausted, is blissful. 

"Well, you look great," Kiyoko says. "Keep it up." 

The bell above the door rings as it opens. You groan quietly, ready to let Kiyoko handle any customer interaction while you make the drinks. But it's Atsumu that walks through that door, already grinning when he does. 

You smile at the sight of him. "Hey, Tsumu." 

He walks up to the counter with a gym bag thrown over his shoulder. "Miss me?" he questions. 

Kiyoko rolls her eyes, and makes herself busy somewhere else. You take her place behind the register, across from Atsumu. "To death. What are you doing here? I thought you'd be at the gym all day." 

He shrugs. "Conditioning day, got off early. Thought I'd have a coffee and come see ya." 

"Whaddya want?" you ask. "On the house." 

Atsumu looks you in the eye and smiles so warmly you think you might die from the heat. "Vanilla latte, extra shot, since yer buyin'." 

You wink at him. "Anything for you." 

You should feel worse than you do. 

Atsumu watches as you make his drink, though his eyes never really leave your face. "Whaddya doin' tonight?" 

You shrug. "Dunno. Been trying to see some friends from college lately. Might hang out with them. You?" 

"Hinata wants to do a karaoke room tonight. Says it'll be good bonding, but I think he just wants to get drunk and sing Perfume," Atsumu says, and then pauses. "Wanna come?" 

You try to draw a dick in his latter with the milk, but it just comes out as random swirls. "Dunno," you tell him. "How about I text you?" 

Atsumu smiles, and takes the latte from you. "Yeah, text me." 

You don't tell him that you real plans for the night are to hang around The Lucky Cat like you always do, and see if Osamu shows up to hook up or not. You're weighing the pros and cons of each when Atsumu leaves you with a wave and one last longing look. 

When your shift ends, you end up at that same goddamn bar. 

You're looking down at your phone, reading a text from Atsumu that says, are you sure you don't wanna come out tonight?

You look up and around you. It might not be terrible to spend a night with Atsumu. You don't mind the excuse to get drunk and Hinata is fun enough to convince you, and when you start to think about it more, you don't feel great about blowing him off. 

Maybe it wouldn't hurt to give him one more night. 

Your thumbs hover over your keyboard, about ready to tell him that your plans changed, and yeah, sure why can't you go out? But then the front door of the bar opens, and in walks Osamu. 

Osamu, with his tight black work shirt and stupid little hat. From across the bar, you lock eyes with him, and wonder what exactly you were thinking. 

You look down and type, sorry catch me next time, before pocketing your phone, ready to dedicate one more long night to Osamu. 

Osamu feels differently about you now. Softer, warmer. Maybe he can't have this much sex with someone without feeling like he's in love. Maybe he always sort of felt this way. 

You're by his side, walking down the street, taking the familiar path from The Lucky Cat back to his apartment. You're looking ahead, and he's looking at you. Osamu wonders what he should say. He's always wondering what he should say with you. 

"You're staring again," you remark. You kick a rock up the street. You don't look at him. 

Osamu won't look away from you. "Am I?" he asks, even though he knows he is. "Didn't notice." 

You don't say anything back, but Osamu sees the way the corner of your lip twitches. 

Maybe it was the third or fourth time you fucked, or the first time, or when he first kissed you, but Osamu has not been able to get you out of his head. Actually, it was probably before that. It was probably the first time he met you that Osamu was cursed with thoughts of you. He just doesn't mind it as much anymore. 

He likes fucking you. He likes hold you, too. He likes poking your side in the morning until you wake up and he's the first thing you see. 

He likes being near you. He likes you. 

Osamu doesn't feel as guilty anymore, either. The better it feels being around you, the less he thinks about Atsumu, the less he imagines his heartbreak. You're a good enough distraction. 

As you walk by his side, he thinks about taking your hand. It's right there, hanging by your side, and Osamu looks down at it, wondering nervously what your reaction might be, wondering if you'd let him cross that line. 

He wonders when it got this bad, when he got this desperate for you. It didn't happen all at once, or maybe it did, and he was just too enamored with you to notice. 

He was supposed to hate you, supposed to despise you for the way you treat his brother. But the more time Osamu spends around you, the more he understands why his brother puts up with it. Osamu can see himself sending lovelorn texts that never get answered, can see himself being just as desperate and pathetic. He already might be. 

There's just something in the way you move, something in the sound of your voice. Osamu feels like he's addicted to it. 

"Hey," Osamu says, stopping in the middle of the street. You stop and turn to look at him. "I wanna try something." 

You raise an eyebrow at him. "Here?" 

"Yeah," he nods. "Here. Don't move, okay?" 

You laugh, unsure. "Okay." 

Osamu takes a step, and closes the distance between you. He reaches down, and grabs one of your hands in his. It's soft and warm and when he traces his thumb over your skin, his heart flutters in his chest. 

"Osamu," you say, and it sounds heavy. 

"Just wanna see," he mumbles, and leans down to kiss you. 

It's different than all the other times. It's slow and soft and Osamu doesn't kiss you like someone's there trying to tear you away from him, but like he'll have you for the rest of his life. One hand rises to your face, fingertips gingerly resting on your cheek. You kiss him back with as much care and softness as he's ever felt from you. 

It feels good. It feels right. 

Osamu pulls away, but his face hovers over yours, noses almost touching. "Okay," he says quietly, "just had to see. Let's go." 

When he leads you back to his apartment, he takes you by the hand, and does not let go. 

The sun hasn't completely risen yet. The sky is a dusty sort of blue that hangs all the way down to the street. Osamu yawns as he walks along the sidewalk towards Onigiri Miya. He's too tired to be awake, too tired for prep work. He thinks of you, laying in his bed where he left you, and his body starts to ache. He doesn't want to be here.

He reaches his hand down to his sweatpants pockets to fish out the keys that are weighing down his waistband. They get stuck in his pocket. He wiggles them around. There is a strong force ramming into Osamu's side, and knocking him onto his back.

Osamu's back is against the hard pavement, and there is no more air left in his lungs. He tries to breathe, gasping for air, but there is a hand pushing his face against the sidewalk. It takes him a second to realize that it's Atsumu hovering over him, holding him down, pushing him into the ground.

Osamu tries to lurch forward, but fuck, Atsumu's gotten stronger. He reaches his hands up to grab at Atsumu's collar, trying to pull him away or push him off or something. "What the fuck are ya doin'?" he yells, loud and forceful.

"Ya fuck her?" Atsumu yells back, red in the face and it's now that Osamu notices his wet eyes. Osamu's stomach drops. He doesn't say anything; his hands release Atsumu and fall back. Atsumu looks like he's too full of air. "Did ya fuck her, Samu?"

Osamu uses his legs to kick Atsumu off of him. He stumbles back a few steps, and Osamu lurches to his feet. Pieces of the pavement stick to his cheek. "Who told I did?" he questions, not sounding as innocent as he would like to.

"Doesn't fuckin' matter who told me what," Atsumu says, "all that matters is yer answer. So did ya fuck her?"

Osamu says nothing, and he's sure that's an answer enough in itself.

Atsumu takes one heavy breath, shoulders rise, and he holds it. Osamu watches. His fingers flex and curl nervously by his side. And any guilt Osamu felt when he kissed you for the first time or fucked you in the back of his restaurant doesn't come close to what he feels right now. He looks at his brother and feels like he took the world from him. He can see Atsumu's heart shatter in every shuddering breath he takes and even still, in that moment, Osamu is not sure he would take it all back.

It makes him feel like fucking scum.

"Do ya love her?" Atsumu asks, after a while of nothing. He's quieter now.

Osamu's not sure he knows the answer or the right thing to say so what he does say, with his heart pumping in his ears, is, "No."

Atsumu lunges forward again, hands finding Osamu's shoulders and pushing him backwards. "So ya took her for fuckin' nothing!" Atsumu yells. "Don't even fuckin' like her like I do, and ya fucked her just because, what? Just because ya could?"

Osamu stumbles back, and straightens out only to reach back out and shove Atsumu back. "I didn't take her, Tsumu, she didn't fuckin' belong to ya."

"She was my girl," Atsumu insists, pointing a finger towards his chest. He wipes his eyes with the back of his other hand. "Mine. And ya fuckin' knew it, Samu. Ya know I love her. Ya know it. Why the fuck would ya do this to me?" 

Osamu doesn't say anything, because Atsumu is right. Atsumu told him that one day, he was going to marry you, and he turned around and fucked you, over and over again. So often that he started to not even feel bad about it. You're in his bed now, and here Atsumu is, crying over you. 

There's a heavy weight on his chest. "Look, Tsumu, I'm sorry, okay? I just, I dunno, I just couldn't stop myself with her. I just- I dunno. I know it's fucked up, alright? I fucked up. I'm sorry." 

Atsumu's stare is hard. "How long?" 

"About a month." 

Atsumu lunges forward, and punches Osamu in the face. 

Osamu stumbles back, hand clutching at his cheek and it fucking hurts. "Fuck," he spits out under his breath, and tries to straighten out, but his equilibriums been thrown off. He falls backwards to the ground. 

He looks up at Atsumu and wants to say something, wants him to say something. But Atsumu stays silent. Atsumu looks at him, shaking out his knuckles, and doesn't say anything at all. 

He just walks away. And that's it. 

You're at The Lucky Cat again, smoking out in the back, leaning up against the back wall. You're expecting Osamu to show up, he usually would've by now, but it's Atsumu that appears before you. He plops up against the wall beside you without saying a word. His eyes are rimmed red. You put a hand on his arm. "Hey, Tsumu, you okay?" you ask gently. 

"I know," is all he says, looking straight forward at the ground before him. His voice is raw and hoarse. 

You know at once what he means. You take away your hand. "Oh," you let out. "So he told you then." 

Atsumu scoffs. "Samu didn't tell me fuckin' anything. Omi saw him kiss ya last night. Called me and told me right fuckin' then." 

You nod, and flick the end of your cigarette. You're not sure what to make of it, but there's this hard block of dread in your stomach, because you think you know what's coming next. It's hard to imagine Atsumu not hating you after this. You think his days of softness for you are over. The thought of it makes tears prick in your eyes. "So," you say, voice tight. 

"So?" Atsumu repeats back. 

"You hate me now?" you question, looking up at him with wet eyes. You didn't think it would bother you as much as it does, especially considering that you kind of deserve it. 

Atsumu stares back at you, brow furrowed. He shakes his head. "Nah, I don't hate ya," he admits. "I don't hate ya at all." 

A tear falls from your eye. You suddenly want him to take your hand. "'M sorry," you say, and you mean it. 

"I just don't know," he starts, and his eyes drop from yours to your lips, "why it couldn't've been me." 

You don't know why either, you just know that it never was. As much as you leaned on him and indulged in him, it was never Atsumu. You figured you should've told him that from the start. 

You're expecting it when it happens. Atsumu leans forward, presses his forehead against yours, and tilts your head up. He leans in, and kisses you. 

It's not anything like Osamu. When Atsumu kisses you, it is languid and wet. You do not kiss him back. His lips move slowly against yours, like he's waiting for you to catch up. When he realizes you are not going to, he stops, and pulls away. 

"Atsumu," you start, but he stops you. 

"No, I know," he says. "I just had to try." 

Osamu stops coming to The Lucky Cat. It's only when you stop seeing him that you realize that you don't have his number. You do the only thing you can think to do, and you show up at Onigiri Miya, like you did before. You knock on the locked door for six minutes, but no one answers. It makes you wonder if you were being ignored, or knocking on the door to an empty restaurant. 

You try three more times with the same result. 

You realize, with an ache in your chest, that you don't know how else to find him. You were just left alone, drifting, nothing to hold onto. 

The last time you saw Osamu, he was brushing his teeth. You were lying in his bed, and he had wandered back into the bedroom to grab a shirt. It was too early in the morning for you, and you knew he'd leave for work and you'd be left to see yourself out of his apartment. You didn't say anything to him, because you thought you'd get to later. You didn't even think about it. You wonder now what you'd say to him, if you had known. 

Part of you still holds out hope that he'll show up to The Lucky Cat, because he knows you'll be there. You are there, every night, waiting for him, the bar stool next to you always empty. 

You just want to talk to him. Tell him that it's not his fault, what happened, at least not really. You want to tell him that you still want him, if he still wants you. That you can make it work. Atsumu won't be mad forever - he'll get over it and you. 

You want to yell at him, too. Get mad at him for disappearing on you without saying anything. For kissing you the way he did and then not even giving you the dignity of saying goodbye. You want to ask him if he's punishing you, or himself. 

You want to tell him how you feel, too, because you realize you never got to. You want to tell him everything, and make him deal with it, once and for all. 

So you sit at the bar and drink your Sapporo's and you wait for him, but he never comes. The door keeps opening, and it's never Osamu. 

You were a good person. Not like, a great person. There weren’t going to be any newspaper write-ups how an angel of a good Samaritan went missing and the whole town is wringing their hands over your mysterious disappearance. 

But you were good, at least. You weren’t mean to anyone who didn’t deserve it, you didn’t litter even when it was very very tempting, and you’d certainly never done anything to warrant being kept like some sort of bizarre pet from a villain who swung between almost-bratty tantrums to sniffing your hair and telling you how pretty you were.

(I mean, being told that you’re pretty isn’t so terrible. But it comes across less like a nice compliment and more like really-fucking-creepy when the person saying it is keeping you pressed against his stomach, a suspiciously hard lump pressing against your back.)

Still. You didn’t deserve this. No one did. Not even that bitch of a neighbor who kept accusing you of dumping out the trash cans in the middle of the night; which, as it turns out, had actually been Shigaraki rifling through the apartment building trash looking for souvenirs. Used tissues. Underwear you gave up on. Things like that. Because y’know. Really-fucking-creepy.

And a truly awful latest development in your shitty new life has you refusing to leave bed, no matter how many times he pokes his head into the bedroom and tells you to get up. Get up, you need to eat; get up, don’t you want to get dressed? Get up, get up, get up. He’s bored of you laying in bed all day.

There’s concern lacing his voice too, but who cares about that? He can choke on his concern.

“Hey,” he says, and this time he’s not just poking his head in but standing next to the bed. Hands on his hips, a frown (when you glance) on his face. “What’s wrong with you? Get up. You haven’t been out of bed since yesterday. It’s… stupid.” 

Fat fucking chance. Fat fucking chance. Not just because of the depression (you know enough to know that you are, in fact, depressed as hell) or the need to retain some sort of control over your spiraling life but because if you get up… well.

If you get up, he’ll see the blood stain on the mattress, on your clothes. Period blood, of course. It’d come overnight, because no self-respecting period shows up at a time when it’s convenient. It’s like an overbearing aunt that no one likes but she pushes her way into your life every month anyway, always when you’re in the middle of dinner or when you’ve finally fallen asleep.

And now, it’s showed up while you were sleeping, all the while gradually soaking through the flimsy nightgown you wore. Soaked right through your underwear, too, and you can feel a bit of it between your thighs. 

It feels warm and cold at the same time, ugh, and if you stand up it’s only going to get worse. It’ll slink out of you like something wet and congealed, because gravity makes everything grosser. And does Shigaraki have pads? Probably not. You’re sure as hell not going to ask him. 

It had been luck that kept your period away the first few months. Or stress. Although once he’d started fucking you (and it didn’t take long) the question “Am I pregnant?” had crossed your mind more than once, but when you felt no developments, no stirring inside, you’d let that thought ease away out of mental preservation.

Maybe being pregnant would have been better. At least you wouldn’t feel so awful and sticky and humiliated. And you wouldn’t be sitting here, grinding your teeth down, wondering how you’ll ever get the blood stain out of the mattress, find a pad or something similar, and get new underwear all without him seeing.

You couldn’t. Impossible. So you’ll just stay in bed forever and ever and ever. 

“Hey.”

This time his voice is right against your ear and you curl up further, hands clapping over them, giving your tight grip on the blanket covering your lower half, a rest. 

“Go away,” you say, voice tight and low and you hope angry sounding. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

A huff, breath blowing right through your fingers, tickling your ear. “No. It’s my room.” He grabs your blanket, no doubt pinky out, and you have just enough reflex to return your hands to their former position and tighten your grip. “Get up.”

He yanks on the blanket and your stomach flips but you keep it together, pulling back with as much force as you can to keep it in place. “I said go away. I don’t want to get out of bed, and I don’t want to see you.”

Shigaraki rolls his eyes. He’s used to your fights, maybe. Although you’d been a lot quieter about them in the past few months, because yelling all the time gets tiring. Makes your throat sore, too.

“Where’s this coming from?" Another yank. Something wiggles low and slimy inside your stomach because you know he could end this at anytime. Either by simply using his actual strength to pull the blanket away or turning it to dust. “You haven’t been this bitchy in a while now.”

“Fuck you,” you spit. Y’know what, this is all so unfair. Ridiculous. Bullshit-fucking-ridiculous. “You’re a fucking–a fucking asshole, you know that?” Your fingers tighten so much on the blanket, your lifeline, that they actually hurt. “You k-kidnapped me, you keep me here like some… some sex doll, and now you’re bossing me around like I don’t have feelings.” 

Oh damn it. What started off as an angry rant, an attempt to let some of your justified rage leak out like carbon monoxide, ends with your voice sounding choked. Choked from tears and depression and lord knows what else. Stale air and video games and the knowledge that you’re probably going to die in here. He’ll get bored and kill you or you’ll die from a heart attack or some hero will bust in and assume you’re his villainous squeeze and take you out as a precaution.

And now, well. Now you’re crying, still holding the damn blanket, but unable to see much as hot tears make your vision all blurry. 

“Hey,” he says, and he’s crawled onto the bed with you–oh fuck don’t let him see–and he’s got both arms on other side of your head now, his body poised above yours like a snake. “What the hell is the matter with you? You’re all depressed, then you’re pissed, now you’re all… weepy.” One hand goes to your face and you squeeze your eyes shut as he wipes away a tear, too roughly. 

There’s annoyance in his voice, though it’s laced with that concern again. And again, he can simply choke on it. Might make it easier for you, actually. Imagine the headlines: Notorious villain chokes to death on an inch of concern he mustered for his kidnapped victim. Whoop-de-doo.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you bite out, and you hate the way you sound like you’re going to cry. Oh, well. You are crying actually. Still. You hate the way it leaks out through your voice. It’s not fair. You can’t have anything to yourself. Not your tears or your body or even your own stupid period. 

Your hands grip tighter on the blanket and it’s only then that he looks down at the way your fingers tighten on the only barrier between Shigaraki and your blood-stained thighs. Thoughts dawn on his face and you feel sicker with every moment.

“What’re you hiding?”

Fuck.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit, nothing.” He grips the blanket himself again, pinkies up. “Why won’t you let me see underneath the blanket? What’re you hiding?” Irritated and concerned, but a different type of concern. He probably thinks you’ve managed to get a knife or a sharp pair of scissors or something else you could stab him with. If only. 

“I said it’s nothing! Leave me alone!”

“You aren’t allowed to hide shit,” he says, and the tug he gives feels performative. One last chance to give it up before he just yanks it away from you. And maybe you think about it. Maybe the thought crosses your frazzled little mind. Tell him and things will be easier.

Well you know what? Fuck that, and fuck him, and fuck your stupid menstruation. You curl your legs in and with every ounce of strength you can muster, kick them out, knocking him squarely (if a bit lopsidedly) in the chest. 

He’s caught off guard, that’s for sure. Because he does fall back. Not all the way. Like, an inch or two, maybe. From surprise more than anything. You’re not some buff Hero with leg muscles that could crush steel. You’re just you, muscles weak from ill-use over the past few months making things an even less fair fight.

Still. The sound of your feet connecting with his chest is something you’ll carry in your pocket for a while.

The look that crosses his face as he regains his bearings? Also something you’ll carry, but not for the same reasons.

“You’re being a bitch,” he says, a snarl crawling across his features. “I don’t know why, but I know it’s going to stop. I’m too tired for this shit.” Without another word or pretense of a dual between you, he grips the blanket between his fingers (all of his fingers) and it doesn’t matter that it’s just a blanket and not a living thing, you will never get used to the sight and sensation of Shigaraki Tomura turning things to dust with a touch of his hands.

The blanket goes to ash around you, but the coating of gray and brown flecks isn’t enough to hide what’s underneath. Your nightgown and the mattress and your thighs, and the redness binding them together. 

It’s quiet for a moment. A few ticks of the clock, if Shigaraki had a clock on the wall, which he does not. 

And then he snickers. 

Snickers. Heated humiliation is already burning from your chest to your face, and indignation makes it all taste sour.

“Fuck you,” you croak, hot tears and all. “You’re an asshole.” And he is an asshole, a jerk, a fuckwad, a piece of shit. You tell him as much in muttered words, curling up harder on the bed, like that will undo the sight of the blood underneath. 

Fucking period. Fucking heavy flow. 

You half-expect him to call you a bitch again. Or to grab you by the ear and pull you forward, to threaten to put you over his knee like a child for continuing to act up. 

What he does is infinitely worse.

“Aw,” he coos, actually coos at you. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have called you a bitch. Poor thing.” He crawls forward on the bed,  hands brushing away the dust of the blanket. He doesn’t put up the pretense of a fair fight this time, gripping your thighs and parting them with little effort, turning you over on your back in the process.

Laid bare, blood and all. He’s seen you more naked; he’s been inside you, for goodness’ sake. But somehow, Shigaraki staring down at the bloody patch of underwear, the stain that’s leaked through the front and back of your nightgown and left a splotch of red on his mattress, makes you feel more vulnerable than ever before.

“Hey!” He might not put up the pretense of a fair fight, but that doesn’t mean you don’t try to squirm out of his grip. “Don’t–stop it–fuck you!”

He coos again, a soft, almost guttural sound. It makes your stomach hurt and flip all in one. Stupid fucker. You’re about to huff something out, another insult, a meaningless threat, when his hands creep closer up your thighs. It tickles, and you jerk, but he doesn’t stop until his hands are resting on your stomach.

“Does it hurt?” 

You hate this, you hate him. You grimace, because of the closeness, the humiliation, the fact that you’re stuck on this bed with nowhere to go. But you answer him. Maybe it’ll make him go the hell away sooner.

“No.” The word is ground out with your mouth clenched. “I don’t get cramps until the second day, usually.” As if he needs to know this. You almost roll your eyes at yourself for giving that much away.

“You know,” he drawls, and you ought to guess what he’s going to say before it ever crosses his lips, “I’ve heard that orgasms help with cramps.” 

You look at him like he’s just told you he’s going to kill someone. (Which he has done. And will keep doing. You try not to think about that too much.) 

“I’ll just… take some painkillers, it’s fine.” You try to curl up again, but he ignores your efforts. It’s easy enough for him to keep you right where he wants you. Which, at the moment, appears to be directly underneath him.

“Don’t have any.” A grin. Lecherous jerk. “I don’t mind a little blood.” His hands shift now, and every muscle in your body tenses as he parts your thighs. Some of the blood that’s gotten onto your thigh smears against his thumbs, but he pays it no mind.

“Please, c’mon,” you try, some sort of frail, bitter weakness coming through. For once, you wish he’d have a bit of pity and let you be alone.

He doesn’t.

Instead, his thumb swipes over the soft pad of your underwear, where dark red blood has soaked through during the night. Your breath hitches, you jerk. It only makes him happier. So he does it again, this time pushing harder, trying to find–what? Your clit? It doesn’t matter, either way, it’s an awful feeling.

You’re too sensitive and it feels gross and you do manage to snap one of your thighs up. It doesn’t stop him from doing what he wants, but at least you get an inch of control back.

“Don’t. I don’t like it.” 

His mouth twitches, almost a frown. Maybe he’ll get pissed and force himself on you. Maybe he’ll get pissed and storm off and come back six hours later and act like nothing happened. (This would be preferable.) 

But no. Instead, he coos again, all sweet syrup and honey. 

“Aw, poor thing. You’re so sensitive.” Whether he means physically or emotionally, he doesn’t say, and you don’t care to ask for a clarification. You just want him to go away.

Ugh, doesn’t he have any shame? You’ve got it in spades, enough that you swear it should be visible, leaking out of every pore in your skin. It’s bad enough being here. Worse having your period. And it’s agony to have him so close, to have him touching you. 

“Can you please get off?” You try not to sound like you’re going to cry, but it doesn’t really work. The more upset you sound, the more he feeds off you. But it’s hard to stay steady when you’d really love to curl up and die right now. “I just want to get cleaned up.”

At this, he does seem to pause. And when you look at him, he’s frowning. Not in a pissed off way. Just a “I’m thinking” way. Which is better, you think. 

For a minute, at least, and then he smiles a perfectly irritating smile.

“Don’t get up. I’ll clean you up.”

“You don’t have to–”

He pushes one hand on your stomach again, a silent order–sit, stay. 

“Oh, but I want to,” he says, like you ought to be grateful. “Besides, you shouldn’t strain yourself when you’re on your period. Just lie here and rest up and I’ll take good care of you. I’ve got everything you need in the bathroom, don’t you worry.”

He punctuates the last words with gentle pats to your stomach, and it takes every ounce of energy not to snarl at him. It would probably only egg him on even more.

The only thing you can do is thump your head against the pillow and listen as he trods off to the attached bathroom, and you hear the sound of running water, of opening and closing cabinets. His voice has a slight echo as he calls out from the room: 

“Are we supposed to stuff the rag inside, or just put it underneath you?”