Osamu Miya - Tumblr Posts

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐒

ಌ including : o. miya, t. oikawa, k. tsukishima

ಌ genre : fluff

a/n: I literally had a burst idea about this, also haven't wrote for osamu or toru in a whilee

love like you by: Rebecca sugar

ع˖⁺. OSAMU

୨୧- raspberry

samu loves giving you surprise kisses so while you were reading a new book he had bought you, as you read the novel in the living room about to flip to the next page when you almost jumped feeling a chin on your shoulder. "Hey pretty girl, ya like the book so far?" You sighed smiling softly, humming in response before feeling him lean down a little more to press a kiss to your lips. He flashed you a smile before joining you on the couch, "You used the raspberry one I bought you?"

"Yeah, I know how much you like it, plus it smells pretty good." You admitted, snuggling into his side as his arm wrapped around you. "And it taste good too." He stated, pulling you into a another kiss. This time swiping his tongue against your bottom lip, "S-samu! Your gonna take all my lipgloss off!" You whined, "Oh well, guess you'll have to put more on won't cha?"

ع˖⁺. TORU

୨୧- peach

kawa thinks that sweet smelling scents suites you, perfume, body wash anything like that. So when you came home to see two bags full of bath and body works items, you looked to toru. "What? Can't I spoil my princess?" He asked with a pout, "Baby I don't mind you spoiling me but I already have 3 unused perfume bottles, and body wash AND lotion. I'm not even gonna start on lipgloss. I have 3 sets of peach baby, three"

He grinned walking over to your side, "Well how about this, we can try all of the lipgloss and chapstick flavors together. And I'll have to guess each one how about that?"

"I'd say thats an excuse to kiss me more." "You wouldn't be wrong~"

ع˖⁺. KEI

୨୧- strawberry

as expected, kei loves his strawberries. So when he was waiting for you in bed, and smelt the scent of strawberries off your skin he tried to calmly ask if thats a new body wash. "Oh yeah, I just got it. Apparently it has some vitamins in it and it smells really good, I think its strawberry, do you like it?" Like it? He loved it. Thats why when you had also told him you had got a new scented/flavored lipgloss he was slightly excited to kiss you and see it was strawberry.

And to his dismay, it wasn't. Pulling back from the kiss he frowned slightly. "What the hell kinda lipgloss is that." You held back a giggle, reading the label of the tube. "Apparently blackberry." He sucked his teeth, reaching into his pocket before handing you a soft pink tube. "Use this one, and get rid of that nasty ass blackberry." Even if it looked like he was doing you a favor, you saw the blush on his cheeks. "Thanks baby, oh its strawberry!" You said, faking your surprise. "Wanna test it out?"

hello congrats for 200 followers!! can i req headcanons for reader being jealous when a customer is too flirty with osamu miya please

Fandom:Haikyuu Pairings:time skip!Osamu X Reader Genre:a bit suggestive,Fluff Format:Headcanons Warnings:Not ProofRead cuz im trash 🚶🏻‍♀️ Word Count:0.5K

A/n:its hard to write these as headcanons,but its also somehow easier lmao

It had been a while since you had started dating Osamu Miya, and you were falling for him harder with everyday passing.

i mean, he was an amazing chef,he was handsome as hell,and he had a really toned body thanks to volleyball,which he used to play back in highschool.

what more could you possibly want?

but when youre dating an amazing guy as him,you gotta be prepared for other girls throwing theirselves at him.you knew this, but you never witnessed anybody hitting on him so you never really expected it.

but one day when you went to his shop,you were met with an unpleasent scene: a girl smiling cheekily as she touched Osamu's mascular arm,telling him how hard it was.

"these are not made by cooking,i assume?" the girl said with a playful tone, while staring into your boyfriends eyes who politely shaked away her hand and smiled "oh no.i used to play in ma highschools volleyball team,thats all. ya should see my bro actually! hes a professional volleyball player and he playes in the national team"

"well hes not here right now,is he?" the girls smile got wider as she laid her eyes on you. you didnt know each other, but you were clearly upset at the sight in front of you.

"i appreciate yer kindness ma'am, but can ya hurry up and order? other customers are waiting-" "hiiiii baby! i missed you!"

his sentence was undone by you,who practically threw herself in his arms, rapping your own around his neck while smashing your lips on his. eyes widened, he was taken aback at your action. he knew that youre upset, but he never really thought you'd do something about it; let alone going as far as kissing him in public, which you seemed to be uncomfortble with before.

well that day was different so...why not make an exception? :)

when you broke the kiss apart, you wiped your lips while giving him a big smile, acting like you still hadnt notice the girl "why dont you wrap things up soon, so we can continue what we were doing in your office? hmmm?"

Osamu was still surprised, but he was lying if he said he wasnt enjoying himself at that moment.

"oh...am i interrupting something?" you innocently turned your head at the girl ,whose face was red from anger "yes you are! didnt you see i was talking to him?"

"all i saw was a shameless woman trying to touch what's mine, and let me tell you, i do not appreciate that. so why dont you order something and leave my boyfriend alone?" your tone was calm, but your gaze was sure not.

"th-this is ridiculous! thats not how you treat a customer! im leaving!" she turned around as she tried to hide her fear, while exiting the restaurant.

"thank you! and dont come back!" you sighed with reliefe, only to turn your head back at your boyfriend and meet his wide smirk.

"what?" "nothing" he laughed, while pulling you closer to him. "gonna close the store a bit sooner than usual, so we can get back to "what we were doing" in ma office,hmm?"

"shut up. i hate you" you cupped your flushed cheeks with your hands, which made him even more pleased.

"Sure, sure ya do"

am i the only one who has a thing for every guy named "Osamu?" 🚶🏻‍♀️ tysm for requesting baby, and hope you like this! reblogs are WILDLY appreciated :)

This post held me a gunpoint till I cried

lowkey deserved because I tried to be ✨different✨ and go by my top three and all it did was hurt more

WHAT YOUR FAVOURITE HAIKYUU CHARACTER SAYS ABOUT YOU AND YOUR MENTAL STABILITY

cw: mental illness i guess.

𝙸𝙼𝙿𝙾𝚁𝚃𝙰𝙽𝚃 𝙽𝙾𝚃𝙴𝚂

“I have more than three favourite characters!” — okay, I get it, you have no set aesthetic and are unable to make any decisions in your real life. stop lying to yourself and choose.

“You’re not right though?” — yes I am, perceive yourself better. open your eyes. consult your charts.

“My favourite character isn’t here!!” — then you have self projection issues and that’s not on me, that’s on you! just say you over romanticize people in your head and then feel let down when they’re not exactly how you imagined them to be and go.

“this was kinda rude.” — then my job is done.

This is a joke. Read at your own risk….

Keep reading

I NEED THIS MAN!!! OMGGGG!!! I relate to this on every aspect of it, especially the part about subbing items out in dishes!!! I can't deal with certain textures in food, and if this man did this!! I just

osamu miya who falls in love with a picky eater

osamu miya who learns from a very young age that you’re not willing to touch most foods. he (not so) secretly watches at lunch everyday to see what parts of you lunch you end up neglecting.

osamu miya who never teases you about being picky, after all that’s what makes cooking for you more rewarding right? nailing the flavors that you love and hiding the ones that you have no taste for.

osamu miya who attempts (and succeeds) at wowing you through bringing you lunches that he knows you’ll enjoy.

osamu miya who spends the rest of lunch trying not to grin ear to ear while watching you happily eat the lunch he brought you.

osamu miya who knows it’s now his life’s mission to make sure you enjoy food as much as possible.

osamu miya who loves the way your face lights up when he finds a place with lots of options for foods you like. whether its due to dietary restrictions, allergies, or a distace for certain foods, he will make sure there’s many options for you everytime you eat out.

osamu miya who cooks for you as often as you like. if you're ever feeling unmotivated and unwilling to cook he will show up and help you.

osamu miya will reach out to your parents for childhood recipes and loved dishes you may not have told him about. he wants to have your comfort foods at the ready whenever you're craving them.

osamu miya who never fails to wow you with how well he remembers your favorite foods. craving a certain cuisine but don’t know what you want? trust me, he knows way before you do and politely suggests it.

osamu miya loves seeing your reactions to new foods you discover. he’s always so proud when you try something new, and is even happier when he watches your face light up from the flavors.

osamu miya will order for you if you need to sub out items on a dish but are to embarrassed! food is meant to be enjoyed! not picked apart to avoid certain aspects of it.

osamu miya who will do anything to make sure you’re happy, healthy, and not hungy!!

A/N: projecting so hard onto this fic i am so picky about foods!! trying to be better but i fear i am doomed for life :( osamu save me

why do i keep thinking that atsumu is a spiker and osamu is a setter

Timeskip Osamu Miya with compression sleeves got me feeling some type of way I ain’t even gonna lie

hi ugly fart happy 300 or wtvr

can u do osatlas plzz but we r a smau and it’s just random texts through the day and we r in love also lyntsumu mention there once plzz i lob u imagine me kissing the screen

HOW TO (LOVINGLY) BOTHER OSAMU osamu miya

aka. texts you have with your bf osamu miya

for my 300 followers event!

NO LYNTSUMU MENTION THIS TIME BUT COOKING W OSAMU FIC JUST FOR U SOON!!!! LIVE LAUGH LOVE ATLAS

instead of osatlas smau for ur 300 what abt i’m cooking witf samu but he doesn’t let mw do shit u pick tho idc 😻😻

MADE WITH LOVE osamu miya

cooking oyakodon with osamu because he loves you <3

written for my 300 followers event!

“I feel like a horny old man watching a stripper right now,” you dreamily sigh as you watch Osamu chop an onion with precise yet swift motions. In less than a minute, the chopped onion was placed into a pan and replaced with a handful of fresh herbs that Kita—his senior and high school volleyball captain—had sent him earlier that day. Beside the chopping board, were bowls of eggs and sauces all prepared for a meal of oyakodon.

“I really wanted to have a special moment cooking for you but you had to make it weird,” your boyfriend complained. You both knew he never found any of your commentary annoying, insulting you was his love language and you relished in the faux criticisms because only someone he felt truly comfortable with would receive such jabs. “I don’t trust you with anything in this kitchen but you can help beat the eggs I already cracked. I know you’ve cracked eggs before but I have a gut feeling you would somehow manage to explode the thing in front of me.”

“Why do you have zero trust in me?” you whined, grabbing a pair of long, wooden chopsticks to beat the small bowl of eggs. In the meantime, Osamu mixed dashi, soy sauce, mirin, and sugar, drizzling the sauces onto the onions in the pan. The two of you basked in the savory aroma, already feeling your stomach rumble for the hearty meal. You push the bowl of beaten eggs toward Osamu, grinning in pride at your work. “The eggs are done! Rate my work, chef.”

“Not bad, chef,” he mused before ruffling your hair and giving you a kiss on the forehead. “That’s all you need to do. Now sit back and wait for the meal to come out.”

With a heart full of warmth, you lie your head on the kitchen island as your boyfriend turns the stove on and stirs the simmering onions. Sizzling sounded through the spacious kitchen when chicken and eggs hit the pan, a cloud of steam rising from the stove, sending the mouth watering scent of oyakodon to you.

“I can’t believe I’m getting the full Onigiri Miya experience at home with the owner as my private chef, all for free too. I’m so spoiled,” you stupidly grin as Osamu laughs.

“Only the most special treatment for my dearest,” he responds. Turning his head toward you, a sparkle glimmers in his round, gray eyes. “It’s only the right thing to do for the person I love.”

guys i love atlas pls follow them they write the cutest stuff ever

timeskip!osamu x reader

warnings: 18+//smut//nsfw

a/n: bcuz the guy below reminds me of him

sauce: Silent War

"aahh! osamu, what's with this p-posture?!" you screamed as he thrusts into you. he was fucking you- while standing?!

your back against his chest, while his strong and muscular arms from all his volleyball days and his work, held your body close to his. his dick sliding in and out of you fast made you feel like you were about to past out, especially in a position like that.

a scream left your lips as his cock hits your cervix perfectly. "do you like this position? my cock deep inside you, hm?" he whispered in your ear as you bit your lip, keeping in a moan. "o- oi!" you gasped. his hands were now groping your breasts.

he pinched the one on your right while the other squeezed the left one making you moaned as he continued to pound into you. "ngh~ osamu, m' gonna-" you tilted your head back against his shoulder. osamu took note of this and threw you onto the bed.

"let's do it in our normal position, shall we?" he smirked.

Drawing a randomly generated Haikyuu character (almost) every day until I give up   3. Miya Osamu

I love Haikyuu fanfiction. Like yeah, let's put these dudes in some situations

Miya Twins~👯‍♂️ 

- cooking date w chef miya 🧑🏻‍🍳

aka you patiently wait for osamu to make you food

got back into haikyuu and i’m down horrendously!!! need a man to cook for me fr! maybe make my favorite dish juuuust for me because he loves me so much even if i’m sneaking in kisses and distracting him from his work!

singing, dancing, eating

pairing: osamu miya × f!reader

wc: 0.6k

genre: fluff galore

warnings: author's not sure if she wrote osamu right, maybe a tad too fluffy for some

you were one to romanticize things. You were one to throw ‘love’ around like flower petals because you knew love was infinite, and you found love in every little significant thing you did.

You fell in love with standing on the rooftop, feeling the earth’s breeze as the sun wakes up from the horizon. You fell in love with the smell of coffee early in the morning and watering your tiny succulents. You fell in love with your best friends whenever they hung out with you or even when they didn’t, you loved them and you made sure to let them know that.

And Osamu loved that you loved. He loved watching the content smile on your face when he’s on the rooftop with you. He loved watching you move your hips to the humming of your voice walking around in the kitchen and reaching for your little spray can, chuckling to himself. He loved seeing the sparks in your eyes talking with your friends and hugging them as if it would be the last.

He loved you. And he loved you being able to easily fall in love with routines and things. You never expected anything in return, you were selfless and he wanted to be selfish for you.

So he loved you as you would.

But discreetly.

His love was the jacket wrapped around your torso when it got too cold at five am watching the sunrise. His love was buying coffee beans when he notices you don’t have anymore and filling the spray can with water. His love was giving you privacy with your friends cause he knew how much you adored your time with them.

And you notice. You loved the way he loved, too.

“Can you give me more of my favorite flavored onigiri?” you asked, head tipped back further into Osamu's chest as your hand rests on his forearms hugging your chest.

“Of course,” he says with no hesitation, a kiss landing on your temple but his eyes never leaving the screen. Only for a brief second, he wonders if you’ve regarded he especially tried to perfect that recipe so you would enjoy it even more than you already do. “I’ll put it in your bento for work tomorrow.”

The smile that follows next reminds Osamu why he’s still alive and satisfied. He copies your smile as you kiss him fully on his lips, you taste like cherry and spring.

“You’re the best,” you say, and he knows that’s only the case cause you’re here. He was the best cause you took care of him, loved him like a soulmate and because you were there for him.

“Only with you,” Osamu says, nuzzling his nose into your hair and hugging you with both arms.

“I love you,” you say after giggling when he hugged you closely, your eyes are wide the whole world in them Osamu could see, your mouth is curved into a pretty smile he’d move mountains for.

You mean it. And he never doubts your sentiments, he thinks he’ll never get used to it he might never even get enough of it, which is good he thinks. Your love could last forever and if you didn’t know where to put it Osamu would step right in and ask for all of it to be his and yours cause being loved by you was the only purpose he’d acknowledge.

As usual, Osamu has that surprised look on his face whenever you outright said you loved him. Is it too bad to think it just seems too good to be true? What other great purpose could there be other than being loved by you.

“I love you, too.” Osamu hooks a finger under your chin and presses forward to kiss your lips—kissing you was another thing he couldn’t get enough of. He pulls away for a second, relishes the look of want in your expression. “I love you so so much.”

The L Word

Miya Osamu x f!Reader

summary: Love makes people stupid. Osamu knows it firsthand.

warnings: minors/ageless/blank blogs dni, established relationship, love confessions, fluff with a teeny hint of angst, happy ending, small miscommunication bc Osamu is an idiot but it gets cleared up, Atsumu to the rescue, Osamu being the dumber Miya twin for a change, Osamu really goes through it in this fic but it's all okay bc you love him

notes: literally wrote this entire thing today bc Osamu just does something to me. this takes place earlier on in the Meet the Miyas couple's relationship and you don't have to read the other fics to get this one, but I sure would like you to.

words: 3.6k

part of the Meet the Miyas series

Osamu’s date with you was meant to be a quick dinner. If he was thinking more clearly, he wouldn’t have suggested seeing each other that night at all. It’s been a hectic week for the both of you and he knows that you have to catch an early morning train for a meeting out of town the next day. 

But he can’t think clearly when it comes to you. Because he loves you. He doesn’t know when exactly it happened, but he knows it was probably after only a couple of dates, which he also knows is crazy. 

Again, he can never think clearly when it comes to you.

It means that he’s spent the last few months in a love-induced haze of happiness as your budding relationship has progressed. It’s even been enough to dull the irritation he would normally feel at how smug Atsumu has been about being the one to set the two of you up in the first place.

Of course, none of that is on his mind now. The only thing he can currently think about is how much he doesn't want your evening together to end. 

It’s a desire of his that you’re more than willing to indulge in as your time at the restaurant stretches on long past dessert. When he offers to walk you home even though you live in opposite directions, you don’t even bother to give a perfunctory protest. You merely nod with a wide grin, happily accepting the arm he wraps around your shoulders as you curl into his side. 

And what began as a sweet kiss goodnight outside of your building is now bordering on something inappropriate for a public setting, even on an empty street. 

Your soft lips move against his and his tongue slips into your mouth to taste you. One of your hands rests against his neck, while the other runs through his hair, making him shiver at the sensation of your fingernails gently running against his scalp. Both of his are tightly holding onto your waist, holding you as close as he possibly can so that the only thing separating you two is the clothing you both are wearing. 

“Come upstairs,” you breathe as he begins to trail his lips from yours to the spot just below your ear that always has your knees feeling weak whenever he lavishes it with attention. 

Unfortunately, Osamu has just enough of his sanity left to know what the responsible choice is.

“Ya need to sleep,” he murmurs against your skin before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your neck that makes you sharply inhale. “Yer meeting tomorrow is important. Gotta be well rested.”

“So thoughtful,” you tease as you guide his lips back to yours to give him another heated kiss, only to pause for air a moment later. “I promise. No funny business. We can just sleep.”

He can’t hold back his snort at your suggestion or his laugh when you pout at his reaction. He rests his forehead against yours, looking at you with a fond smile on his shining and slightly swollen lips. 

“We never ‘just sleep’ when I come up,” he reminds you and your pout deepens.

“But I don’t want to say goodbye yet,” you tell him, and damn if his heart doesn’t ache with how full of love it is for you.

“Okay. We don’t have to say goodbye,” he agrees and your expression lights up. However, it falls as he continues to speak. “We’ll just say goodnight instead.”

“Osamu,” you whine and he presses a soft kiss to your lips before you can say anything else.

“Goodnight,” he says.

When you open your mouth again, he gives you another smiling kiss.

“Goodnight.”

You open your mouth again, a smile of your own tugging at your lips, which he kisses again.

He loves you. 

“Goodnight.”

You playfully open your mouth as you pretend to say something. He kisses you.

He loves you.

“Goodnight.”

Another attempt on your part to protest. Another kiss to silence you.

He loves you.

“Goodnight.”

Your mouth opens. He gives you a kiss. 

He loves you.

“I love you.”

He freezes, but not because he’s accidentally spoken the words that have been on his mind these past months. 

It’s because the words don’t come out in his voice. They come out in yours.  

His eyes snap open to find you gazing up at him with a small hint of nervousness, but otherwise nothing but pure affection and fondness and love. It’s everything he’s been dreaming of — literally. He has literally been dreaming about this exact scenario.

But in his dreams, he gently murmurs that he loves you in return and softly runs his thumb along the apple of your cheek. The two of you then kiss beneath the first soft snowflakes of winter or the floating spring cherry blossoms or a drizzle of summer rain.

Reality is much worse. Because in his shock and disbelief, all he can do is open and close his mouth, struggling to put all of his joy and excitement and love in return into words. And the longer the silence stretches on, the touch of hesitation that was initially present on your face slowly begins to morph into sheer horror.

Your embarrassment is visible at his lack of a response and when you force out a small, self-conscious laugh, he knows that you’re regretting ever speaking those three beautiful words aloud.

“Sorry,” you wince and a cold shard of ice pierces his heart.

No, no, no. Don’t apologize. Never apologize. Not for loving him. Not when he loves you, too. 

You clumsily try to extricate yourself from his hold and he’s too wrapped up in his own mortification over how stupid he is that he easily lets you. 

“I don’t…s-sorry!”

Your voice breaks as you stumble over your unnecessary apology and even while you refuse to meet his gaze, he can see how quickly your eyelashes are fluttering as you try to blink back the tears that he’s caused.

“Night, Osamu,” you manage to say through a soft sniffle before hurrying towards the steps of your building.

The only thing worse than the panic and anger that he’s feeling towards himself is whatever it is that you’re feeling. You opened yourself up to him, allowing yourself to be vulnerable and trusting that he would keep your heart safe.

And he was too much of an idiot to be able to offer his own heart in return. 

He just needs to get the words out. Just get the words out.

Just get the fuckin’ words out, ya big fuckin’ pussy.

Relief floods through his veins when he’s finally able to blurt your name as he calls after you. He can fix this. He can tell you that he loves you and that he was just so elated that he was physically incapable of putting any words together. 

You stop, your foot on the bottom step as you turn towards him. While your eyes are shining with tears, he can also the hope in them as you silently plead with him to continue. 

A deep breath releases from his lungs. He hasn’t ruined it yet. You’re willing to listen to him. You’ll give him a chance to make things right and prove to you that he deserves you. He’s so fucking grateful to you. 

“Thank you!”

He wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Maybe a car will pass by and run him over. Could he be lucky enough for a freak thunderstorm and to be struck by lightning? When nothing happens, he contemplates dropping to his knees and banging his head repeatedly against the concrete sidewalk. 

All of it would feel better than watching how quickly he’s shattered the last remaining pieces of hope that you were desperately clinging onto. You stay still just long enough for him to see your lower lip tremble before you dart up the stairs of your building.

And because of how the stupid apartment buildings in this country are designed, he gets a perfect view of you racing up the exterior staircase and then towards your apartment, pausing only to unlock the door, which then slams loudly shut behind you. The sound echoes through the quiet street, reverberating against the pavement and buildings, but also in his mind. 

Osamu takes a slow, deep breath and holds it before exhaling. He then buries his face his hands, his fingers tugging at his hair, and lets out an unintelligible scream that’s filled with a nauseating mixture of frustration and embarrassment. The noise is louder than the slamming of your door and a dog starts to bark in the distance. 

In a daze, he somehow manages to make it to his bus stop. Likewise, his phone is now somehow held up against his ear. And somehow, Atsumu’s screeching voice answers on the other end.

“Thank you?” he greets angrily and Osamu loudly groans as he slumps forward so far that his head is practically between his knees. “My best friend, the woman yer totally in love with, says she loves ya and all ya can do is thank her?”

“I was just so excited, I couldn’t think straight. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I know, okay?” he mumbles. He hears a bus pull up to the curb but he’s too distraught to even look up and see if it’s his as he lets it pass. “She already told ya?”

“She’s on the other fuckin’ line right now, crying because of you, ya scrub,” Atsumu bites back and somehow, after everything that’s happened in the past ten minutes, Osamu manages to feel even worse. 

There’s a long pause and his guilt and mortification must be so bad that his brother can hear it through the phone because Atsumu gives a sigh of pity.

“Look, just make it right. We share the same DNA. Ya must have gotten a little bit of my ability to be romantic.” 

In any other situation, Osamu would scoff and roll his eyes. But right now, he doesn’t have the right to make fun of anyone, not even his twin. Instead, he simply nods even though Atsumu can’t see it over the call. 

“Can ya find out what time her train gets in tomorrow?” he asks pitifully. 

“Okay, sure,” the setter offers before sighing again. “I gotta go.”

“Yeah, don’t keep her waitin’.” 

He wonders if you know that it’s him Atsumu is talking to. You must. But Atsumu is a pretty good liar, much better than Osamu anyway. He’s had plenty of practice lying over every little thing under the sun since they were young. Surely, he can convince you that it was a teammate or his agent or anyone else but the man responsible for your distress.

“Same goes for you, Samu,” Atsumu warns him, but there’s at least a gentle undertone of sympathy in his voice that he probably only extends because they shared a womb.

“Thanks,” he says, feeling truly grateful to his brother in a way he hasn’t felt since he set the two of you up.

“I think ya said that enough tonight, ya scrub.” Atsumu then ends the call and Osamu’s gratitude dwindles. 

But Atsumu does come through for him, texting him the information on your train, which Osamu reacts to with a mere thumbs up, knowing that any form of thanks will have him being called a scrub for the third time that night. 

The next day, Osamu closes the shop early. It’s for the better as he keeps getting orders wrong and has to offer so many discounts in apology that if he stayed open any later, he would probably end the day at a loss. 

His mind has been so preoccupied that there’s no room left in it for onigiri. All he’s been able to think about is his plan to make it up to you. He’ll go home and change into his nicest suit. He’ll go to the florist and buy the nicest bouquet they have. He’ll stop by the bakery near your apartment on the way and order a slice of your favorite cake. 

And then you’ll come home to find him waiting for you outside of your building, where he’ll give you the speech he spent all day on. He’ll tell you how sorry he is and explain how much of an idiot he was and tell you that of course, he loves you. He’s even written down exactly what he wants to say on an order sheet from the restaurant so he doesn’t forget a word.

But apparently, the universe has decided that it wants to laugh even more at his expense. 

Everything starts smoothly. Despite not having worn it in over a year, his suit fits as perfectly as it did when he bought it. And after a quick iron, it looks like he just picked it up from the dry cleaner. When he arrives at the flower shop, the kindly older woman working there helps him make a custom bouquet filled with flowers that all represent some form of love and apology. 

It’s at the bakery where things start to go wrong. 

First, it’s so late in the afternoon that the display window is picked clean over. Your favorite cake has sold out entirely and all that’s left are a variety of croissants, donuts, and croquettes. He stupidly decides to buy a donut anyway, because although the image of him giving you a donut is much less romantic, he’s always believed that food is the best way to show you care about someone. 

Then, just as he’s finished paying and in his rush to make sure he gets to your apartment before you do, he runs right into a teenager holding a bright green melon soda, which spills all over the front of his clean, white dress shirt. The girl gasps in horror and immediately begins to apologize, repeatedly bowing as she offers him the napkins in her hand.

However, he knows it was his fault and that he can’t make another girl cry in less than 24 hours. He assures her that she wasn’t to blame and after patting his shirt dry to the best of his ability, he buys her a new drink and then helps the employee clean up the spill. He leaves the bakery with a squished donut and an obscenely green, large stain on his shirt. 

And of course, he gets one block away from the bakery when it starts to rain. It’s not the soft, romantic drizzle that he’s imagined might color such an important moment in your relationship. It’s a true downpour that has people ducking into stores and under doorways. For just a moment, he considers stopping at a konbini and buying an umbrella but he’s already drenched and when he sees how long the line is, he decides that it wouldn’t be worth it if he has to miss you. 

It’s another block away from the konbini that the bag holding the donut breaks, dropping the baked good into the gutter where it’s quickly washed away by the rainwater. As he looks at the soggy remains of the bag in his hand, he decides not to worry about it and shoves the mess into his pocket. The flowers are enough on his own.

The flowers, which he’s just now realizing aren’t in his hand and weren’t with him at the bakery. The flowers that he remembers setting down on the bench at the bus stop but doesn’t remember picking back up when he got onto the bus. 

The voice in his head is frantic as it tries to assure him that everything is fine. If you really love him then you don’t need flowers or baked goods or him in a dry, unstained suit. You’ll love him just as he is when you find him waiting to greet you after a long day.

He’s thankful that the sound of rain falling is loud enough to mask the panicked, high-pitched whine he lets out when he turns the corner onto your block to find that you’ve beaten him to your place and are already standing on the bottom step of your building’s staircase, protected from the rain as you shake the worst of the water from your dripping umbrella. 

There’s the smallest part of him that wants to just go back home and hide beneath the blankets like he used to do after losing a volleyball match. 

But then, without his consent, your name leaves his lips and his feet begin moving on their own to meet you. You freeze mid-umbrella shake and look up at him in shock, clearly not having expected him, and definitely not in this state if the way your eyes widen is anything to go by. 

Your senses come back to you quicker than his did to him last night and you open your umbrella back up and rush out to meet him, hurrying to finally protect him from the rain.

“Osamu, what are you doing? It’s pouring,” you say with a mixture of disbelief and confusion. You look him over from head to toe and frown. “Why are you so green? You look like you spilled a melon soda all over your shirt.”

It’s okay. He still has his speech. He’ll win you over with his words. Whether it was volleyball or opening his own restaurant, when has he ever given up?

Instead of answering you, he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out the order slip. He’s relieved that it’s held up better than the bakery bag and vows to keep buying order pads from the same supplier for the rest of his life. 

At least until he unfolds the paper and finds that the ink he wrote in has run because of the rain that soaked through his jacket. His shoulders sag as he sighs in defeat. 

“Osamu?” you ask with a timidness he hasn’t heard from you before and it’s enough to snap him from his own wallowing. His idiocy left you in tears last night.

The flowers, the suit, the pastry, the speech, this entire big, grand gesture he was trying to make all boil down to one thing.

“I love ya,” he says and it feels so good to finally be able to say the words aloud to you for the first time. It feels like a weight has been lifted from his chest, leaving room for how big his heart has grown with all the love it holds for you. “I’m so sorry about last night. I’ve been in love with ya since, like, our third date but I knew I’d seem crazy if I said it that early. And when ya said it first, I just couldn’t believe it and I was so stupidly happy that I just couldn’t say anything.” 

Now that he’s started talking, the words won’t seem to stop. But from the way you’re looking up at him with so much warmth and affection and love, he doesn’t think you want him to.

“And then I started to panic because I couldn’t say anything, which made it harder to say anything else. So, I came up with this big plan to win ya back with flowers and cake and a big speech but literally everything went wrong.”

“Osamu,” you try to gently interrupt him, but by this point, he couldn’t hold anything in even if he wanted to.

“I forget yer flowers at the bus stop and the bakery was out of cake. Then I almost made this teenager cry so I had to make that right. And of course, this fuckin’ monsoon had to sweep in outta nowhere. And my speech got all ruined, too,” he complains, holding out the order sheet for you to see the proof. 

“Osamu,” you try again. Only he’s too wrapped up now in this bizarre, stream-of-consciousness monologue to even take in the adoring way that you’re looking at him.

“If it was gonna rain, couldn’t it at least have been a soft, romantic type of rain? But I guess nothing says romance like a flash flood warning. It’s a good thing ya live on a higher floor with how much it’s comin’ down,” he continues. “All this little love confession is missing are some warning sirens—”

“You love me?”

The question finally shuts him up. But it’s a different kind of silence than the one from last night. Because you look so utterly happy as the three words occupy the space between you. His own expression softens and he crumples up the paper in his hand before shoving it into his pocket. 

His hand now free, he tenderly cups your face and presses the softest, sweetest kiss to your lips as the rain continues to come down in sheets around you, only your small travel-size umbrella keeping you both safe. 

As his lips part from yours, he rests his forehead on yours, an almost mirror image how you two were wrapped up in each other last night. 

“Yeah, I love ya,” he whispers as he affectionately brushes his nose against yours. You smile back at him and his heart pounds with excitement at hearing you repeat the sentiment back to him. 

But then, your eyes begin to sparkle mischievously as they always do when you tease him.

“Thank you,” you say and he thinks he’s somehow managed to fall even further in love with you.  

leave the light on - miya osamu/f!reader (haikyuu!) part 10 in the bff!osamu series tags: childhood friends to lovers, tw instant coffee mention, miscommunication, confessions, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!

Onigiri Miya closes early on Sunday nights.

It’s not for lack of business—the shop would certainly take in enough revenue to justify staying open regular hours an extra day per week, especially on a weekend. But in the early days of Onigiri Miya, when it was just a one-man show, Osamu needed at least one night that he could count on having off. The workweek business—office workers and students going through their routine hustle and bustle—kept him going, enough so that Sunday nights weren’t a make or break for him, and he was able to start shuttering in the early afternoon once per week.

He remembers those early days. Sweet talking vendors to bring down the cost of produce and haggling with the grubby, bleary eyed men at fish market stalls at the crack of dawn for a deal on the catch of the day. Promising suppliers that he’d be able to get them their money in a couple of weeks if they’d just give him some more time. Standing on the road, because Onigiri Miya was just a street stall back then, trying to coax people in and try his food. To convince them to take a chance on him. He remembers burns on his hands and cuts on his fingers and an ache in his bones that ran so marrow-deep he forgot what it felt like to not be so sore. Sunday nights were the only night he had to relax. The only night he had to sit down, to take off his hat, and to have a beer—or, even more frequently, pass out on his couch in his uniform at 8pm and sleep right through to his alarm the next morning.

Closing early on Sundays had been your idea, way back when— suggested to him gently while he rested with his head in your lap in your tiny student apartment after another 16 hour workday. He still remembers the worry in your eyes as you brushed his hair back from his tired face.

Nowadays things aren’t so hectic. Osamu’s got a good team of people around him to help Onigiri Miya run smoothly—a team who he trusts and values. It doesn’t all fall onto his shoulders in the same way that it used to: he doesn’t have to be there for every open and every close, his bills are paid, he’s not fighting to lure people in off the street just in the hope that he can scrape by for another week.

Now when he closes early on Sunday, it’s more for the sake of his staff than anything else. Occasionally Osamu will take the night off, too; he’ll go home and catch up on housework, run an errand or two, or even grab dinner—usually with you, though evidently not so much lately. But most Sundays he stays behind after his last employee heads out for the night; locking up behind them, switching off the sign in the window to tell the world the shop is closed, and then holing himself up in his office to do some admin. He’ll grab a plate of whatever’s leftover from the day’s service and a cold can of beer from the fridge, put on a rerun of Atsumu’s game from the night before, and get to work shuffling through the paperwork that he’s left to pile up over the past seven days.

Osamu hates paperwork.

It’s not that it’s particularly challenging work—the really hard stuff is left to his bookkeeper after all. It’s just tedious, a mindless task in many ways, and he always finds his thoughts drifting as he sorts through invoices and inventory registers: catching himself being inattentive halfway through a spreadsheet, and having to force himself to go back to the beginning just to make sure he hasn’t missed anything in his carelessness. 

You used to help him with this kind of work, or at least keep him company while he got through it—sitting on the lumpy couch crammed into one corner of his little office and pretending like you weren’t asleep each time Osamu caught you with your eyes closed. More often than not, he’d throw his jacket over you to keep you warm while you napped and then rush through the last of his work so that he could wake you up and get you home. But just having you there on those late nights was enough for him; your presence was the thing that helped.

Coffee is his only saving grace, these days.

Samu shuffles out to the front of the shop on one such Sunday evening, taking off his baseball cap and ruffling the hair underneath tiredly. He’d finally gotten a trim, and he’s glad that things feel a bit more normal again as he rakes his fingers through it—his mother had been right when she remarked that it was getting too long the week before. He tosses his hat down on the front counter of Onigiri Miya, rounding the end to grab a sachet of instant coffee from behind the bar where he keeps his emergency stash.

The overhead lights in the shop are off, but there’s enough brightness filtering out from the still-lit kitchen that he doesn’t need to struggle to see as he prepares himself some hot water to add to the mug in front of him. He tips the granulated contents of his instant coffee sachet into the bottom after ripping it open with his teeth, tapping the empty plastic packaging against the edge of the cup to make sure it all comes out. The kettle behind him hums quietly as it heats to boiling, and Osamu sighs, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest.

He stares out at the restaurant—his restaurant, as hard as he still finds it to believe some days—his gaze sweeping over the tables with their corresponding chairs resting atop them. One of the staff had mopped the floors at the end of the night, which left them still slightly wet and glistening. There’s light filtering in through the front windows from the streetlights and the other shops that line the Osaka street outside, and their glow catches in the water that hasn’t yet dried from the tile.

Osamu’s eyes suddenly snap up to the glass that lines the front of the restaurant.

There’s a silhouetted figure—so familiar he could trace it even with his eyes closed, from memory alone—standing on the other side of the door.

Osamu blinks, thinking that the paperwork must have finally gotten the best of him, or maybe that the beer he’d had earlier is inexplicably hitting him too hard. But no matter how many times he squeezes his eyes shut, the familiar shape stays where it is on the other side of the glass each time he opens them again.

His heartbeat thumps, loud and wet, in his ears.

Like the shot of a gun, the man stumbles gracelessly into action: loping around the end of the bar and slipping slightly on the wet tile as he heads towards the door. He fiddles with the lock as he struggles to unlatch it, accidentally trying to force it the wrong way in his haste before eventually getting it right. When he finally throws open the door, a gust of cool night air flooding into the restaurant along with it, he takes in a deep, gasping breath.

“Hey.”

His voice is shaky when he greets you—mostly air and very little shape to the word.

You stare at him from a few paces away, your arms crossed firmly over your chest and a frown tugging down the corners of your mouth. Osamu thinks you look pretty when you’re mad. He always has. But it’s worse now because he knows all too well that he shouldn’t—because he knows you’re mad at him. 

You seem to have something to say, he can tell as much from the almost spiteful glint in your eyes, but you stay tightlipped as you simply stare at him.

“D’ya… wanna come in?” Osamu asks, still holding the door open. He nods his head back into the shop. “Still got some stuff prepped, I could make ya—“

“You’re a jerk.”

Osamu blinks, taken aback.

“Yeah,” he agrees plainly after a moment, thinking it’s only fair of you to say given then circumstances. 

His concurrence only seems to upset you more.

“Like, you’re a real asshole, y’know that?” You’re nearly spitting you’re so angry, your features twisted up in contempt. Your arms uncross and drop down to your sides, and Osamu watches as your hands ball into fists. He’s the one who taught you how to throw a punch, years and years ago now, and he’s wondering if he’s about to experience a practical demonstration of his teaching abilities firsthand.

“I don’t necessarily disagree.” He nods, agreeing with you once more, though this time his response is slower, more hesitant—not because he doesn’t mean it, but because he’s not sure that it’s what you want to hear.

“Ugh!” Your following exclamation is loud, and palpably frustrated, all but confirming his suspicions. “You…!”

Your tone is climbing with every passing second, and Osamu looks furtively up and down the road around the two of you. It’s late in the evening but there are still a few people out, and he sees heads turning in your direction at the commotion.

“Hey,” he says, his own voice dropping in volume but still pleading all the same. “My name’s on the door and we’re gettin’ some weird looks. I wanna hear everythin’ you have to say, but could you please just say it to me inside?”

You look at him blankly, your lips puckering into a petulant, unhappy pout. You seem like you want to say no, to keep causing a scene, and for a second Osamu really thinks you’re about to round in on him again. Instead you trudge forward, stomping past him over the threshold of Onigiri Miya.

Osamu hesitates for a moment after you pass, half in shock and half in relief, and then he lets the door swing closed and locks it behind him for good measure—he’s not sure he wants any unsuspecting people coming in search of onigiri and stumbling upon a brawl.

It’s dim in the restaurant when he turns to face you, but he can still see your fury burning in the dark.

Neither of you say anything.

“You can keep goin’ if you want,” Osamu is eventually the first to speak, and he means what he says. This is the least of the punishment he deserves, after all. And hearing you yell at him is markedly better than the silence.

“Martyrdom doesn’t suit you at all,” you mutter sullenly.

Osamu sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face. “I just wantcha to say whatcha came here to say.”

You begin to pace as you work through your thoughts, slowly walking back and forth in front of the counter, picking at your cuticles. You’d put a fair amount of distance between the two of you, and he’s sure it was intentional. Osamu keeps himself confined to the entryway near the door, while you walk a path back and forth along the length of the service counter. His eyes follow every step you take, like a captivated child watching fish at the aquarium.

“I had a terrible dream last night,—” you finally force the words out, your feet stilling against the shiny tile as your pacing comes to a sudden halt.

Osamu decides to just do the right thing and shut the hell up for once, giving you the floor.

“—I was going to buy 30 kilos of rice from Kita-san’s farm—”

That’s a lot of rice, Osamu wants to note, but his lips part to let the words through and then he decides better of it.

“—and I was there, at the farm, and then Kita-san started telling me that you got married and had a baby. A baby, Samu! Kita-san standing there telling me all these terrible things with that big bag of rice in my hands, and I couldn’t even get mad at him because he’s Kita! So I just had to listen to him go on and on and on about the venue and the flowers and the baby name that you picked out. And the more he’d tell me the worse it was, and the bag of rice just kept getting heavier.” Your teeth bite down so hard into your lip as you suck in a breath that Osamu's amazed he doesn’t see blood. “I was hearing all of these things—terrible things—and all I could think was that I should have been there to see all of that for myself. I shouldn’t have been hearing about it from someone else. And I realized that you were living a whole life apart from me, a life that I didn’t know about or get to be a part of, and it just kept getting worse and worse and I woke up and I felt like I was going to scream.”

You’re out of breath by the time you finish your rambling thought, your chest heaving and your eyes wild and your mouth faintly wet. You look to him, and Osamu doesn’t see that same indignation in your eyes anymore, only hurt. He watches as the expression hardens again, whets itself like a blade—sharpened not in anger, but rather in resolve. In resignation.

“That day. I looked for you first.”

Osamu feels lost now. Are you still talking about that dream?

You understand without him saying it, and explain yourself further. “In high school. The day that I kissed Suna.”

Osamu’s stomach drops, all of the blood rushing to his head so quickly that the shop begins to spin a little around him. He can hear his pulse in his ears. He can feel it in his throat. He can’t help the twist of jealousy in the pit of his stomach, writhing and ugly though it may be, at the mere mention of his friend’s name. He doesn’t have the right to feel the way he feels, but it happens all the same.

“I looked for you,” you keep going, like you’ve broken a seal and have to let it all out. Osamu doesn’t dare try to stop you. He couldn’t even if he wanted to. He watches on like it’s a conversation that’s happening not with him but rather to him. “You were eating lunch with Tsumu in your classroom. I realized he would have had a fit if he knew that I was asking you and not him. I thought about asking him but…”

Osamu can’t feel his fingers from how tightly his hands are balled into fists at his side. His lungs burn in his chest—the breath he’s holding having long since lost the oxygen his body needs, though he can’t seem to draw in another.

“If it wasn’t you, I didn’t care who it was. So I asked Suna.”

The young man processes your words slowly. Incompletely. Like only every third word seems to register.

“Ya wanted me to be yer first kiss?” It’s not the question he ought to ask you but it’s the one his brain chooses to spit out.

Your reply is frustrated, but with an unmistakably melancholic rasp running through it. “Yeah. I did.”

Somewhere distantly, Osamu recognizes a sharp, stinging pain. An ache as part of him realizes that it could have been him. All along. All this time. Him. But the pain is muted, because part of him—most of him—still doesn’t quite understand.

“I think that was the first time I realized it.” 

Osamu watches your face, maps the achingly familiar lines and dips and curves of your features as he tries to read meaning in the space between your words. But he still finds nothing.

“I liked you, Samu. More than I should have. Differently than I liked Tsumu, or Suna, or any other guy.” You laugh, but it’s a hollow, watery sound. “I realized it and it was awful.”

You’re waiting for him to say something, but Osamu is at a loss for words. No, that’s not quite it either. It’s not that he has nothing to say, but that he has everything he wants to say to you. To ask you. But he doesn’t know where to start, or how to sort through them, or even how to will his lips, teeth, and tongue to shape any of them.

“You… Y’know ya don’t have to say this,” his voice is tight, like a rope drawn to secure a knot not unlike the one in his throat, when he finally manages to speak. “Ya don’t have to pretend or convince yourself that you… felt the same as me. I care about ya too much to ever ask that.”

You laugh—a single, sharp, distinctly mirthless ha!—as you throw your hands up in exasperation. “There you go again not letting me have any say, Samu!” You punctuate your exclamation with a frustrated little sound. “Stop deciding things all on your own and just listen to me.”

That shuts him up again.

“I thought I was over it,”—you begin to pace once more, your steps slow and measured—“I really did. I told myself it would never happen and moved on because I never ever wanted to fuck things up between us. Between any of us.

“You told me that you’ve loved me your whole life, but you don’t know if or when something changed. I do. I had a singular moment that I could point to where I realized that if I did or said the wrong thing after that, I could fuck up something that meant more to me than anything else in the world. Even if you felt the same way I did, there’s no guarantee that something like that would work out. But if we tried and it didn’t work, we wouldn’t be able to just go back to how things were. So I told myself that no matter what I wouldn’t. No matter how hard it was or how awful it felt. I could get over it if it meant I never had to lose you. And it was fine. For years it was fine. We were fine. Everything was fine. And then I lost you anyway.”

You suddenly stop pacing and crouch down, your arms winding themselves around your knees as if to comfort yourself. 

“That night, when you…” You swallow, and risk a glance up at him. “I don’t think I’m over it.”

Osamu feels like he might die. Maybe he did already. Maybe this is his life passing before his eyes, because it’s always been you anyway.

“But it’s scary, Samu,” your voice is so small, so vulnerable, when you speak to him again. You’re trembling as you hold yourself. “Aren’t you scared?”

Osamu is suddenly reminded of that fall day in the woods, so many years ago now. Reminded of two kids who didn’t know what they were doing. Who didn’t know anything. But who knew each other.

Slowly, Osamu crouches too—his joints cracking in protestation as he drops his body down to your level. Your eyes never leave his.

“Yeah,” he says, after a moment. Soft but sure. “‘Course I am.”

You let out a soggy, incredulous laugh, but it somehow doesn’t feel out of place. He watches as you reach up and scrub at your eyes.

“I love you,” Osamu says, because it’s true. Because there’s no other words he can possibly think to say in this situation. Because it’s the only thing that he has in his mind.

You look over at him, sniffling a little, wiping at your running nose with the back of your hand in a way that Osamu absolutely should not find as endearing as he does. “How can you just say it like that? Like it’s so easy?”

Osamu wants to laugh too, like you did earlier, but he worries that the sound might come off as almost hysterical thanks to the misplaced hope he can feel simmering in the pit of his stomach. “Sayin’ it’s the hard part, that’s why it took me so long. But I’ve spent forever lovin’ ya. S’always been the easiest bit.”

You choke back a sob, your head hanging defeatedly as your body slackens. You’re a ghost of the angry little thing that was outside of his door only a few minutes earlier, but more yourself now than Osamu has seen you in weeks.

“What about you?” he poses the question so quietly he might worry you didn’t hear him if not for how silent the dark shop is around you both.

“What do you mean?” You know what he means. He knows you know what he means. You’re stalling, trying to buy yourself time that’s run out now.

“Do you love me?” he asks, praying to anyone who’s listening that he’s been a good enough man up until this point to deserve the answer that he wants to hear more than anything else in the world.

“Of course I do,” you say evasively, refusing to meet his gaze. But it’s not the same. It’s not enough.

“But are you in love with me?” Osamu finally dares to ask.

There’s a stretch of the most painful, profound silence that either of you have ever experienced. It goes on for an eternity, though the clock hands in the corner say differently.

You still refuse to look at him, your gaze fixed instead to a point on the wall on the other side of the restaurant. Osamu watches how the light from the windows catches in the tears that cling to your bottom lashes.

“Yeah, I am,” you say, barely a whisper. You speak the confession like it’s the most terrifying thing imaginable. Like it's wretched.

And it is maybe, but Osamu’s never felt happier to hear anything in all his life—he feels a rush of something so visceral and elated flowing through him, he thinks he might pass out.

“Can I touch ya?” he asks hesitantly, his voice thick and unlike its normal tone. He hardly recognizes it as his own.

You peek over at him for the first time, and Osamu revels in the feeling of having your eyes on him. Delights in watching you watch him and knowing that behind the gaze is the same feeling as the one he holds inside of himself. You consider it for a moment, and he doesn’t dare rush you, but eventually—mercifully—you nod. 

Osamu inches forward slowly and wraps you in his arms. Your body relaxes into his hold instantly, and he pulls you into his lap on the tiled floor. He holds you so tightly that he’s scared he might break you, but he still can’t find it in himself to be more delicate. You cling to him anyway.

It’s the first time he’s touched you in months, but every inch of you is still known to him. Still familiar in every way that matters. You smell the same. You feel the same. You’re soft and warm just like always. Osamu buries his face into the crook of your neck, and your fingers eventually lift to play with the hair at his nape. He holds you, and holds you, and holds you more—sating a thirst that’s been building for longer than the time the two of you have been apart.

And you let him.

You hold him too, in the same way.

“If I kiss ya, you gonna cry again?” Osamu asks you quietly after a while, his lips brushing against your throat as he murmurs the words.

You snort, your fingers twisting into the material of his t-shirt at his shoulders. Osamu peels himself away from you and looks up, and finds that your faces are so close. Too close, in any other circumstance.

His palm lifts, cupping your cheek in his hand, running his thumb against the smooth skin underneath.

“Shut up, Samu,” you say, a little smile twisting up the corner of your mouth.

And Osamu happily obliges by pressing his lips to yours.

for your random sentence angst drabbles :3

“what time does the (game, show, etc) start?”

thank you n have fun 😵

a/n: aha remember this game? it's my fav thing to get out of writers block so here's one more with Osamu miya <3

warnings: a lil toxic Osamu, fake dating au

synopsis-like: "And, what do you say?" His smile had you feeling your first real heartbreak- never the last with Osamu Miya in your life. "Will you be my girlfriend?"

You know exactly when the game will start.

This game is the one where your deal ends, where you promised each other from months back that this game would be the day you would leave each other.

Osamu looks stoic, his eyes not giving a single emotion away as he watches you try to hold your tears back, chew on your lips he kissed once before- he still remembers the feeling, your eyes that always look at him with adoration now clouded with something darker.

"1p.m." He answers finally, not looking you in the eyes as he clears his throat when the words he tried to speak came out choked. 

1 pm.

As you bring your shaking hand up to check the time on your phone, you can't help but feel the tears collecting behind your eyes; you try to hide it with a smile. 

It's a little embarrassing on your side, not to him but yourself, how until then- till the very last hour, you thought you might have a chance. But a deal was a deal, and you had mere minutes before Osamu Miya leaves you, for good.

For another girl. 

The thought alone has your heart hammering your chest in pain, a feeling that has you feeling dizzy bubbles in your stomach, makes you think you might be sick. 

You knew this day was going to come- why are you crying now? You knew it was inevitable, the day you'd bid the man goodbye, without as much as hugging him, you knew it from the day you agreed to his deal.

Play the role of Osamu Miya's girlfriend until his fans stop harassing the girl he actually likes.

It was- is unfair how stoic and uncaring he was as he spoke the words that night, the night you had confessed to him, admitted to your feelings you couldn't hide- it's unfair how his lips had quirked so slightly as he stressed the word actually, how beautiful he looked as the tinted moonlight reflected off of his hair. 

"And, what do you say?" His smile had you feeling your first real heartbreak- never the last with Osamu Miya in your life. "Will you be my girlfriend?"

It was unfair; despite knowing it all, how he couldn't care less about what you felt, how he was only saving his ass and the girl he actually liked, you had agreed.

"Only till the end of the semester, till my last game."

And you knew you did, only because of your stupid little heart, hiding that belief that you might- somehow, maybe, perhaps- make Osamu Miya fall for you, instead.

How naive, how stupid.

You thought you could have your happy ending- make the prince fall for the slightly awkward main girl. And you couldn't help but smile as you thought your situation resembled cinderella's just a little.

After all, despite it being all but a rotting lie under the glamorous love of Osamu Miya, he still made you happy. You had what you wanted, you had what you wished for, and as prince Charming found cinderella in the end, you had hoped, so secretly, that maybe your lie would come true, as well. 

But as he starts packing his bag, getting ready for the game, you can only laugh at that hope.

Cinderella your ass, you really want to be Mufasa from lion king right now, as you watch Osamu leave the room without as much as glancing at you- his fake girlfriend of a few months, as you knew he was going to the game, where he was finally going to announce his real relationship with the pretty girl, waiting to cheer his name, as loud as she can. 

This one's for my Turkish followers. Guys just imagine Osamu making mantı or sarma- or or baklava! He would get so fascinated by layered foods imo. What if... he made çiğköfte- Çiğköfteci Osamu hizmetinizde!

Mind empty, just thinking about Osamu Miya with a foreign s/o

I think food is one of his love languages, so he's always eager to tast and eat the food from your country that you cook for him

He would also make some special onigiris that is a combination of both of your culture's food

100 percent sure he will learn how to make your favourites

*Osamu and Suna talking in a break*

Osamu: you know i don't really care much about the calories man, if i wanna eat it i eat it. i don't wanna regret anything in my life

Suna: is there really nothing you regret not eating?

Osamu: oh yea, just one thing.. not eating Atsumu back in the womb

Inarizaki

Miya Atsumu

[7:06]

Heartbroken

When They Get Confessed To

Miya Osamu

Heartbroken

Suna Rintarou

Heartbroken

Kita Shinsuke

Aran Ojiro