Whorefornoodles - :4

Confessing Through Kabedon But It's a Failure (HCs)

A/N: High school setting. This is all crack. I think I’m funny sometimes. Tagging @sempiternal-amour and @miki-snake, who helped me with this idea.

Miya Atsumu

Was too overexcited to kabedon you, he ran straight for you. In your fear of being barrelled over, you dodge and Atsumu ends up running straight into the wall. His face was red as fuck when he hit the wall with a loud “THWACK” and he falls on his back. Suna has it on video. Osamu looks satisfied. Omimi is dying from laughter. Kita is confused. You are also confused what the fuck just happened.

Miya Osamu

Slapped the wall so hard, the sound made everyone around you two look. You look up at him staring silently wondering what the fuck is going on; but then there’s a tinkling sound and Osamu’s off running after the ice cream truck. You just stood there going, “What the fuck?!” Suna and Akagi walks up to you with a muttered, “Condolences.” Atsumu felt so bad, he gave you his pudding. Aran is facepalming.

Kuroo Tetsurou

Kabedon-ed you but leaned in so closely that you had to crane your neck up to look at him. You got annoyed and tug on his tie to lower his face to your level. Which short-circuited his brain and now he forgot what he was going to say as he gapes at you like a fish. You thought he was messing with you so you just left. He stayed there staring at the wall, face red and brain still fried. Yaku saw and told the entire team.

Kenma Kozume

Did it because Kuroo pestered him enough about it. He sighed as he kabedon-ed you and he looked so done you thought he was leaning on the wall because he was about to faint. You didn’t listen to his claims of being fine so he ends up dragged to the clinic. Kuroo was passing by the clinic and you ran up to him telling him how Kenma is sick. When you left, Kuroo is cackling, unaware that he’s about to be murdered.

Hinata Shoyo

Too excited, jumped at you, ended up doing the two arms and two legs kabedon. He screamed in embarrassment. “GWAAHH!” You screamed in fear. “HWAAAAH?!” Tsukishima’s busy wheezing on the floor. Kageyama, supposedly to the rescue, run straight to you guys to pry Hinata off but only succeeded in scaring you even further. You bolted, now traumatized of the volleyball gym.

Kageyama Tobio

Unwisely followed his team’s advice so now he has you trapped against the wall as you wonder if this will be your last moments before you die in the hands of an intimidating, stuttering volleyball team player. Hinata tried to pull him out of it (seeing you’re also about to bail) by serving a ball to the back to his head. Kageyama bolts off after Hinata. You wonder what happened.

Nishinoya Yuu

Did it confidently, but was too awestruck by your face to speak. Realizes how close he is to your face…and your breasts. Definitely flicked his eyes down before staring determinedly in your eyes. His hand, sweaty from nerves, slips and he’s about to fall into the valley of your breast (his brain doing the slow motion, frame by frame) but your hand is quicker and you slap him. Wore the handprint on his face as a badge of honor.

Tsukishima Kei

Did it in his typical tsundere fashion (with a matching “Tch”) that it scared you. Before he can even speak, you were bowing apologetically offering his class notes back with a matching “I promise never to borrow your notes ever again.” Took the notebook to play it cool even if he was dying inside. Yamaguchi had to eat his fist to not laugh out loud. “Shut it, Yamaguchi!” “Sorry, Tsukki!”

Oikawa Tooru

Did it so suavely and smooth, you were actually impressed. Matched it by leaning on his elbow as he runs his fingers through his hair. Your eyes locked on the mosquito landing on his cheek. A loud slap. Cue Iwaizumi, Matsukawa, and Hanamaki’s laughter and wheezing heard from around the corner. You stand there frozen about to apologize. But the four just pats you on the back, “Great slap!” “Good one!” Oikawa whines.

Iwaizumu Hajime

Did it because…shoujo manga tropes work, right? (No, Hajime.) You stare at him, feeling slightly intimidated but you stand your ground. He stares back. …He didn’t think he’d make it this far, he didn’t actually think or rehearse what he wanted to say. After an awkward five full minutes of just staring at each other, he puts his arm down. You nod at each other and both walk away. Was there a bond formed? No one knows.

Kyoutani Kentarou

Did it for the same misguided reasons as Iwaizumi. He was definitely growling when he did it. You were super intimidated but kept a brave face on. Remembering his “Mad Dog” reputation, you shouted in alarm, “Heel!” It worked. Kyoutani immediately drops his arm and stopped growling. Oikawa’s now asking you for tips. Iwaizumi nods approvingly. Yahaba is amazed. Kyoutani facepalms when he remembers what happened.

Terushima Yuuji

So used to the art of kabedon, that he can do it effortlessly and smoothly. Unfortunately for him, you’re also used to his antics and playboy reputation. Before he can even lean in, your palm was already on its way to uppercut his face away from you. You walk away and he just sighs longingly, looking at your form. Damn, you look good when you walk away.

The Winner: Ushijima Wakatoshi

Huge, hulking man towering over you as he traps you against the wall. You stutter out asking what he wants. He replies, “I wanted to confess my interest in you and have been informed this is the proper way to do it. Would you like to go out with me?” Of course you say yes. Of course you should tell him that’s not the proper way to do it. Tendou is 2000 Yen richer after that day.

Bonus Winner: Kita Shinsuke

Asks you to meet him in an isolated location after school. Confesses to you like a proper guy, politely asking if you’d be interested in trying out dates with him. Of course you say yes. Of course you schedule your first date and he promised to walk you home that day. Aran, being the supportive wingman, was watching around the corner and told the twins afterwards. The two idiots went, “Ooooohhhh.”

Bonus Winner: Bokuto Koutarou

Forgot he was supposed to kabedon you. Came running at you in full speed, you fucking bolted off your seat in fear. Ended up in a chase around the school building, but you can’t match his stamina. When you stop and wheeze, he stopped right in front of you.“I LIKE YOU. PLEASE GO OUT WITH ME!” You stared at him for a full minute, you’re brain trying to process as you gasp for air. You say yes when your lungs agree with you again.

professional obligations - osamu miya x reader

summary: attending your neighbourhood's annual business awards ceremony is not exactly your idea of an ideal night out. however, the owner of a shop a few doors down from your cafe makes an appearance and, to your surprise, you end up liking him quite a bit. timeskip osamu x reader.

cw: explicit sexual content, consumption of alcohol

NSFW, 18+ - MDNI - MINORS and AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT!

wc: 5.9k

“Champagne?”

The waiter holds out the silver tray with a polite smile and no judgment in his eyes, so you take two of the flutes without thinking twice about it. You’ll need some liquid courage if you have any hope of sticking this out to the end.

If you had any other place to be on this Saturday night then you likely wouldn’t be here right now, in a mid-range hotel ballroom, attending the 25th Annual Local Small Business & Restaurant Awards ceremony with absolutely no connections to help you break the ice, and without a date by your side to keep you company.

You knock back half a glass of champagne with a grimace, hoping the waiter isn’t offended; your expression has nothing to do with the refreshments.

The champagne is actually quite delightful.

Thankfully, he’s moved on to serve the table next to you and so he doesn’t notice. You spot him chatting with the co-owners of a successful flower shop located across the street from your café, congratulating them on their win. You seem to be the only person having difficulty with small-talk this evening.

Your table has mostly been cleared except for a few coats and handbags draped over the backs of empty chairs. You watch as the guests mingle on the ballroom floor, showing off their medals and trophies and certificates.

Your own award sits proudly next to your place card – a small golden trophy bearing the name of your coffee shop, with “INDEPENDENT CAFÉ OF THE YEAR” written in tiny but perfectly-engraved letters at the base.

It’s silly. Just a trivial little token. After tomorrow’s celebratory post on the café’s Instagram account, you’ll likely forget all about it.

It’s silly, meaningless, but you feel proud nonetheless. You smile to yourself, allowing a moment of indulgence as you reflect upon your journey.

Running your own business hasn’t been easy.

It all started five years ago when you were fresh out of university, burdened with student loans and with absolutely no plans for the future, and so you took up a job as a barista in a locally-run café to pay the bills. You had zero barista experience and could barely prepare toast successfully, let alone the intricate pastries that the café was known for, but the elderly owner took a liking to you and gave you a chance to learn from her. Her wisdom and experience were unmatched.

Surprisingly, you found yourself loving almost every part of the job - baking in the tiny kitchen, brewing the coffee, chatting to customers - and just one year after joining you were promoted to supervisor. Business was never better than with you in charge and so you climbed up the ranks quickly, and when the owner retired three years later, she offered you the right of first refusal in buying the place.

It seemed ridiculous at first. You were twenty-five, had no experience in the behind-the-scenes aspects of running a business, and still had most of your loans to pay off. Even though your heart soared at the idea of making the café your own, it just didn’t seem realistic.

However the owner, only wanting to earn enough from the sale to retire comfortably, set the asking price far lower than what was typical for this area. It was still a big commitment, but it was one that you couldn’t refuse. As a result, you were able to secure a small business loan from the bank and, with your mentor’s blessing, started a complete rebrand of the café the moment your signature was on the dotted line.

The café soon became remarkably popular. It went from being a hidden gem that people tended to stumble upon by accident to a bustling local hotspot, reviewed in countless travel guides and magazines.

Word-of-mouth did the rest of the publicity for you. You only use fresh, local ingredients in your baked goods and the finest coffee beans for your beverages, and the steady line of customers outside the café every morning shows how your efforts are appreciated.

The award helps, too.

Setting aside your awkward reluctance to mingle, you suppose this evening hasn’t been a total waste. You allow yourself this moment of pride in your achievement.

“Best café, huh?” a voice calls out from over your shoulder, and you turn to face the person speaking. “Not surprised, to be honest. I had ya pegged to win it from the beginning.”

Standing to your left-hand side is Osamu Miya.

Osamu Miya, the owner of what is soon-to-be a chain of beloved onigiri businesses, is shooting a lop-sided smile in your direction, making your face heat for reasons you don’t quite understand.

He’s wearing a shirt and tie - business formal, as the dress code stipulated - but his suit jacket is slung over his arm, the top button of his shirt is undone, and his dark hair is a bit more dishevelled than it was when delivering his acceptance speech onstage.

You just stare at him for a moment.

He’s standing here as if you were expecting to see him, praising you so earnestly and seemingly without any ulterior motives. You’re very confused as to why he’s doing this.

You’ve spoken to him all of twice in your life; the first of which was to place an order at his shop to see if it was worth the hype (it was), and the second time was when you knocked on his door to ask him to sign a petition for new parking regulations to be implemented in the neighbourhood. Both conversations were brief and civil and very unexciting.

You don’t know him at all. To be honest, the only thing you have in common is that your café is three doors down from his flagship store.

And to be even more honest, a tiny part of you has been quite jealous of him for a while now.

You wish you didn’t feel this way. No part of you wants to begrudge anyone’s success — it’s not that he doesn’t work hard, he really does, you’ve seen as much from the countless times you’ve passed his shop on the way to work — but he just manages it all so effortlessly. His shop has been open for only ten months now and he’s already expanded to two new locations. He gets more publicity and acclaim than you’ve seen from any other business at this event, and every afternoon you see how the queue for his place doubles that of yours.

He has been honoured with no less than four awards for Onigiri Miya - Best Casual Dining, Best Newcomer, Most Popular Promotional Campaign, and the coveted Small Business of the Year prize - and the only times you’ve spotted him over the course of the evening have been while he’s on stage collecting a trophy or when he’s surrounded by people congratulating him on his success.

He seems perfectly nice, but some dark part of your brain worries that he’s just here to rub it in. He’s received fawning praise from pretty much every other person here – maybe he wants you to do the same?

Worst of all, you know he doesn’t mean what he said about anticipating your win tonight. He’s never even been to your café.

This is especially hurtful considering you bought not one, not two, but three onigiris when you visited his shop, yet he hasn’t bothered to even try a shot of espresso.

How rude.

He must notice the way you tense up, your lips pulling together tight, but his smile doesn’t falter even for a moment.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks, gesturing to the one beside you. Up until twenty minutes ago, it was occupied by an overly-chatty local councilman who hogged all the red wine and kept making jokes at his opponents’ expense, but from the way he suddenly sprinted outside while on the phone with his campaign manager, you doubt he’ll be returning anytime soon.

You shake your head and watch as Osamu takes a seat by your side.

“Some event, huh?” he observes conversationally, as if you two have known each other for years. “I kinda figured it’d be boring as shit, but an open bar fixes all that, I guess.”

“Yeah, I guess,” you repeat back to him.

Your delivery isn’t exactly rude - even as jealousy rears its ugly head, the rational side of you knows that none of this is really his fault - but any observer could see that you’re not returning his enthusiasm at all. You’re barely smiling, nodding along just to be polite, clearly distracted.

Still, he perseveres.

“And hey, thanks for gettin’ that petition started, by the way,” he carries on, “I’m sure ya saw already, but it’s helped business on the street like nothin’ I ever saw before.”

Damn, he’s good at this. You feel your defences drop, the hostility evaporating from your system with every word that comes from his mouth.

Still, you don’t want to give in. He’s surely here just to pad his own ego, right? What other business would he have talking to someone who he barely knows?

“Yeah?” you prompt, testing his resolve. You look his way, trying to gauge his reaction – if he’s lying, you’ll surely catch him out now. “You think so?”

Osamu nods thoughtfully, the very picture of sincerity, and passes your test with flying colours.

“Hundred percent. It wouldn’t’ve gotten anywhere if ya hadn’t put the time in. I’m only sorry I didn’t get to help ya a bit more.”

Oh, shit. You’re smiling now. You didn’t do it consciously and you’re not even sure when it started, but it’s happening. You can’t seem to stop it.

“No problem. I’m glad it worked out,” you concede, taking another sip of the champagne – finishing the champagne, would be more accurate. You hadn’t realised how quickly you knocked back that last glass.

Osamu seems to have had a few glasses, too, judging by the pink blush that’s dusting his cheekbones.

It looks sort of nice, actually.

Both the blush and his … face, in general.

Woah. That development takes you by surprise.

Osamu leans back in the chair, looking at you in a way that makes you worry you’ve been found out, but his expression doesn’t betray anything other than a fond curiosity.

“Wanna go for another?” he asks, gesturing at the empty flute in your hand. “A drink, I mean?”

You glance around the room, trying to find the friendly waiter with the tray of champagne. You can’t see him, can’t see anyone offering glasses to the crowd – the crowd which has thinned out considerably since you last checked, leaving only half the attendees standing around. It must be later than you thought.

“I can’t see any servers … I don’t think they have any more champagne.”

Osamu flushes.

“I … uh, didn’t mean from here.”

He - what?

You set the glass back down on the table a bit too quickly, hoping the gesture doesn’t come across as hostile.

“I just meant … this place is gettin’ a little tired,” he explains, his delivery remarkably confident considering the blush has reached the tips of his ears. “There’s a bar just down the street if ya wanted to go fer a nightcap or somethin’?”

Your grin is back, and you blame the champagne for the words that slip out next.

“Getting tired of your adoring public?”

Osamu clutches his chest in mock offence. “You’re tellin’ me ya don’t adore me?”

It’s getting really difficult to pretend you have no interest in talking to this man. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly you flipped, how you want to say yes to his request right now. You want to go for a drink with him. You want to keep the conversation going, to maybe find out he’s not as cocky and self-assured as you originally assumed.

You bite the inside of your cheek, thinking things over.

“I might not adore you,” you begin, laughing when he pretends to slump down in his chair with despair, “yet, anyway,” and he sits up straighter, encouraged, “but I will go for a drink with you, if that helps things?”

“That’ll do fer now,” he agrees, holding out a hand to help you up after you’ve grabbed your award from the table and slipped it carefully into your handbag. “As long as we get out of here before the mayor’s staff try to corner us again.”

You cast him an amused glance. “I thought you said this was a good night?”

“Yeah, it was, when the bar tab was still open,” he scoffs. “I couldn’t subject ya to their lecture about fuckin’ urban sanitation without at least one drink in your hand.”

Once you’re on your feet, he lets go of your hand and turns to fetch his jacket and his own awards from his table, promising to be back in just a second.

You take a few moments during his absence to try and process this whole thing, willfully ignoring the pang of disappointment you feel at the loss of his touch.

This is … weird. Not ten minutes ago you were sitting alone, proud of your victory but still sulking a little, feeling an embarrassingly childish resentment for the star of tonight’s show, Osamu Miya.

But now he’s after ruining the whole thing by walking to your table, charming you out of your self-imposed isolation, and making you kind of … like him.

And you’re leaving this event to go for a drink with him. Just the two of you. Alone. Since that’s the perfect way to commemorate the third conversation you’ve shared together, apparently.

Your mind starts to race. Are you friends now? Is he going to start stopping by the café in the mornings? Will he expect you to do the same?

Maybe this is too much too fast. You start to have second thoughts, instinctually racking your brain for a decent excuse to bail out.

But then you see Osamu approach you again, his tie loose around his neck and smile still so infectious, and all those anxious thoughts disappear … only to be replaced by more exciting, more confusing ones.

Seeing him now, he’s taller than you remembered - broader, too, as shown by the way his shirt tightens against his chest as he moves - and his features more striking, with his grey eyes capturing your attention in a way you’d never noticed before.

Your integrity is taking a serious hit tonight.

Still … you’d be lying if you said you weren’t just a little bit curious as to how things will play out from here.

___

The bar that Osamu takes you to is surprisingly cosy. You’re not sure why, but you had expected something lavish - this is an expensive neighbourhood, after all - but this seems to be more of a family-run establishment, small and contained, with an open fireplace and candle-lit lamps providing most of the visibility.

The wall is lined with booths and cushioned seats, only a few of which are occupied, and the music is playing through an old vinyl player perched on the bar counter.

You much prefer this to one of the busier, fancier cocktail bars that have popped up on this street.

The bartender waves at you both as you walk inside, clearly recognising your companion as he gives him a friendly greeting. You take a seat in a booth by the corner as Osamu goes to place the drinks order.

Once he returns with two beers in hand you stop nervously fidgeting with a loose napkin on the table, instead choosing to lean back in the chair to appear more settled.

You smile, thanking him for the drink.

Osamu takes his seat but doesn’t even get to take a sip of his beer before his phone starts to ring.

“Shit, sorry,” he mutters, grabbing the phone and turning down the call. “I’ll mute it.”

“You sure?” you ask in a way that’s almost teasing, prompting a grin and a shake of his head. “It could be urgent – it could be about another award.”

“You’re tryin’ to embarrass me in my favourite bar?” he asks, as close to deadpan as you think he can get. “After I got my hopes up you were startin’ to adore me?”

You chuckle and shrug, trying the beer yourself. It’s nice – from a local brewery you hadn’t tried before. He has better taste than you’d thought.

“That was my brother callin’,” Osamu explains with a roll of his eyes as he says the word brother. “Dumbass is playin’ abroad right now - well, the game is over, so he’s technically celebratin’ - and he doesn’t have any concept of time or schedules.”

“I mean, you’re out drinking too,” you observe, prompting another dramatic eye roll.

“He doesn’t have to know that part!” Osamu objects, sliding his phone into his pocket and leaning back in his seat. Another heart-melting smile. “Plus, I’ve got company. That’s where I wanna keep my focus, not on whatever shitty drunken singalong ‘Tsumu’s gonna try an’ start again if I pick up his call.”

Your face heats. At this point, you’ve given up all attempts at staying resentful.

Which reminds you of something you’ve completely forgotten to tell him.

“Congratulations, by the way. I never said it earlier – four awards, very impressive,” you say, finding that against all odds, you actually mean it.

“Thanks,” he beams, running a hand through his hair. “But it shoulda just been three, to be honest.”

You frown, confused. Osamu was the frontrunner for every award he was nominated for tonight, and you hadn’t taken his modesty to be that extreme. “What do you mean?”

He catches your gaze, almost as if he hopes the point will come across through eye contact alone; when it doesn’t, he clarifies;

“You shoulda won Small Business of the Year.”

Your resulting laugh nearly makes you choke on your beer. It’s flattering - sweet, really - and now that you have more faith in his intentions, you can appreciate the gesture.

But you’re also a realist. That award was one you knew you weren’t walking away with tonight. “C’mon-”

“I mean it!” he objects.

“Miya, I know you’re being nice, but you opened two new shops this year alone. And hey, don’t get me wrong, I did fine. But I didn’t get nearly as much business as you did over the summer.”

“Firstly, call me Osamu,” he retorts, his expression showing that he’s clearly having a lot of fun with this. He pauses as he brings the glass of beer to his lips. “And secondly, I’m not just being nice – I voted for ya.”

You blink at him for a moment, heart fluttering in your chest as you process the admission.

It doesn’t seem like he’s lying. He doesn’t sound like he’s lying. Still, you’re baffled – there were dozens of businesses on the shortlist for the award, and you can’t imagine Osamu Miya putting your name above all the others.

Mostly because he’s never even set foot in your door.

“I - uh, thank you, Osamu.”

He laughs. “You look confused.”

“Well, I am a little,” you admit, not even sure of where to start. “I appreciate it, but I just … have you ever tried my coffee? I mean, it’s completely fine if you haven’t, I’ve just never seen you-”

“I get it every day.”

You freeze, expression shifting from confused to utterly taken aback. “What?”

“I put in a mobile order every day, around eleven in the morning. I’m usually busy in the kitchen at that point, so one of the sales assistants collects it and I give them the order number.”

Same order, same time every day …

“Shit!” you exclaim, suddenly putting it all together. You set your glass back down and clap your hands together, lifting them to your mouth as if you’ve just solved some complex mystery. “You’re the one who buys all my lemon cake!”

He shakes his head — no malice in the gesture, his grey eyes twinkling with amusement. “Is that a question or an accusation?”

“Definitely an accusation,” you answer, knowing without a shred of doubt that your assumption is correct. Of course, this also means that Osamu is telling the truth about his consistent ordering, but you’ll unpack that in a moment. “Every day I get an order around that time – the drinks change every now and then, but they always order a slice of lemon loaf cake. Always.”

“And yet, no loyalty programme for the cakes,” he sighs, “I get every seventh coffee free, but no stamps for the cake. Just heartbreakin’.”

“I’ll take your suggestion on board,” you acknowledge with a soft laugh, thinking back to how long those orders have been coming in and how many slices of cake that must equal - a lot, if your addition is anyway correct - and feel this pleasant, warm feeling flood your chest.

Guilt also starts to tug at you, but you can’t see the sense of dwelling on that emotion for too long.

Not when Osamu’s here, looking at you like that, professing his admiration for you not just as a business owner and an equal, but as a purveyor of baked goods as well.

The least you can do is buy the next round.

Two beers later and the conversation drifts back to the topic of work, but in a different way than before. This time, it’s more vulnerable; the struggles of getting started in the hospitality industry, the insecurities of your line of work, and how the ever-changing nature of the city landscape means your business plan might change overnight.

“I guess I, uh, kinda worry sometimes,” he admits quietly, looking down at the table and tracing circles on his glass with his thumb. “About this whole thing, runnin’ it by myself.”

“Worry about what?” you ask, hoping your question comes across as reassuring and not outright dismissive. “Your place is the busiest on the street from what I’ve seen. Definitely the most stable business at the event tonight.”

“Thanks,” he replies, eyes flickering up to yours again. His lips quirk upwards when you meet his gaze. “‘I ‘spose I just worry that it’s more from … name recognition, than anythin’ else. And I don’t like that.”

“Name recognition?” you inquire. “From your brother?”

He nods. “Tsumu’s - well, he’s not a celebrity, exactly, but he’s well-known around here, as much as it kills me to admit it,” he says with the ghost of a smile. “And I guess I just … don’t want people to be comin’ to my shop out of some sort of sympathy. Like they think I’m only runnin’ the place because I couldn’t make it in volleyball.”

Before you can think things through, before your brain can slow your muscles down and offer you the chance to think sensibly, you reach a hand over to rest on top of one of his. He doesn’t acknowledge it with words, but he lets go of his glass and rests the hand down on the table so you can properly clasp it.

He continues speaking before either of you has to address the impromptu hand-holding.

“And I know it’s stupid, right? Cos hey, as long as business is comin’ in, it makes no sense to complain. But yeah … that’s the worry, I guess.”

“I’ve never met anyone who thinks that about you, Osamu,” you say softly, ignoring the thrumming of your heart in your ribcage as you feel his fingers intertwine with yours. “And I certainly don’t, anyway. You’re just a talented guy who puts in a hell of a lot of hard work.”

He smiles again. “Is that why you’ve gone all mushy on me? Ya like my work ethic?”

“Shut up,” you scoff, a little petulantly, “being nice to you isn’t mushy.”

“I’m a fan of mushy,” he clarifies, tracing slow circles on the back of your hand, “if that helps things.”

It does, and you show him as much by tugging on his hand, tilting your head towards the door to show your intentions.

Osamu pays the bar tab while you collect your things. A taxi is called, goodbyes are said to the bar staff, and for the second time tonight, you leave together.

Though this time, you know exactly how it’s going to go.

___

Osamu’s hands on your waist are careful but firm, pushing you back against the door as soon as it closes behind you.

The ride to his place was only ten minutes long - all of which was spent making out like desperate teenagers in the back of the taxi - and now that you have some privacy and space to yourselves, you’re not sure how you can last even a second without touching him.

You can’t imagine a better kiss, and then he gives you a better one just moments later.

You arch into him, feeling him groan against your lips, looping your arms around his neck and pressing your chest against him to feel as close as possible.

The kiss goes from languid and passionate to heated and messy, and you let out a whimper when his tongue meets yours, licking into your mouth as you keen almost pathetically.

The varnished wood of the door feels cold against your shoulder blades and you shiver. Osamu notices, resting a hand on your nape to pull you towards him.

You fist your hands into the crisp fabric of his shirt. He smells incredible, clean and fresh, and you want to make his hair look even more dishevelled than it did after he ran his hand through it at the bar. What started as him trying to guide you away from the door has now turned into something that would be more accurately described as grinding — his hips are flush against yours, and you feel so desperately empty that you start to rock back and forth almost involuntarily.

“Do ya wanna-“ he mumbles into the shell of your ear once he pulls away, lips pink and kiss-swollen, voice torn and almost desperate, “- want to go to bed?”

You can think of nothing in the world you’d want more.

Your nod comes instantly, so enthusiastic that it should be embarrassing but it isn’t, and he takes your hand in his once again and leads you to his bedroom.

His surprisingly neat, very organised bedroom.

But you don’t have time to survey your surroundings too much because before you know it, Osamu is guiding you to lie down on his dark-grey bedspread, caging you in with his strong arms.

He leans over you, covering your body with his, peppering soft kisses to your jawline and whispering sweet praise into your ear.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted ta do this?” you hear him say, and you grin lazily as you finally run your fingers through his hair. “How long I’ve tried ta build up the courage ta ask you out? To have you like this underneath me, making those pretty lil’ sounds fer me?”

Warm, liquid heat starts to collect in your stomach, and you suddenly feel that you’re both wearing too many clothes.

You reach for the buttons of his shirt and feel his lips curl upwards against your neck. You undo his tie before starting to unbutton the rest, exposing more and more of the hard muscle of his chest. Not content to let you do all of the work, he paws at the back of your dress until he finds the zipper, lifting your back off the bed for a moment as he unties it.

Osamu sheds the rest of his clothes as you shrug the dress and your underwear down your legs and onto the floor. When he leans over you again, you notice he’s hard; you feel exactly how hard he is when his cock presses against your stomach. He grabs your tits, squeezing them and playing with your nipples as you moan more wantonly than you thought possible.

You’re not usually this vocal, but he seems to draw it out of you.

Things escalate quickly, or maybe they don’t — you can’t really tell how much time has passed. All you know is his broad frame engulfing you, the pretty words he’s whispering, and the feeling of his fingers as they dip into your underwear and run through your folds, your body growing warmer and warmer under his touch.

You gasp - gasp audibly, your voice weak and thready - as he circles your clit, feeling how wet you are and slipping two fingers inside you moments later.

Your entire body shakes, trembling as he starts to move his hand, and you can hear how he’s working you open. The thrusts are steady and careful, his fingers curling in a way that makes your words slur - a string of ‘Osamu, Osamu, right there, please, please, fuck’ on repeat until your mind stops working - and you feel yourself dripping down his wrist.

Osamu looks delighted. When he’s not kissing you or rutting gently against your thigh for some relieving friction, he’s propped up on his other arm and just looking at you, taking in every lip bite and flinch and the way your hips cant upwards when he switches to a new angle.

He looks like he’s having even more fun than you are, which seems impossible since you’re practically on fire, that ball of heat growing and burning and getting more intense until –

“Fuck, Osamu, I’m coming,” you gasp, rocking against his hand as he fucks you through it, feeling it ripple through you for what seems like hours.

Your eyes screw shut as you come but when you finally gather enough strength to open them again, you see him admiring you with blown-own pupils, his cock rock-hard and leaking against his stomach.

“Need you,” you just about choke out the words, your body feeling utterly weightless. You’re surprised at how soon you want to go again, still feeling the aftershocks pulsing from your core, but the way he’s looking at you now makes you want to lean over and take him in your mouth.

“Need me?” he mumbles, pulling his soaking fingers from your pussy with a lazy smile.

You want to laugh, smack him playfully and bite back with something like don’t let it get to your head, Miya, but your mind isn’t letting you get that far. Instead, all you can articulate is a broken-sounding;

“Need you inside me.”

Thankfully, Osamu doesn’t try and tease you any further. Your words ignite something in him; he pulls back on his haunches and grabs a condom from his bedside table before you can even blink, breathing out a low moan as you start to pump him slowly. He fucks into your fist, biting into his lower lip as he does so, hands resting on his muscular thighs.

He starts to leak into your palm and at that, he’s had enough of the touching, leaning back over you and kissing you in a way that knocks the breath from your chest.

He rolls the condom onto his length and positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging your clit and making you whimper, and gives you one last look to make sure you’re ready for him – he’s not exactly small.

You nod, certain that if he’s not inside you soon, your core will start to physically ache.

He pushes inside you in one slow but fluid motion. It fills and stretches you in a way that you’ve never felt before and your thighs spread wider for him, needing to feel that sensation again and again. Once you’ve had time to adjust to his size, he starts to move, thrusts steady and firm.

It’s unbearably hot. Every movement, every touch, it all makes you feel as though you’re burning up underneath him. Judging from his expression, he feels the same.

If he seemed like he was enjoying himself before now, it pales in comparison to the look on his face at this moment; cheeks flushed, eyes fluttering shut as he swears under his breath, lips shining from having kissed you over and over.

He tells you exactly how good you’re making him feel: how your walls are squeezing him just right, how he’s imagined fucking you before but this is somehow better, how you’re so wet he wants to stay buried in your pussy forever. You want to reply but his thrusts are hitting too deep for you to form coherent sentences.

His hands are back on your waist, manoeuvring you easily since the pleasure has rendered you utterly boneless and pliant underneath him.

However, that all changes when you see him approach his peak - you can tell as much from the way his movements turn erratic, and the swears and praise start to flow out as if he has no control over it - and you decide to take charge. Wrapping your legs around his waist, you pull him into you, gripping his shoulders and leaving little crescent-moon indentations in his skin.

He groans into your shoulder and comes deep inside you. He keeps thrusting into you; even in his fucked-out state, he seems intent to bring you to the edge along with him.

It works – you come again without warning, the build-up from before now entirely absent as the orgasm burns through you. You cry out, the sound barely muffled against his shoulder as you spasm around his length, your quaking thighs struggling to stay wrapped around his hips.

Cliche as it may sound, it’s unlike anything you’ve felt before.

You take a ragged breath, feeling your chest move up and down, your nipples grazing against his chest. His lips are still at your pulse point, kissing you gently.

Slowly, very slowly, you start to untangle yourselves. Osamu pulls out with a soft hiss, still half-hard, and you let your legs fall back against his bed. You lift a hand to your forehead, feeling how your skin is damp and flushed, and let yourself come back to earth as Osamu disposes of the condom.

He returns a moment later, laying down next to you on the bed, giving you a smile that is surprisingly but achingly affectionate.

Your heart skips triumphantly. You’ve gone from resenting him to liking him to really liking him in the space of a single evening, and there’s no denying how much you want him to keep smiling at you like this for the foreseeable future.

He cups your face with one of his large hands, and you can easily predict what he’s about to ask you next.

“Wanna stay over?”

You hum, pretending to think it over even though, once again, you know what your answer will be.

“I mean, it’s sensible – we share a commute,” he points out, and you can’t argue with him on that one. “Plus, I heard ya make decent coffee.”

You let out a weary sigh, oozing fake annoyance. “So that’s why you brought me over?”

“Nah, it’s just yet another point in your favour.”

Before you can say anything else, he brings you in for a kiss - tender this time, soft and careful - and as strange as it sounds, you find yourself looking forward to the morning after. And maybe the morning after that, as well.

There are definite perks to working three doors down from Osamu Miya.