Latest Posts by whorefornoodles - Page 8
it’s kinda silly how like people who like the same characters … like the same characters from other series
omg i saw my real name on the dash and almost had a fucking heart attack.
do me a solid and just reblog this saying what time it is where you are and what you’re thinking about in the tags.
"hold on... isn't your leg still injured?" you ask, pulling away from hungry kisses peppered along your chin and down your collarbone in haste. there's sudden alarm in your voice that barou seems to completely disregard as his hand continues to cup the underside of your thigh, eyes bidding you to forget it and continue.
but by now the moment is lost, and your hand is gently placed against his chest. he rolls his eyes, but lets go, and you see it again - a slight wince as he shifts the weight off of his knee and resumes his position sat next to you on the couch.
he says nothing more than a slight grumble under his breath and returns his eyes away from the unwatched movie before you. your heart is still beating and your face is still flushed, but you press on.
"shoei."
he doesn't look at you, arms crossed over his chest.
"yeah."
"your knee?"
his jaw clenches.
"what about it?"
"what did the doctors say?" you press, now leaning forward yourself to glance at him. he tries to avert his gaze, but you stare so hard that he's unable to ignore you. you helped bandage that very knee earlier today; he cannot pretend the injury does not exist.
"two more weeks."
you shake your head. "and yet you were on top of me."
the tick in his jaw returns and he cuts eyes directly at you.
"what if you don't heal properly and can't play again?" you glare back at him with just as much sass, but as you hold gazes for a few more moments in the shifting dark, his annoyance dissolves, replaced by a cheeky grin. he leans forward, enough that his lips nearly graze yours yet again, then looks down at your pout. heat flashes again through your neck and upper chest, and he can tell, pleased so. his mouth pecks at yours.
"if you're so worried, climb on top of me instead."
he has a point.
you swallow hard, but you'll do whatever your King asks of you.
usually.
I love being a woman in stem, I say as my phone is at 1% and I speak these last dying words to you while my research proposal sits in front of me, unfinished
Imagine riding a needy nagi seishiro whilst shotgunning him ♡
✩ ˛˚ . NAGI SEISHIRO ; — nagi doesn’t think he’s ever felt as relaxed as he does beneath you.
warnings: f!reader, weed use, all characters written 22+, shot-gunning. note: i will forever remain obsessed with this agenda i am not normal about it <3 also this is v sloppy written i’m sorry sob i just bashed this out in 20 mins :<
“does it feel good, sei?” you gasp as nagi watches you, hes all bated breathes and flushed cheeks, sweating hard as he lets your words roll around his clouded mind. he feels fuzzy, his mouth suddenly dry as his head drops back against the back of the couch when you sink down onto his cock again, pulling a dreamy, needy whimper from the snowy haired striker beneath you as you bounce on his lap.
good—was an understatement, the tingling along his limbs is only exaggerated by the weed mixed with how perfectly your pussy is hugging around the length of him, pressing him deeper along the swollen spots inside of you that make you bear down on him eagerly.
nagi liked having you like this, half clothed and lazy as you take another long draw of the joint hanging between your pouty lips, the smoke of your exhale curling into the room before it thins out. he gives you another starry eyed look before he moans, half lidded and blown out gaze meeting yours as his toes curl against the carpet beneath him.
“sei~ don’t be mean, answer me.” it’s such a pain how fucking cute you look right now despite how well you’re taking him, you’re like a demon in one of his video games as you lean back but still manage to lure him in. your pretty breasts bounce with every intoxicating roll of your hips and he can’t help but reach out to take a handful of them, pinching and kneading before your fingers are brushing through the messy bangs across his cloudy, bloodshot gaze and he finally speaks.
“fu—uck, angel. yeah..” nagi begins before his train of thought trails off, suddenly too enamoured by the press of your body underneath his palms as he squeezes at you, easing you along the length of him despite the way he feels like he’s full of cotton and so fucking close already. “jus’ don’t wanna cum yet, g’na give you more first.”
it’s needy and a little desperate the way he’s still managing to roll his hips up into you, slow and languid but still making your insides curl and ache with how deep he feels like he reaches — throbbing inside of you as you press him even deeper into the cushions below you both.
“do you want more of this?” you purr as your fingers graze under the neckline of his hoodie and nagi’s never felt so warm in his life, he’s flushed to his chest but he still nods with a slow blink before he’s knocking his head against yours drowsily, although managing to smear a kiss along your cheeks before he’s mumbling out a “y-yeah. share w’ me though, please.”
the white paper glows as it crackles, cherry eating away at it before you’re slowing your pace to a roll as you inhale — but your boyfriend’s greedy when he moves to curl his hand around the back of your neck to draw you into him. your fingers twist naturally into the snowy peaks of his bed head before you pull and it’s almost erotic the whimper that pours from his lips as you kiss him.
“mffff—pretty thing.” it’s slow and messy as the heat of your exhale floods his mouth and senses, urging him to inhale instinctively as you press yourself closer — rolling your hips lazily against his as his free hand curls and kneads at your ass and hips. nagi feels utterly consumed by you as he loses himself in the dreamy tightness, his lungs trembling with how enthralled he is by the press of your lips and the hug of your body.
the room feels like it spins and his cock throbs when you lick into his mouth, gliding your tongue along his own until he’s grinding himself up deeper into your warm cunt and he feels like he’s fucking melting beneath you. you only pull away to breathe and he already misses the thrilling tightness in his chest as he exhales, allowing the kiss to break wet and smokey despite the way he dreamily follows you forward as you pull away.
“hey— no fair, why’d you stop.” nagi’s eyes are still closed when he asks, smoke trailing from his lips as he speaks but his gaze is sleepy and lidded when he leans back to blink up at you. he pouts through his heavy, lustful expression before he’s letting his hand smooth through his hair — even more mused from your own touch before he’s haphazardly—and clumsily—pulling his hood up over his head.
“to breath, seishiro.” you giggle before you’re leaning back to rest the remaining joint back in the ashtray on the coffee table. but the movement only seems to press his cock even deeper into you when you fall back into his arms and another dreamier, sweeter moan falls from his lips this time when they part.
your arms hook around the back of nagi’s and you let them graze underneath the neckline of his hoodie, making him shudder as goosebumps trail along his skin at your touch — his senses heightened by the weed in his system and the warmth of you. but it still feels natural the way he lets himself curl into you, face pressing into the crook of your neck as he smears wet kisses along your collarbones between slurred grumbles and drowsy, drawn out whines as his body rocks seamlessly with yours.
“eh, breathing’s so bothersome. can go again, come on. gimme more.”
© 2023 GAROUJO. please do not copy any of my layouts or writing and translate or repost onto any other sites.
SAY MORE ABT DAD NANAMI W SWIM TEACHER READER RN !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
‘kay!
minors & ageless blogs dni, i am an 18+ blog!
gn!reader, one mention/reference to drowning, no powers au, single dad nanami au, nanami is oblivious (or is he)
"excuse me."
you almost drop the teetering pile of foam bubble belts you're carrying.
actually, you do drop them. it's just that nanami kento—father of one and the oblivious bachelor of the year for the entire swim school despite his blunt demeanor—catches them without pause. his bicep flexes with the movement, the muscle rippling beneath his skin.
you swallow.
(your friends all grumble about how lucky you are to have little yuuji in your class.
you are not lucky.
yuuji is darling. you always hear him calling out a delighted, chirpy 'hi!' to everyone he passes before his little head of hair—the soft pink of still-ripening strawberries—pops into view. he's got a smile like the sun and an energy output to match. you think he could probably power a small city.
but lucky people do not have to try and keep a handful of young children from drowning as they learn to swim while nanami kento is busy being attractive by just existing, raking a big hand through his damp golden hair until it feathers out, gleaming beads of water trickling down the thick column of his neck to pool in the dip of his clavicle.
you should have been a camp counselor, you think miserably, looking away from his broad form just in time to catch the kickboard that's rocketed out from under nanase, a powder blue foam missile. at least then the parents keep their shirts on.)
"sorry. i didn’t mean to startle you,” nanami says. he’s acquired stickers since you last saw him, the bright little stars sprinkled across his cheeks like neon freckles. you suspect that yuuji has matching ones.
"it’s okay, nanami. thanks," you say, reaching out for the belts. "for uh, catching those. i just rinsed them, so—"
he brushes your hands away gently, adjusting his grip so he has a better hold on the belts. “i wanted to speak to you.”
“okay—what about?” you ask, your hands lingering before you let them drop to your sides awkwardly.
“i’d like to know which of your coworkers conduct private swim lessons and of those, who you feel would be the best match for yuuji.”
“oh.”
nanami’s brow raises a bit. he examines you for a beat, his umber eyes keen. “you know yuuji’s skill level better than anyone,” he tells you. “and i assume you know which of your coworkers would do best with his personality.”
“i find it hard to believe that there are people who don’t do well with yuuji’s personality,” you say.
his lips quirk into a tiny smile. it’s small, but you’ve learned to catch them over the last few months, those little flashes of contentment. of pride. he briefly glances back to where yuuji is chattering at his friend megumi.
(even your boss had commented on how yuuji managed to pry stoic little megumi out of his shell.
having witnessed it firsthand, you’re not sure that ‘pry’ is the right term. it reminds you more of when seagulls smash clams against the shoreline rocks to break their shells open. megumi never stood a chance against yuuji’s weaponized sunshine.)
you reach out for the belts again, desperate for something to fidget with as that hint of a smile melts through you. nanami gives you half of them; you don’t bother to protest. it’s not the first time he’s helped you put things away after class has finished.
“true,” nanami concedes. “but yuuji can be difficult to keep up with.”
“i guess,” you say, tugging at your lower lip with your teeth.
for a breath, you think nanami’s eyes drop to your lips. but you blink, and he’s simply looking at you, waiting for a response.
“yahaba would probably be best, i think,” you say softly. “she’s a great teacher. yuuji’ll like her. she likes to play games with her students a lot.”
“thank you,” nanami says. “it’s appreciated.”
“sure.” you bite your lip again, fidgeting with the edge of your swimsuit. “do you have concerns about what i’m teaching yuuji?”
he blinks. “no. have i indicated that i do?”
“no, i just—i know it’s come up that i offer private lessons too. of course you don’t have to use me, it’s completely up to you, i understand if you want someone else to teach him, but the group lessons don’t end for another few months, so i guess i wanted to be sure that you felt like he was learning? in case that’s why you wanted to go with someone else instead of me. that’s—that’s all.”
“ah,” nanami says. it’s almost a hum, the word rumbling low in his chest. if he was anyone else, you would say he looks faintly pleased. “no, i have no concerns. i wouldn’t have kept yuuji in the class if i had any.”
your cheeks burn. “oh.”
“it’s simply that i don’t start personal relationships with people i employ,” he says, matter-of-fact. “which means that hiring you isn’t an option, because then i couldn’t ask you to get dinner with me once the group lessons have ended.”
you drop the bubble belts again.
YALL BASED ON THIS VIDEO HERE IM SCREAMING-
-
It’s been hours since you’ve smiled at Rintaro.
Not since this morning when you left. He was home today, all day, left to watch your three year old, and be home to see your nine year old. You’d kissed the side of his nose, reminded him of some chores, and everything was fine for you to go out and do your own set of errands.
But to come home to a trash bag sitting outside of the door and not in the barrel that got emptied today?
Oh. Screw smiling.
There may have been a small argument that broke out once you told him, about how he assumed you’d take the trash out since you were leaving the house- of which you snapped that it’s not your responsibility to automatically take out the trash when you leave.
Your son, Akito, was only left to watch the chaos, setting up the console he and his father were about to play on.
“I forgot, okay!” He snaps, rolling his eyes. “I’ll take it out later, it’s fine!”
“It’s not fine!” You yell back. “The trash was already taken! It’s worthless at this point to do it!”
He looks like he’s about to say something back, but you see him bite his tongue. “Good choice,” you snarl. Leaving him and Akito, you make your way upstairs and into your bedroom where you get changed into something that doesn’t emit outside-world feeling. You take a quick shower, wash your face, and when you step out still angry, you’re quick to make a new game plan.
Once you’re done with your small dose of self care, you stomp into the kitchen for something to eat, hoping that it’ll help curb any further anger coming from you both.
Crackers and cheese, some little slices of fruit which you intend to pair with they jelly you got on your last visit to the city.
You grab the jar and with a deep, frustrated exhale, you grip the cover and try to twist.
When it doesn’t budge, you feel your eye twitch.
You try again, to no avail. You grab the nearest towel in an attempt to get a better grip. No dice.
You sigh, tossing the rag to the side before stalking your way into the living room, grimace etched on your face.
“Can you open this?” You ask, and just as Rintaro pauses the game and tosses his controller aside to reach for the jar, you slip right past him and pass it to Akito, who takes it in his hands to pop open the lid.
With a small grunt he manages to open the lid, passing you the jar with a small smile, “here, ma.”
“Thank you, handsome man,” you hum, blowing him a kiss and blowing a raspberry at Rintaro when you make your way back to the kitchen. There’s a pause of silence, a question you don’t quite catch from your son, and suddenly, you hear your husband jump up from the couch. You smirk. It doesn’t take long before feet quickly pound their way into the kitchen, and a disgruntled Rintaro stands, pouting, in the doorway.
“What. Was that about?”
You shrug softly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t give me that crap,” he says, brows furrowed in frustration. “You’re seriously going to use my own creation against me?”
“Your creation?” You scoff in disbelief. “First off, I don’t remember you carrying our two children around for nine damn months. Second of all, our children are not creations. They’re children.”
“Point one,” he begins, quickly walking over to you. “You were hot as fuck carrying around our spawn. Secondly? Last time I checked, our baby machines only worked when together.”
“Feral!” You snap, giving him a grossed out look before turning towards the snacks you’d been making. “Get the hell out of my kitchen, I don’t want you here- HEY!”
Before you can think, Rintaro reaches past you and grabs the jar of jam, quickly raising his arm above his head to get it out of your reach. You would’ve tickled him for it, but the jam was from a small business three cities over. And the fuckhead knew that, and you hate him for it.
“You’re such a pain!” You growl, making a jump for it. You barely come close. Your fingers wrap around his shoulder in an attempt to yank his arm down, but he tightens it up completely to make it immobile. You’re rendered completely helpless to your husbands cruelty.
“Akito!” You call your son in hopes for assistance, snarling up at your husband. Instantly, socked feet slip along the floor, and at the sight of his figure in the doorframe, Rintaro bears his teeth.
“Don’t help your mother, she has to learn a lesson!” He snaps.
You growl back, “don’t listen to your father, you and your sister’s snacks depend on it!” Akito’s green, confused eyes flick back and forth between you both, and if you weren’t so stubborn, you’d think about how absolutely hilarious this is.
Rintaro, in all his 185 cm glory, holding a damned jar of jam above his head, so much so a sliver of his side pokes out from his shirt, and you, crossing your arms childishly after making extreme reaches for the jar.
It’s ridiculous, it’s childish, and it’s perfect for your marriage.
Akito gnaws his lip, “I mean… Ma is the boss, dad-“
“If you scram, I’ll double your allowance this week.”
“Bye mom!”
With the last bit of hope you have, you watch as he skates his way back into the living room, eye twitching in annoyance. “Kaiya wouldn’t betray me like that!”
“She’s three, mom!”
“She’d still help!”
Left to your own pity, you once again make a reach for the jar, only for him to reel his arm back a little bit more. “Give me a break, I have snacks to make,” you say, voice pitched in annoyance and defeat.
“Tell me you won’t go to our son for husband jobs.”
“Tell me you’ll take out the trash when I tell you to!”
“I thought you were throwing it out!”
“Why would you not check!”
“I didn’t think I had to!”
“Don’t worry, I’ll check on your waking daughter,” Akito calls annoyed from the living room, the only thing breaking up your argument.
With a deep, exhausted breath, Rintaro slowly lowers his arm, though still keeping a slight distance between you. “Cant we both say we’re wrong?”
“I’m never wrong,” you snip.
“I know, but for the sake of waking our three year old up, please just cave with me. Please, baby. I’m-“
He’s cut off by your quick lunge for the jar. He yanks it out of the way, and you’re left chasing it like a dog with a treat. You do, however, hear your husband laugh, but it’s not the laughter of victory from a few moments ago.
It’s laughter of adoration.
“I will leave you.”
“Gotta get the jar first.”
You, once again, for the nth time in a row, make a reach for it, but this time, Rintaro’s free arm quickly wraps around your waist to encase you in a hug, and he leans you back into the most ridiculous dip you’ve ever been apart of. You can’t begin to fight your own laughter that bubbles past your lips, fingers instinctively gripping his collar for stability.
Once your titters are finished ringing in the air, he straightens you both up, relaxing as you thunk your head against his chest. The jar gets put down on the counter, and he kisses the crown of your head sweetly as his arms tug you close.
“You’re annoying,” you purr.
He chuckles, “I know.” He closes his eyes and gently breathes in your scent, “and I’m sorry about the trash my love. Even if I thought you took it out, I really should’ve just. Checked.” Long fingers gently smooth up your neck to gently massage the nape, and he hums as you melt like putty against him.
“Now it’s gonna sit,” you pout. “In the trash outside. And it’s gonna smell. And we’re gonna be the house with smelly ass trash.”
“I know,” he repeats, trying not to laugh at your concerns. “I’ll take care of it princess- and worst case scenario, I’ll write letters apologizing to the neighbors for our rotten trash.”
You snort softly against his collarbone as you continue to nuzzle closer, “I’m sorry I went to Akito to open my jar,” you confess, angling your head up at him. He smirks and leans down to capture your lips in a kiss, his hands moving up to cup your cheeks lovingly.
“You wanna know a secret?” He asks against your lips.
You hum in intrigue.
“I’m pissed because I tightened them all when you were in the shower, so you’d have to talk to me.”
“SERIOUSLY?”
Nanami gets a strange feeling.
it’s in his bones, a simple vibration that he knows isn’t physically there, but it jitters still, slowly growing stronger and stronger. It’s a memory he can’t place, but so strong he can taste; it’s copper and sweat, the undercurrent of panic-
“Kento?”
Nanami blinks away the thought and presses his thumbs into the bridge of his nose to calm the headache that’s started. When he looks up, you’re pushing the screen door open and joining him on the back porch.
Sunset has just begun, casting a golden glow against your skin. The ocean’s foam almost glows with sherbet tones as it laps the shore, so far and yet so close he can taste the salt.
“You okay, dear?”
The feeling hasn’t subsided; it rumbles stronger, like a train powering down the tracks.
“Of course, just tired.” Nanami places his book on the railing. The worn thin, water stained pages flutter in the breeze.
“Dinner’s ready if you’re up for it,” you say, “Yuuji’s setting the table right now.”
He pushes off of the chair with a grunt, his knees protesting the movement. The strange feeling sticks to his bones, begs to be acknowledged-
“All by himself?” Nanami pulls you in by the hip and presses a kiss into your temple as he passes, tugging you back inside. The door creaks closed, tapping his but when he doesn’t move fast enough. “When did he get so big?”
“I don’t know, but it breaks my heart a little!” you croon, “Our baby isn’t a baby anymore.”
“Well, don’t fret. If everything goes according to plan,” Nanami catches your mouth against his this time, “We’ll have another baby to whine about soon.”
You shine at that, but your smile quickly falters when you meet his eyes.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” you ask, “You seem off.”
“Yes, just-” Nanami looks outside. The beach is the same as always, forever changing with each wave. Yuuji is singing to himself in the dining room, some jaunty thing he learned in preschool, though he’s not quite getting all of the words correct.
“I just had the feeling that I almost didn’t have all of this.”
i have been told “your pussy is so good it makes me believe in god” before but never the opposite,…goals to attain i suppose
WARM CONVERSATION (suna x reader)
cw: breakup heavy, light mentions of reader going through it, angst to fluff i promise!!!! best friend osamu <3 kinda long im sorry, titled from sad beautiful tragic by taylor swift because what else would it be
You should’ve known he’d come over. Should’ve expected it the moment you sent the text turning down his offer disguised as a reminder.
A sick part of you almost wants to laugh as you reread the texts on the phone in hand.
From: Osamu
ur coming with me to atsumu’s stupid thing tonight, right?
To: Osamu
absolutely not
Not even twenty minutes later (which is impressive, considering Osamu lives at least thirty away from your apartment), an abrasive knock is on your door and you don’t even need to check the peephole to see who waits on the other side.
The moment you open the door with unimpressed eyes, Osamu is opening his mouth to complain.
“You’re shitting me, right?”
Keep reading
Love Galore
pairing; Kuroo Tetsuro x f!reader x Bokuto Koutaro
synopsis; Bokuto Koutaro was your best friend. The left to your right, the sun to your moon — and coincidentally, the love of your life. But chance favors the prepared mind, and you were not prepared to watch him fall for someone that wasn’t you. And just when you thought you’ve lost out on your chance at love, fate throws you another one in the form Kuroo Tetsuro.
tags: Friends to Lovers, College AU, fluff, slight angst, slowest of slow burns, alcohol consumption, smoking,love triangle, unrequited love
start date: 090221
updates: irregularly <33
status: ongoing!
taglist open!
Keep reading
ITS ONLY BLACK WHEN I TYPE. WTF. I HATE.
i can’t reblog anything bc my stupid phone doesn’t work.
ok it’s working but my text is black and won’t turn to white.
i can’t reblog anything bc my stupid phone doesn’t work.
i can’t reblog anything bc my stupid phone doesn’t work.
so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god
CARVE YOUR NAME INTO MY BEDPOST
cw: AFAB!reader, fingering and oral sex, reader referred to as ‘brave girl’ once, first time hookup vibes when you are nervous and excited and curious and blushing WOOOO, kuroo is service dom king core, slight religious themes if you squint
Kuroo has wanted you for as long as he can remember, since before he even knew what wanting felt like.
You’d met back in your high school days, and between your quick wits and his know-it-all persona, the dynamic was magnetic. It was always so natural with you, even with his heart beating a mile a minute and his palms sweating against the denim of his jeans.
The two of you were always a special kind of exception for one another. Friends, always, but with something more buzzing beneath the surface. The constant craving for something out of reach, something thought to be intangible.
He’s felt it since the very moment he laid eyes on you, but he’d told himself you didn’t—and with that, he left his pride heavy, but intact, in his throat.
Which is why he can’t believe he’s actually here—with you splayed out across his bed like an angel of temptation in the garden of Eden. Your skin is softer than he ever imagined, your tiny whines more angelic than any prayer he could’ve hummed in church.
Keep reading
trigun college!au where knives doesn't think you're good enough for vash, and hates how close the two of you seem to be getting as your friendship develops. so of course the obvious solution is to fuck you within an inch of your life on a semi-regular basis so that you don't get any ridiculous ideas about trying to date his little brother.
i love you men who get really obviously and deeply flustered <3 i love you men who get so embarrassed that they get tongue tied <3 i love you men who get so so so so so so so nervous <3 i love you
This is money cat. He only appears every 1,383,986,917,198,001 posts. If you repost this in 30 seconds he will bring u good wealth and fortune.
Put in the tags please if you answered yes lets have fun with this
For example my childhood dog was named Cher after the singer and yes she had a brother named Sunny
“i mean i know ‘samu makes rice balls for a living now, but i’m sure he could do a wedding cake.”
rintarou has been in your ear for the past fifteen minutes, mumbling about whether or not osamu could pull off three whole tiers of cake while also making it taste good.
he really thinks it’s a no brainer, as if onigiri and wedding cake go hand in hand—if you know how to make one, surely the other is under your belt as well. he used to help his mom in the kitchen when he was a kid so, obviously he would know.
the only thing is—you’re not engaged, and you don’t plan to be anytime soon.
“rin, seriously?” you scoff, leaning back against the edge of the countertop.
you’re at his mom’s place for a little family dinner—something she loves to do every once in a while to catch up with her son. you’ve just finished your meal, and rintarou being the angel he is, offered to clean up—but not without your company, of course.
“what? it’d save us some money,” he says, diving a hand into the soapy water filling the sink.
“your grandma was just bugging us,” you hum—swirling the dark liquid in your glass around. “she knows we’re not ready for marriage.”
this was your very first time meeting her, and it’s safe to say you weren’t expecting such a loaded question mid meal. so, when are you two getting married? her words had the tips of rintarou’s ears turning pink, and made his sister howl like a dog, because the thought of someone liking her older brother enough to want to marry him was truly hilarious.
he kicked her shins under the table—a glimpse of the petty little boy you had always heard stories about. he did his best to get his grandmother off your backs as well, giving her a cliché answer—something along the lines of we’re both young, and just trying to focus on college right now.
he was in such a damn hurry to drop the subject—and now, he won’t shut up about it.
“okay, but,” he pauses, swiping a hand against the bottom of the sink to check for any stragglers. “he’s young and stupid now, there’s no way he knows how much a wedding cake costs. we can lowball him, get a good deal.”
“you think he’s that stupid?” you snort—having a little more faith in osamu than your boyfriend does.
“hope so,” he mutters, gesturing for you to toss him the hand towel sitting behind you. “he is related to atsumu, after all.”
“wow,” you gawk, “and you call yourself a friend.”
“i’m just looking out for us,” he shrugs, using the fabric to dry his hands. “bet ‘tsumu would do it for free if we asked right now.”
“he’s not going anywhere near our wedding cake,” you say, noting the way rintarou does a thorough wipe down of the counters—hm, so he does know how to clean. “not until it’s served on a plate for him to eat, at least.”
“good point,” he agrees, tossing his cloth over the tap and shuffling over to you. “but you have to admit, the guy’s pretty damn unstoppable when he puts his mind to something.”
“sure,” you hum, looping your arms around his neck and lacing your fingers together. “but you know rin, once you go pro, we won’t even have to worry about the cost of a wedding cake.”
“and if i don’t?” he asks—throwing the possibility out there. it’s something he’s thought about, but never voiced concern over.
“you will, trust me,” you say, pressing a kiss to his lips, soft and sweet—a promise of your word. “but if for some reason you don’t, we’ll beg the twins for a family and friends discount.”
“deal,” he laughs, pulling you flush against him for a hug—and you think to yourself, that when you leave tonight, you’ll love him a little more than when you arrived—if it’s even possible.
you enjoy the moment briefly, until you hear a pair of feet padding in the other direction—someone was listening?
“mom! rintarou is talking about getting married!”
reblog and add ur opinion about:
cucumber/watermelon
bananas
pineapple on pizza
avocado
sparkling water
marmite/vegemite
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.
reblog to give warm bread to your mutuals
ATTENTION
If you see this you are OBLIGATED to reblog w/ the song currently stuck in your head :)