Osamu <3 - Blog Posts

back support

miya osamu x gn!reader. slight suggestive? samu being hot mostly. that’s all.

After hours at Onigiri Miya are always rather quiet.

It’s when all the employees clock out one by one, collect their things and finish up their duties before saying bye to the boss and heading out. And it’s when you always stop by to meet your boyfriend whenever you happen to be in the area during closing time.

(Which, granted, you find an excuse to be pretty frequently. But that’s not the point here).

The bell of the front door jingles as you let yourself in, meeting the last straggler of your boyfriend’s establishment just on their way out. He’s young, working to pay his way through college, Osamu told you. He has kind eyes and a sweet smile, a good kid.

“Hi,” he nods, moves to hold the door open as you finish walking through, points a thumb behind him. “Boss is in the back restocking, he wouldn’t let me stay to help.”

“Figures,” you laugh, shaking your head to yourself. “He’s a bit stubborn.”

And the kid chuckles like he doesn’t want to agree because it’s his boss, but the knowing smile speaks volumes anyways. He gives a quick bow of his head, mutters a polite goodnight, then the bell’s jingling again and you’re left alone in the front of your boyfriend’s restaurant.

You toss your keys onto the counter and push past the little waist high door with your hip to venture to the back of the restaurant. It’s pretty clean, save for where Osamu seems to have flung his hat off by the sink and there’s a familiar black apron pooled in the floor that looks to have fallen off its hook. You collect them both and smile to yourself as you clean up after him.

That’s when you hear it, as you swing by his office to put up the overlay part of his uniform—the slight muffled grunts coming from the storage room. Right, he’s restocking. Lucky you.

And if you were anyone else, you might be annoyed. Because the nights where Osamu stays behind by himself to restock can get long—like right now, with the time pushing midnight when he’s normally snuggled up in your bed by eleven—but, you must argue, it does have its perks. Like him bringing home extra leftovers from the day to make it up to you for being late. Or him giving you sweet sleepy kisses as he plops himself on top of you as soon as he walks in.

Or, and this is arguably your favorite one, you getting to witness the sight of him like this.

Your teeth dig into the corner of your lip as you lean against the doorframe of the storage room, the grunts that lead you to him punching through the air again as you watch the muscles of Osamu’s back flex and release as he tosses a bag of rice under one of the shelves. His work shirt hugs him so nicely, tight across the broad expanse of his shoulders and snug around the definition of his arms. It gets a little baggy past the expanse of his chest, a little looser towards his waist, but it bunches up due to the back brace he has strapped on.

You remember when he got it, albeit begrudgingly as he came home one day shy to show you what he picked up on his run to the store. The faint flush to his cheeks as he mumbled about how he can’t move as easily as he used to, that all those years of volleyball aren’t doing him any good now. You’d just kissed his cheek, told him it wasn’t even a big deal, anything that would keep him from hurting himself.

And as you eye the way the brace squeezes around his waist, does well to accentuate the slight cinch there that’s gotten just a bit wider over the years but is still very nice, you can’t even attempt to fight off the slight swirl in your gut.

Oh yes, lucky you indeed.

“Woo,” you whistle as he straightens up to swipe his forehead with the back of his hand, chewing your cheek as he looks over his shoulder at you.

“Oh, baby.” And he’s breathless, and it shouldn’t sound so fucking attractive, as he turns to walk towards you. He places his hands on your waist, drops his head for a kiss and hums against your lips. “Shouldn’t you be in bed? It’s late. Ya get cranky past eleven.”

“I get even crankier when my boyfriend isn’t in bed with me,” you retort, but there’s no malice in the confinement of the storage room, no tilt to your words. You kiss him again. “But getting to walk in on you like this isn’t so bad.”

Osamu laughs into your mouth, pulling back slightly when you try to loop your arms around his neck. He catches your wrist, kisses your palm.

“Ah, don’t get too close. I’m all sweaty,” he offers up with an apologetic grin, then tips his head with a scrunch of his nose when you roll your eyes. “I just have a few more bags to move, then we can get ya home and in bed.”

“Yeah,” you hum, but you don’t pull away. Instead you trail your hand down his chest, try to bite back your smirk at the way your boyfriend shivers a bit, until your fingertips reach the edge of the tight brace wrapped around his waist. “Guess I’ll just sit back and enjoy the view, hm?”

You give the brace a tug, do your best to swallow the giggle that threatens to slip at Osamu’s over exaggerated groan. His fingers give your waist a squeeze, a signature Miya pout being thrown in your direction.

“Yer evil,” he sulks, stares at you like he’s fighting some terrible inner battle, then grumbles under his breath as he surges forward to kiss you again. “Ya said you won’t pay attention to it.”

“No I said I wouldn’t make fun,” you correct, blow out a light laugh as Osamu pulls you flush against him while peppering kisses down your throat. “Not paying attention to it would be a crime when it makes you look so good.”

His lips pause on your throat. You swear you can feel the flush burning from his cheeks straight into your neck. You thread your fingers into the damp buzz of his undercut, run your nails over his scalp.

“It’s for back support,” he mumbles, low and soft. And maybe you are evil, truly, because the retort is quick from your lips.

“I could use some back support.”

Osamu stops breathing, you press into him a bit more, then suddenly you’re being moved over and pushed back onto the checklist desk by the wall. You can’t help the fit of giggles you fall into as your boyfriend nips at your neck, his fingers squeezing your sides in a mixture to tickle and also to drag you closer all while he berates you.

“Oh you’re gonna need back support by the time I get done with ya,” he chuckles, moves up to kiss you even as his lips curl in a grin and soil the action. He grabs one of your thighs, hooks your leg around his waist playfully. “So mean, comin’ in and distracting me when I’m trying to get work done. I’m busy, yanno. And you just wanna tease and—“

“Sir? Sorry, I think I left my apartment keys by the—“

Both yours and Osamu’s eyes widen, heads snapping to the doorway of the storage room. There stands the sweet, sweet boy from earlier, face going from pale to red to about seven different emotions all at once as he takes in the scene. Then he slaps a hand over his eyes almost comically, turns on his heel to retreat, shouting out sorry’s every step of the way as you and your boyfriend stare after him appalled.

Osamu scrambles after him, you scurry off the desk, and both of you internally curse that damn back brace and the power it holds over your heads.

this is incoherent n idc the point is osamu back brace supremacy goodnight.

your TAGS i cannot afford to fall in love with another miya brother PLEASE i will die

Osamu crowds you against the worn door at the top of Onigiri Miya’s narrow back stairwell, drawing a heated palm up the curve of your side through the thick felted wool of your coat.

“Cut it out,” you giggle as he jostles your hand- key clasped tightly in your fingers- away from the rusty lock.

“Don’t wanna,” he protests, dipping his nose into the hollow of your temple. You can feel his smile against the top of your cheekbone. He still smells smoky and savoury from the teppanyaki place, with the warm flush of two- no- three glasses of red wine rising to his cheeks. He isn’t drunk, but even if he was, it wouldn’t show.

“That was the best goddamned steak I’ve ever had,” he mumbles into your hair, curling one thick forearm around your middle.

Not drunk on wine, anyway.

“Yeah, I’m…” You trail off, concentrating long enough to get the key in the lock, turning and pushing inward. You have to brace your shoulder against the door a little to shove it open, since the frame’s a little warped, and together you stumble into the entryway of the tiny apartment above Osamu’s shop.

“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t get any better than that,” you finish, but he’s not interested in finishing this conversation anymore.

Osamu flips you around between his hands, bracing both palms on your hips and dipping his forehead to yours. The soft strands of his dark hair come loose and fluffy away from whatever style he’d mussed it into earlier that evening, sharing the bathroom mirror with you as you slipped on your rings and adjusted your top.

“Hmm,” he sighs, and his shoulders drop with all the bliss in the world. “I love ya.”

“You’ll say anything on a full stomach,” you purr, planting your hands on the soft plane of it. He lets out a low grunt and slips a hand into the folds of your coat, pinching the tenderest part of your waist to make you yelp.

“I love you too-mph.” You’re cut off by the courteous press of his mouth to yours, and after a heartbeat of polite fumbling, you settle into the rhythm of his kiss and let him slowly divest you of your coat.

You tilt your head to one side, gasping quietly for breath and letting him trail wine-flavoured kisses down the bared column of your throat. He’s setting your skin on fire, lifting shimmering sensations to the surface that the wine in your own system only amplifies.

“Mm-bedroom,” you sigh.

“Don’t hafta tell me twice,” he mumbles into your skin.

Once you get there, however, he tugs you into his arms, collapses backwards onto the bed, and doesn’t move. You give him five whole seconds to do something, and when he fails to, you stir in his magnetic hold.

“Baby?” Your voice comes soft and prompting.

“Mmm?” He opens one eye, peering down at you over the curve of his cheek.

“Weren’t we about to…?”

“Oh, god, no, I can’t,” he groans. “I’m so full I could die. Y’don’t want me messin’ around in there tonight, promise.”

“But…” You can hardly protest. The longer you lie there, the heavier dinner’s weight begins to settle in your gut. He’s right. Expecting sex after all-you-can-eat teppanyaki was beginning to feel like expecting snow in Mexico.

“Let’s do it in the morning,” he brushes, and that pulls a giggle from your chest. When you lift your head, the little smirk that tugs at the corners of his lips proves that he’s still having fun.

“I’ll make it up to ya real good. I swear.”

And the next morning, in sun-drenched sheets of white linen, he does.