Osamu Miya X Reader - Blog Posts

APHRODITE ; Osamu x f!reader

He looks down at you, his gaze betraying his words–greedy, lovesick–and you want to live in this moment forever.

contains: f!reader, dilf!Osamu, co-workers, age gap (reader is in her twenties, Osamu in his forties), mutual pining, pet names (all of them. he uses all of them), oral (reader giving), dirty talk, three lines of spit kink bc it wouldn't be a lale-txt work without it, praise kink, whipped Osamu (as in: down bad, adoring)

word count: 2.6k

You shouldn't have these kinds of thoughts. He’s your boss, you remind yourself. 

But admittedly, it’s hard when he’s currently lying under your kitchen sink, his shirt rucked up a little, revealing a sliver of soft skin and a happy trail while he aches and groans. You sit next to his figure on the kitchen floor, never been happier over a leaking pipe in your apartment.

“Hand me the ring wrench, sweetheart,” Osamu mumbles without looking at you, only holding out a calloused hand for you. You love these hands. They’re the hands you watch for hours while working, shaping the perfect onigiri and wondering what they’d feel wrapped around your neck. Sometimes he’d place them against the small of your back when passing by you behind the counter, always lingering a little longer than he had to. Last time he drove you home (he insisted because it was pouring outside), he rested one on your thigh while steering the car with the other.

You’re pretty sure Osamu Miya wants to fuck you badly. You hope he will.

“Doll,” he says again, his voice soft. He knows how often you tend to zone out. You snap out of it and rummage around the toolbox before you, handing him the thing he asked for. 

Look–you haven’t begged him to do this for you. This may be your first apartment you rented by yourself after moving to Osaka for your master program, but you were an independent one. Always have been. You built your own furniture and drilled every hole in the walls yourself. You knew for a fact how to fix a leaking pipe, you just didn’t get around to it yet because you picked up a few extra shifts at your part-time job at Onigiri Miya so you could save up for a new laptop.

But Osamu wants to help–he’s practically begging you to let him. Which is how he ended up on your kitchen floor. 

You’ve been alone with him before. When you were closing the shop together and you imagined how he’d bent you over the counter to violate every food safety regulation to ever exist. When you were the last ones at the bar during last year’s anniversary party, and you thought about stuffing your panties in the pockets of his coat for him to find later. When you spent one night at his place so you could finish a deadline before midnight on his laptop because yours gave out, and you wondered what his stubble would feel against the insides of your thighs if he ate you out. 

Nothing happened and you’ve been growing more frustrated lately. He’s sweet, he’s caring, he’s respectful and you get it. He’s trying to maintain a somewhat professional relationship between you two, especially given your age gap, but some days you wished he’d just let the animal in him run rampage and fuck you stupid against the nearest wall. 

You know he could. You know he’s thinking about it, too.

Ten minutes later he fixed your leaking pipe, but the ache between your thighs persists. He sits up again, so close that your knees are touching in your cramped little kitchen, and gives you a smile that makes your chest tighten with barely contained lust. There’s something boyish about his smile, making it easy to imagine what kind of heartthrob he must have been in his twenties. You gotta ask him about some photos from that time.

He’s still handsome, though. More than that. With his salt-and-pepper hair and the small wrinkles around his eyes, and his big calloused hands, adorned with a few scars from handling knives in the kitchen for over three decades and counting. He’s built differently than his twin, the retired pro-athlete. You’ve met him a few times at the shop. Osamu works out but he also likes to eat, granting him the strength to throw these heavy rice bags over his shoulders as if they weighed nothing. How many times have you imagined him manhandling you like that? You can’t remember. Far too often. 

Osamu wipes the sweat off his forehead and looks at you, lazy half-lidded eyes lingering on your face. He has no idea what kind of effect he has on you. Or maybe he does, but he’s not acting on it which is even more frustrating. 

“Yer hungry? I could fix us a plate,” he offers. Always looking out for you. Always caring. 

“Be my guest,” you reply, nodding over to your fridge. It’s currently stocked with two slices of toast, a cucumber that has seen better days, some leftovers from last week that you haven’t thrown out yet and a half-empty box of orange juice. You usually eat at uni or at work, and lately you’ve been so busy that you haven’t really gotten around to stocking up on things at home. 

Osamu lets out a long sigh when he peaks inside your fridge, one hand on his hip and the other rubbing over his face.

“Sweetheart,” he mutters, his tone a touch condescending, and you laugh quietly. You know this sight pained him more than anything. He looks over his shoulder back at you, his thick brows furrowed. “What is this?”

You rise to your feet as well and take a few steps towards him, firmly shutting the fridge door again.

“None of your business,” you say with a teasing smile to which Osamu huffs. He pats down the pockets of his pants for his phone and then taps the screen a few times. 

“Takeout it is then,” he sighs. This man is determined to feed you at all costs, already adding a few things to the cart. “What d’you want, doll?”

“You.”

Osamu doesn’t lift his head, but his eyes dart up to your face. Pondering if you’re serious or you’re joking. His expression doesn’t betray anything, but the small twitch of his hand and the sight of his pants tightening a little does.

“I want you, Osamu,” you say again, closing the remaining distance between you both. He’s now effectively trapped between you and the counter, and while you know he could easily shove you away–he doesn’t. You lean a little closer to him, your body pressing against his. He swallows and puts his phone aside, taking your face in both of his hands and tilting it up a little to make sure you look at him. You can tell that he’s scratching at the last bits of his self-restraint right now.

“I’m old enough to be your father and—sweetie, you have to stop smiling like that when I say this, goddamn,” he groans and looks away. You’re gonna give him a few more gray hairs, he’s sure of it. His thumbs trace absentmindedly along your jaw, fingers calloused but his touch gentle.

You tilt your head to the side, nuzzling closer into his big palm. His eyes linger on you, as if they’re silently telling you ‘behave’, but no. Of course you have to be a brat about it.

Osamu is a goner when you wrap your lips around his thumb, sucking on it while holding his gaze. 

His chest is heaving with every breath, a muttered ‘fuck’ falling out of his mouth as he pushes his thumb in deeper, pressing down on your tongue and making you open up wide for him. For a moment he thinks about spitting in your mouth, but he’ll save this for later. His cock is throbbing in his jeans, begging for release. 

Osamu has never been a patient man. For you, he tried. But right now you’re tearing him apart with your gaze alone and he lets you. He wants you to.

And now you’re lowering yourself to your knees before him, your nimble hands unbuckling his belt as if they waited a lifetime to do so, and glance up at him with these eyes of yours that make him insane if he looks back at them for too long.

“We shouldn’t,” he mutters. His voice is a little husky and his big hands wrap around yours, forcing them to pause what they were doing. He looks down at you, his gaze betraying his words–greedy, lovesick–and you want to live in this moment forever.

“Doesn’t matter,” you say, nuzzling your face against his clothed bulge and keeping your eyes pinned on him. There’s already a damp spot forming in his pants. “Do you want this?”

Osamu curses under his breath again, but he lets go of your hands and leans back against the counter, watching the smirk on your face widen now that you’re given permission to wreck him. You won’t hold back.

Hot, you think when you unzip his pants, learning that his pubic hair is also salt-and-pepper colored. Your mouth feels a little dry once you pull his pants and boxers down to his ankles, his cock springing free, pulsing and leaking, aching to be touched. It does nothing to ease the throbbing between your thighs, only worsening it, but you know he’ll take care of this for you soon, too. 

You press a few open mouthed kisses to the inside of his thighs, one hand wrapping around his cock and giving it a few slow strokes. Your hand can’t even wrap around his girth fully. He twitches underneath your touch. Osamu cups one side of your face with his hand, as if he can’t go a second without some form of contact, now that you both crossed that line. His breath is labored and his hips buck a little with every little caress of yours. 

“Yer killin’ me,” he sighs, his Kansai dialect becoming more prominent the more aroused he gets. His thumb traces the shape of your lips, coaxing them to open for him, now two fingers pressing in the cave of your mouth till you’re drooling. Your lipstick leaves faint marks on his skin when you trail your kisses up his abdomen. “Fuck, baby…” 

You spit on his cock and Osamu gives himself a few quick strokes. He looks like he’s barely keeping it together, still trying to act well-mannered, as if you weren’t silently pleading with your eyes only for him to wreck you.

He curses again under his breath and bends over till he’s hovering over you, two fingers tipping your chin up. Your first kiss is as messy and hungry as you imagined it to be, licking, biting, sucking till you’re moaning into his mouth and clawing against his thick thighs. There’s a thin string of salvia connecting you when he pulls away again. You briefly wonder if he mentally filed this under ‘proper manners’ too–always kiss your girl adoringly before making her choke on your cock. 

“C’mon now, sweet girl,” he coaxes you, gently guiding you towards his crotch with a hand tangled in your hair. “Be good for me, will ya? So fucking good for me.” His voice is low and hoarse, his cock leaking precum. Both of you know he won’t last long; he’s already on the edge of coming undone just from the sight of you on your knees in front of him.

When you take him down your throat, his head tips back and he lets out the most guttural moan. You show no mercy on him, your tongue swirling slowly around his tip before you swallow him whole. Your nose is nestled in his pubes as you glance up at him to make sure he’s watching, small tears welling up in the corners of your eyes. He collects them with his thumb and smears them mixed with some mascara across your face.

“Attagirl,” he praises you, his cock twitching in your mouth. By now he hasn’t cum yet out of sheer willpower and the desire to see you a little longer like this, as if you’re a fever dream that’s about to vanish the second he spills himself down your throat. 

You run your tongue over a prominent vein and Osamu growls, his knuckles white from how tight he is gripping the counter. Maybe it’s you who is dreaming. Sucking your boss off in your tiny kitchen wasn’t on your schedule when you got up this morning, but you wouldn’t want it any other way. You wonder if he’ll fuck you against the wall next or if he’s gonna have the decency to carry you over to the bed first. Either way you don’t see yourself walking anytime soon after this night. 

As you go on, Osamu’s breath is coming out in small huffs now, his nose scrunched up while he watches his cock disappear between your swollen lips. He never fully allowed himself to think about this, but now that he had you like that–fuck, he’ll never let you go. Yeah, he’s gonna keep you on your knees forever till your body remembers the shape of him. Fuck. 

“Baby… ‘m so close,” Osamu growls, a low warning. He taps your jaw with his fingers again, a sign for you to let go of him. It didn’t strike him as good manners to make an entire mess out of you the first time you blow him, and he wants you to remember him as a decent man (as decent as pining after your half-your-age employee can be). However he underestimated your determination to stubbornly refuse his request, making yourself gag a bit harder on his cock. Osamu’s hips jerk forwards involuntarily and he groans, barely keeping his composure. 

“Fuck,” he cusses under his breath, your hands now on his sides, steading yourself as you take him down your throat, your eyes fluttering up at him. The last bit of his carefully maintained self-restraint snaps. Osamu’s hands now find the back of your head, keeping it steady so you won’t have a chance of pulling back, then he slams his cock hard between your parted lips until you’re whimpering and coughing around his length. “Cumming, baby, ‘m cumming, so fucking tight for me, fuck–” 

He spills himself inside your mouth, the most primal moan leaving his lips. He’s trembling, his hips stuttering, thick cum spurting seemingly with no end, emptying himself into you. It’s dizzying. His breath is labored once he slides his softening cock out of your mouth.

“Shit, ‘m sorry,” he mutters, reaching behind him for a paper towel and dropping to his knees, holding it out for you. He brushes a few strands of hair out of face, trying hard not to think about how much he likes this fucked out expression on you. “Just spit it out, sweetheart. ’s okay. I was a little too rough, hm?”

What Osamu doesn’t expect is you opening up wide, sticking out your tongue. Spotless. 

You swallowed it all. Swallowed everything he gave you. His cock twitches back to life. 

“Little minx,” he growls, cupping your chin and towering over you. He spits in your mouth and watches you swallow it, again. It’s making him feel lightheaded. He should’ve done this sooner, he thinks. Making you take everything he has to offer and more. 

One of his hands wander underneath that flimsy skirt you’re wearing. He finds you dripping. A corner of his mouth twitches up in a lopsided smirk, a hint of something more sinister. His eyes darken a little. You mewl when he pushes your soaked panties aside to run a finger between your slit before bringing it to his lips, tasting you. You’re even sweeter than he imagined.

Oh, he’s gonna devour you. 

“Sweetheart. Be a good girl and spread your legs.”

a/n: osamu loving demon possessed me idk. i usually don't write part twos for my oneshots but for this one i could be sweet talked into it

so osamu x reader angst au where osamu is deeply in love with the reader and decided to dye his hair blonde so reader can cope with tsumu's death but didn't like this idea anymore, he wanted her to love him for who he truly is,,, 👉👈

Lapse in Judgement (Osamu x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: A car crash has taken Osamu’s brother away, the boy you liked so dearly. Osamu was dull to the pain, his crush on you blinding him from reality. But when he dyes his hair in hopes that he could make you feel the same, he realizes he may have gone too far. 

A/N: Sorry it took me a while. As per request, we got some major angst, but I gotta be honest, I don’t think Osamu’s evil enough to focus on a girl rather than his brother, so I focused more on his desperation to replace what he had lost than anything else. Hope you enjoy!

Word count: 1412

        Maybe it was a mistake. A screw up of the royal kind. 

        But at most, it was a lapse in judgement. 

        High school boy found dead in a car accident. That’s what the newspapers said, but it didn’t account for the total grief of it all. 

        Boy, dead. Drunk driver, critical condition. The navy blue truck totalled the small SUV at eight o’ clock at night after running a red light. Witnesses called for help, and that was it. 

        Except it wasn’t. 

        The journalists didn’t talk about the empty bedroom across from Osamu’s. They didn’t talk about the abandoned desk in Class 4b, the bare seat at the lunch table, the still-full locker in the hallway. 

        Atsumu was gone, with only an indifferent news article to his name. 

        Practice was never quite the same. Each time Osamu went, he couldn’t help but stare at the floor where his brother once stood. Deep down, he knew he should have cried by now. Bawled tears at the funeral, or maybe let one slip when he saw the first layer of dust settle onto his brother’s dresser. 

        But the truth was that he hadn’t. Yeah, it hurt, but he couldn’t… feel it. Every sense in his body was numb as he got through each passing day like turning the pages of a book without reading them. Things were happening, he just didn’t care enough to listen. 

        Osamu guessed the one who was visibly taking it the hardest was you, who won by a landslide. 

        The night he died, you had texted the quieter twin with wide-eyed innocence, revealing that the next day at school, you were going to give Atsumu a letter telling him how you feel. 

        I can do it! Just watch me, Samu!

        The chance never came, and when Osamu informed you of what had happened, you had broken down in his arms. 

        And he felt sick for the first time. 

        Disgust at himself for actually being happy that he was the one to hold you now, it was horrifying. The bile that had risen up his throat lost out to the joy. 

        Him, Osamu, he was the one you talked to now, each day asking him if he was okay, hugging him and confiding in him with your deepest thoughts. 

        You and Atsumu had been close in a way Osamu had always been envious of. Teasing and flirting, all of it turned him into a green-eyed monster.

        So maybe that was what forced away his ache of loss. Around him, you were almost as happy, almost as teasing and playful, but you had lost that glint in your eyes. You didn’t have that with Osamu.

        He knew that was what had sent him over the edge. 

        Two weeks after his brother’s death, still not a tear spilt. Instead, he spent all his time thinking about you. Your smile, less forced than before. The shine in your hair had returned, and your cheeks finally began to flush again. 

        Osamu entered the school and made a beeline for the classroom, praying that you had attended school today so he could see you. So you could validate what he had done. 

        And there you were, slipping into the classroom with the same dark circles under your eyes. They were no longer only from long nights of doing schoolwork. 

        “YN.” 

        Your head snapped up and your eyes met his in a split second. Then your gaze rose to his hair. Your lips separated to let out a single, quick breath of air while your brow twitched. 

        “At- Osamu?” 

        He nodded, the newly-blond hair shifting to hang in front of his eyes.

        “Your… you changed your hair.” 

        “Yeah, I did.”

        And that was that.

                                ~~~

        Having you by his side, Osamu could ignore all the stares he received. He never cared for attention, especially not now. Throughout the halls of school, people’s brows rose to their hairlines as they watched you both walk around, hand in hand and smile together. 

        It never seemed weird, and Osamu had never felt happier. 

        He wasn’t… he wasn’t alone anymore. 

        The bedroom across from his never bothered him when you stayed over at night. He hadn’t even travelled into it since the last time. 

        “Do you want to come over tonight?” Osamu didn’t really say it as a question, mostly because you were guaranteed to say yes anyways. 

        “Again? I think someone likes having me around.” 

        He did. God, he loved that adoring look on your face whenever he said he wanted you. Those puppy dog eyes of yours that you never seemed to notice you were giving him made his heart thump in a frantic pattern. 

        Volleyball wasn’t really a concern anymore. The new setter pissed him off, so he didn’t bother attending practice. His jerseys hung in his closet, unworn for what might’ve been a month now. 

        It was maybe… two months? Three? Osamu wasn’t sure, but Atsumu had left a while ago. 

        So he never bothered with the sport, meaning you could come over right after school, or he could even walk with you there. 

        You both had a tradition now. Homework, then a movie or show, then a nap together. Then Osamu either walked you home or, if it was too late, let you sleep in his bed for the night. 

        He found that your warmth fended off the nightmares that leered in on him at all hours in a day. 

        Today was a day that you stayed the night. The moon was already falling from the sky by the time you two finished eating a dinner of box mac and cheese, and thus it was decided that you shouldn’t bother going home. 

        Osamu’s blond head rested on your chest, and one leg was intertwined with both of your own. His arm was strewn across your stomach, heavy enough to keep you in place for the night. 

        You had two hands in his hair, head propped up on a pillow so you could make out the shape of the tufts in the black room. It was three am, and Osamu’s breathing had finally slowed and leveled.

        “Atsumu,” you whispered, your own voice not even loud enough to hit your own ears. “Fuck, I miss you so much.” 

        Osamu shifted and your hands stilled, breath held in anticipation. Then he stopped and nuzzled his face back into your chest. 

        After waiting a couple more minutes just in case, you let out a sigh and combed through the long tufts again. “I’ll never stop loving you, Atsumu. I wish I could’ve told you that three months ago.” 

        Your eyelids grew heavy with sleep and you let out a yawn. 

        “I love you, Atsumu.” 

        And then you slipped into unconsciousness. 

        Atsumu was gone forever. 

        His bedroom was still empty, and a few spiders had probably claimed the corners of the room by now. Dust must have caked over every single picture and piece of furniture the boy had ever owned. 

        His bed was probably unmade, and would never be made again. 

        He was dead, and nobody could fill the holes his absence had left. 

        You couldn’t fix Osamu’s loneliness, no matter how much you latched onto him. 

        Osamu couldn’t replace his brother for you. He wasn’t really the boy you would love, no matter how hard he tried to be. Your words had confirmed that.

        Dying his hair was a lapse of judgement. A last ditch effort for both of you to keep his memory alive. 

        But that effort was futile. 

        And so, for the first time since he had lost his setter in volleyball, his friend in school, his rival in love, and his twin for life, Osamu let reality sink in. 

        Against your chest, in the hold of the woman he loved unrequitedly, Osamu cried.