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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 how i imagine each of them sleeps

need some “fuck, you’re so hot” / “can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you” / “i’ve dreamt about this for so long” type dick

“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. 

ATTENTION

If you see this you are OBLIGATED to reblog w/ the song currently stuck in your head :)

suna's a horny high guy btw if you even care

the hunt - frat boy!atsumu/f!reader (haikyuu!) tags: not NSFW but not NOT NSFW if that makes sense, inspired by this art by @/hlxtn, mentions of alcohol, typical frat party debauchery, college!au, greek system!au, reader is in a sorority, atsumu has a lip piercing and is a whore, making out, heavy petting, graphic depictions of graphic depictions, gratuitous headboard knocking, this atsumu makes me want to scream, word count 3k

The brief is simple: a scavenger hunt of sorts. 

It’s just a bit of friendly competition between you and your fellow sorority sisters, not unusual for the chapter president and the upper ranking sisters to orchestrate. At 8:00PM on the dot, everyone received a joint text message with a list of items to retrieve or tasks to complete to earn points—for tasks without a physical trophy, a simple photo as proof would do the trick—and once the clock strikes midnight, the participants who've managed to scavenge the most points would be the winners, and those with the lowest points would face a forfeit.

And finally, throughout the night there would be bonus points come up for grabs in the form of special challenges.

Like the one currently lighting up the screen of your phone. 

(11:00PM) INZ hookup - 100 points for a pledge, 500 points for pres, 250 points for everyone else. (11:00PM) Current ranking: 12/25. 1 hour remaining.

“How far are we from the Iota house?” you ask, leaning forward against the restraint of your seatbelt and gripping the headrest of the drivers seat in front of you.

“A couple blocks,” your friend (and fellow sorority sister) behind the wheel says in confusion, “why?”

You and a few of your closest friends had wandered out that night to amass points together. You were all doing pretty well, but according to the rankings that are sent out every half hour, none of you have even broken the top 10. 

And now there's only an hour left.

“Go there next,” you say decisively. 

“Are you nuts?” another sister smushed into the backseat with you squeaks, “hooking up with an Iota is…”

Practically a death sentence. At least socially. You all know it. 

To call the boys of the INZ frat run-through would be a disservice to the word. Their reputation among the other greeks is NOT one to be trifled with. The boys themselves, beyond being philandering, are more than a little rough around the edges. They’re known for starting fights (and finishing them) and save for their chapter president Kita, and a few standouts among the brothers, they’re not generally considered the shining gold standard of Greek Life. The Iotas are the direct cause of more than a few of the sanctions your university has imposed on the Greek system in recent years, even against Kita's best efforts to keep them in line. 

But still, that many points may just be too gleaming of an opportunity for you to pass up. 

There’s a party in full swing when you pull up to the INZ house, because it's a Friday night so of course there is.

“Do you see anyone else here?” you ask your friends as you step into the fray, raising your voice to be heard over the pulsating music rattling through the house. You’re all wearing shirts with your sorority’s greek letters on them, so any fellow sisters should be easy to spot, though you can’t make any out from where you stand near the door.

“No,” one of your friends says, pressing close to your back to avoid being run over by a few passing partygoers chasing after someone in a hoodie with a quart of rum tucked under his arm. “Hey, are you sure this is a good idea?”

Of course it’s not. But the last time you lost one of these little challenges you were stuck vacuuming the entire sorority house for two months, and you weren’t eager to experience it again. 

“How much time is left?” you ask, pulling your cellphone from your pocket. 

11:12 your screen reads.

“Around 45 minutes,” your friend confirms what you know to be true once you see the time on your screen. Your eyes scan the party, landing on a figure on the edge of the crowd in an INZ hoodie with a red solo cup in his hands.

And a terrible, horrible, perfect idea comes to mind. 

You unlock your phone.

'Claiming this task!' you type as you cross the party, leaving your friends behind. 

The President replies immediately to your claim.

(11:15PM) Which Iota? 

You send your answer without a second thought.

The boy in the INZ hoodie doesn’t see you coming as you sidle up beside him, so when you put a hand on the sleeve of his sweatshirt and crane up on your tiptoes to get close to his ear he stiffens slightly in surprise. 

“Hi,” you say into his ear to be heard over the music blaring through the crowded house, your fingers twisting into the material of his sleeve, “you don’t know me, but I really need a favour.”

And that’s how you end up in Atsumu Miya’s bedroom in the Iota Nu Zeta frat house, standing on he opposite side of the room as he sits perched on the edge of his bed.

“Yer tellin’ me ya want me to pretend to fuck ya?” he asks, a brow quirked under the band of his backwards cap. “All fer some… bet?”

“It’s not a bet,” you correct him (not for the first time), “it’s a scavenger hunt.”

“And I’m the thing yer huntin’?” he's teasing you now, and you know it. 

“It doesn’t have to be you,” you huff, your lips pursing, “and if you’re gonna keep wasting my time I can go ask—“

“Now wait a minute,” he interrupts you before you can even dangle the threat before him, “now that I know yer trying to cheat the system, whose t’say I don’t send a text of my own to that pretty little president of yours and tell her what yer schemin’?” 

“You wouldn’t,” you say, your nose crinkling up in irritation. 

Atsumu grins, and the piercing on his bottom lip catches in the light of the lamp that sits on the table between the two twin XL beds in the tiny, untidy room. You assume he shares it with his twin brother, though you really don’t have much to base that assumption other than the fact you know he has one. The room is a bit neater on the side Atsumu is not sitting on, so you infer that Osamu is also the tidier twin between the two of them. 

“Nah, I wouldn’t,” he laughs, “I kinda like seein’ ya play dirty.”

You huff, crossing your arms over your chest.

“You guys always seem so…” Atsumu goes on, waving his hand in the air vaguely. 

“Rule-abiding?” you offer. 

“Stuck up,” he corrects you. 

He’s not necessarily wrong for thinking it, even if it does irk you. Your sisterhood is one of the more reserved greek chapters on campus—elite even, if you dared to say it. Sure, the scavenger hunt you find yourself partaking in that evening might not seem it, but the fact of the matter is that you guys aren’t inherently morally superior to any of the other greek houses - you’re just better at not getting caught. 

Something that seems utterly beyond the Iota brothers. 

Which is exactly why you need it to be him.

“Are you gonna help me or not?” you finally ask, sighing warily. 

“What’s in it for me?” Atsumu counters your appeal. 

“I’ll give you all my precal notes ahead of the midterm next week.”

Atsumu furrows his brow. “We’re in the same precal class?” he asks. 

Your expression flattens. 

“Unfortunately, yes,” you grit out, “which you might know if you didn’t spend every class napping.”

“Wait…”—he purses his lips, eyes scanning over your face—“we have a midterm next week?” 

You feel something throb palpably behind your eyes. 

“Yes,” you manage to get out even though your jaw is clenched firmly shut. "God you're hopeless."

"Yer awfully rude for someone who's tryin' to use me fer my body," Atsumu says, smirking when he sees the way your expression shifts into one of even further annoyance at his taunt. He leans back on his bed, resting his weight on his elbows. “So, what do I have to do here?”

“Just… take your shirt off and take a picture with me in bed with you,” you say, though it physically pains you to say the words. To have to stoop so low.

He quirks a brow mischievously. “Oh, ’s that all?”

“And keep your hands to yourself,” you tack on pointedly.

Atsumu snorts, lifting his hands in innocence.

“You got it, princess.”

Just as Atsumu shifts his weight forward, and his hand reaches behind his neck to grab at the collar of his hoodie, your cellphone jingles. 

You reach for it, and see that it’s a message from the sorority president. You unlock the device to reveal the message.

It’s a picture of a door.

The very door you presently find yourself behind.

Another message pops up in the chat.

(11:29) Recruited a bit of backup! You’ve got a little crowd waiting for proof, just to be safe ;)

And then another.

(11:30) Current ranking: 15/25. 30 minutes remaining.

“Fuck,” you mutter, miserable at the turn of events - and your drop in the rankings.

“What’s wrong?” Atsumu asks. 

“There are people out there…” your voice drops quieter, your eyes flickering over to the door on the other side of the room. “Waiting for… proof.”

The information seems to process slowly in Atsumu’s brain, and his eyes widen as the facts click into place. 

“Ohhh…” he trails off. “They want a real show, huh?” 

“Sorry for dragging you into this,” you sigh, “it was stupid, just forget I-“ 

Atsumu catches your wrist in his hand, tugging you forward before you can step away towards the door in defeat. You peer down at him as you stand between his parted thighs, confused.

“I never said I couldn’t give ‘em one.”

Your face flushes.

“Don’t be stu-“

“I’ll keep my hands to myself,” he says, letting his grip on your wrist fall, “we just gotta get a bit more… creative about it ’s all.”

You chew on the corner of your lip. 

You really hate vacuuming. 

“Alright,” you muster your resolve, offering him your hand for a handshake.

“And ya owe me all your notes right up until the final,” Atsumu tacks on, just before he clasps your hand in his. 

You huff, closing the distance between your palms and taking his hand in a shake. You can’t help but notice how much larger his hand is than yours. 

“Fine, whatever.”

Atsumu is… frighteningly good at putting on a show. 

He turns out the lamp on his bedside table so there’s no light peeking out from the crack under the door, he turns on music like he’s trying (and failing) to drown out any possible noise that might make it out, and he rocks his sturdy bed frame into the wall in a steady, unmistakable rhythm. 

“Hey,” he grunts out on a particularly hard knock of the wooden frame against the wall, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Ya gotta make some noise, y’know. Yer gonna ruin my rep.”

“What do you mean?” you whisper back, still standing frozen just beside the bed, more than a little awkwardly. 

“Y’know, moan or whatever,” he hisses back. 

“I can’t do that!” you snap.

“Yeah fuckin’ right,” he mutters, and you have half a mind to smack him. But before you have the chance to, a strong arm circles your waist and pulls you down. 

You squeak in fright. “Atsumu!”

He has you pinned underneath his body before you know it, practically nose to nose with him, his hands returning to their place on the headboard to give it another knock against the wall. 

Your eyes have adjusted to the dimness in the room since he turned out the lamp, and you can make out his features even though it’s dark. He’s smirking, that little silver hoop at the edge of his lip caught between his teeth. 

“There ya go,” he snickers, “just like that.”

“You told me you’d keep your hands to yourself,” you mutter lowly.

“Sacrifices must be made,” he shrugs, and gives the headboard another loud, incriminating knock. 

It’s preposterous the situation you find yourself in, pinned underneath Atsumu god damn Miya of all people. Pretending to fuck him. 

How the hell did you end up here?

“Ow,” you complain quietly when a particularly rough knock makes the back of your head hit the headboard. 

“Shit, sorry,” Atsumu mutters. He slides an arm underneath your back. “Here.”

He grunts, flipping the two of you over so you’re straddling his waist and he’s the one against the headboard in his tiny little bed. His baseball cap falls off in the scuffle, leaving the strands of his blonde hair loose. 

“’S that better?” he asks. 

It’s not actually, because this feels a hell of a lot more compromising than it had a second before. 

“Ya just gotta push against the headboard like this,”—he takes your hands in his, guiding them up over his shoulders to grip the wooden bed frame, pressing them back until it knocks into the wall—“see?”

“Okay,” you murmur, still a little dazed from the sudden role reversal, repeating the motion. 

You go slower than he had as you get the hang of it, distracted by how close his face is to yours. How you can feel his breath against your mouth. 

It smells like spearmint gum and cheap beer. 

You lick your lips. 

“This more the pace you like?” Atsumu asks, smiling crookedly as he remarks on the tempo you’ve set, his hands settling on your waist. 

“Watch your hands,” you snap quietly, and his touch retreats as you stretch back as far as you can from him without losing your grip on the headboard. 

“You’re still bein’ pretty quiet,” Atsumu comments. “You really gonna make me do everything?” 

“What do you-“

“Ohhhh, fuck.”

Atsumu’s moan is so loud that it startles you, and you let go of the headboard to slap your hand over his mouth in surprise. He grunts a little as you pitch forward, your palm muffling the sound. 

“You tryin’ to win this thing or not?” he asks you pointedly once you pull your hand away. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, acutely aware of the fact you can feel the slickness of spit on your palm, “you just… surprised me.”

He hums. 

“I’d say we’ve probably sold it at this point anyway,” he says with a little sigh. “As long as we go back out there lookin’ a bit scruffy, no one’ll know.”

You chew on the inside of your mouth as you mull over his words. 

“What?” he asks, noticing your hesitation.

You swallow, reaching up and touching the side of your neck. 

“You should give me a hickey.”

Atsumu’s eyes go as wide as saucers. 

“Yer jokin’.”

You shake your head. “It’s like… incontrovertible proof right? It’s not like I could give myself one.”

His eyes search your face for any sign of deception. 

“Ya don’t seem like the type who’d let someone mark ya.”

“I’m not,” you say, suppressing a shiver as his pointer finger loops under the neckline of your t-shirt, tugging it gently to the side. “You seem like the type to leave marks, though.”

Atsumu leans forward and chuckles, his breath is warm against your throat.

“Yeah, guess I am.”

Atsumu’s mouth is hot as it descends upon your pulse point, lips closing around the skin.

“Oh,” you gasp, your hands tangling in the blonde’s hair without thinking as he sucks at the sensitive part of your neck. His own hands have settled on your waist, and this time you don’t tell him to remove them.

“Atsumu,” you whimper as his teeth scrape over the skin he’s been suckling against, making you dizzy.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs into your throat, his hands slipping up under the hem of your t-shirt where his fingertips meet skin.

You don’t say anything.

Atsumu flips you over, and this time there’s nothing deceptive about the way the headboard knocks into the wall. 

His hands are still up your shirt, his lips still on your neck, and your legs wrap themselves around his waist as you writhe against his bedsheets. 

“D’ya know why,”—Atsumu interrupts himself to drag his teeth along the edge of your jaw—“I was so shocked we’re in the same class?”

You shake your head minutely, your fingers twisted into the material of his hoodie over his chest. You watch his lips part in a smile, eyes fixed to that little piercing again.

“Because I’ve had a crush on ya since first year,” he murmurs, “and if I’d known ya were there, then I wouldn’t of been nappin’.”

Atsumu kisses you—finally—and you can’t help the sound that slips out of you at the feeling of his lips slotting against yours.

His mouth tastes like spearmint and beer.

His piercing presses gently into your lips as his part against yours, his tongue slipping forward to taste you too.

His hands grab at anything and everything they can reach. 

Somewhere distantly, you feel you’ve played right into his hand. You recognize that you weren’t the only one who had been scheming tonight.

On Atsumu’s floor, your discarded cellphone lights up with yet another missed message. 

(11:45PM) Proof received +250 points

(11:46PM) No idea you had it in you LOL

(12:00AM) Final ranking: 2nd place

You don’t see the texts until much, much later.

“trans people are defying gods will” “trans people are rejecting biology” “trans people are upending the natural order” “transgenders are ruining the economy” keep going you’re making us sound so so so so so so so so sexy

First thing you see after you zoom in is how you die

How you dying 👀

YOUR DATE FOR THE NIGHT IS KUROO TETSUROU!

you and tetsurou spend most of the night outside where there are a few less people and a lot more fresh air — popping in and out briefly to grab new drinks or use the bathroom. he’s trying to keep the conversation on you, and your interests, but that guy — he’s standing across the backyard staring daggers into the both of you. what’s his deal?

“we must look pretty damn good together, hm?” he chuckles, lacing his fingers with yours and pulling you over to an empty spot on the steps. he plops down — gesturing to the space between his legs with a goofy smirk. now, you sit just one step below him, encompassed by his thighs. “that guy won’t quit.”

you know what he means — you feel the daggers too, coming from the sullen individual a few feet away. he almost reminds you of the man sitting behind you in a way — but you know him as fushiguro megumi.

if you hadn’t walked in with tetsurou trailing close behind, he would’ve spent the evening with you — at least, that’s what he tells himself as he watches your date twirl a piece of your hair around his finger. tetsurou isn’t concerned in the slightest — just a little annoyed.

“let’s head in, yeah? think i felt a few drops,” he hums, and you’re fairly certain there’s no rainclouds hanging in the night sky, but you go with him anyways. not one hour later — you leave with tetsurou.

WHO ELSE HAD THEIR EYE ON YOU TONIGHT?

you and suna rintarou held eye contact for a little too long as he padded up the steps — he tries to find you on social media later that night. you asked todoroki touya if he knew where the bathroom was — he stared at you for a full ten seconds before answering no.

note : i’m getting a vibe from you .. feel like it’s showing in the charas i chose ghhhh anw i hope you enjoy ! ! thanks for being so nice in your ask my love :D mwah @whorefornoodles

if you told tobio your tummy hurts he would literally panic because he has the constitution of a horse and has not gotten sick in at least 8 years so he has no idea what to do about it. then he googles it and panics even more because all of the search results tell him you're dying so he starts frantically packing a bag to take to the hospital only for you to wake up from a nap and he's got three full-size suitcases packed and you're like "i feel fine now! :)"

four drink rule - suna rintarou/f!reader (1.6k) sfwish, a bit silly, alcohol mention, enemies to something, samu dying a hero's death

atsumu slumps down into the banquette seating lining the wall of the club, exhausted.

there's a mysterious stain on the upholstery next to his thigh; the music is so loud it's rattling his teeth; and it's so hot in the crowded, rowdy space that the thin material of his dress shirt is sticking to him, even with the three top buttons undone.

this was supposed to be a night out with old friends.

this was supposed to be fun.

but now he just wants to go home.

"how many's she on?" his twin appears before atsumu, a drink in each hand. osamu mercifully hands the full one over to him.

atsumu accepts the drink gratefully, not a damn clue what it is, and takes a healthy swig. it burns a little on the way down, and does little to parch his actual thirst, but it's better than nothing. he swallows, panting lightly as he drags the back of his hand over his slick mouth.

"three—"

osamu nods, turning his head to scan the crowd of bodies.

"—what about suna?"

osamu takes a sip of his own drink, a less gluttonous one than his brother had. he turns back to his brother and gives him a pointed look as his adam's apple bobs.

he sighs, and the sound seems to come from deep within him. "three."

"who's watchin' him now?" atsumu asks.

"aran-kun."

atsumu's brow arches at his brother's response. "aran's supposed to be watchin' her."

they share a look. the beat in the song playing over the sound system drops. they're moving towards the thick of the crowd before they know it.

they find aran relatively quickly, near the bar where osamu had left him with suna, but he is horrifyingly alone.

"where is he?"

"where is she?”

the twins speak at the same time, tones equally accusatorial. 

aran rolls his eyes lightly, shaking his head. "relax, they got into one of their spats and she stormed off a while ago, and he said he was gonna go see if he could steal a cig off someone outside while i got another drink."

both of the twins nod, slightly relieved.

osamu’s eyes sweep the surrounding area for a moment.

"aran-kun... where's your drink?" 

aran looks over at the bar where he must have left his glass, but finds nothing there but a ring of condensation where his drink once sat.

he looks back to the twins to meet two identically wide pairs of eyes.

"god damn it.”

atsumu runs his hands through his peroxide blonde hair, gripping the strands roughly in frustration. “aran! the Four Drink Rule is in place fer a reason! it’s sacred!”

"yeah, yeah I know," aran sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he squeezes his eyes closed.

atsumu stomps his foot—actually stomps it, like an overgrown child—and laments ”this never woulda happened if kita-san were here!"

“kita-san’d never be caught dead in a club, but at least they behave themselves when he’s around," his twin reminds him, more composed than his genetic counterpart. the more level-headed of the two evaluates his options momentarily. “tsumu, you go check outside and see if you can find that dickhead. i’ll look for her. aran why dontcha take a lap and see if you can find ‘em in any… dark corners.”

aran’s nose crinkles in disgust.

“why do i get the worst job?” he gripes.

“yer the one that lost track of ‘em,” osamu says sternly, and aran can’t refute his logic even if he hates it.

they part ways, and osamu approaches the bar—waiting for the bartender to turn her attention towards him as his fingertips tap the sticky surface of the bartop impatiently.

finally the woman approaches.

“sorry to ask ya this,” osamu sighs, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, “did a girl come through here recently? real feisty, probably ordered a lemon sour with no ice, about—“

he intimates your approximate height to the bartender.

“—yea high?”

the bartender actually laughs a little bit at how defeated osamu seems, nodding her head.

"yeah, I served her a lemon sour with no ice a couple minutes ago. maybe 10? only remember her because she told me i wasn't allowed to tell some big guy with bleached hair. she made me pinky promise and everything.”

osamu knocks his fist between his eyes. yeah, that was definitely you.

“everything okay?” the bartender asks warily, watching osamu cycle through all five stages of grief in the expressions on his face.

“oh yeah, we’re fine. thanks fer yer help though, miss, and ‘m sorry about the trouble.”

atsumu, aran, and osamu all meet up again where they’d left each other—a few minutes older and substantially more grim.

“couldn’t find ‘em.”

“he wasn’t outside.”

“she got a fourth drink.”

they all relay their findings one after the other, the bad news compounding.

osamu looks at atsumu. atsumu looks at aran. aran looks at osamu. then the order repeats itself in reverse.

“i’m not doin’ it,” atsumu is the first to speak up, staunch and adamant. “i’m tired of baby sittin’ those two brats every time we go out. if they wanna down four drinks and end up suckin' each other’s faces off and bumpin' uglies in a nasty ol’ bathroom that’s their problem!” 

“but we’re the ones that have to deal with the fallout, ‘tsumu!” his brother argues. “suna’s gonna complain about her not replying to the stupid memes he sends like a lovesick idiot for the next two weeks, minimum. and she’s gonna blame us for not stopping her!”

“i agree with atsumu, we’ve been doing this for years. if they can’t admit they like each other that’s between them and god.” aran shrugs, equally exasperated with the foolishness. he’s been dealing with this for too damn long.

osamu tilts his head back and looks up at the ceiling, watching the way the club lights flicker across the black tiles overhead.

“if you guys help me figure out where they are, i’ll be the one to break ‘em apart.”

“deal.”

“fine.”

it doesn’t take them long really, once ginjima informs the three of them that he spotted you and suna slipping into an out of order washroom near coat check not fifteen minutes prior. suna’s hand had been, according to akagi’s chipper contribution, so far up your shirt it looked like ‘that scene in alien when the alien pops clear outta their chests!’

osamu stares at the out of order sign on the bathroom door for longer than he cares to admit; mustering his resolve, saying a prayer, lamenting the day of his own birth, etc. 

he casts a look down to the other end of the dimly lit hall (predominantly used by staff) to where atsumu, aran, and a few other of their friends are watching him like spectators standing on the dock to send ill fated soldiers off to war. atsumu waves him on encouragingly.

osamu sighs.

he pushes the door open.

“haa, please, rintar-MMPH!”

osamu fights back a gag as the door swings closed and the bathroom falls deathly silent.

he hears the drip of water from a leaking tap, the distant thrum of bass from the music outside.

“you two are gross, y’know that?”

osamu can see suna’s shoes under the door of the bathroom stall nearest to him. your shoes slowly appear on the ground just in front of suna’s, dropping down into view from above.

“i’m not leavin’ without the two of ya, so put yer junk away and get the hell out here,” osamu demands, crossing his arms over his chest.

“my junk’s not even out yet,” suna mutters sullenly from behind the door, and he hears a smack a moment later.

there’s a bit of shuffling that osamu doesn’t want to picture and the stall lock clicks open. 

well, at least you two had the decency to lock one door. 

the stall door opens a crack, only to slam closed again a moment later.

“hey!” osamu hears you complain.

“you know we don’t actually have to go out there, right? he’s not our boss.”

“get your grubby hands off of me,” you hiss, and there’s another audible scuffle. finally the door to the stall is wrenched open, and you step out.

your hair is a mess. your skirt is creased. your makeup is running. osamu doesn’t dwell too long on the way you’re walking like you’re weak-kneed in the interest of preserving his own sanity.

“god i can’t stand you,” you hiss over your shoulder towards the stall where suna is also emerging, looking equally dishevelled—though notably more smug than you do.

“i’ve got a seat i can offer if you’re looking for one,” suna says, a smirk tugging the corner of his swollen, rosy lips up. there's lipstick streaking across his mouth, jaw, and neck.

“i’m never doing this again,” you say adamantly, grabbing your purse off of the bathroom counter beside osamu, where you’d evidently hastily cast it aside, avoiding his judgemental gaze as you do so.

osamu wants to echo your statement. 

you tug the strap of your bag up over your arm and stomp towards the door of the bathroom with your lipstick still smeared down your chin. osamu turns to look at his friend, his expression flat and unimpressed, but suna’s preoccupied watching you go, eyes glued to the doorway until the door swings shut behind you—the ignored OUT OF ORDER sign fluttering sadly. 

it’s quiet again once you’re gone, and suna turns to look at osamu with a dopey, self-satisfied smile. he sighs happily.

“she says that every time.”

@HAIKYUU : MAKE SURE TO GET IT ON FILM, BABY!

a lewd anthology series of haikyuu men filming you and him fucking; after a party, while he’s at work, as you’re making pasta.

one thing is for sure: you’re always, always the star of his film.

nsfw content, minors do not interact ˖  ݁ . ࿓ each part has its own warnings. please be sure to read them all thoroughly < 3 kiss

starring ˖  ݁ . ࿓ miya atsumu, sakusa kiyoomi, oikawa tooru, akaashi keiji, matsukawa issei, kuroo tetsuro, miya osamu — more characters may be added.

reblogs are incredibly appreciated >3<

001. LA SANTA

✩ ˛˚ . miya atsumu is your best friend — you do everything with him. and so, obviously, you’re gonna ask him how you’re supposed to suck dick after attending a halloween party. and maybe he’ll show you other things, too.

002. TELL ME THAT YOU LOVE ME

✩ ˛˚ . your husband — sakusa kiyoomi — wants to treasure every moment of your honeymoon with photographs and videos. giving you every ounce of his raw heart and stuffing you with his cum as he records is part of that whole ordeal.

003. ME PORTO BONITO

✩ ˛˚ . your boyfriend is shit — doesn’t know the first thing about pleasing you. so, why not let star athlete oikawa tooru wrap his gold medal around your neck as he fucks you dumb? as he records the dirty deed and sends it to your (soon to be ex) boyfriend?

004. EFECTO

✩ ˛˚ . akaashi keiji is convinced you’re a nymph with the way you make him feel. especially as he’s fucking you in his bathroom, in front of the mirror — one hand on your pussy, other holding his phone to record the unfolding events before the two of you.

005. I FALL TO PIECES WHEN I’M WITH YOU

✩ ˛˚ . you’re matsukawa issei’s favorite shot girl. you’re so sweet, so pretty — he wants to absolutely ruin you and record the whole process.

006. A LOVE FILLED LUNCH

✩ ˛˚ . kuroo tetsuro — your beloved and doting husband — loves it when you take time out of your day to make him a love filled bento and adores it when you take it to his office, since you always make sure to stay for dessert.

007. BREAKFAST AT ONIGIRI MIYA’S

✩ ˛˚ . your boss — miya osamu — asks you to come in early on sunday mornings, the busiest day of the week. today, though, he might have to close shop to rearrange your guts in his kitchen.

© kentoangel — do not copy, repost, modify or translate my works.

refseek.com

www.worldcat.org/

link.springer.com

http://bioline.org.br/

repec.org

science.gov

pdfdrive.com

heart eyes.

Ramen

“baby, i have some bad news.”

if it weren’t for the goofy smile on kuroo’s face, you’d be a little more concerned by his words.

he’s waiting at the bottom of the stairs—all dolled up in his white dress shirt and black trousers. his interview with the jva is in about an hour’s time, so of course you dragged yourself out of bed to see him off—for good luck and whatnot.

“ugh you’re right, that tie does not match,” you grin, wrapping your blanket around yourself as you stroll down the remaining steps. his tie is solid black, but you thought a joke would do him some good—that, and you just wanted to see the priceless look on his face.

“first of all, ouch.” he clutches his heart with his right hand, feigning hurt as he passes you the coffee mug from his left. “and second of all, it’s pouring out.”

“so? you’re not made of sugar,” you hum, slowly shuffling into the kitchen as you sip at the hot beverage. he trails not far behind, stopping beside you as you watch the droplets stream down the window.

“i mean, i am pretty sweet,” he grins, slinging an arm around your shoulder and pulling you close.

“i think it’s pronounced lame,” you laugh. he peers down at you, and you can see the indent in his cheek from him biting down on the flesh—because heaven forbid you make him laugh.

he drops his arm from your shoulders, and swipes the coffee right out from under your nose. leaning against the counter, he tilts the cup back and downs the entire thing, finishing with an extra obnoxious ahh.

“as i was saying,” he pauses, sliding the empty mug onto the counter with a satisfied smirk. “you’ve seen my hair when it’s wet—totally not professional.”

“right, because your hair is so professional to begin with,” you respond, choking back a laugh of your own.

“hey, business in the front.” he smoothes a hand over his fringe before spinning on his heels and ruffling the locks at the rear of his head. “party in the back.”

“did you put that on your resume?” you ask, smiling as you watch him reach for a new coffee pod. he presses a few buttons, and within seconds you have a brand new cup brewing.

“yeah, i did.” he plants his hands on your hips, caging you between himself and the counter. “right under the paragraph about how sweet i am.”

he kisses you, and it’s innocent—no ulterior motives in sight. that is, until you pull him back in by his tie. you knew what you were doing, lighting that fire under his ass. now he’s overwhelming. the way he’s wedging his knee between your legs, taunting you with his little gasps that spill into your mouth—it’s making your head spin.

“how long do we have?” you breathe out, the urge to give him a little more than luck becoming all consuming.

he glances down, squinting to make out the tiny hands on his wrist. twelve minutes until he has to leave—more than enough time. he grips the back of your thighs, guiding you up onto the marble surface. the blanket that once hugged your figure is now discarded onto the floor, and now the warmth comes from his hands as they begin to wonder.

it’s the two of you versus the clock, and he’s not thinking with his head anymore—not that he usually does. he presses himself against you with force, and you have to plant your hands on the countertop for balance. but, it feels rather wet, and hot—and now the scorching cup of coffee that was waiting for you is settling into the fabric of kuroo’s dress pants. don’t get him wrong, he was all for making a mess, just not this kind.

“tetsu i,” you gasp, eyes widening as he pulls back with a hiss. the stain forming on his pants is practically invisible due to the dark material, but unfortunately for him—the splash zone wasn’t limited to just his lower half. “i have some bad news.”

In case you didn’t know, I’m in love with Osamu Miya.

But I’m especially in love with the idea that Osamu Miya can, and does, look good doing absolutely anything. Be it from folding your laundry (seriously, he knows how to fold a bed sheet? God tier.) to tying a tie around his neck for a business meeting, even drying his hair from a shower is an absolute joy to witness him do, and your eyes merely glaze and follow his frame as he performs these tasks with you to only watch.

And boy, do you indeed love to watch him.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” He snickers, his eyes fixating on yours through the mirror, massive paw carding back his now brushed, albeit still damp hair. You offer him a shrug and a smile, “just you… I’m always looking at you.”

When he bows his head to hide the blush and the smile that wants to spread over his face, he’s interrupted by your dramatic sigh, “can’t help but think how I could do so. Much. Better.”

His eyes, now glimmering with mischief, meet yours back in the mirror, and he gives you a sharp, overdone inhale through his nose before stalking towards you. “Is that right?” He hums, planting himself at the edge of the bed and biting his cheek. “Seven years together and you’ve had to live with that knowledge every day?” Before you can answer, a massive hand darts down to wrap around your ankle and drag you down the bed and have him stood between your legs, ignoring your screams and laughter of protest. “How have you ever lived such a life?”

“Osamu!” You scream, your legs tossing around his waist instinctively while his now free hands lace his fingers between yours before pinning them on either side of your head. You try to tug your arms down, but he’s got them exactly where he wants them, and he’s not letting them go.

“You poor, poor thing, didn’t your friends warn you about that before we got together?” He peppers your neck and ears with bites and kisses to make you squeak and laugh at the ticklish feeling, your heels drumming against his lower back. “S-Stoppit!” You scold as sternly as you can despite your laughter.

“Oh, what, don’t want some absolute ogre so close to you?” He playfully starts to slam his hips upwards to bounce into yours, mimicking an all too familiar action and causing your body to bounce and shift upwards. Each slam of his hips against yours only makes a louder scream tumble past your lips, and your legs tighten around him. The bed creaks under you both, his mock thrusts showing a playful side of ‘Samu you’d always crave.

“O-Sam-u!” You laugh with each jounce of your frame. You finally tug your hands free and shove him back with all your might when he uses one of his newly free hands to skitter over your ribs. “I-I-I’m sorry!” You whine, arching as much as you can against his tickling and thrusting hips.

“For calling me ugly, or for insinuating you could do better?” He says, but his voice holds no annoyance or sadness, instead, it’s mingled with a smile that plants sweet kisses to your jawline once he stops his merciless punishment.

“You’re not ugly,” you sigh happily at the feeling of his lips over your skin, your arms tossing around his neck when you deem him pliant. “I just hate how handsome you are- gotta knock you down a peg once in a while.”

“And that seemed to work awesome for ya.” He snickers against your skin before wrapping his own arms around you, worming them between your body and the mattress to hold you impossibly closer.

“But hey… must be pretty handsome if I was able to score you, babe.”

You smile and scratch lovingly at his undercut, “must be.”

more dad fan art w toji and megumi 🤍

kuroo never understood the big deal about kissing. sure, he enjoyed the few kisses he’s shared throughout his life but it wasn’t something he ever craved. the way his friends would go on and on about how kissing their significant other was intoxicating and they could never get enough just didn’t sit right with him. was there something wrong with him? why didn’t he feel the same way as his peers did?

that all changed the day he first kissed you. suddenly, he understood what his friends were talking about. anytime kuroo saw you, he wanted his lips pressed against yours, stealing your breath away from you in hopes of becoming your new source of energy. he needed to hear the cute sounds that escaped your pretty mouth, the sweet taste of whatever chapstick you had put on that morning. he wanted to be consumed by you, kiss you until he didn’t have a breath left in his body and then kiss you a little more. he was a man obsessed and your lips were the only source for his sanity. he couldn’t help himself, it felt like coming home.

good things will happen 🧿

things that are meant to be will fall into place 🧿

i live for awkward/dorky!! kuroo so this is my name suggestion!!! no pressure at all tho choose who u want to write for!!!!

(in response to this prompt)

you manage a shuddery inhale, arm thrown over your eyes as your lover kisses his way down your chest. kuroo’s fingers brush gently against your ticklish sides, making you squirm while a giggle bubbles behind your parted lips.

he sighs against your stomach, warm breath raising goosebumps on your skin, and you shiver at the closeness, the intimacy of it all. on this quiet saturday afternoon where all was still and quiet, save for the soft hum of the AC and the smack of your lover’s lips against your skin, there was nothing more you could want. 

“tetsuro,” you sigh, scraping your nails up his back to tug on his hair impatiently. “hurry up.”

“patience, babe.” he kisses your stomach once, twice, then follows his kisses with a flurry of soft smooches down to where you want him the most…

…making a quick pit stop along the way to lick at your belly button. 

like a strike of lighting, your reflexes quite literally kick in—and before you could even breathe or think, you’re squirming and kneeing kuroo in the gut with all your strength. 

“fuck, sweetheart, ow— could’ve just told me you didn’t like that,” he wheezes breathlessly, curled up in a ball at the end of the bed clutching his middle. 

your jaw dropped the moment you realised what happened. 

“sorry, tetsu!” you cry, crawling forward on all fours to stroke his back. “i wasn’t expecting that, didn’t know i was ticklish there. you okay, baby?”

“no, not at all!” kuroo whined dramatically. “you gotta kiss it better.” he rolls onto his back, the saddest puppy pout you’ve ever seen plastered across his face, and points at his rib where a soft, muted red was starting to bloom across his skin. 

you abide by his request, scooting down to press a kiss to his sore spot. kuroo whines again when you lift your head to look at him, long fingers threading through your hair to push your head back down to his navel. “again,” he orders with a loud, exaggerated sniffle.

“how demanding,” you laugh into his tummy, but appease him anyway with a flurry of soft smooches. “there we go. all good now.” you declare, pulling back to look at kuroo. 

“i dunno, babe. still hurts a little,” he mumbles in a small, hurt voice; his pout now eased into a smug little grin that doesn’t match his words in the slightest. and with his arms crossed above his head, biceps flexing and pecs on full display, you’re finding it incredibly hard to resist him and his peculiar plea for affection.

“tetsuro, you’re just— you’re extorting kisses from me now,” you giggle. you lean down and press a series of quick pecks to his navel once more, pausing to blow a wet raspberry next to his belly button which makes him yelp.

kuroo tugs you up his chest to face you properly, shooting you a dirty look though his cheeks were notably red from laughter. then he kisses the side of your head, all tender and sweet, and you knew you were forgiven.

“sorry i kicked you,” you whisper. “it was an accident.”

“sorry i licked your belly button.” kuroo replies with a laugh. “was just trying to be sexy.”

a/n: and then they fucked, watched animal planet while eating ice cream, and napped the afternoon away. the end thank you for reading

(masterlist)

“red or blue?” kuroo holds out two ties in front of you, his dress shirt sleeves rolled out to his elbows and you avert your gaze to ignore the lazy smile he has on.

“blue dulls out your eyes,” you say, voice flat as you turn your back away from him.

you grin, “if you wear the red you might seduce Hinata enough to recruit him.”

“oya,” he hums, taking a step closer towards you, ignoring the fact that you’re still trying to shuffle away. “you’re not mad at me anymore?”

you roll your eyes. it’s been a few weeks since he left your anniversary dinner early to pick bokuto up from the airport, and honestly, your anger’s flamed out a bit dull now, but of course, that doesn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy him striving for your affection for just a little bit more.

you turn to face him, ignoring how his grin widens and you push his hand away.

you take the red tie in your hands, glaring as you stare at his face and he relaxes in your touch as you bring the fabric around his neck.

you’ve never seen him actually fix his tie perfectly before— no, it’s always been you behind the beauty of those knots, and by the way you see partial relief in his eyes, you know he knows this too.

“i’m mad at my husband,” you tell him, focusing more on looping the red fabric in your hands than the way he's trudging to bring his face closer to yours.

you sigh, “but if the head of JVA asks me which tie makes his eyes pop then i’m obviously going to help him in that.”

“the head of JVA is lame,” kuroo pouts, his hand pushing yours away for a second and brings your face to look up to his.

he tells you, softness in his voice, “your husband misses you.”

you push him off, “whatever.”

ignoring his groans, you leave the room. the soft placing of your steps indulging in the annoyed muttering of your name.

you call out with a concealed grin, “i’m going to shower.”

it doesn’t take long for kuroo to come to where you stood, his grin lazy and inviting — like the ones he’d give you every time he insisted on paying for dinner.

there’s a towel thrown over his shoulder. disregarding the fact that he’s already dressed and ready for work, he stands over you.

his eyes sly as he says, “what a coincidence, i’m going to shower too.”

“nope.” you snort, pushing past him. “nice try though.”

he groans, throwing his head back and he looks to you, pleading, “it’s been three weeks.”

you smile. the first one all day. “too bad, but i am still mad at my husband.”

“screw him,” kuroo’s quick with his words, his words entangled with a string of laughter, and he inches closer to you, “sleep with the head of JVA instead, he’s wearing a stunning red tie— i heard it makes his eyes pop.”

you laugh. the one that you only had reserved for his annoying jokes, and you don’t notice it but there’s only fondness in his eyes as he stares at you.

he missed you so much.

omg ur iwa love language *chef kiss* so good! could u do bf head cannons for him like suga? i would loveeee to know ur thots!

tysm !!! of course <3

NSFW CONTENT MINORS DNI

college bf vibes!! the cute boy you see in the library a couple times and play a game of ‘who can catch each other staring first’ with. you don’t really think it’ll go anywhere— his face is stony as he works, not just concentrated, but his brows are furrowed together in a frown and you’re honestly terrified to talk to him. but one day he trails after you as you leave and asks you if you’re free to get lunch and obviously you say yes because he’s super tall and handsome and pretty and he’s flashing you a cocky smile that you don’t expect

he’s intimidating at first, has this confidence about him that kinda makes you shrink. but one time you accidentally tease him and immediately regret it because it’s borderline an insult… until he responds with something equally as ‘mean’ and you realise he can take some teasing

i’m trying to say he flirts by making fun of you. and it’s even better because you can reciprocate it just as well

your relationship is mostly casual. you don’t say it out loud but he’s just a college boyfriend. one you stay up til 4am texting and steal clothes from and have picnic dates with on campus. you go to some parties together, he takes care of you when you get way too wasted. dating him is fun, but it’s not really an ‘i can’t see myself without you in my life or in my future’ relationship

…until iwaizumi falls. he’s over at your apartment for a date one evening. you’d cooked a pizza from scratch together, giggling as you threw on way too many toppings for it to turn out in any way consumable, then fell asleep on his chest before you could eat it. peering down at you as you slept was the greatest mistake he had ever made. oh shit, he thinks and his body is warm and his heart and stomach are all tingly and it hits him— he’s a goner.

it’s not long before you’re meeting one another’s family, taking vacations together, looking at apartments, having long conversations about getting a cat. in the blink of an eye iwaizumi goes from just another boyfriend of yours to the love of your life

he’s very much a ‘start the day at 7am to go on a run’ guy, but sometimes you can convince him to stay in bed with you. also the best thing about waking up two hours after him is that you always wake up to breakfast

i don’t think he has an extremely high sex drive but when he fucks you he puts his soul into it. eats you out like he’s been starving for years, grasps your tits like they’re a lifeline, thrusts his cock in and out of you like it’s the last chance he’ll ever have to get his dick wet

brat tamer no doubt. he has no trouble keeping you in check, always full of quips that make you back down when you get too mouthy. he’s not afraid to tell you off in front of other people, either. “stop being such a brat,” he scolds when you get a little too close to oikawa. “but it was an accident!” you insist, but he knows damn well it wasn’t

loves shoving his cock down your throat n facefucking you with no mercy <3 he calls you his pretty girl when your mascara leaves black tracks down your cheeks

spits in your mouth after he eats you out because he asks if you want a taste and you say yes

wraps his hand around your throat when he kisses you from behind

talked abt this more here but he’s always giving you massages and helping you do stretches because he wants you to be healthy <3 he’s so sweet and caring <3 it’s definitely not because he can split you in half on his cock when he helps you get more flexible <3

blows your back out and then gives you a massage to make up for it

…he gets jealous easily and will make sure people know you’re his girl. hand on your ass or your thigh at all times, the love bites on your neck on full display, whispers in your ear when he knows people are looking. he just can’t help it, he doesn’t wanna share you :(

you don’t wanna share him either. how could you possibly share your six foot, beefy, broody (sometimes), smart, athletic sweetheart of a boyfriend with anyone?

iwaizumi shouldn’t have drank last night.

he knows that, you know that, and now, as you walk into your class full of freshmen, you’re pretty sure that they all know that too. if it weren’t obvious by the way he squinted and groaned at the fluorescent lights as you crossed into the classroom, you’re sure that the venti cold brew coffee (no milk, no sugar, just cold brew), the slightly oversized, gray uci volleyball sweatshirt, and the scowl on his face would certainly give it away.

about half the class is there, and they quickly devolve into little whispers as you follow after him, your own set of little giveaways to the fact that neither of you should’ve been drinking last night—knowing damn well that every friday you have an 11am to teach.

you both sit at the front of the classroom, and iwaizumi presses his head into his hands, letting a little groan slip out as you take another sip of your own coffee, trying to let your eyes adjust to the lights.

another gaggle of students walks into the room, laughter piercing the air as well as your ears. you watch as iwaizumi scrunches his eyes together, takes a sip of his coffee, and then goes back to his head in his hands.

there’s a little whisper of is he okay? from somewhere in the back of the classroom, and if you had been a little more sober last night, you’d probably respond with a teasing no. when you woke up this morning to the sound of your alarm, he’d tossed and turned until he found your phone, turning it off before stuffing his head back into your pillows, one arm lazily wrapped around your waist.

and then he did it again. and again. and then once more, until it was 10:15 and if you didn’t leave in the next ten minutes, there was no way you’d be able to make it to starbucks before class. and good lord, you were not going to allow that to happen.

so no, the short answer is that iwaizumi is not at all okay. so you stand up from where you sit at the desk and, despite how dizzy you are, get up to turn off the lights.

“we’re trying something new today, guys,” you start, feeling a little better now that those damn lights aren’t pressing into your skull. “i read somewhere that overhead lights aren’t conducive to learning or- something,” you wave your hand in front of you as you speak, slowly making your way back to your seat, “so, just say that if anyone asks.”

iwaizumi huffs out a little laughter from beside you, hardly more than a rush of air through his hands and the sudden movement of his chest. the rest of the class walks into the room, each one gesturing vaguely at the lights above before the other students shrug and rattle off some poor repetition of your own explanation.

you settle back into your chair, your cheek resting in one of your palms while the other hand swirls your coffee. iwaizumi gives you a look at the sound of the ice rattling, and you narrow your eyes at him, taking a sip rather indignantly to remind him that he’s the one who dragged the two of you to that damn party.

one of your freshman, the one who sits at the front and was always the least intimidated by the tattoo that crawled up iwaizumi’s arm and the scar that rested in his brow, laughs, and then raises a hand. you nod, and then he smirks, leaned back in that freshly-eighteen kind of confidence.

“you guys enjoy the sigep party last night?”

iwaizumi coughs, which sends you into a little fit of quiet laughter, and he nudges your leg with his own in an attempt to get you to shut up.

“no,” iwaizumi replies, all furrowed brows and drawn in breaths. everyone that knows him would know that he’s lying, and these freshman aren’t exactly an exception to that. “no, we don’t go to those.”

he takes another sip of his coffee, winces at the sudden movement, and then fixes his face while the class once again devolves into whispers—only this time mixed with quiet laughter. part of you is praying that none of them were at the sigep party. though most of last night is a bit of a haze, you know well enough that your lovely boyfriend gets terribly touchy after a few drinks, and you’re not exactly one to stop him past that point. so should any of your lovely, annoying, and terribly stupid freshman choose to witness that-

well, you’re not exactly sure you’ll ever gain back the respect you had at the beginning of the semester, that’s for sure.

“so,” you begin after another sip of your coffee, “get out your discussion questions.”

there’s a little collective groan from the class, and iwaizumi brings up a hand with narrowed eyes, bringing a finger to his lips to tell them all to be a little quieter.

if everything else hadn’t given it away, you think that was the nail in the coffin. but then he leans closer to you, tempting a whisper past his lips while they all rustle around in their backpacks for their notebooks and a pen.

“think they know?” he asks, and you know it’s all teasing—there’s a lilt in his voice that wasn’t there this morning (which, you’ll thank the half a cold brew he’s already drank for), and a smile pricks at his lips that makes you want to kiss him right there.

you don’t, because dear god these freshmen are ruthless, and if you give them one more thing to bully you for, you think you’ll both end up dead.

“no,” you reply, “they’re clueless.”

reblogs and interaction are super appreciated! ❤︎

atsumu goes to onigiri miya with msby and the team cant decide on what to pick so theyre asking tsumu abt the things on the menu and atsumu goes "what do i look like, the chef?" and hinata goes actually yeah youre identical twins

WAIT I KNOW WE ALL LOVE GIRL DAD SUNA…… but imagine suna with a little boy 😞😞😞 little suna that shares everything with his dad….. from the same eyes to personality 😞😞 you come home from work one day and the two are just sprawled on the couch watching recordings of volleyball games with the same deadpan expression while suki runs around in her little tutu and tiara offering them tea LOL 😞😞 THEY HAVE THE SAME POUTY EXPRESSION WHEN THEY FIGHT FOR CUDDLES FROM YOU !!!

please suna with a little boy who looks and acts exactly like him. who was probably the quietest baby ever and is probably the opposite of his sister. who people often see napping on your shoulder during late night, post-game interviews. who, like his father, you'll come home to find watching paw patrol while wearing a spare tutu and sipping apple juice out of a teacup bcs he can't say no to his big sister's shenanigans.

and if suki is a daddy's girl, then this one is a mama's boy for sure. the one who crawls into your bed and squishes himself between the both of you in the middle of the night, stepping on rin's face in the process. who rin has definitely given the side eye for taking up all the cuddle time while suki is at school (and gets the side eye right back)

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.