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vongaught · 8 days

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Snapshots

Summary: Osamu asks you during an interview where you see yourself in five years. It’s everything you’ve wanted and so much more.

Word count: 1.9k

Genre: fluff; coworkers to friends to lovers; Osamu is reader’s boss for a moment but there’s no power dynamics; self-indulgent

A/n: my midnight meltdown in just a little under 2k words; now i can hopefully study in peace; p.s. osamu i love you

“So where do ya see yaself in five years?”

The question comes by no surprise, and you pull down the sleeves of your blazer to cover the lower half of your palms, fearing the imprint of sweat you might leave on the table.

An apartment sounds nice. One with flowing curtains and a permanent scent of jasmine. You’d love to own a bike by then too so that you can ride around on your day off. Attach a basket and then you can do all your groceries and exercise at the same time. Hopefully you’d end up with a sound sleeping schedule independent of caffeine. If it’s not too much to ask.

“Content,” you surprise yourself and your interviewer it seems. It’s not the answer you rehearsed but it’s an honest one. You look at your hopeful new boss and there’s something about his gaze, an understanding that blooms solidarity, that brings you peace. His gray eyes soften when they meet yours, sure to assuage whatever nerves you’re revealing, but this is the most sure you’ve been in the span of the thirty minutes. “Content and hopefully paving my way to be happy.”

He smiles. You watch him jot a quick note. The pen scribbles with a final flourish and he looks back at you.

“I like that.”

Osamu’s an amazing boss, but he’s not perfect.

“Samu,” you whine into his office once the lunch rush dies down. He lifts his head up and at the sight of you, his hand immediately rushes to file through his unruly hair.

“What’s up?” he asks after a sigh, facing defeat as he places the Onigiri Miya hat on his head.

You display the schedule he just posted on his desk, “you have me working Friday night again. I requested the day off, remember?”

“Oh shit,” he says though it hardly sounds sorry.

“I have a date, remember?” You’re busy pointing at his calendar to witness the way he rolls his eyes, “I even wrote it down here.”

“What are ya doing writing down on my calendar with my pens?” He pulls one out to brandish it right at your face. You slap his hand away but he simply points at the sticker pasted on its edge, “says Samu right here. Means these pens are mine.”

“Oh congratulations, you can read your name but you can’t read my little note? What are you? Five?”

“Think the answer to that one is ya boss.” He looks a little too pleased with himself that you can’t help but laugh. It’s always been hard to stay mad at him, especially with the way he teases you whenever you ask him to get the backup takeout containers you can never reach and how he never says anything when you take an extra two minutes of break on your rough days. He’s even driven you home a couple of times when the rain gets bad. So what if he sometimes forgets a couple of things? You’re lucky enough to have a boss like him.

“Fine, I’ll reschedule.”

“I owe ya one.”

He happens to accumulate a lot of favors in your three years of working at Onigiri Miya. From staying a little extra to coming in when someone calls out sick but even then, you’re indebted to him.

You fold your apron up in a methodical practice one last time and you walk out the door with arms full of gifts and flowers to celebrate the new chapter in your life. Osamu locks the door while he holds your balloons and you laugh at the sight.

“You look silly,” you explain when he turns around. He eyes the bundle of goods overflowing in your hold, cards and bears and flowers and the leftovers of a shared cake.

“Ya do, too.”

“You’re just jealous they love me more than they love you.”

“Not jealous,” Osamu immediately says and you find yourself speechless. You expected the banter that’s become effortless, the mild flirting that’s harmless at its core. Teasing is just a sign of platonic affection and you’ve already agonized over it, analyzed how he interacts with you in comparison with the others, and you’ve found no difference.

“Ya deserve every bit of it,” he cocks his side to the side and unlocks his passenger door. Then he throws the balloon into the backseat before plucking some items from your hands. “Come on, I’ll drop ya home.”

It’s not a question but even if it was, you know your answer.

When he gets to your door, he places the car in park. You look over the console and find him ruffling his hair again. His palm frisks through, grabbing the longer pieces and then letting them fall in a wave.

The reflection of moonlight shines a silver gleam in his eyes. You go to grab your things. He helps.

“Thank you, Osamu,” you say but the words can’t seem to bear the weight you want them to. He’s given you so much, this job, this family, the bike you’d been saving up for. He’d been your boss and your friend and he’s taught you more than just knife skills or to always keep a towel in your back pocket. But with your things all piled into your arms, and his engine flipping over into an eager hum, your apartment light buzzes on, waiting for you. So you leave it at that because at the very core, it is still gratitude.

“Hey,” he calls once you get one foot out. You turn, albeit ungracefully. His head tilts, opens his mouth only to lick his lips, presses them between his teeth, and then he gathers a breath. “Are ya content?”

You smile because the question comes by no surprise.

“Yes.”

“On ya way to being happy?”

“Yes.”

He smiles back the same way he did then, “good. Keep in touch, will ya?”

The promise is easy with your new job only a couple blocks down. You bike your way to work so you have more time for lunch. You’re greeted with an uproar. The cashier hugs you over the counter and the busser bumps hips as he passes by. You’re busy talking about your first week at the new job that by the time Osamu ducks his way past the cloth partition, you still haven’t ordered.

“Look who missed us,” Osamu beams, “ya can’t stay away, can ya? I’ve got an extra apron in the back.”

“Yeah right. I’m ready to be treated with first class service.”

You sit at the bar right in front of him, cashier and busser out of your mind because he’s who you actually came for. His hands spread out on the wooden top and the sight before you, something so familiar, is novel from this point of view.

You get to witness the way his hands curl around the edge of the bar, the inner skin of his arms displayed in a way that’s enticing. You want to touch but before you can act, he starts making your order unprompted.

“They treating ya right over there?” He asks offhandedly, eyes on the ball he forms between his palms.

You sway in your seat, “yeah.”

“Ya happy?” He makes sure to meet your gaze when he asks the question. He even stalls his movements, focusing all his attention on you.

“Not as happy as I was here,” ducking your eyes low when his stare becomes too intense, you play with your straw, “but we’ll get there.”

“Good.”

He offers you a plate of your usual. One bite brings you home and with the sight of your smile, Osamu turns his back to you. He rustles around, probably packaging some to-go orders while still keeping you company. You’re halfway through your meal when he speaks up again.

“They give ya Friday nights off?”

You laugh, “yeah, unlike you.”

A breeze riles you up momentarily. You groan, clutching up the meager sheets within your reach and you curl into them. A palm lands on your shoulder familiar in warmth and in size. You hum even when it tries to shake you awake because comfort is all that you find.

“Time to get up,” a voice says in your ear, “I’ve got ya tea for ya.”

So you wake.

To the sound of rustling curtains, ones permanently scented by jasmine.

He rides over a pothole the same time you’re gulping water.

“Osamu!” you sputter. You whip your wrist to rid yourself of the excess liquid but little can be done to salvage your drenched shirt. “Look what you did!”

“Oh shit,” he says but he hardly sounds sorry. He takes a glance every couple of seconds, a muffled laughter escaping every time he does.

“It’s not funny. I could have died.”

“Would have saved ya. No worries.”

You roll your eyes and snatch the towel he likes to keep around his shoulders to clean up your mess, “doubt it.”

“Would have. Besides,” he taps at your chest, “I like the view.”

“You’re driving!”

“Maybe we should switch?”

“Osamu, smile!” He stares right at the camera, a blank expression on his face and holds up a peace sign in front of a backdrop of the Northern Mariana Islands.

You look at the end result, disappointed, “really? You don’t even look like you’re enjoying vacation.”

“Yeah I do,” he double taps your screen to zoom in on his face, “my eyes obviously look cheery.”

“Are you even happy?”

The question makes him serious. He takes your hand in his and pulls you in, “course I am.” Then with his other hand, he grabs your phone and flips to your front camera, “let’s take a shit ton of photos and make Tsumu jealous.”

He holds the circular button down and it bursts. As you rifle through, you notice that next to you, he is smiling.

Osamu picks up a stray stick. He breaks it in half, then in half again. Then he throws the pieces one by one over the hilltop. When he’s done, he slides over the plates and basket that keep you away from him until he can weasel his way into your lap. Hands fall to his hair. You ruffle the strands, pulling the long edges up so they can softly fall back.

“You know,” you start, now tracing the edge of his ear. He twitches so your finger retreats to his temple, swirling a circle then jotting a line down to his jaw, “I’ve never asked you. Where do you see yourself in five years?”

“Interviewing me?”

You respond coy as ever, “maybe.”

“What position?”

“Whatever’s open.”

He closes his eyes and envisions it. Snapshots of a future. A marriage sounds nice. So does a house near Ma’s. Family dinners no longer have to be so disjointed and he can actually have a spare room for Tsumu finally though sometimes his brother deserves the couch. Maybe a new car too that doesn’t struggle uphill and can hold the weight of more than two people. He likes the idea of another food truck but only if you’re willing. He’s not as greedy as he once was.

Osamu looks up at you and the answer is obvious.

“Happy,” the skyline view from the hilltop is beautiful, but the two of you are more entranced by each other’s gazes. “Always happy.”

You smile.

“I like that.”

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vongaught · 8 days

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what are some of ur fav samu headcanons bae

WELL DONT MIND IF I TELL YOU-

Osamu pretty much likes every food on the planet, but when he finds the rare one that makes him sick, it’s absolutely hilarious watching him choke it down in a dish, or if you’ve made it, the way he picks around it childishly

He also hates horror movies, because when he was but a wee baby, his dad just so happened to be watching The Grudge with one of his friends; osamu was a wreck after, so much so even Tsumu was nice to him. When the season calls however, he can watch them.

He’s so big. SO big and bulky I’m so obsessed with him. Boy built so good I’m frothing at the teeth. He has to bend slightly under some doorframes and he grunts as he folds himself in cars. I’m gonna die. I love him. He’s so squishy god I’m gonna cry

I think he’s the menace in the relationship. HES the biter. HES the clingy one. HES the one who tries to climb into your skin, but he’s so cute and yummy that you’re more than happy to encourage it.

He’s a biter. Bitey boy. Feel free to read this here because this is an actual interaction between you, he told me himself. He just likes to bite you up and get all the little cute aggression out.

Osamu loves to sleep. He’s so tired, let the poor boy sleep. He could sleep for hours straight if his own body alarm would let him, but every now and again, he lets his internal alarm stay off and he just. Sleeps. On his pretty tummy, hair a mess and cheeks a lil flushed from the warmth of sleep.

He smells so good it hurts. I feel like he does splurge on cologne and soaps because when he has a conference or gala, he just wants to be so lush and bold that a nice Tom Ford Ombré Leather does just the trick. He also just. Doesn’t want to smell like food, and he just does what he can to smell sweet and clean.

I just.

JDBDISNSOSNSOD.

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vongaught · 8 days

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𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐙𝐘

≡ miya osamu x reader

↳ you think he hasn’t figured you out, rather he thinks he’s got you almost figured out. but one things for sure, is that... he is in fact crazy for you.

tw/cw: nothing !! just fluffy lovely ‘samu and food ˃ᴗ˂

✉ : this is a re-edit !! i changed somethings about this fic from before heh but i love this man. I truly believe he'll be such an acts of service type of lover and he'll love sooooo well sighhh but i hope you enjoy !!

“Babe, you sure don’t want anything? ‘m gonna place in my order right now.”

Leaning against the ledge of the door, looking casual and comfortable, with nothing but a loose fitting shirt that still outlined his toned chests with his arms crossed with a pair of gray sweats, despite the comfortable leisure Osamu still looked good — perfect, exquisite, charming, handsome.

Though he would never understand, nor will he ever see it for himself, why your eyes would scan his body for a couple seconds before giving him an answer.

Why your hands would linger around his waists, where the soft padding of your fingers would teasingly graze inside his shirt, just at the waistband, whenever he donned on these simple gray sweats.

“Yer drooling princess,” lowly chuckling as he shook his head with a grin, “what do you want?” he questioned again.

“Hmm…” rubbing your chin, giving it some thought to appease your waiting boyfriend.

“Yea, just let me know, I’ll order.”

“you.”

“I-...” letting out a sigh, “YN, hurry.”

“I don't know why you would think I’m joking,” you teased whilst crawling over to your boyfriend, softly grunting as your knees planted into the mattress. “You, I want you,” emphasizing while making your way over, your shorts softly crawling up your thighs, pooling at your hips, showing off a plump of fat teasing at your ass and despite knowing his buttons were being pushed, you still pushed…

“... you’re so annoying,” Osamu grumbled under his breath, yet his chest leaned closer into you.

“I would like a large portion of you right now,” you stated with a hint of a tease in your voice as you firmly locked gazes with your boyfriend.

“I’m not joking, YN…” softly sighing as he pulled your shorts down, his calloused fingers accidentally brushing against the warmth of your skin, soft mutters leaving his lips unattainable to you.

And lowly groaning as your fingers held onto the string of his waistband, pulling closer to your smaller frame as your palm glid past his toned abdomen, causing him to softly growl as he quickly grabbed your wrists to stop your teasing, looking straight into your innocent eyes as you whisped your lashes, “do you want anything or not?”

Wrapping your arms around his neck, tugging his face inches close to yours, lips brushing against each other, you felt his hands immediately station at your waist, the padding of his fingers softly gripping onto your bare skin, “Why would I want anything else when my boyfriend’s been looking like a total snack?” you purred.

Slowly inching one of your hands down his back, down to his waists only to grope one of his firm cheeks, causing your boyfriend to unintentionally flinch at your flirty aggression.

“You’re a tease, you know that?” Osamu growled as he pushed his face further into yours, only for you to lean back and dodge his attempt in actually matching lips with yours.

“Then don’t be so sexy?” You cocked back, softly cupping his face in your hands and planting a kiss on his forehead, to his thickly defined eyebrows, to his beautiful set of mildly hooded eyes, to the tip of his nose, and eventually to the place he’s been craving for the most, his lips.

Smiling in between kisses but not sacrificing the fervor and passion behind the movements of his lips with yours — the knowing of each other in between the chasm of still the unknowing — Osamu smirked as he gave his last kiss before brushing the padding of his thumb against yours, cutting the thin line of saliva connecting you both,

“I’m not going to share, so don't get mad when I tell you no,” he brushed his lips against your forehead, planting a soft kiss.

“Yea yea whatever,” you brushed him off.

….

You and Osamu weren’t necessarily the type to go out for a date, both genuinely appreciating the intimacy and closeness that comes with having a leisure date at home. It was more often than not that you both would find yourself entangled in the bedsheets during the soft hues of the morning, watching a movie with a pizza or icecream in hand as you rounded down your day, doing facemasks together while he painted your nails on a normal friday evening, or him making a meal as you helped him prep every sundays.

If there was one word that could define his love, a mere adjective that could measly contain what it means to be loved by Miya Osamu would be sacrificial — without thought, without hesitance, simply embedding into his bones, that was his love.

Truly he adored, yes he splendored you with words of affirmation, covering you in his love as he gifted you with small tokens of his heart to the grand gestures he displayed on anniversaries. But in all knowing, Miya Osamu was most sacrificial.

And today, today was movie night.

Setting up the movie as he sat on the carpeted floor in front of the coffee table, with your arms around his waist, latching onto him like a koala with your cheeks squished against his firm back, your fingers softly playing with the crevice of fat on his stomach as he slouched forward, you inhaled a strong measure of his scent, his fragrance coating inside your nostrils as you further sank into this comfort.

Home, Osamu smelled like home.

The smell of sweetness that brought you excitement yet meshed with the comfort of your heart slowly beating.

The smell of rest — the type of rest where you can fall asleep and wake up feeling actually rejuvenated, energerized, and complete.

The smell of rest where nothing seems to be in your way, dare manage to cross your path, simply knowing that you were safe.

The smell that’s been deeply ingrained into your brain, the scent that comes with a euphoria of emotions and thoughts of knowing the small glimmers of love as you searched its depths for what it means to continually love, and love well.

And when he wasn’t drenched in sweat — albeit still fragrant and lovely, and mindfully sexy — after his workout or when he was coming back from work, Osamu’s scent was a mixture of a faint hue of shampoo, tenderly mixed in with the fragrance of his light cologne and his body wash. A smell you’ve grown used to over the years of being with him. A familiar smell that you now can’t live without… a smell that eases your anxious bone, yet still tenses up your core — for you to feel safe, seen, and … loved.

“You’re a pervert,” Osamu hummed as he looked straight ahead while picking out a movie, voiced unfazed as he repeatedly clicked on the remote button, where the palm of his other hand purely and mindlessly massaged your legs, humming softly as he made his way through the list of recommended movies.

Snuggling even deeper into his frame, tightening your grip onto his waist, scooting closer into his back as your legs wrapped around his front, as you brushed your nose against the soft fabric of his shirt, feeling the indents and textures of his muscular physique,

“I’m not… you just smell so good Samu, it’s your fault,” you murmured.

“Yea, sure… pervert,” chuckling as his palms softly massaged your legs, taking a short glance back at you, before refocusing to pick a movie.

….

Around thirty minutes into the movie, both settled into the couch as your legs were wrapped around his body, his fingers tapping against the plush of your thighs over his stomach, the other arm resting behind the back end of the couch with his thighs split open, feet planted to the ground. And sitting comfortably with your head laid on his chest, fingers playing with the string of his sweats, hearing the subtle beats of his heart, you heard a ring on your doorbell.

“It’s probably mine, I’ll go get it,” softly gripping on your thigh for you to move, lowly chuckling, “baby, I’ll be back soon…”

“I’ll give you one minute.”

Leaving with a gentle kiss to the crown of your forehead, he whispered, “You underestimate me,” gently pulling on your cheeks, “I’ll be back in less than that.”

Tightly bundling yourself with a blanket, feeling unmotivated to continue watching without the feeling of his deep breathing, and the small vibrations of his chest when he chuckled at a scene or when he whispered short ‘I love yous’ as he mindlessly showered your forehead with gentle kisses, pulling you even closer to his chest, cradling you in to his body.

Osamu spoiled you rotten.

Because to you, to the bone, and to his core, Osamu was love. He showed love through his action, and he mirrored love through his words. He was the one that pivoted the way for you to understand that it didn’t take much to actually love. And he made it absolutely clear that in no way or form should you be treated less than what you deserved.

You wanted more of him, more of his little snorts that at first caught you off guard but now sound loveable to your ears.

Moments when he scrunches his eyes when he laughs a bit too hard. Or when he pulls you in, gazing deep into your eyes as his face shows nothing but peace — a channel to his heart — swaying you back and forth in silence as he simply holds you in his arms.

You already missed him.

Twenty nine

Thirty

Thirty one seconds

And hearing the footsteps of his heavy bare feet, thumping as it hit the tiles of the cold floor, you knew he was coming back to you.

Thirty two

Thirty three seconds

And plopping onto the floor as he shimmied to a place of comfort right in front of you, just close enough so that you could tend your fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp as he happily ate just like always.

In thirty four seconds, he was back.

“How’d I do on time babe,” he cheekily asked.

“You failed, you took too long.”

“Yea?” Turning back to softly run his hands against your thighs, “‘m sorry,” placing a kiss to your knee cap, “I’ll do better next time," he muttered before turning away with a loose smile on his face, Osamu stationed his plate and unwrapped his meal.

“What did I miss?” he murmured while alternating his gaze from preparing his food and looking at the screen.

“I don’t know,” you muttered out, the aroma of your boyfriend’s food causing your mouth to salivate, “I didn’t pay attention,” you gulped down.

He was just about to start eating, looking so excited to indulge, just so ready to pick up a spoonful of his rice to happily chow down for the next couple of seconds thereafter…but you didn’t mean to — especially when you get a whiff of his food...well, you never purposely mean to.

You regretted not getting your own.

You always regretted not getting your own.

The moment you got a sniff of the savory fragrance of his meal as he passed by, the moment he opened the container and the whiff of heat spewed out with the droplets of hot perspiration on the sides, the moment he took a bite without even asking if you cared for some… so you waited just because… he should just know.

You knew you were being somewhat manipulative, but he’s been through this with you way too many times for him to not know.

He should know… if he loved you, then he should know, you thought.

Totally forgetting about him asking if you wanted your own plate not even an hour before, and with Osamu seemingly unaware or in what you believed as him deliberately choosing to be blissfully ignorant, you nudge him a bit with your foot to get his attention.

“Yea?” Osamu mumbled with cheeks full.

Yea? Mouth full of food, eyes innocent as he chewed, mouth jammed packed — a habit of his he’s countered since growing up fighting against his brother for the last piece — that his cheeks bulged from the content, his muffled voice ringing through your head like an annoying little echo telling you he was right, and in fact that you were wrong to say no, the guilt running deep inside your brain making your eyes twitch in anger.

‘Yea’ was all your foolish, insensitive, ignorant boyfriend had to say.

So you nudged his side again, now with a more aggressive approach.

You also knew you were being unfair, especially since he asked if you wanted anything, and it was you who thought teasing him would be more fun than giving him a proper answer. You had no one else to blame, yet the victim of your impending fury as you watched him salvage his meal as he happily enjoyed the movie was none other than Osamu.

But, he should know.

Hearing you huff and sigh, spewing out curses under your breath as you glared at his peaceful state, being deliberately loud to get his attention, and taking a sip of his water to clear out the contents in his mouth, he turned around to look at you.

Osamu already knew what’s been causing your distress, he knew it the moment you decided to be a tease.

He knew it the moment he heard your small grunts, and he heard every sliver of sweet curses you spewed from your pretty mouth.

It’s not that he played ignorant on purpose, all he wants is for you to beg a little and admit that you were wrong. It’s never his intent to ridicule you or ignore you, never in his mind to strip you from what you want — rather he would commit his all to give you everything. But if you were going to play dirty, he wasn’t going to miss out on the chance to do the same. He’s gone through this too many times with his brother, having the same DNA as his heinous twin, Osamu wasn't afraid of getting dirty — Osamu was no man to lose, nor did he understand the concept of losing.

But for you, things started to change.

So looking at you with one of his eyebrows raised, a look you knew that he knew, you gave him a little pout as your brows furrowed deep into your forehead, quietly muttering, “I hate you.”

Did you mean it? Hell no.

But did your stomach? Yes, most likely so.

Seeing that you weren’t going to let go of your pride, but unable to mask the smirk that threatened to impose on his lips, he raised his arms as he signaled you over with his chin for you to settle in between his legs.

For Osamu its not that he’ll lose for any given purpose, hell he’ll fight tooth and nail if it was any other person, its that he simply chose to lose, and most willingly so, just like the many other times he put you before himself. Because to him, that was love.

Hoping that he would be merciful to share his food with you, despite knowing it wouldn’t fulfill his hunger if he shared, you still quickly fell into his warm presence, getting ready to ask the usual, ‘one bite, please Samu?’ as you snuggled your back against his chest, ending the story with him sharing, him losing to you.

But before you could even ask, your boyfriend cut you off.

“Nope. ‘m not sharing YN… I already told ya,” with his chin on your shoulder, using his arms to wrap around your frame to get access to his utensils.

“And if I clearly remember, you were the one that said no,” and taking a bite of his food, twirling his spoon, “and said something like that I was the snack?” gulping down and taking a whisk of his water, “so here, you said you wanted me, no?”

“I hate you, you're being mean.” You glared back while pinching his thigh.

“You should know —” and before you could finish your sentence, you felt his tender yet calloused hand softly grasp your jaw, moving your face to the side as his lips met contact with your cheeks.

“I’m joking, I do know, babe… you’ll kill me if I didn’t know,” he stated while littering soft kisses, lips slowly racing to your neck, mixed in with the gentle breaths of his chuckle as he felt you slightly ease into his embrace, “Look inside the bag.”

“Huh?” you questioned, peering to the side to see something within the plastic.

“Ya still hate me or what?”

…

And... there you were happy as ever with a bit of rice sticking to the side of your inflated cheeks filled to the brim with food just like your boyfriend’s — except it was your usual dish, with sides different from his. You sat in front of the coffee table with your boyfriend close behind with his arms wrapped around you as he reached over for his food, enjoying the separate plate that he ordered just for you.

He already knew you would say no, he knew you would regret saying no, and he knew that you would get mad at him if he didn’t share even though he clearly asked if you wanted any.

To be fairly honest, at first, your tendencies confused the hell out of him. He would ponder in the shower, or during his break at work wondering what he did wrong. He would question what he did to fuck things up, and self reflect on areas that he could better himself in for you. He would hesitantly ask his friends — Atsumu when absolutely desperate — only to end up with one conclusion, that you were crazy.

But now, he knows… he’s got you almost figured out.

You weren’t crazy, just a bit stubborn. The type of stubbornness that confused him, that made him a little frustrated at first, but now is simply nothing but cute as you bickered at him with the little attitude that you gave him, chuckling whenever you would counter and threat,

“‘Samu you want to fight? I’m sure I can beat you,” you would confidently threaten whenever you were in the wrong, and didn’t want to say sorry.

“Yer cute,” he’ll respond as he pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around your frame, “we can, if you can come out of this,” he’ll threaten back with a chuckle as he tightens his grip when he feels you thrash in his arms, only for you to silently mutter a couple seconds after in defeat, “‘m sorry… ”

Yes you stressed him out at times but you never failed to leave a smile on his face at the end of it all.

Was he a masochist? He wouldn’t like to think so… but if it came to you, he would gladly bear it because to him… that was love.

So there you were, unable to notice your boyfriend’s good merits as he watched you laugh while enjoying your dish, reaching over to wipe the remnant of rice left on your lips with his softly padded thumb with a smile etched on his face.

Osamu never once regretted his decision to pursue you. Sure, dating was difficult. Loving someone imperfect was that much more challenging, but it was never a regret.

It was through events like these that made him desperately desire and yearn for a domestic life with you, where he felt the need in his core and the electricity running through his body as he thought of life completely with you. To have a family if you would allow, maybe have a dog or two he wouldn't mind, to grow old together as he dedicated himself in loving you increasingly more as each day passed. To watch your hair turn gray, to witness your plump skin start to wrinkle and beautifully crease at your eyes, to age in grace — together.

To be able to see, to be the one that makes you smile, for him to be the one that reaches over to kiss you good morning, and be the last one to tell you goodnight, that’s when he… remembers, ah, he’s just waiting for the perfect time to pop the question, that you would hopefully be merciful to his honest heart and accept his request because, in his conclusion, he is in fact truly crazy about you.

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vongaught · 10 days

Note

angst, you say?

Like, I am sorry to inform you, but when you and Osamu break up, he can no longer see or make or think about your favorite foods.

Your favorite Onigiri? Not on the menu anymore.

It’s a bizarre recipe too. One he made for you by accident, one you insisted on trying while he was testing new flavor combinations. It was a pain to make, hard to replicate, but for you, he’d do anything, absolutely anything to make you smile.

Now that you’re gone, he saves himself to consistent heartache in making it, taking it off the menu in hopes to combat the sight of you, pleading him to make it, jutting your lip out and clasping your fingers together while he looks you up and down in amusement. Now that you’re gone, he saves himself the trouble of tears stinging his eyes of the memories swirling in his head of you, sitting on the counter as he makes it at home, sneaking bites of rice from him when he’s turned around, only to act like you never did it.

It was on the menu for years. Only one person ordered it consistently. You.

So it’s completely normal why he bites his thumb nail as this damn seven year old, seemingly fresh out of a dance recital comes in, hands and chin hooked on the counter as her mother orders food, asking about her favorite onigiri no longer being served.

“Sorry, Miss, we haven’t had that on the menu in months-“

“But you’ve gotta make it!” She pouts. “I always get it after my dance recitals! It’s my favorite…”

“Yumei, don’t be rude!” Her mother scolds.

Osamu takes a deep breath in and rolls his shoulders, smiling softly at the young girl.

“Maybe I can whip one up. Just for you.” He leans slightly over the register, “but don’t tell anyone, okay?”

She gasps excitedly and bounces on the balls of her feet, squeaking out a “thanks, mister!” as her mother pays.

It kills him as he puts the order into the system for the cooks to make. It kills him as the cooks look at him like he’s got five heads, “we uh… we don’t know how to make this, Miya.”

“That’s alright,” he chokes, swallowing thickly. “Just watch the register.

“I’ll take care of it.”

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vongaught · 11 days

Text

i'm lovesick, and i'm a fool.

a/n: i just think that miya osamu

content: angst, fluff

word count: 2.1k+

[ osamu x reader ]

–––––

Osamu’s love language is acts of service.

“He’s like an old man,” Atsumu told you once, way in the beginning, when you and Osamu were still young and naïve and innocently infatuated. “If you get mad at him, he’ll try and offer you food later as an apology.”

“Does he ever actually…apologize?”

Atsumu laughed at you. “Nope. He says sorry in complete silence. That’s just how Samu is.”

It’s not as if you aren’t in love with Osamu now, because you are. Wholeheartedly, you are in love with him. You know that, and you know Osamu knows that. But sometimes, you can’t help yourself and just wonder how — how have you managed to stay in love with him despite the cons of it? How do you manage to love him indelibly, to love him in his whole entirety, when reality interrupts with the fact that there will never not be days like today?

Because today, Osamu is not speaking to you. You aren’t speaking to him either, and haven’t been since two days ago, so neither one of you are alone in refusing to act your age. Right now, you’re tied in the race to be the most petty, act the most prideful, show the most indifference to each other, and pretend like you’re not as unbothered as you both appear to be.

Frankly, you hate any day like this. You hate not speaking to Osamu, and you hate being mad at him, and you hate the chilling silence that ensues when he’s mad at you. You hate it. You hate this. You hate the silence, and you want to hate him, but god knows you can’t; you never could. You could try to say it all you want, say “I hate Osamu,” but never would you mean the words. Because Osamu is Osamu, and you love him for who he is. It’s hard to love him sometimes when you realize you can’t love him for who you wish he could be, but that’s the charm of the man himself. What he could be isn’t what you have right here with you now; what you have right here with you now is a man still in love with you despite your own shortcomings, a man who loves you even when he acts like he doesn’t because he’s upset.

You often wonder who between you and Atsumu knows your boyfriend the best. On days like today, though, you mentally forfeit the winning point, simply clenching your jaw at the loss and the fact that when Osamu walks in and lays a plate of sliced fruit next to you on the couch (you’ve claimed the living room as your territory during this cold war), he still does so without a single word.

You hate this. You absolutely hate this.

I wish this would stop.

But you’re dating Miya Osamu, and you wouldn’t be a couple if you didn’t rub off on each other’s personalities. And if there’s one thing about the Miya family that affects everyone else around them, it’s their utter instinct for competition.

So when Osamu stands there for a second longer than you both know he needs to, not saying anything but also not hiding his lingering gaze on you, you can’t help but fight back at him with the same strategy — no words, no emotions, no hint of surrender or a dent in your shield. And you think, as your heart falls and cracks inside, that when his socks shuffle against the carpet and you see him walk away in your peripheral vision because you refused to let him see your face, that for once you may have won this time.

Then you wonder if victory can even be celebrated if the cost of it feels like it’s killing you.

Please talk to me, you plead him silently in your head. You slump your shoulders that were held up stiffly in your determination to stand against him and hang your head dejectedly now, no longer stubbornly, as you let out a sigh that makes your chest ache with longing.

Please, Samu…I miss you.

You close your eyes when you feel them start to water, and you sniffle as a tear escapes down to your lips.

I miss you.

You’re so focused on holding back your crying that you don’t even notice when Osamu returns. It’s not until you feel a gentle touch on your hands in your lap and pick up the familiar warmth of his presence right under your nose that you slowly lift your head and open your eyes to find him kneeling down and looking at you.

And the way Osamu is looking at you makes your efforts all in vain, because your tears come streaming down in waves, and you dig your nails through your clothes as he rubs gentle circles along your skin. His eyes look tired, dreary, and grayer with lack of sleep. His lips are a bit dry, and the creases in his forehead and his frown lines are deeper. The realization that you haven’t seen him smile for almost half a week twists your heart in a sharp chokehold.

“…Hey.” His voice is quiet, and you barely pick up on it outside the sound of your sniffling. “Hey, baby,” he says again. When you still don’t respond, he swallows hard. “I, um…forgot to put this on the plate with your melon.” Hesitantly, as if he doesn’t want to let go of your hands, he reaches into his back pocket and brandishes a tiny white triangle of folded paper. “Here…this is for you.”

He turns your fists over and carefully unfurls your clenched fingers, then sets the paper in the palm of your hand. You look down at it and he runs his thumb across your lips, wiping away your tears. When you glance briefly back at him, he smiles sadly like it hurts him to look at you, and you think it hurts you to look at him too. You hate seeing him like this. You hate the thought that you’re the reason his expression is like that.

You sniffle again, trying to clear your sinuses because you want to talk — you want to talk to him. But your throat still holds on to its lump, dry and heavy, so all you do for now is unfold his piece of paper and start to read to yourself.

As his letter goes on, Osamu’s handwriting starts to get blurry and you realize it’s because you’re crying again. He’s never given you anything like this, after all. To your knowledge, Osamu has never been one for writing or articulation or saying what he means without one word of sarcasm or teasing or banter. But right here, by his own hand, he’s written it for you himself.

When you finish his letter, you look up with your lip trembling more than it already was.

“I’m sorry it’s not the best, baby,” he says with a half-hearted laugh, and you smile through your clouded vision. “But I hope you know I mean it. All of what I wrote down, I mean every word of it. I love you…I’m sorry.”

You shake your head at him, finally finding your voice. “I love you. And I’m sorry, too,” you say. “Thank you for this. But you didn’t have to—”

“I did. And I wanted to.” Osamu scoots closer until he can practically lay in your lap. “I know I’m not good at…words or presents or dates or timing, but….” You watch as he fumbles your hands in his, taking note of how awkward he seems but how intently he’s trying to make sense in what he wants to say. He goes on, “But I’m pretty used to showing how I feel through my actions. And before, I used to think that was enough. But it doesn’t feel like just actions are enough anymore. So I want to get better at other stuff, too. So I can show you what I mean…what I feel. In more ways than just one.”

Osamu finally gives in to the blush on his cheeks and glances away. You stare at him with nothing less than relief and simple endearment.

Because this is why you love him. Despite days like today, despite feeling like you want to hate him sometimes, despite the difficulties in your relationship and faults in communication and grudges held longer than you both know they should be, this is why you love him. Because despite every frigid beat that comes with frozen, angry silence, Osamu counters it with a push through the ice to remind you of warmth until both your hearts can thaw.

“What made you write a letter?” you ask him, squeezing his hand.

“Well, you like that love language stuff,” he answers. “And I’m pretty shit at most of those except the service one, I guess, so…bear with me.” Flustered, he looks away again when the smile on your face grows, and his eyes land on the plate beside you, fruit still lying untouched. He takes the plate and sets it on your lap. “Here, I sliced these for you.”

Amused, you take a cubed melon when he offers it up. “I know. Thank you, Samu.”

His eyes brighten and the corners of his lips pull up when you eat the melon. He nods like he’s assuring himself he did a good job, then stands and says, “I’m going out to get you flowers, and then we can—”

But he doesn’t get to finish his sentence before you’re tugging him down and stuffing a melon into his mouth. Osamu holds it between his teeth for a moment, shocked, then chews slowly, face still flushed in pink. You stifle a giggle at the rare sight of him so caught off guard.

“We can go out for flowers together later,” you tell him. “I appreciate it. But right now, can you just…stay here?” You pull on his hand, still wrapped around yours, and he finds his place to sit next to you, leaning in like a subconscious response. “I just…I missed you,” you say quietly, your heart stitching its pieces back together just by being near him, knowing you don’t have to deny yourself of wanting him anymore.

Osamu’s eyes go unblinking but narrow like he’s trying to focus on your face and take all of you in. Then he sighs and presses you into his chest, tucking your head under his chin and wrapping his arms around your waist.

“I missed you, too,” he whispers harshly into your hair, and you burrow yourself further into the comforting scent and softness of his clothes. Osamu starts slowly stroking your back, and you breathe him in like he’s flowers himself.

“For what it’s worth,” you say, “your actions are enough, you know. That’s why I was crying after you gave me the fruit.”

Osamu laughs, his chest rumbling under your ear. “Fruit was enough to make you cry?” he says.

“It was sentimental.”

“It was fruit, baby.”

“But you sliced it for me. That’s love.”

“If that’s love, it feels like I was only doing the bare minimum,” he admits, “which is why I was going to put the letter there, too.”

You mumble, “I’m framing that, by the way.”

“Please don’t.”

“Then can I hear it out loud?”

“Wha–no!”

“‘Hi, my love. It’s me, your lov—’”

“Stop it!” Osamu cuts you off with a grip on your cheeks, scrunching your lips together and bringing you against his own in a messy, frenzied kiss.

When he pulls away, you pout at him. “That’s not fair, Samu—”

“You don’t play fair, anyway.”

He kisses you once more before you can snap back. His hand falls from your face and lands on your neck, cradling you softly against him as he deepens the kiss and pulls a quiet sigh out of you. Your heart has found its pulse again by the time he lets you catch your breath, and you can only stare with lovelorn anticipation as he half-smiles, half-grimaces down at you in surrender.

“Alright, baby,” says Osamu slowly. “I’ll say it.”

And to both your elation and surprise, he unfeignedly recites the first few lines of the written words still held in your hand.

Hi, my love. It’s me, your lovesick fool.

I’m too much of the latter to say it out loud now, but I’m even more of the former that I’ll do so if you ask me to. I miss you, after all. On days like today, when we’re at our worst, remember there’s a fool here who will never not miss you.

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