#Osamu

[juicebox72664]

“What happened to not leaving?” Chuuya said aloud.

three weeks, three weeks, since he had seen Dazai, apparently he defected, he wasn’t mad about that though,

He was mad he didn’t tell him.

That he left without a word.

he was the only one he had, the only one who understood.

He got up, going to the kitchen; he needed a drink.

He turned on a random romcom, hoping it would help him take his mind go things,

It didn’t.

He ended up passing out on the couch, fast asleep, and alone.

When he woke up, there was a blanket over him, a glass of water.

He didn’t have any proof it was Dazai, nor did he plan on asking anyone.

But he knew, he did promise to not leave, and he may have lied, but he knows he still cares.

“Chuuya Is a Sore Loser” needs a special edition, Dazai thinks one day, a genius prank idea brewing in his head. He’s not gonna lie - he’s really proud of this plan. He’s the best strategist of the Port Mafia for a reason - and his talents span further than planning missions. 

Step one - install a hidden camera in Chuuya’s kitchen.

Step two - get Chuuya drunk on some shitty wine and watch him embarrass himself, every single bit of his drunken delirium caught on tape. 

Step three - send the video to everyone in the Port Mafia and have a good laugh. With the nature of the prank, he won’t even have to bother with printing the newsletter out. Saving trees AND humiliating the hat rack? 

Sounds like a perfect plan. 

Installing the camera is a piece of cake - Dazai had messed with Chuuya’s apartment so many times, that he’d probably be able to do it in the dark with his eyes closed. 

Luckily, Chuuya immediately agrees to Dazai’s proposal to come over with a bottle of wine, his text message read and answered within seconds. Silly slug - he makes it so easy. Too easy, even. 

Just to be sure the plan works out, Dazai shows up with two bottles. He knows Chuuya has a very low alcohol tolerance, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, right?

After the third glass, Chuuya’s cheeks get all red, a sure sign that he’s almost had a little bit too much. With his brows furrowed and speech slurred he already looks hilarious, but Dazai just knows it’s about to get even funnier. What is Chuuya going to do today? Dance to some obscure Eurodance music? Sing anime openings from the 90s? Tell some trashy story from his Sheep days?

Dazai has no idea and it makes him vibrate with excitement. He glances at the camera and pours some more wine into Chuuya’s glass. He takes a sip and puts the glass on the table with a loud thud. 

The show is about to start, Dazai thinks triumphantly. 

Chuuya makes a strange sound and Dazai giggles internally - seems like the Port Mafia will have the pleasure of seeing the “best” martial artist, the gravity manipulator Nakahara Chuuya throwing up all over his kitchen floor. Perfect. 

Another sound escapes Chuuya’s mouth. And another one. And another, until Dazai, to his horror, realises that Chuuya is sobbing, his shoulders jerking up and down, tears streaming down his red face as he desperately tries to wipe them away. 

“I have no one,” he wheezes through his tears. “They are all gone.”

Dazai takes another glance at the camera, immediately looking back at Chuuya. His eyes are red, his hair sticks to his wet cheeks, and the look in his eyes is eerily unnerving. It’s so raw that it looks like Chuuya can see right through him. Dazai opens his mouth but no sound leaves his mouth. What can he even say?

“I only have you, shitty Dazai,” Chuuya sobs. “You are the only person I have left. Don’t you leave me, too.”

The breakdown as well as the excessive amounts of wine seem to have drained Chuuya of the last of his energy. With his head on the kitchen table, he falls asleep, soft hiccups interrupting his even breathing. 

For a few minutes, Dazai sits still, watching Chuuya’s back go up and down, his wailing still ringing in his ears: “You are the only person I have left”.

He takes the camera and turns it off. 

Chuuya is way too heavy to be carried all the way to the bedroom, so Dazai lays him on the couch in the living room and covers him with a blanket. Tiptoeing around the kitchen, he cleans up, places a glass of water on the coffee table and quietly leaves. 

When Dazai gets home, he breaks the SD card in half. 

He doesn’t sleep that night.

The next day Chuuya doesn’t show up to work. The Port Mafia meetings are even more boring without him, and Dazai wonders if he should go and check on him. 

He doesn’t. 

Chuuya is back the following day. It’s as clear as a day that he tries his best to avoid Dazai, and when he can’t, he averts his gaze and doesn’t react to a single taunt Dazai throws at him. 

Naturally, Dazai comes to Chuuya’s apartment in the evening.

Usually, Chuuya throws something at him, or yells abuse, or kicks him down the stairs when Dazai breaks in. This time, Chuuya’s reaction makes Dazai’s blood freeze. 

“Leave me alone,” he whispers, his face full of horror and… shame?

Dazai takes a step forward.

“Leave me alone,” Chuuya stubbornly says again, stepping back. “Or I’ll beat the shit out of you.”

Unfazed by the empty threats, Dazai crosses the room and looks into Chuuya’s eyes. He can still see the flames hiding in them behind the crippling shame, and he has to admit that the raging fire looks gorgeous with icy blue, contradiction as bright as Chuuya himself. 

“Lea-”

Dazai cuts him short, wrapping his arms around Chuuya’s shoulders and pulling him close, instantly feeling the tension in Chuuya’s body disappear as he slowly raises his arms and wraps them around Dazai’s waist. 

He doesn’t know how long this moment lasts — it could be seconds. Minutes. Centuries. All he knows is that it’s more than enough time to say what he wants to say without using any words. 

Although… There is something that he’d like Chuuya to hear.  

Chuuya’s hair smells of peppermint, and when Dazai leans down to Chuuya’s ear, he thinks that it might easily become his new favourite smell.

“I’m not leaving you.”

Thank you for reading! Nezu on twt made the loveliest artwork for this little story, make sure to check it out!

[kawoala]

shortbread with osamu please?:33

🍪       ⤷ miya osamu ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

⊂ word count ; .9k (978)

⊂ content warning ; drinking 、blacking out? 、ambiguous ending 、not too many cw’s.

You never thought it would be this complicated.

 A wedding invite, a request to be Osamu’s "plus-one," and a simple agreement to fake date— nothing more, nothing less. The plan seemed foolproof: pretend to be a couple for the weekend, avoid the uncomfortable questions from family members, and leave when the weekend was over. The fake dating was over, everything would go back to normal.

But weddings have a way of bringing out emotions, and maybe that’s why, after a few too many glasses of champagne, your defenses start to slip. 

The reception was a blur of laughter, music, and clinking glasses. Osamu was his usual laid-back self, always the charming, playful guy who could talk to anyone. You’d been holding your own, pretending to enjoy the festivities, when suddenly, it was just the two of you at a quiet corner of the bar, nursing your drinks.

The conversation had shifted from the ceremony to something more personal, and you hadn’t even noticed it. You were tipsy, sure, but it wasn’t until you saw him looking at you with that mischievous glint in his eye that you realized just how close you’d gotten. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was something more, but the words slipped out before you could stop them.

"You know, I think I love you," you blurted out, a soft giggle following your confession. You didn’t even recognize the vulnerability in your voice. "I don’t know why I’m pretending. This isn’t fake for me. It’s really real." 

The silence that followed felt heavy. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, and you swore your cheeks burned bright red. Had you really just said that? 

Osamu blinked, momentarily caught off guard, his glass frozen mid-air. He didn’t seem angry, but his expression softened. A slight frown tugged at his lips as if he was trying to process your confession. But before either of you could say anything more, your vision blurred. 

The night dissolved into a haze of laughter, dancing, and more drinks than you could count. Osamu’s face seemed to flash in and out of focus, his voice soft and reassuring as he joked about something, but none of it stuck. The next thing you knew, the world went black. 

The next morning, you wake up with a headache that feels like a freight train had just barreled through your skull. You groggily open your eyes, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar room. 

Wait, Where are you?

A soft groan escapes your lips as you sit up, rubbing your temples. You’re in Osamu’s guest room, you realize. A bed that wasn’t yours, but... that’s not what’s making you panic. What makes your stomach churn is the memory of last night— or, rather, the lack of memory.

Did you really…?

The flashes of drunken confessions come rushing back in bits and pieces. Your confession. Osamu’s surprised expression. And then… nothing.

You get up shakily, praying you didn’t make a total fool of yourself. As you shuffle into the living room, Osamu is sitting on the couch, sipping what you can only assume is coffee. He looks perfectly at ease, as if nothing happened. But there’s something in his eyes— an unreadable expression— that makes you uneasy.

"Morning," he says, his tone neutral, though there’s a hint of something else beneath it.

You freeze, heart racing. Your throat tightens. You try to swallow, but the words won’t come. Instead, you opt for the one thing that feels safe.

"Uh… hey," you reply, forcing a casual tone you don’t quite believe.

He raises an eyebrow, setting his mug down with an almost deliberate slowness. “You good?” he asks, his voice almost too smooth.

You nod, but it feels wrong. Why is he looking at you like that?

“I, uh… I don’t really remember much from last night,” you admit, the words slipping out before you can stop them. The panic rises in your chest as you try to keep your voice steady. “Do you…?”

Osamu’s lips quirk upward, his usual smirk creeping into place. “Funny you mention that," he says, almost too casually. "I remember everything.”

Your heart stops. “Everything?” you repeat, your voice barely above a whisper.

He leans back on the couch, arms folded across his chest. "You sure you wanna talk about it?" His tone is teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of something else, something harder that you can't quite place. 

You swallow hard, trying to piece together the fragments of your memory. "I... I didn't say anything weird, did I?" You wince at the thought, dread filling your stomach.

Osamu’s smirk fades into something more thoughtful, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. He doesn’t answer immediately, and for a moment, you think he might let it slide. 

But then, he says, “You didn’t say anything weird, but you did say something... real.” 

Your stomach drops. “What?”

He watches you carefully, his expression neutral. “You told me you think that you love me. And that this whole fake dating thing was… well, real for you.”

Your face goes pale. You want to disappear. "Oh my God, Osamu, I—"

He raises a hand to stop you. "It's fine," he says softly, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "I just didn’t expect to hear that from you. That’s all."

You can barely meet his eyes. "I don’t even remember saying that."

“I figured you didn’t,” he says, his tone light again. "But I figured you’d want to know." He stands up, stretching. “Look, don’t stress. It’s not like I’m going to hold it against you.”

But the weight of the situation hangs in the air, thick and heavy. You realize that even if he’s acting like nothing’s changed, things have. You’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross. 

And the worst part? You don’t even know if he feels the same way.

[juicebox72664]

Yes, Dazai’s jealous

Dazai was a possessive man, especially of Chuuya, and he wasn’t even trying to hide his glare at the man talking to Chuuya.

They’d been talking for just a little too long.

Sitting just a little too close.

And touching just a little too much.

He wanted to kill the guy; but Chuuya would be mad if he blew the mission; he might make him sleep on the couch.

So he stayed where he was.

That changed very quickly.

It changed the second Chuuya looked uncomfortable.

He knew Chuuya could take care of himself.

He also knew Chuuya would do whatever it took to get the mission done.

So he marched straight over there, interjecting himself into the conversation without hesitation, covering up his distain for the man with a very fake smile; and he’s sure the man knew it was fake because he gave a similar one.

“Sorry; I really must borrow Chuuya for a moment.”

He didn’t miss the glare that Chuuya shot him; this might be the only chance they have to get the intel they needed.

That didn’t stop Dazai from forcibly pulling Chuuya away.

Once they were far enough away from the man, Chuuya pulled wrist away. “What the fuck, Osamu? I had him.” He would be yelling, but he didn’t want to attract attention.

“We can ‘have him’ another way.” Dazai remarks, his jealousy, and not to mention his hatred for the man, lacing his voice.

Chuuya crosses his arms over his chest. “I cannot believe you.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, I’m going to try to salvage this.”

Dazai grabs his wrist before he can leave, pulling his back against his chest.

“Osamu.” He says evenly. “Let go.”

Dazai hold only tightens. “I don’t want him around you.” He grumbles.

“I know.” Chuuya turns around in his hold, cupping his face. “I just need to get the information, and when we get home, you can have me all to yourself.”

Dazai groans, but relents, letting Chuuya go. “I expect your full attention.” He pouts.

Chuuya laughs and pecks his lips. “You got it.” Then he turns heel and heads back to the man that Dazai hopes he’ll be allowed to kill after the mission.

[bokutoko]

osamu didn’t really have a favorite color.

it wasn’t until he saw you after school one chilly autumn day, your face lighting up with the question, “is that jacket new, ‘samu?”

he nodded—he didn’t think too much of it when he got it for his birthday, so he surely didn’t expect anyone else to notice. “a gift from ma.”

“i like it, it’s my favorite color,” you took in his full appearance, your eyes looking him up and down, “it suits ya.” a cackle escaped you at osamu’s flustered face, only growing louder with him grumbling, “shaddup.” osamu’s biggest tell was always his accent thickening, and you knew it.

as winter came, osamu found himself wearing that same jacket to and from school every day, ignoring atsumu’s relentless “whadda simp” comments, as a part of him hoped you’d one day be chilly enough to need his coat.

and when that day came, with his jacket hugging your figure as you nuzzled in his leftover body heat, osamu found it hard to breathe.

in that moment, he realized he’d found his new favorite color—yours.

a/n: sorry osamu if reader’s favorite color is pink😔 bro’s looking like pepto-bismol.

like my work? check out my masterlist!

navigation

please do not copy, alter, or repost my work. ©bokutoko 2024.

[kitasuno]

with you, i'm first | miya osamu x reader

in which miya osamu is used to coming second to his brother. but with you, he's always first.

wc: 1113 | gn!reader | fluff

Miya Osamu is used to coming second. 

It starts with Atsumu, like most things do. October is cold and gray and Atsumu comes first, a small body with a large presence that fills the warm hospital room. His cries are loud and he’s a little underweight, but with him comes the sun. 

Atsumu is born under a partly cloudy sky but the nurses swear he was shrouded in sunlight. 

Osamu comes twelve minutes later. His parents are crying and his Ma is close to passing out. If he thinks really hard he can almost feel her warmth, Atsumu’s sobs, and a mumble of prayers that October has safely brought Atsumu and then Osamu.

He asks Grandma one day what the weather was like when he was born. She says, with confidence, it was foggy.

Atsumu doesn’t get along with his classmates. He is too loud and too rash and lacks social cues, and Osamu is angry because Stupid ‘Tsumu cares too little: and he wants everyone to know Atsumu like he knows Atsumu.

They fight and they yell and they argue until Atsumu says, 

‘Samu, I don’t care about ‘em. Why do ya care so much? 

And Osamu throws him across the room. The argument ends there, he says sorry, and Osamu lies awake that night thinking about his brother. Atsumu is hotheaded. And an idiot. A loud snorer, too. But he turns on his side and curls into a ball because he knows it was sunny when Atsumu was born and all of a sudden he really wants to be his brother. 

Atsumu dyes his hair first: it’s a shitty box dye from the pharmacy down the street, and it looks terrible. It’s a little yellow and a little neon, and Osamu laughs until his sides hurt when Atsumu shows him. 

But Atsumu is proud, and he is confident, and he goes to school with a hundred watt smile and a group of girls trailing after him. 

Osamu goes to the pharmacy that night and buys a box of gray, cloudy dye. Atsumu helps him bleach his hair under their bathroom sink with the faulty tap and tells him he looks like the moon.

His Ma says that Atsu is hot and Samu is cold after the two have a particularly bad fight. Atsumu is gleeful and smug as he gloats that he was born to be hotter and warmer and better, and Osamu punches him. 

He remembers his Ma sitting on the porch, an arm around his shoulders as he pouts. 

“‘S not fair,” Osamu had said, his chin in his palm. “Why’d ya name Tsumu that?” 

His Ma had laughed, quietly, leaning her weight into his side. And she had held his cheeks between her palms and told him with a fire in her eyes that Osamu means To Rule. 

He meets you for the first time in February. 

You were standing in front of him, a little sheepish, with a box of chocolates in your extended palms. He remembers feeling something heavy in his chest. Because, yeah, Atsumu was definitely going to accept your confession. 

You had said, IReallyLikeYou, and Here’sSomeChocolates, and Please Accept Them. 

You were shorter than him, and your hair was done nicely, and you were blushing and nervous. And you were really fucking cute. But Osamu is used to coming second, so the only thing that comes out of his mouth is, Why? And then, Tsumu’s in tha next classroom ov’r. 

He doesn’t remember what happened next, only Atsumu’s laugh and the slap echoing through the halls. You leave with his cheeks stinging and hot. And Atsumu had teased him the next day, behind his mountain of chocolates and confessions, because Osamu’s face was still red twelve hours later. 

He sees you a lot the year after. 

You’re in the same class as him and ‘Tsumu, and you smile every time you see him. You sit two rows in front of him and you’re not very good at tying your uniform. Every lunch, Osamu watches you pull out the same gray bento with a wrapped onigiri on the side. He tells you one day that he really likes onigiri. And then, Osamu watches as every lunch, you pull out the same gray bento with two wrapped onigiris on the side. 

With you, it’s always Hi Osamu, first, and then, Hullo Atsumu. With you, it’s an onigiri dropped on his desk when the lunch bell rings. With you, Osamu thinks back to a conversation with his Ma on a porch. 

Osamu means To Rule.

The menu is this: Tuna mayo on Mondays and Thursdays, Ume on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Friday is plain. You don’t ever bring onigiri for his brother. 

He asks you, on a hot night in June, what your favorite type of weather is. You had your knees tucked to your chest, a sparkler in hand, and then told him cloudy. Cold. Foggy. Winter. Snow is nice, too. You say it all with no hesitation. 

Osamu kisses you for the first time that night. 

It’s New Years and you’re cooking Ozoni on the stove. The curtains are open, it’s snowing outside, and Osamu wakes to the smell of miso and the sound of carrots on a chopping board. He gets out of bed, padding to the kitchen with half-lidded eyes and a stifled yawn, and then he thinks his heart stops when he sees you. 

Because what Miya Osamu is not used to is this: coming first and having something unequivocally his. 

But you’re bent over the counter, fiddling with the oven as you read the instructions on the back of the packaged Yakimochi you bought the other day. And you’re wearing his shirt, it falls right below your thighs, your hair is still messy from using his chest as a pillow, and you look beautiful. 

“Mornin’ ‘Samu, come help me with this.” You say, looking back at him with a smile, pointing to the fresh pot of rice on the counter. “You’re in charge of onigiri.”

He hugs you instead, his arms around your stomach with your back to him. 

“But I like yer onigiri,” He says, his chin on your head. His eyes are watering and it must be from the steam of your boiling dashi. 

“‘Samu,” You complain, giggling as he presses kisses into the crown of your head. “I made enough for ya in high school.” 

It’s cold outside and snowing, and Osamu knows he’s going to make the onigiri. 

He also knows that if his name means To Rule, he’s okay with coming second if it means you’re by his side.

[makkir0ll]

private chef! osamu x ceo!reader.

you hired him because you had little to no time to make healthy meals, living off of microwave ramen most of the time. incredibly unhealthy so you hired a private chef. you didn't see him often, only in the morning for a couple of minutes as you ate your breakfast and occasionally he would stand across the counter preparing your lunch.

you can't deny that he's cute, brown hair and big biceps that are constricted from his black compression shirt, the way his muscles are flexed every time he moves. his cooking skills are an added plus. you thank whatever angel is watching over you to give you such a hot man who can cook your meals. but obviously, you had to keep it professional but that doesn't stop you from ogling at him and he doesn't notice either so there’s no harm. (he has noticed.)

and he's not one to complain either. he particularly likes it when you come home late. hair in a messy bun, the first couple of buttons from your work shirt unbuttoned a little bit and at certain angles he can get a peek of the lacy black bra you decided to wear that day.

but his top favorite is when you come out of the shower on those late nights, dressed in your victoria secret silk pajama set, hair wet, and cheeks red from the heat of the shower. you smile softly at him as you take a bit of the dinner he cooked that night and he always falls to his knees weak at the sight of your smile rather than the usual scowl on your face due to the annoying people you have to deal with at work.

and when you fall asleep on the couch as he cleans up the dishes he freezes, he's never seen you so peaceful. would it be breaking boundaries to carry you to your bed? no he thinks, i mean you back would hurt if you slept here all night he justifies as he slowly picks you up and places you softly on your bed.

one day he will get to do that and sleep with you in his arms. but right now he had to plan out your breakfast for tommorow.

@cottonlemonade bc it’s infesting my brain

[sun4r1nnity]

miya osamu x reader drabble

osamu hates it when someone else is in the kitchen with him.

he personally thinks its a hassle and slows down the work when there are more than one person in the kitchen. whenever someone offers help, he immediately declines, insisting that he can do it on his own. one time he got super grumpy because atsumu is too stubborn to leave him alone in the kitchen and fucking up the chopped vegetables. thats why he prefers to cook alone.

you, however, he doesnt mind. not that he lets you help him though, but he needs to feel your presence in the kitchen, " 's moral support," he said. he lets you yap while hes cooking, and will give comments and reactions to your conversation. 'oh d'you know about that old lady two houses across?' , 'i think im actually good at cooking, 'm just lazy,' , 'can we go to the ramen diner some time? heard it was good,' , ''m getting fat if you keep feeding me with your cookings,' . you may be quite the conversationalist, but osamu enjoys listening to you.

miya osamu may not enjoy others in his kitchen space, but for you, he would make an exception. even if you poorly chop the ingredients or botch the sautéing by overheating, he'll let it slide.

[toastyyjams]

may i suggest girlfailure fem dazai

[iinoruu]

sweet summer🍒

[nickolashx]

Eastern Mind: The Lost Souls of Tong Nou (1994)

Eastern Mind: The Lost Souls of Tong Nou is an unnerving 1994 point-and-click adventure game by Japanese artist Osamu Sato.

Rin wakes up to find that his soul has been stolen by a living island known as Tong-Nou. In his quest to restore his soul, he reincarnates as several different creatures, fulfilling their respective lives.

[cottonlemonade]

Pancakes After Sex

warnings: suggestive, mdni

Pancakes after sex have become somewhat of a staple for you and your husband Osamu. It started off as a weird craving when you began dating. That first time it ever came up was around 2 a.m. and you lay happy and satisfied in his strong arms while he played with your hair and brought your hand to his lips. His fingertips drew lazy patterns over the soft rolls of your hips and tummy and he wished he had as much stamina as he used to in high school to go on further. You were about to drift off to sleep when his stomach growled loudly and once your giggle fit had subsided you offered a short excursion to your kitchen to see what you could scrounge up for your ever hungry caterpillar of a man. Nothing. Not even a stray expired pack of ramen in the back of your pantry.

So Osamu whipped up some pancakes since milk, flour and an egg was at least available. You leaned on the counter, laughing softly and feeding each other bites before heading to bed for a good night’s sleep.

Now you watched your husband in his grey sweats whisking the batter, letting your eyes roam appreciatively over the rippling muscles in his back, so very glad he left his shirt on the floor where you’d tossed it a few hours ago.

Osamu makes the best pancakes and he is always happy to serve you a midnight snack.

[shoyospikes]

I hope the haikyuu fandom never dies

that's all thanks for coming to my ted talk goodnight everyone

(⁠◠⁠‿⁠・⁠)⁠—⁠☆

[juicebox72664]

Sorry

It wasn’t his fault.

Or at least, that’s what Dazai tried to convince himself, trying to get the pang of guilt to go away.

Him and Chuuya had an at argument, a real argument, not a playful one; and while yes, Chuuya started it, he was the one who escalated it.

But Chuuya was being ridiculous, but maybe Dazai was ridiculous for bringing up the Albatross.

He swung his legs off the couch and rubbed his face with his hands before getting up, he made his way to their bedroom, and opened the door.

He knew Chuuya would be awake because he could rarely sleep without Dazai.

Nonetheless, in the off chance he was wrong, he quietly closed the door and made his way over to the bed.

“Chuuya?” He calls quietly, there’s no reply, so he sits in the floor, his back to the bed. “I���m sorry.”

“Fuck off.” Chuuya snaps, not turning to face him, still lying with his back facing the door.

Dazai feels a pang of guilt shoot throw him at Chuuya’s harsh tone. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.” He speaks with remorse.

“I don’t care about your apology.” He sits up, and Dazai turns to face him, his elbow resting on the bed.

Chuuya’s eyes are bloodshot, and Dazai realizes with a start that he made him cry. “What do you want?”

Chuuya glares at him, crossing his arms over his chest. “To be left alone.”

Dazai gives a tight smile, and gets up. “Okay, well, you know where to find me.”

He’s about to leave but he feels Chuuya’s hand on his wrist, and turns to look at him, a light blush coating his cheeks. “Stay.” Is all he says as he lets go of his hand, looking away.

Dazai‘s smile turns soft and genuine and he climbs into bed beside him as Chuuya lays down with his back to Dazai.

Dazai wraps his arms around him after hesitating a moment, and when Chuuya doesn’t pull away he takes it as a green light and pulls him against his chest, mumbling another, “sorry,” as he closes his eyes.

[haikyu-mp4]

Top ten anime betrayals

word count; 541 – f!reader

Atsumu opened the door, a frown permanently etched on his face ever since he found out you invited your new boyfriend over for dinner. Osamu followed right behind him, eyeing the bat you had stationed behind the door.

Apparently, your mother already met their little sister’s boyfriend while he was sneaking out of the house, and she hadn’t told the twins. And being a Miya, she invited said boyfriend over to dinner to meet the family.

On the other side of the door stood Suna, dressed up in a white shirt and jeans, the top shirt buttons left open in typical lazy fashion. Your brothers sighed, disappointed. “We can’t hang out today, Sunarin.”

Osamu’s eyebrows furrowed as he noticed the two bouquets Suna held in one hand. “You brought us flowers, man?”

“They’re not for you, dipshits.” Suna pushed past the twins with a smug smirk that turned sweet the second you came running around the corner and into his arms.

The twins gasped in perfect synchronization, Osamu covering his mouth in horror and Atsumu clutching his chest in shock. “Suna’s your boyfriend?!”

As you pulled away from the middle blocker, completely ignoring your brothers, your eyes turned to hearts as Suna handed you one of the bouquets. Adding salt to the wound, your mother also arrived on the scene and thanked Suna very much for the other bouquet.

“You’ve always been a charmer,” your mother cooed, squeezing Suna’s cheek before taking the flowers from you to ensemble everything in vases.

The twins took each of Suna’s arms when your mother was out of sight, pulling him backwards into the hallway and then their room, slamming the bedroom door shut in your face as you tried to follow.

“Is this a prank?” Osamu asked, crossing his arms and frowning.

“There is no way you’re dating our baby sister,” Atsumu added.

“She’s not a baby, she’s one year younger than us.” Suna typically slouched but did his best to straighten up and use those few extra centimetres of height to his advantage. “And I think she’s really cool. And smoking hot.”

“Obviously, she’s a Miya,” Atsumu mumbled, only to get a slap in the back of the head from his brother.

“Our mom said you were sneaking out of her room the other day, you dirty pig.” Osamu stepped closer, poking a harsh finger into Suna’s chest.

“Ouch, enough with the name-calling.” Suna sighed, whipping his phone out of his pocket and swiftly unlocking it to find his camera roll. “What we do in private is none of your business, but here-” he said and held up the phone to show the twins a picture of you and him on a date, where you smiled joyfully at the camera and Suna watched you with ridiculously sweet eyes.

The twins looked between the picture and Suna’s face suspiciously a couple of times, before turning around and whispering to each other in an attempt to reach a conclusion.

Suna rolled his eyes, taking the time to text you about what was going on and let you know he’d be out in a second, but put his phone away as the twins turned back.

“We will allow it but you’re on thin ice, Suna Rintaro.”

masterlist

[bedcchem]

been on an osamu kick recently, so i’ve been stuck on the idea of a date night with him… he makes you your favorite dish, and he buys a nice bottle of red wine for you both to share.

with that nice fuzzy feeling in your minds as you sit together on the couch, glasses in-hand, one thing led to another, and suddenly, you’re looking down at osamu on his knees, right in between your thighs. his mouth hovers over you, his tongue just barely darting out to give the wet spot on your panties the faintest kitten lick.

“‘samu,” you breathlessly chide, your mind already a mess, “don’t tease me tonight…”

his eyes shift to you from his spot between your legs, his tongue still poking out as he dares to give you another little lick. “hm?” he asks coyly, “but that’s the best part, darlin’.”

gently pulling your panties down your legs to discard on the floor, he’s staring. hard. it’s a ritual at this point—he knows he’s done this many times before, but he also knows he’ll never get tired of seeing that pretty pussy of yours…

taking the last swig of wine from his glass, he licks a fat stripe from your entrance to your clit, listening for that little gasp from your lips that quickly turns into the faintest moan. every time.

delving into your folds, so wet and inviting, he relishes the delicious mixture of alcohol and your essence on his tongue. his hands grip your thighs, his fingers digging into the plush skin, as he holds them up and spreads them to get that perfect angle.

“s-‘samu!” you cry out when his tongue swirls around your clit, slow and steady; your hands move to his hair and tug, like clockwork, and he lets out a low groan, feeling the vibration pulse through your body. you feel like you’re on fire in the best way possible.

your head falls back against the couch as he alternates between suckling on your sweet little clit and tongue fucking you, and, as always, his pants suddenly begin to feel so painfully tight. he’s so messy with it, with your juices dribbling down his lips and chin and his cock throbbing in his boxers.

“‘sa—‘samu, oh my god—“ you gasp out, feeling that all too familiar coil winding up in the bottom of your tummy, “‘m close, please…”

you can sense the smirk on his face as he pushes you further into the couch cushions, letting out strangled, muffled moans of, “ya taste better than the wine, darlin’” and “so fuckin’ good…”

when you come on his tongue, he’s always there, licking up every drop. his eyes are closed, on another planet completely—absolutely pussydrunk from the taste of you.

“fuuuck, baby, that’s it. good girl…” he groans against your folds, making sure he’s cleaned you up nicely and to his liking.

and so every week, osamu asks you what you want to do for date night, fully knowing where it would always lead to…

and he loves it.

a/n: wow this was not meant to be this long ANYWAYS

enjoy my masterlist!

mdni. do not copy, alter, or repost my work. ©bedcchem 2024.