Haikyuu Osamu Miya - Tumblr Posts

long shots ; miya osamu

pairing: miya osamu x f!reader

synopsis: miya osamu is the teacher’s assistant for food chemistry i. you can’t stop thinking about him.

tag(s): college!au, slow burn, TA!miya osamu, grad student!reader, fluff, reader is a go-getter!! ; warning(s): profanity, suggestive themes, talk of insecurities and imposter syndrome ; wc: 5.6k

a/n: happy birthday to @starrysamu​! i love u. pls excuse any errors. i’ll weed them out later! btw this fic is not a sugar daddy au LOL

HIS NAME IS Miya Osamu and he always looks like he has it all figured out. Comes in every class with his black hair perfectly tousled, the sleeves of his dark button-up rolled to his elbows, a cup of coffee in one hand and the strap of that black messenger bag in another.

“He drives a BMW, did ya know?” Isla says in your ear one morning. Your only friend in Food Chemistry I gives you a pointed look before sitting back in her chair in the lecture hall with a smirk on her face. “Saw it this morning. Bet he’s loaded.” The two of you watch the subject in question walk across the classroom and settle in his seat at the table in the corner.

“Shut up,” you whisper with wide eyes. A grin–– far from innocent–– makes its way onto your face. “Imagine being Miya Osamu’s sugar baby.”

“He’s not old enough to be a sugar daddy.” Isla looks at her nails disinterestedly. “And that’s too many AUs in one. He’s already the TA, for god’s sake. This isn’t some shitty Wattpad novel.”

Keep reading

The L Word

Miya Osamu x f!Reader

summary: Love makes people stupid. Osamu knows it firsthand.

warnings: minors/ageless/blank blogs dni, established relationship, love confessions, fluff with a teeny hint of angst, happy ending, small miscommunication bc Osamu is an idiot but it gets cleared up, Atsumu to the rescue, Osamu being the dumber Miya twin for a change, Osamu really goes through it in this fic but it's all okay bc you love him

notes: literally wrote this entire thing today bc Osamu just does something to me. this takes place earlier on in the Meet the Miyas couple's relationship and you don't have to read the other fics to get this one, but I sure would like you to.

words: 3.6k

part of the Meet the Miyas series

Osamu’s date with you was meant to be a quick dinner. If he was thinking more clearly, he wouldn’t have suggested seeing each other that night at all. It’s been a hectic week for the both of you and he knows that you have to catch an early morning train for a meeting out of town the next day. 

But he can’t think clearly when it comes to you. Because he loves you. He doesn’t know when exactly it happened, but he knows it was probably after only a couple of dates, which he also knows is crazy. 

Again, he can never think clearly when it comes to you.

It means that he’s spent the last few months in a love-induced haze of happiness as your budding relationship has progressed. It’s even been enough to dull the irritation he would normally feel at how smug Atsumu has been about being the one to set the two of you up in the first place.

Of course, none of that is on his mind now. The only thing he can currently think about is how much he doesn't want your evening together to end. 

It’s a desire of his that you’re more than willing to indulge in as your time at the restaurant stretches on long past dessert. When he offers to walk you home even though you live in opposite directions, you don’t even bother to give a perfunctory protest. You merely nod with a wide grin, happily accepting the arm he wraps around your shoulders as you curl into his side. 

And what began as a sweet kiss goodnight outside of your building is now bordering on something inappropriate for a public setting, even on an empty street. 

Your soft lips move against his and his tongue slips into your mouth to taste you. One of your hands rests against his neck, while the other runs through his hair, making him shiver at the sensation of your fingernails gently running against his scalp. Both of his are tightly holding onto your waist, holding you as close as he possibly can so that the only thing separating you two is the clothing you both are wearing. 

“Come upstairs,” you breathe as he begins to trail his lips from yours to the spot just below your ear that always has your knees feeling weak whenever he lavishes it with attention. 

Unfortunately, Osamu has just enough of his sanity left to know what the responsible choice is.

“Ya need to sleep,” he murmurs against your skin before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your neck that makes you sharply inhale. “Yer meeting tomorrow is important. Gotta be well rested.”

“So thoughtful,” you tease as you guide his lips back to yours to give him another heated kiss, only to pause for air a moment later. “I promise. No funny business. We can just sleep.”

He can’t hold back his snort at your suggestion or his laugh when you pout at his reaction. He rests his forehead against yours, looking at you with a fond smile on his shining and slightly swollen lips. 

“We never ‘just sleep’ when I come up,” he reminds you and your pout deepens.

“But I don’t want to say goodbye yet,” you tell him, and damn if his heart doesn’t ache with how full of love it is for you.

“Okay. We don’t have to say goodbye,” he agrees and your expression lights up. However, it falls as he continues to speak. “We’ll just say goodnight instead.”

“Osamu,” you whine and he presses a soft kiss to your lips before you can say anything else.

“Goodnight,” he says.

When you open your mouth again, he gives you another smiling kiss.

“Goodnight.”

You open your mouth again, a smile of your own tugging at your lips, which he kisses again.

He loves you. 

“Goodnight.”

You playfully open your mouth as you pretend to say something. He kisses you.

He loves you.

“Goodnight.”

Another attempt on your part to protest. Another kiss to silence you.

He loves you.

“Goodnight.”

Your mouth opens. He gives you a kiss. 

He loves you.

“I love you.”

He freezes, but not because he’s accidentally spoken the words that have been on his mind these past months. 

It’s because the words don’t come out in his voice. They come out in yours.  

His eyes snap open to find you gazing up at him with a small hint of nervousness, but otherwise nothing but pure affection and fondness and love. It’s everything he’s been dreaming of — literally. He has literally been dreaming about this exact scenario.

But in his dreams, he gently murmurs that he loves you in return and softly runs his thumb along the apple of your cheek. The two of you then kiss beneath the first soft snowflakes of winter or the floating spring cherry blossoms or a drizzle of summer rain.

Reality is much worse. Because in his shock and disbelief, all he can do is open and close his mouth, struggling to put all of his joy and excitement and love in return into words. And the longer the silence stretches on, the touch of hesitation that was initially present on your face slowly begins to morph into sheer horror.

Your embarrassment is visible at his lack of a response and when you force out a small, self-conscious laugh, he knows that you’re regretting ever speaking those three beautiful words aloud.

“Sorry,” you wince and a cold shard of ice pierces his heart.

No, no, no. Don’t apologize. Never apologize. Not for loving him. Not when he loves you, too. 

You clumsily try to extricate yourself from his hold and he’s too wrapped up in his own mortification over how stupid he is that he easily lets you. 

“I don’t…s-sorry!”

Your voice breaks as you stumble over your unnecessary apology and even while you refuse to meet his gaze, he can see how quickly your eyelashes are fluttering as you try to blink back the tears that he’s caused.

“Night, Osamu,” you manage to say through a soft sniffle before hurrying towards the steps of your building.

The only thing worse than the panic and anger that he’s feeling towards himself is whatever it is that you’re feeling. You opened yourself up to him, allowing yourself to be vulnerable and trusting that he would keep your heart safe.

And he was too much of an idiot to be able to offer his own heart in return. 

He just needs to get the words out. Just get the words out.

Just get the fuckin’ words out, ya big fuckin’ pussy.

Relief floods through his veins when he’s finally able to blurt your name as he calls after you. He can fix this. He can tell you that he loves you and that he was just so elated that he was physically incapable of putting any words together. 

You stop, your foot on the bottom step as you turn towards him. While your eyes are shining with tears, he can also the hope in them as you silently plead with him to continue. 

A deep breath releases from his lungs. He hasn’t ruined it yet. You’re willing to listen to him. You’ll give him a chance to make things right and prove to you that he deserves you. He’s so fucking grateful to you. 

“Thank you!”

He wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Maybe a car will pass by and run him over. Could he be lucky enough for a freak thunderstorm and to be struck by lightning? When nothing happens, he contemplates dropping to his knees and banging his head repeatedly against the concrete sidewalk. 

All of it would feel better than watching how quickly he’s shattered the last remaining pieces of hope that you were desperately clinging onto. You stay still just long enough for him to see your lower lip tremble before you dart up the stairs of your building.

And because of how the stupid apartment buildings in this country are designed, he gets a perfect view of you racing up the exterior staircase and then towards your apartment, pausing only to unlock the door, which then slams loudly shut behind you. The sound echoes through the quiet street, reverberating against the pavement and buildings, but also in his mind. 

Osamu takes a slow, deep breath and holds it before exhaling. He then buries his face his hands, his fingers tugging at his hair, and lets out an unintelligible scream that’s filled with a nauseating mixture of frustration and embarrassment. The noise is louder than the slamming of your door and a dog starts to bark in the distance. 

In a daze, he somehow manages to make it to his bus stop. Likewise, his phone is now somehow held up against his ear. And somehow, Atsumu’s screeching voice answers on the other end.

“Thank you?” he greets angrily and Osamu loudly groans as he slumps forward so far that his head is practically between his knees. “My best friend, the woman yer totally in love with, says she loves ya and all ya can do is thank her?”

“I was just so excited, I couldn’t think straight. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I know, okay?” he mumbles. He hears a bus pull up to the curb but he’s too distraught to even look up and see if it’s his as he lets it pass. “She already told ya?”

“She’s on the other fuckin’ line right now, crying because of you, ya scrub,” Atsumu bites back and somehow, after everything that’s happened in the past ten minutes, Osamu manages to feel even worse. 

There’s a long pause and his guilt and mortification must be so bad that his brother can hear it through the phone because Atsumu gives a sigh of pity.

“Look, just make it right. We share the same DNA. Ya must have gotten a little bit of my ability to be romantic.” 

In any other situation, Osamu would scoff and roll his eyes. But right now, he doesn’t have the right to make fun of anyone, not even his twin. Instead, he simply nods even though Atsumu can’t see it over the call. 

“Can ya find out what time her train gets in tomorrow?” he asks pitifully. 

“Okay, sure,” the setter offers before sighing again. “I gotta go.”

“Yeah, don’t keep her waitin’.” 

He wonders if you know that it’s him Atsumu is talking to. You must. But Atsumu is a pretty good liar, much better than Osamu anyway. He’s had plenty of practice lying over every little thing under the sun since they were young. Surely, he can convince you that it was a teammate or his agent or anyone else but the man responsible for your distress.

“Same goes for you, Samu,” Atsumu warns him, but there’s at least a gentle undertone of sympathy in his voice that he probably only extends because they shared a womb.

“Thanks,” he says, feeling truly grateful to his brother in a way he hasn’t felt since he set the two of you up.

“I think ya said that enough tonight, ya scrub.” Atsumu then ends the call and Osamu’s gratitude dwindles. 

But Atsumu does come through for him, texting him the information on your train, which Osamu reacts to with a mere thumbs up, knowing that any form of thanks will have him being called a scrub for the third time that night. 

The next day, Osamu closes the shop early. It’s for the better as he keeps getting orders wrong and has to offer so many discounts in apology that if he stayed open any later, he would probably end the day at a loss. 

His mind has been so preoccupied that there’s no room left in it for onigiri. All he’s been able to think about is his plan to make it up to you. He’ll go home and change into his nicest suit. He’ll go to the florist and buy the nicest bouquet they have. He’ll stop by the bakery near your apartment on the way and order a slice of your favorite cake. 

And then you’ll come home to find him waiting for you outside of your building, where he’ll give you the speech he spent all day on. He’ll tell you how sorry he is and explain how much of an idiot he was and tell you that of course, he loves you. He’s even written down exactly what he wants to say on an order sheet from the restaurant so he doesn’t forget a word.

But apparently, the universe has decided that it wants to laugh even more at his expense. 

Everything starts smoothly. Despite not having worn it in over a year, his suit fits as perfectly as it did when he bought it. And after a quick iron, it looks like he just picked it up from the dry cleaner. When he arrives at the flower shop, the kindly older woman working there helps him make a custom bouquet filled with flowers that all represent some form of love and apology. 

It’s at the bakery where things start to go wrong. 

First, it’s so late in the afternoon that the display window is picked clean over. Your favorite cake has sold out entirely and all that’s left are a variety of croissants, donuts, and croquettes. He stupidly decides to buy a donut anyway, because although the image of him giving you a donut is much less romantic, he’s always believed that food is the best way to show you care about someone. 

Then, just as he’s finished paying and in his rush to make sure he gets to your apartment before you do, he runs right into a teenager holding a bright green melon soda, which spills all over the front of his clean, white dress shirt. The girl gasps in horror and immediately begins to apologize, repeatedly bowing as she offers him the napkins in her hand.

However, he knows it was his fault and that he can’t make another girl cry in less than 24 hours. He assures her that she wasn’t to blame and after patting his shirt dry to the best of his ability, he buys her a new drink and then helps the employee clean up the spill. He leaves the bakery with a squished donut and an obscenely green, large stain on his shirt. 

And of course, he gets one block away from the bakery when it starts to rain. It’s not the soft, romantic drizzle that he’s imagined might color such an important moment in your relationship. It’s a true downpour that has people ducking into stores and under doorways. For just a moment, he considers stopping at a konbini and buying an umbrella but he’s already drenched and when he sees how long the line is, he decides that it wouldn’t be worth it if he has to miss you. 

It’s another block away from the konbini that the bag holding the donut breaks, dropping the baked good into the gutter where it’s quickly washed away by the rainwater. As he looks at the soggy remains of the bag in his hand, he decides not to worry about it and shoves the mess into his pocket. The flowers are enough on his own.

The flowers, which he’s just now realizing aren’t in his hand and weren’t with him at the bakery. The flowers that he remembers setting down on the bench at the bus stop but doesn’t remember picking back up when he got onto the bus. 

The voice in his head is frantic as it tries to assure him that everything is fine. If you really love him then you don’t need flowers or baked goods or him in a dry, unstained suit. You’ll love him just as he is when you find him waiting to greet you after a long day.

He’s thankful that the sound of rain falling is loud enough to mask the panicked, high-pitched whine he lets out when he turns the corner onto your block to find that you’ve beaten him to your place and are already standing on the bottom step of your building’s staircase, protected from the rain as you shake the worst of the water from your dripping umbrella. 

There’s the smallest part of him that wants to just go back home and hide beneath the blankets like he used to do after losing a volleyball match. 

But then, without his consent, your name leaves his lips and his feet begin moving on their own to meet you. You freeze mid-umbrella shake and look up at him in shock, clearly not having expected him, and definitely not in this state if the way your eyes widen is anything to go by. 

Your senses come back to you quicker than his did to him last night and you open your umbrella back up and rush out to meet him, hurrying to finally protect him from the rain.

“Osamu, what are you doing? It’s pouring,” you say with a mixture of disbelief and confusion. You look him over from head to toe and frown. “Why are you so green? You look like you spilled a melon soda all over your shirt.”

It’s okay. He still has his speech. He’ll win you over with his words. Whether it was volleyball or opening his own restaurant, when has he ever given up?

Instead of answering you, he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out the order slip. He’s relieved that it’s held up better than the bakery bag and vows to keep buying order pads from the same supplier for the rest of his life. 

At least until he unfolds the paper and finds that the ink he wrote in has run because of the rain that soaked through his jacket. His shoulders sag as he sighs in defeat. 

“Osamu?” you ask with a timidness he hasn’t heard from you before and it’s enough to snap him from his own wallowing. His idiocy left you in tears last night.

The flowers, the suit, the pastry, the speech, this entire big, grand gesture he was trying to make all boil down to one thing.

“I love ya,” he says and it feels so good to finally be able to say the words aloud to you for the first time. It feels like a weight has been lifted from his chest, leaving room for how big his heart has grown with all the love it holds for you. “I’m so sorry about last night. I’ve been in love with ya since, like, our third date but I knew I’d seem crazy if I said it that early. And when ya said it first, I just couldn’t believe it and I was so stupidly happy that I just couldn’t say anything.” 

Now that he’s started talking, the words won’t seem to stop. But from the way you’re looking up at him with so much warmth and affection and love, he doesn’t think you want him to.

“And then I started to panic because I couldn’t say anything, which made it harder to say anything else. So, I came up with this big plan to win ya back with flowers and cake and a big speech but literally everything went wrong.”

“Osamu,” you try to gently interrupt him, but by this point, he couldn’t hold anything in even if he wanted to.

“I forget yer flowers at the bus stop and the bakery was out of cake. Then I almost made this teenager cry so I had to make that right. And of course, this fuckin’ monsoon had to sweep in outta nowhere. And my speech got all ruined, too,” he complains, holding out the order sheet for you to see the proof. 

“Osamu,” you try again. Only he’s too wrapped up now in this bizarre, stream-of-consciousness monologue to even take in the adoring way that you’re looking at him.

“If it was gonna rain, couldn’t it at least have been a soft, romantic type of rain? But I guess nothing says romance like a flash flood warning. It’s a good thing ya live on a higher floor with how much it’s comin’ down,” he continues. “All this little love confession is missing are some warning sirens—”

“You love me?”

The question finally shuts him up. But it’s a different kind of silence than the one from last night. Because you look so utterly happy as the three words occupy the space between you. His own expression softens and he crumples up the paper in his hand before shoving it into his pocket. 

His hand now free, he tenderly cups your face and presses the softest, sweetest kiss to your lips as the rain continues to come down in sheets around you, only your small travel-size umbrella keeping you both safe. 

As his lips part from yours, he rests his forehead on yours, an almost mirror image how you two were wrapped up in each other last night. 

“Yeah, I love ya,” he whispers as he affectionately brushes his nose against yours. You smile back at him and his heart pounds with excitement at hearing you repeat the sentiment back to him. 

But then, your eyes begin to sparkle mischievously as they always do when you tease him.

“Thank you,” you say and he thinks he’s somehow managed to fall even further in love with you.