sashimiyas - Tumblr blog

[sashimiyas]

[sashimiyas]

could you even imagine trying to take cute photos during cherry blossom season but sakusa insists on wearing a mask bc the pollen count is high

[sashimiyas]

cw: reader calls themself a whore

mama miya has been yelling at osamu every time she finds out her son’s spent most of his day in the shop.

“ya keep doing that and ya gonna grow old alone.”

“yeah, yeah.” osamu would brush off. he’s got time. and the shop needs his.

but then he’s forty and he realizes that life has passed him. he’s committed to business ventures, made partnerships with companies and brands that he’s never dreamed of and shit… ma was right.

he’s old…er. and still alone. at one point, it didn’t bother him. now, osamu recognizes loneliness in its partnership. it’s vacant, an ominous breeze that tickles at his neck.

and then there’s you, cheeky with a cherry between your lips. you seat yourself across the line stranger who seems weary but also put together in ways that you could never be.

the old fashioned in your hand has you feeling bold, old…er than your long abandoned favorite, the margarita.

when you sit in the leather seat, air puffs at the backs of your knees.

swirling your drink with its black, thin straw, you tilt your head while popping the cherry from your mouth by the stem, “the party’s over there.”

his gaze lingers to the dance floor. bodies mingle with each other he cannot discern one from the other. they don a fashion he cannot comprehend, pants too large and patterns louder than the music itself. bright beneath the laser lights, osamu feels like he’d cast a shadow should he join.

“i haven’t partied since…” oh god, has it really been a decade? when he glances back at you again, lips puckered against the artificial red of the garnish, pretty and young and just as sweet, he suddenly feels embarrassed.

the feeling is unknown, as if he’s never felt it before. which is odd since osamu’s failed many times before. even second hand embarrassment is common with atsumu around.

he’s collected this confidence in the years that has easily been trampled by yours.

“… in a fucking long time.”

you finally suck the cherry between your teeth and follow it with a quick gulp of your drink.

“i partied last night.”

that’s funny, osamu thinks. he’s sure you don’t mean it that way, but it makes him laugh.

“wouldn’t expect nothing less.”

“why? because i look like a whore?”

he’s quick to tsk at your verbiage and by your blooming smirk, it’s the response you wanted. “because ya look like ya know how to have a good time.”

“hmm…” you play with your straw, gaze away from his. “yeah? so do you.”

you quickly glance back to the dance floor then him once more.

“tell me about yourself.”

where does he begin? being a twin? volleyball? miya onigiri? maybe ma was right. he’s gone and grown older alone, but he’s done a lot of shit. he’s a storied man. if someone as pretty as you had gone up to him when he was younger and stupid, he’d have fucked this up. but he’s older now, with stories to tell.

and you’re here in the leather seat across from him, intent to listen.

[sashimiyas]

nails feat baguette wrist rest

[sashimiyas]

It’s not a date. You make that known, loud and clear from the outset.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gojo murmurs absently. “Whatever you say sweetie.”

It’s not a date when he picks you up from your apartment. It’s not a date when he insists you change out of your ratty sweats, or when he buys you a new outfit to his exacting standards (how did he know your measurements?).

It’s not a date when he treats you to Fancy Lunch, or when he splits his desert with you, feeding you from his own fork.

It’s not a date when he takes your hand, doesn’t let go.

And it’s definitely not a date when you finally arrive at the luxury leathergoods store, the whole point of this outing. He hovers around you, watching. He seems to be waiting on you to do something, but since he’s the one who insisted on this you’re not sure what he wants.

Finally he’s had enough of you floundering.

“Pick one,” he murmurs, eyes bright as he corals you to the collar section.

Suddenly your throat is dry as you look down the long row of them. Shiny and bold. Precious. “You want me to… pick a collar for you?”

He’s watching you, keen and hungry. He’s so close you can feel the heat of him all along your side where he’s huddled against you.

Collars have a huge significance to omegas, but you’re not quite in tune with their cultural meaning. Something about ownership, claim. You feel like you should reject this, whatever he’s trying to do here. It’s not right, and you’re not right for each other. This is a job for someone who knows what they’re doing, and besides that, someone of his social standing. You should tell him as much.

But you don’t.

You spend long minutes poring over the options. Feeling the material, testing it’s texture. Careful, you choose one with a soft inner lining, that won’t catch on the neck of his button downs, that won’t chafe when he’s running around. A subtle color, unobtrusive in his loud, bold life.

(He doesn’t ask you to put it on him, knowing, somehow that it would be too much for you, cause you to recede into your shell. He can be patient.)

It’s still not a date.

So you have no reason to be pissy when yet another alpha taps him on the shoulder, says some cheesy line about his eyes.

Gojo just snorts, rolling his eyes, not even gracing the man with a response as he pulls you along down the sidewalk, talking about what to get for dinner.

But this is the fourth time it’s happened today, and you feel like you’ve reached your limit.

You yank out of his grasp.

Immediately, he makes a grab for your hand again, scowling when you pull away, no longer acquiescing to his whims.

“What?” he demands, “What is it?”

“You could be a little more put off by it,” you say finally. It sounds petulant even to your own ears. “Like… offended, or whatever.”

It takes him a second to realize what you’re talking about.

“Comes with the territory, sweetheart,” he drawls. He’s smiling, but you can tell he’s unhappy with your peevishness. Why are you denying him? Are you disturbed by what he is, too? “Omega and all that.”

You shift on your feet, uncomfortable with your own discomfort. “How often do alphas hit on you, anyway?”

He freezes. Grins. “Are you jealous?”

You can’t even get out a denial before he’s grabbing you, spinning you both in a bear hug. “Holy shit that’s so hot, baby,” he moans.

He’s got you by the shoulders as he starts dragging you down a side street, not at all in the direction of the station you were supposed to part ways at.

“Gojo, what are you doing?”

“Making it up to you,” he says, pinching your cheek. “I think I saw a hotel this way earlier.”

[sashimiyas]

farmer osamu miya through the years 🤠🌽

[sashimiyas]

atsumu is a passenger princess to me. he’s conditioned himself to fall asleep The Moment his ass hits the passenger seat

[sashimiyas]

Demon Osamu

[sashimiyas]

you didn’t mean to buy so many groceries. your favorite snack happened to be on sale. and it’s paycheck day so the novelty notebook you’d been eyeing for the past month finally was worth splurging on.

“let me hold it for ya,” osamu says when you hitch the overflowing paper bag up to press it closer to your chest with both arms.

also in the condiment aisle, right next to the fruit spreads, was actually your neighbor, osamu.

you consider, glancing to his right hand that has a single knob of ginger for some marinade he’s prepared for the night and the quickly think against it.

“i’ve got it.”

catching him at the konbini at the corner of your apartments is no surprise. you’d crossed paths many times. it’s a watering hole, an intermediary through the routines of your days what with the way the clerk greets you both by name.

it’s only this time, when osamu finds out that you’re headed home just like he, does he insist you walk together.

osamu’s no harmful neighbor. in fact, he’s one of your more favorable ones even if he does have a tendency to slam his doors and cabinets a little too loudly. he’s also knocked on your door to check in on you when you accidentally left your key in the lock. and one time, when he heard wind that you were sick, most likely from the same konbini clerk from earlier, he dropped off a flavorless soup “chock full of nutrients” according to him. if you noticed that the cabinets within his home slammed less during the days of your recovery, that could attributed to the brain fog of your sickness feeding any sort of delusions it could find.

your delusions are no picky eater, feeding off of whatever meager crumbs it can. so really, the walk home together is enough.

osamu truly is no harmful neighbor. but, you’re finding out, he is quite insistent.

“gimme that.”

osamu all but plucks the bag from your arms. he lifts it up with one hand and places the contents of his plastic bag right on top. it’s almost comical how he handles it so easily with a single grip when it took all your strength to carry the bag home.

“hey!” you’re already reaching for it back but osamu twists at the waist and uses his free hand to push you away.

“just say thank ya.”

he doesn’t stop in his step, ignoring you and keeping pace back to the apartment complex. it’s clear in his demeanor that he has no plans in giving you back your bag. so you relinquish by running back to his side and falling into step with him.

it feels too much like losing so you just mumble, “thank you.”

the man beside you doesn’t acknowledge your gratitude. he only walks forward and so do you. you’re keen on avoiding his gaze and have no intention of filling the silence, only focused on placing one foot in front of the next.

if you had looked up, you would have noticed osamu’s eyes locked on your hand, the one besides his. you’d probably have recognized that gaze, a quiet and thoughtful kind, the one he has when he watches a new customer try the food he’s made. you’d have prompted him to speak because, despite his uninhibited mouth, he leaves many things unsaid.

you would have noticed the way his hand drifted towards yours, the pinch in his eyebrow as he contemplated his actions and the hesitation in his fingers as he reached out for you, and the solid shake of his head as he threw it all out the window and winded his fingers with yours.

you jump. of course you do. but osamu’s holds you steady in his grip.

and when you look at him, his expression is just as genuine as his words.

“your hand was empty.”

and that’s all it really took.

[sashimiyas]

suddenly my name is suna rintarou

[sashimiyas]

"touya, are you my dad?"

rei's house is quiet this late, only alive in the muted whir of ceiling fans and the rainbow of colors from the nightlight out in the hall. touya can just barely see the distant glow peeking under the gap of the door; soft greens and blues and purples.

all the air in the room seems to evaporate, and instead is replaced by that awful, muggy heat that builds up in touya's hairline and in the creases of his skin, everytime he hears that word: dad.

he's better at knowing how to act around kids than he expected to be. not in some parental sense, but the bits and pieces of touya the big brother are at work again, slow and old and creaking—but moving nonetheless.

touya's thankful for the quiet; whispering hides the tremor in his voice. when he turns to the little girl in the small bed lying beside him, all he sees is you, staring back in red and orange and yellow.

"what makes you ask that?"

the little girl shrugs, shuffles around to push still-wet hair out of her face as she snuggles deeper into her blankets. touya doesn't realize he's holding his breath until she finally elaborates, clutching her little stuffed puppy to her round, full cheeks. "that's what people say."

it's not that you don't want her to know, but softening the truth for a kid ain't easy; touya's not even sure he wants her to know, quite yet, because it means introducing a version of himself he's not proud of. one he's never been proud of, one that still itches under his skin and makes his hands shake, one that wants to burn the guilt away instead of face it.

touya watches the soft blink of her eyelashes, long and dark, and when she looks back up at him, he's just—not ready for her to know him yet. because—

"would it be okay if i was?"

the little girl—his, yours—thinks for only a moment before nodding. "yeah, that'd be okay."

because this touya's okay, for now.

it makes him smile, even with the uncomfortable heat that's broken sweat all out across his body, even with the shame that's waiting for him out beyond the edges of the greens and blues and purples. even knowing that, one day soon, he's gonna have to break her heart the same way he broke yours.

touya shifts a little further down in the bed until his head's resting on her pillow, so they're eye level. he's half hanging off the thing, the tiny twin bed in her room at his mom's house. still doesn't have a place of his own yet, still trying to remember how to be a functioning member of society; gears slow and old and creaking, but moving nonetheless.

the is the only way he gets to see her right now, these few days out of the week that you let her stay the night, so he can get to know the daughter he's missed out on for far too long.

touya hums and forces a big yawn, closes his eyes and hopes she'll follow the act; shouto used to, once long ago. "'s'talk about it tomorrow, okay?"

the little girl shuffles around until she's a little closer, huffing against his face through her own yawn. "okay," she agrees, and touya waits a few minutes before peeking at her. watching her even breathing, in the red and orange and yellow.

[sashimiyas]

only highlight of my week is that i have a sticker of iwaizumi on the back of my card and 3 interviewees pointed him out

[sashimiyas]

felt this week go by in dog years

[sashimiyas]

therapist! sukuna x therapist! reader where sukuna goes to reader for therapy but then it becomes a battle or mental fortitude as he throws your own questions back at you. and sukuna’s never been one to lose

[sashimiyas]

in bloom miya osamu/reader (haikyuu!) word count: 2.8k tags: established relationship, fluff, hurt/comfort-ish, grand romantic gestures, vague mentions of mental illness, osamu being The Best man on earth, osamu owning a pickup truck is canon and i refuse to elaborate on this

“Hey.”

Your eyes peel open slowly, your eyelids heavy with the weight of sleep you aren't quite ready to be torn from.

You blink once, then twice, and on the third blink your eyes flutter shut again—slumber calling you back too enticingly to keep them open.

“C’mon sleeping beauty, ya gotta get up now.”

You can smell coffee, the deep notes of the dark roast that Osamu prefers registering distantly in your tired mind. When you open your eyes again, the lamp on your bedside table has been turned on, and your slightly untidy bedroom is bathed in the light of the warm toned bulb.

“I’m tired,” you say weakly.

“I know baby, ya don’t gotta stay awake long—just need to getcha into the truck, alright?”

Osamu is seated on the edge of the bed beside you, fully dressed, staring down at you as you fight the pull to slip back into unconsciousness.

“What time is it?” you rasp out, rolling over a little more under the warm swath of blankets wrapped around you. The clock on your bedside table startles you, your eyes snapping to the boy watching your sleepy face placidly. “Samu, it’s four in the morning.”

“I know that,” he says with a light laugh, brushing some hair back from your face.

“Why are you waking me up?” you ask him, the grogginess of sleep still saturating your words, leaning into the warmth of his touch and resisting the urge to let your eyes shut again. “Thought you had the day off.”

“I do. We’re going somewhere.”

“At four in the morning?”

Osamu pats your cheek lightly. “Yep.”

Maybe it’s because you’re too tired to question it, or maybe it’s the way that Samu pries you up out of bed with careful, gentle hands. He passes you a pair of comfortable leggings that you pull on mindlessly, then one of his old Inarizaki VBC sweatshirts you like so much, and finally he bundles you into one of his own coats before guiding your teetering, dozy form out the door and into his truck.

It’s still dark out, and cold enough that you can see your breath under the streetlights as you crawl into the passengers seat and Samu shuts your door behind you. The truck is already warm and running, and there’s two cups of coffee waiting in the cupholders in insulated travel mugs.

“Put yer buckle on,” Osamu instructs you after taking his own seat, and you do as you’re told as he shifts the gearstick into drive.

You aren’t in the car for more than 15 minutes before you fall asleep again.

When you wake for the second time it’s lighter, though still not quite day break. It takes you a moment to realize where you are, and why.

You watch the scenery outside the window blur past, before sliding your eyes towards the windshield. The time on the dashboard reads 5:15.

“Samu, where the hell are we?” you croak, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

“Mornin’ sunshine,” your boyfriend laughs from the driver’s seat, looking over at you with his eyes crinkling at the corner. His hair is bed-head messy, and he has a smudge of white on the corner of his mouth.

Toothpaste, maybe?

“Did ya sleep alright? Hit a pretty nasty hole a ways back but ya didn’t even notice. Snored right through it.”

“I don’t snore,” you lie, sitting up a little straighter in your seat. Your body hurts from sleeping in such a strange position, but you can’t really do anything about the lingering stiffness while you’re still trapped in the moving vehicle. “Where are we?” you repeat your earlier question which Samu had tactically avoided.

“About an hour outside Osaka,” Osamu says, completely unhelpfully.

You’re in the car driving, and the clock on the dash tells you it’s been about an hour since you started driving, so what he tells you is already a given.

“Where are we going?” you ask him.

He tuts. “‘Fraid I can’t tell ya that. Top secret.”

You furrow your brow.

This isn’t like Osamu. He’s never pulled anything like this before. You don’t know what to make of it.

“Yer coffee’s still hot, and I got us donuts.” Samu takes one hand off the wheel to grab a paper bag from the floor by his feet. It crinkles noisily as he hands it to you.

Inside the bag are a few donuts, covered in powdered sugar. You suspect there are already a few missing from within.

That explains the smudge on his face.

You lick your thumb, reaching over the centre console towards him.

Osamu stiffens at the unexpected contact, softening as he realizes what you’re doing. You run the pad of your thumb across the corner of his mouth a few times until the traces of white are gone, pulling away to sit back in your seat.

You lick the sugar off your finger absentmindedly when you’re done, before reaching into the bag for a donut of your own.

“If we’re going to Tokyo, why didn’t we just take the train?” you ask through a mouthful of fried dough and sugar, noting a directional sign that the two of you pass along the highway indicating you’re travelling in the direction of the capital. You had suspected as much, given that the screen of the dashboard said you were travelling north east from your home in Osaka.

“Not goin’ to Tokyo,” Samu replies simply, reaching for his cup of coffee in the cupholder beside him. It’s empty, he seems to remember only seconds after picking it up, and he puts it back down without even taking a sip.

You lick the sugar off your fingers and reach for your own cup of untouched coffee, popping open the lid and holding it out to him.

He takes it from your hand, bringing it to his lips and tilting it back all without removing his eyes from the road. He hands it back to you after taking a long swig.

He winces a little after he swallows, watching from the corner of his eye as you bring the travel mug to your own lips. “Careful, s’still hot, babe.”

You hum, taking a trepidatious sip from the well-insulated cup. He’s right.

“So where are we going, and why did you feel the need to wake me up at the crack of dawn to get there?”

Samu shoots you a look—exasperated but loving—from his seat beside you.

“Can’t anything ever be a surprise with you?””

“Not if I can help it,” you reply back smoothly, earning you a laugh.

“I just… wanted to do somethin’ nice for ya,” he mutters, almost reluctantly. He takes an audible breath—in and out—before adding, “I know you’ve been feelin’ a bit… off lately.”

You stiffen in your seat, eyes fixed unseeingly to the lines of the highway as they flash past on the asphalt.

“-’s nothing wrong with that, but I know you’ve been havin’ a hard time ’n I just-“

“Samu.”

Your strained voice makes him falter, his sentence ending before he can say it in its entirety.

It’s quiet for a moment. A little uncomfortable.

“D’ya mind if I put some music on now that yer awake?” Osamu tries to ease the tension that has settled over the cab of the truck. You nod stiffly.

Osamu reaches to fiddle with the buttons and nobs of the radio, but in truth seems less concerned with finding something he likes on the air than just finding something that will distract from the borderline suffocating stillness in the car between you.

You feel bad.

For more reasons than one.

Firstly, because he was clearly just trying to do something nice to cheer you up. A sincere, heartfelt gesture blossoming from his desire for you to be happy and well. A deed sown, tended to, and grown from his love for you.

Secondly, because he noticed that you needed to be cheered up in the first place; noticed what you had been trying not to let sink its claws too deeply into you; noticed what so much of your mental energy had been going into covering up, pretending wasn’t there, pretending wasn’t sitting on your shoulders like a weight—impossible to see but crushing to bear.

You’d been trying not to let it show how much you’d been struggling lately. You’d been sleeping a lot. Usually in bed before Osamu made it home from work in the evenings, and sleeping in past when he woke up in the mornings. On the afternoons he made it home early (which he tried to do at least three times a week) you were usually too drained to do anything beyond make dinner, clean up, shower, and collapse into bed.

You thought you’d been managing it.

Suppressing it.

Concealing it.

Obviously you were wrong.

The song playing over the sound system is an old love song. One you remember your mom singing along to in the kitchen of your childhood home while she would cook dinner for your family. It was from the soundtrack of a romantic comedy that had come out when you were still too young to know what comedy was, let alone romance, but there’s something nostalgic and comforting about it. In any case, you appreciate the distraction, settling back in your seat and sipping the too-hot coffee for lack of anything else you’d prefer to do.

You drive for another hour, sharing your cup of coffee between you in place of conversation, listening to old love songs playing on the morning radio.

Osamu turns off the highway at an innocuous looking exit, a few minutes past a sign that had told you Tokyo was still more than 400 kilometres away. There’s nothing outside your windows except countryside—no city or town or other civilization to be seen. It’s only seven in the morning, and you pass just a handful of other vehicles on the winding rural roads as you make your way along them.

“Samu, where the hell are we?” you ask at the very moment Osamu turns up a dirt road—a driveway of some sort.

“D’ya remember back when we started dating?” Osamu asks, eyes fixed too concentratedly on the road outside the windshield to be natural. He’s nervous, you can tell.

“Uh, yeah. It was five years not fifty years ago,” you joke, but there’s an undercurrent to it, the implication that you feel like you’ve loved him forever. You know he feels it too.

“I wanted to buy ya flowers,” he ignores your jibe, though not without peeking at you pointedly from the corner of his eye, “spent ages in the flower shop down the road from our first apartment trying to pick them out. I had almost no money to spend and that nice lady that owned it sent me home with a bouquet worth three times what I paid her for it.”

You remember it all. The flower shop; the terrible one bedroom apartment that was all the two of you could afford back then, when you were still a student and Onigiri Miya was just a food stall on a busy road; the bouquet so large you didn’t even have anything big enough to put it into when Osamu brought it home to you, and you’d had to break it up between four different receptacles to house it: a narrow vase, two empty sake bottles, and an over-sized coffee mug. It smelled so nice that every corner of your dingy little apartment was filled with the scent of the flowers for days.

“Ya hated it.”

“I did not!” you gasp, jaw dropping at the accusation, and you turn in your seat to face your boyfriend defensively.

“Ya told me that flowers are a waste of money and that a nicer gift is something you can eat!” Samu laughs as he says it, tossing his head back against the headrest of his seat.

You purse your lips, scratching the back of your neck sheepishly. You don’t remember speaking those words exactly, but it does sound suspiciously like something you’d say.

“I told you I loved them,” you mutter. And you did. You even pressed some of the blossoms between the pages of your heavy text books to save, and now they hang in frames on the wall of your current (and much less austere) apartment.

“I asked what yer favourite flowers are. D’ya remember whatcha told me?” Samu asks, finally turning his head to properly look at you.

You wrack your brain for a moment, and then shake your head. The memory evades you.

“Strawberries,” Samu says. “Ya told me yer favourite flowers are strawberries.”

You blink.

You notice for the first time that the truck has slowed to a stop, idling in park at the end of the driveway. Outside the windows of the truck you see a modest little house, a shed of some sort, and a row of greenhouses dotted along the lush green fields of the property.

“One of my suppliers told me about this place, apparently they grow the best berries in Japan. They sell some of ‘em fer like fifty-thousand yen. The ojisan who runs it’s a nice guy though, invited us down for the day to check it out.”

You blink again, only this time your eyes go a little blurry as you peel them open, something hot slipping down your cheeks.

“I know ya don’t like to talk about it when yer going through stuff,” Samu says quietly from the seat beside you, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him. He reaches over and places a hand, warm and comforting, on your knee. “But I want ya to know that I love ya, and I’m always here, s’all.”

Your throat feels tight and dry, and suddenly you wish you had some of that coffee left in your empty travel mug.

“I-“ you choke a little on your first attempt to reply, swallowing hard. “I just know you have so much on your plate already. I never wanna add more to that just because I’m…” you don’t know how to finish your thought.

“Hey.” Samu’s fingers tighten a little on your knee, not painful in any way, but enough to tell you he needs you to look at him, to be there with him right now.

You look at him sheepishly, eyes struggling to meet his level, resolute gaze.

“Lovin’ someone is work. Life is hard, and sometimes it’s ugly, and things aren’t always just gonna work themselves out easy all the time. But I wanna share that with ya: yer whole life, not just the good stuff. So ya can’t just go and decide on yer own what things yer goin’ through you gotta keep to yourself or do alone, because I’m right here. I wanna work on it with ya. Because this is worth it.”

You’re openly crying now, in the passenger seat of Samu’s beloved truck, in the driveway of a strawberry farm in the middle of nowhere, an empty paper bag filled with donut crumbs and powdered sugar under your feet.

Samu leans across the centre console of the truck, wrapping you in his arms as best he’s able to in the slightly awkward confines of your respective seats. He smells like laundry detergent and coffee. He’s warm and solid and right where you need him, like always.

His large hand cradles the back of your head as your tears soak into the flannel shirt he’s got on, letting you cry it out for as long as you need to. When you finally pull yourself together a little bit, he withdraws, wiping at your tears and snot with the soft edge of his sleeve.

“Ya feel a bit better now?” he asks gently.

You nod.

“I love you,” you whisper.

“I love ya too,” he grins, toothy and boyish. “Now are ya ready to go and pick some flowers or what?”

“Strawberries aren’t technically flowers,” you sniff, but you’re smiling.

“Who cares,” Samu laughs, and the sound is as warm as the early morning sunlight breaking over the fields and streaming into the widows behind him. “I wanna see what’s so good about these ones that he’s chargin’ an arm and a leg for ‘em.”

“Bet I can pick more than you can,” you say, scrunching your nose up challengingly.

Osamu scoffs, reaching for the handle of the truck door and throwing it open.

“I’d like to see ya try.”

[sashimiyas]

someone’s out here rating their fic recs on the main tags???!!!!

[sashimiyas]

a gone girl au with isagi as nick would be soooo delicious