Work Text:
“Don’t know why ya insist on stickin’ around to watch me clean,” Osamu throws you a glance over his shoulder, brows furrowing significantly when he notices that you’re sitting on the countertop he just wiped down.
“What else am I going to do? Go back to my apartment and play fetch with my cat?” you ask around a mouthful of onigiri.
Osamu stands in front of you, arms crossed over his chest. And it’s probably not the best time to be ogling the outrageous sight of your manager’s biceps in that t-shirt. The way it’s fighting a losing battle against everything that’s going on in his chest area—
Yeah. All of that.
But c’est la vie or whatever. You’re off the clock.
“I just cleaned that,” he says pointedly.
You blink at him innocently while bits of sticky, cooked rice fall from your fingers onto the floor. Both of you look down, and then back up at each other.
“Doesn’t look clean to me.”
His mouth flattens into an unimpressed line. “Think the health inspector might have a thing or two to say about your ass on my prep counter.”
Glancing down at said ass, you shrug. “I mean, if that’s where he wants me—”
Osamu chokes, changes the subject. “Is that what 22-year-olds do for fun on a Friday night now? Play with their cat?”
You stare at him, and he balks.
“Ya know that ain’t what I meant.”
Offering him a sweet smile, you grab a paper towel and wipe your mouth. “I’m 25, but I understand that’s difficult for you to remember at your senile age.”
Osamu glances up from where he’s wiping down the counter beside you again. “I’m 37, not fuckin’ dead.”
“Don’t break a hip down there,” you coo as he grunts while bending down to pick up the rice you dropped.
He makes his way over to the sink, because boy does he love washing his pretty hands. You yell as much to him from across the kitchen before turning your attention to your phone. When you glance up, he’s standing between your legs as they idly kick to and fro. “You’re my worst goddamn employee, ya know.”
“I am a delight to have in class, thank you very much.”
“Pain in my ass,” he mutters, reaching a hand out toward your face.
You’re not sure what compels Osamu to do it—to use his pointer finger to wipe away the stray piece of rice that’s stuck to your lip.
But before you can think any better of it—as if you don’t try your luck with him enough—you’re parting your lips and taking the tip of his finger into your mouth.
Osamu freezes, and he blinks at you. So you let your lips slide to the second knuckle, blinking back at him. It could almost be construed as innocent, if not for the way your tongue briefly passes over the pad of it.
Twice.
“Shouldn’t your boyfriend be pickin’ you up soon?”
His finger rests against your bottom lip when you respond, “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Oh.” You’re not sure if he’s consciously aware of how he’s begun to trace the curve of your lip.
“But also no, that’s not a thing anymore.”
“Huh.”
You nod.
He nods back. “That’s good.”
You tilt your head, one leg swinging outward, and you let your heel catch on the back of his knee. Osamu steps closer into your space.
“Is it?”
He sighs, looks up at the ceiling for a moment. Like he knows you’ve finally got him backed into a figurative corner. Like he’s trying to figure out how almost a year of thinly veiled flirting has found him in the kitchen of his restaurant pushing his finger back into the mouth that you drive him up a goddamn wall with every single day.
“Would probably be weird of me to be doin’ this otherwise,” he mutters, finger sliding against the inside of your cheek.
Drool pools on the back of your tongue. Pleasure dances down your spine.
“I’m your boss,” he sighs as you lick his finger, closing your lips around it to suck.
He traces your molars.
“And I’m too old for ya,” he adds, sliding a second finger into your mouth.
You moan, heat licking its way through your belly, and hard flint flashes in the soft grey of Osamu’s eyes. “You’re gonna be the goddamn death of me.”
He doesn’t protest the way you scoot to the edge of the countertop, legs wrapping around his waist. Doesn’t push away your fingers as they scramble for purchase against his belt, as your palm slides over the outline of his erection.
Osamu groans, watches the way you take his fingers down to the last knuckle. Feels how you slide your tongue between the digits, mouth slick and hot with saliva, drool slipping out past your lips and dripping down your chin as your eyes glaze over.
You clench your thighs together, wholly aware of the damp arousal soaking through your underwear. Your head feels light. Heady.
His hand is gentle as he cups the back of your head, muttering something unintelligible under his breath when your sloppy, needy sucking leaves trails of spit dripping off of the heel of his palm.
“This why you always got somethin’ in your mouth?” he murmurs, fingers pressing down into your tongue.
You nod, because you know he’s noticed it—the way you always seem to have the tip of a pen in your mouth. A lollipop. A toothpick. The way you bite your lips.
Then he inhales sharply, because now you’re outright palming his dick through his pants.
“Gonna have to fire myself at this rate—” Osamu exhales, words ending on a stilted choke when you push off of the counter and drop to your knees in front of him.
“Can I?” you ask him, and his spit-soaked fingers are still ghosting over the smile on your lips.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, chest rising and falling on an inhale. “Can you? Fuckin’ Christ.”
Osamu takes a step backward, and you think he’s about to call the whole thing off, hands going behind his back, until you realize he’s taking his apron off. He drops it onto the floor in front of him.
You want to laugh as you put your delicate, 25-year-old knees atop it, fingers working his belt open and his zipper down and his cock free. “See, this is why I can’t date guys my age. Old men are such gentlemen.”
Your thumb strokes over the bead of precum that drips from it, and he watches, briefly enraptured, as you lick it off.
“I’m not fuckin’ ol—” Osamu groans, one hand flailing for balance and slapping the closest bit of countertop before grapping it as you take his whole dick into your mouth, balls deep. “What the fuck.”
A little hum of amusement escapes you, vibrating around his shaft. You’d say Osamu’s dick is of average length, all things considered. But it’s the thickness of it that has you drooling while you suck him down, cunt woefully fluttering around nothing as the dizzy, pleasant headspace you were in with his fingers in your mouth multiplies tenfold.
His cock feels so heavy on your tongue, so hot between your hollowed cheeks, adorned with smooth skin and ridged veins and a flared head that leaves you salivating each time it catches the sensitive spot at the back of your tongue. Osamu’s breathing is heavy above you, and he looks just about as fucked up over it all as he sounds when you glance up at him, eyes glassy with a mouth full of dick, fingers toying with his balls, spit dripping onto the freshly-mopped floor tiles.
You moan around the stretch of him, reveling in the taste, in the slick slide of him against your swollen lips. You think you could suck Osamu’s dick all night, could listen to the way he groans and gasps and exhales your name, could curl up right here under the gentle scratch of his fingers in your hair.
His dick is rock hard beneath your fingers as you stroke the slick base of his shaft, tongue swirling over the tip. You can feel his thighs trembling with the effort to stay still, to let you set the pace.
You wonder if Osamu knows how sexy the way he moans is, low and wrecked from somewhere deep in his chest. Shameless.
You wonder if he knows how turned on you are just from listening to him, gratuitous finger and dick sucking aside.
The seam of your pants is unforgiving against your swollen clit, and you try in vain to rock your hips into nothing.
“‘m not gonna last much longer,” Osamu’s voice is rough as he warns you.
You’re not sure what arouses you more, the uninhibited moan that punches it way out of Osamu’s mouth when he cums in your mouth in thick, hot, throbbing spurts.
Or the way he mutters, “Think ‘m already hard again,” under his breath when he watches the way you swallow it all, holding his gaze when you wipe away the bit of cum smeared on your lips and suck on your finger to clean it off.
Desperate for some sort of relief, you make to fumble with your own zipper, but Osamu’s already on the floor, tugging at the apron to spread it out as he eases you onto your back and tugs off your pants.
“You don’t have to—” you’re not sure why you suddenly feel a little shy.
Osamu laughs, eyes dark, hair mussed as he drags a hand through it. You want to touch it, too. Want to run your fingers through the greys coming in at his temples. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your thigh. “It’s late. And I didn’t have dinner yet.”
You want to giggle, want to tease him for his old man humor.
But all you can do is keen, bucking your hips as he sinks a finger into your cunt and groans, “You’re so fuckin’ wet.”
—
Later, when Osamu’s finished giving you a borderline spiritual experience tongue fucking your pussy till you’re bucking your hips up off the floor and crying his name, when you’re done cleaning up the evidence and finally, actually about to close up shop—
“How many health code violations ya think that was?”
You shrug. “Your brother’s done worse back here with that one server. Or so I’ve heard.”
“Atsumu doesn’t even fuckin’ work here. He filled in for one week—”
You flick off the lights in the kitchen, walking backward toward the front of the shop as you tug on the collar of Osamu’s shirt. “Oh, he was putting in work alright.”
Osamu groans. “I quit.”
You swipe the store keys out of his back pocket as he follows you outside, pouting as you lock the door. “Who’s going to make me employee of the month then?”
He raises a brow, leans in, thumb stroking your bottom lip before his mouth replaces it.
“Don’t think ya’ve earned enough gold star stickers for that, Miss Late Every Damn Day,” he says against your lips.
Your eyes sparkle under the glow of the streetlights. “Careful, or you might give me a praise kink, too.”
Osamu laughs, slings his arm around your shoulders, and leads the way down the sidewalk to his car.