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The Knight’s Self-Destruction

The Knight’s Self-Destruction

by CloudBun (StarseedV)

It didn’t matter that his heart was breaking. That the Zora he loved was marrying someone else. That he sat there and watched him get married. Because at the end of the day Link knew he couldn’t allow himself to break. Allow himself to feel.

He had to find Zelda.

And then everything would be fine.

Or:

Link is majorly going through it, but refuses to ask for help. After learning of Zelda’s fate, Link’s journey finally takes its toll on him, and all of Hyrule is forced to come to terms with the burden their hero endures.

Link is Hyrule’s Hero, the knight who never backs down from any challenge, but what happens when the hero they all love is in need of rescuing from himself?

Words: 8556, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild/Tears of the Kingdom

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Link (Legend of Zelda), Zelda (Legend of Zelda), Sidon (Legend of Zelda), Yona (Legend of Zelda), Riju (Legend of Zelda), Tulin (Legend of Zelda), Yunobo (Legend of Zelda), Teba (Legend of Zelda), Purah (Legend of Zelda)

Relationships: Link/Sidon (Legend of Zelda), Link & Zelda (Legend of Zelda), Link (Legend of Zelda) & Everyone, Sidon & Yona (Legend of Zelda)

Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, angst more in the first chapter, comfort comes later, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Dissociation, Derealiztion, Link is going through it, Teba is a dad, Queerplatonic Relationships, Survivor Guilt, Not explicitly stated by heavily implied, Suicidal Thoughts, Tags May Change, Spoilers for Tears of the Kingdom (Legend of Zelda), no yona hate, i will fight you, POV may change, Depersonalization

From https://ift.tt/16cBkIv https://archiveofourown.org/works/47696122

BACKSEAT GIRL ; Atsumu x f!reader

As if he’s trying to memorize every dip and curve of your body, the shape of your soul. As if he doesn’t mold you like molasses underneath his fingertips, perpetuating his name into your being.

contains: f!reader, friends to lovers vibes, college au, mutual pining, heavily suggestive (hence me not tagging anyone from the gen taglist for this i'm sorry), non-sexual nudity (bathing together), no plot just one thousand words of atsumu miya being touch-starved

word count: 1.3k

You didn’t plan on taking him home.

But the words he murmured against the shell of your ear were a little too sweet and his kisses were a little too hungry; and maybe you’ve also dreamt a little too often about Atsumu Miya nudging your legs apart to slot himself between them while he pushes you against the nearest wall–until it all wasn’t a dream anymore. 

It feels forbidden. As if you’re not supposed to know what it feels like to run your fingers over the shaved part of his neck. Or how his canine teeth graze the skin on the side of your neck, leaving trails of faint red marks. Or the way his muscles flex when you slip your hands underneath his shirt to feel him closer. 

He’s just a guy who sits in front of you in class. Someone who occasionally asks you for a pencil or your notes just so he has a reason to turn around to you, who nudges your feet with his underneath the tables when you push them together for group work, who finds a lame excuse to linger behind when you’re too slow with packing up your bag after class, just so he can walk to the cafeteria together with you. 

Atsumu shouldn’t be here; with his hair still a little damp from the shower and naked from the waist up in your bed, in your arms. He’s like a weighted blanket on top of you, his face hidden in the small space between your neck and your shoulder, his hot breath fanning across your skin. Your fingers are tangled in his hair, giving it a slight tug whenever his shameless fingers dip underneath the waistband of your shorts, followed by an airy laugh against your collarbone. 

Just a kiss, you told yourself earlier in that dark corner you both found yourself in, his broad back shielding you from the eyes of anyone else at the party. It was as if he wanted you just for himself, something so easy to brush off as greedy. But there’s something else luring underneath the surface, underneath the carefully composed mask of brazenness he wears so well. You couldn’t figure out what it was, too dizzy from his kisses and his hands roaming your body, but now in the dim light and quiet of your bedroom you can see it so clearly. 

Atsumu is touch-starved.

It shows. There is his hand on the small of your back when he leads you outside through the crowd of people. His fingers interlaced with yours in the back of the cab after he reached over you to secure your seatbelt for you. The stolen kisses during the elevator ride up to your floor and the scowl on his face when the elevator door opened, interrupting you too soon. Him kneeling in front of you while he helps you out of your heels, nimble fingers brushing over your ankle before loosening the clasp for you. The love-drunk expression he gives you when you grab his chin between two fingers, tilting it up so he’d look at you. 

As if he’d ever take his eyes off you to begin with. 

Not when he unzips the back of your dress till it slips to the floor with a soft thud. Not when you push him towards the bed, his hands catching your hips to pull you on top of him. Not when you unbuckle his belt, his fingers digging in the flesh of thighs, his chest heaving with every breath you draw out of him. 

For someone who has never learned how to shut up in his entire life, Atsumu turns into a needy, whining mess underneath you. All coherent words seem to slip from his mind as badly as his self-composure. It’s like he’s pleading for your touch, to feel more of you, to have you fully, wholly, deeply. His hands grasp every part of you he can reach, sometimes gentle, mostly insatiable, always with utter adoration. As if you’re a dream that’ll crumble between his fingers when he blinks.

You bathe together afterwards–or you try, at least. It’s the night you learn that your bathtub is a little too cramped to hold you and someone of Atsumu’s size, but you make it work somehow with your back pressed against his chest, nestled between his legs, his hand splayed out over your stomach. His idle fingers draw small patterns against your skin and every now and then he leans down to press kisses against your shoulder, a low sound of affection rumbling in his chest when he does. 

He washes your hair for you even though you didn’t ask him to, slender fingers working through every bit of tension in your scalp. Part of you believes he does it just so he can charm out more of these sweet little sounds from you that he seems to love so much, but then he tips your head back to kiss you upside down, smiling against your lips, and you think that maybe you’re not the only one who has fallen in love a long time ago.

Atsumu holds perfectly still when you dry off his hair with a towel. He sits on the edge of the bathtub, legs spread to make room for you standing between them. Looking down, you try hard not to think about how he had you grinding against his thick thighs earlier but to be fair it’s impossible to forget how that made you feel, the pulsing still present. There’s his grin again and your stomach does a little flip. I love having you like this, Atsumu murmurs and tugs you closer to him by your waist before trailing countless kisses up from your stomach to the valley of your chest, honey colored eyes never leaving yours. 

As if he’s trying to memorize every dip and curve of your body, the shape of your soul. As if he doesn’t mold you like molasses underneath his fingertips, perpetuating his name into your being. 

If Atsumu was a braver man he’d tell you all about the way you make his heart stumble. How the thought of you being with anyone else makes his chest coil and tighten. That only you allow him a calmness so unfamiliar it scares him sometimes. But the words are stuck in his throat and just won’t come out.

Not yet. Not when it’s you.

Because with you everything is different. With you his prideful heart unravels so easily, finding shelter in your palms. You give all of his touch a meaning, as if everything before you was just hollow. Golden, he thinks. Your love feels golden. Shining bright like a hundred suns, igniting a flame within him. Atsumu has long fallen for you without even realizing it. He gets it now, sees it so clearly when you smile at him; that it’s you. It’s always been you. 

You both don’t bother getting fully dressed after your bath–there’s this unspoken unanimity that you won’t need these clothes for too long. Atsumu carries you over to the bed despite your protests, your laughter mingling with his when he drops you unceremoniously on the mattress and crawls on top of you again, half-crushing you underneath him. It’s a sound he wants to hear forever, paired with your playful shoves against his shoulder and your huffs and puffs, as if you didn’t hook your leg around his middle to keep him close to you. He kisses the side of your neck again, wondering where else he can leave his mark, and what waking up with you will feel like, and just how these three words will taste like once you lick them off his lips.

Ambrosial, he thinks. Just like you.

a/n: starting the year with an atsumu fic was not on my bingo card but here we are. @nekozaki hi ily this is mostly for you my liege

two-way street — part 2.

summary | how is suna rintarou ever going to get over you? or: having a hard time not thinking of begging you on his knees to give him a second chance. warnings | angst; fem!receiving oral; pathetic!suna/sweet talker!suna and fem!reader; mentions of weed and alcohol; second chances (except they're still stupid) word count | 3122. a/n | how to angst...? please let me know what you think! -` ♡ ´- part 1 to be found: here.

“if this keeps up, yer gon’ be labeled a stalker.”

atsumu held the bills between his fingers, and suna snatched it, stuffing the money into his back pocket and the rest of the mary jane in the side pocket of his jacket, “how about minding your own business once in a while?”

“nah,” atsumu grinned, “where’s the fun in that?”

his fingers were quick in rolling the joint, crumbling the buds into a neat line before closing the paper with a swipe of his tongue. when he searched his jeans pockets for a lighter, suna’s eyes found your presence amidst the many people at the party, fitted between dancing, sweating bodies. 

the party he hadn’t wanted to stay at once he finished up his deals, but that he couldn’t help but prolong his visit more once his sweeping gaze over the masses found the light you were radiating.

so there he stood, in the shadowed corner of the room with his shady business, several couches and tables between you both, basking in your light even though he knew you didn’t like him to. he knew, he knew, and yet he stood there while the fake blonde next to him clicked his thumb against the lighter, watching you dance.

his hoodie and the jacket thrown on top of it felt heavy and too hot on his shoulders, but he didn’t bother shrugging any of it off.

because he hadn't planned to stay.

“so — “ atsumu dragged a deep breath, and that shit stank up this pathetic little corner suna rintarou was standing in, “ — what do ya say, i try my luck with’er?”

suna froze, but said nothing. maybe if he pretended that the music thrumming through the air was too loud, then he could ignore atsumu and his cocky exclamation of stupidity. 

but as blonde as atsumu was, he wasn’t as gullible.

an arm draped over suna’s shoulder, he leaned in, and smoke curled up into the air, the scent as penetrating as ever, “oi, come on, rinnie, what’s with yer stoic attitude, huh? you can hav’er right after, hn? jus’ wanna see what the fuss is all about. so, how abou—”

but atsumu asked for it. 

suna rintarou did not fight. he really didn’t. he wasn’t the type to, and punches hurt his knuckles.

if anything, he was more the underhanded type to deal with things, maybe a bit of blackmail if they wouldn’t let up, but fighting? smashing any of his body parts into somebody else for violent reasons? not really his style.

so leaving behind a doubled over blonde whose joint had fallen down from his open mouth onto the wooden floor, suna had to get out. it was hot, it was stuffy, it was so fucking unbearably close to where you were, with annoyance pumping through him at every turn because fuck— not even sending him a glance or leave any crumbs of recognition that you had seen him, that you had felt his presence in the same way that he did when he stepped into the goddamn house.

the air outside was fresh, cooling the sting on his knuckles, and he grit his teeth when he bent at the knee, sinking, leaned against a tree in the backyard of the house. the knuckle of his uninjured hand rapped against the space between his eyebrows, trying to pound back some sense back into his head. 

he should leave, ignore that atsumu would get up from the ground and would pursue you out of spite, and just go home. he may had been joking but the venomous way those words left his mouth, painting you like an usable toy, when suna couldn’t even fucking help but let you slip through his fingers, when all he wanted was to lose himself in you, keep a grasp on your essence, selfishly own all that you had to offer.

“rin?”

his head snapped up so fast, he felt his neck protest, but that didn’t matter, because—

fuck. 

the way you were rubbing your arms at the cool air, the hesitant look on your face when he had gotten so used to the look of disdain you used to send his way the past weeks, the absolute wreck that was your hair from running your hands through them while dancing. 

you were breathtaking. 

“what happened with miya?”

“nothing.”

you didn’t believe him, but that was because you knew him. you knew the way his face settled in the slightly bored expression when nothing was going on, the way his shoulders would relax because there was nothing to be tense about, the way he would roll his eyes, the sharp lines of his features laid-back.

suna rintarou looked up at you from where he was seated on the ground, and his face painted a clear picture for you. the tension in his jaw, the deep set of displeasure as his lips pressed into a thin line, the twitch of his ears whenever he lied, the red on his knuckles — he was pissed.

“it’s not nothing.”

what did you want to hear? that he couldn’t bear to hear somebody talk that way about you? as if you were dismissable? at the insult hurled your way and his? 

that he had no right to feel any way about you anymore, not when he fucked up and lost you?

you leaned forward, and a couple of strands of your hair slipped from your naked shoulder, littered in goosebumps. god, he wanted to exist within your confines.

“why do you care?” he settled on that question, a note of bitterness entering his voice, “last i checked, you were too busy dancing with some lame idiot.”

your silence was icy, and suna thought that he might be stupid. at last, your hands resumed rubbing your skin, and your voice sounded almost tired, “because you’re injured, rin. because you look like you’re gonna make some bad decisions.”

then, you huffed, just as bitter and full of resentment as he felt when he breathed next to you and could not call you his, “but i guess i’m the lame idiot here, whatever.”

you turned to leave, but movement rustling behind you and a warm hand on your legs stopped you. half-crawled, half-supported on a knee and a foot, suna rintarou’s fingers squeezed your flesh, and he looked up at you with eyes that spelt out too many hidden emotions, too many hidden desires, too many words unsaid.

“fuck, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean that,” he leaned his forehead against your thigh and your leg twitched at the contact, “i’m annoyed. this shit’s annoying. i fucking miss you, and you’re dancing and you don’t care and god, i’m so fucking pissed—”

a hot kiss placed on your thigh, his hand warm; tendrils of guilty and embarrassed pleasure shooting from where he had touched you to your lower stomach. 

“rin, i don’t—”

“i can’t without you,” he murmured against your leg, hot and wet, a bite, “fuck, please. tell me you miss me just as much.”

his other hand coming up to grip the back of the leg he was leaning against shut you up, and his fingers felt so familiar, the press of the tips against your flesh, marking you in the way they used to. the trace of his lips against you spelt out a dirty secret that he kept hidden in the sleeves of his jacket, in the confines of his pants, in the innermost window of his soul.

those eyes looked at you, half his face covered by the skirt from where you were watching him, pleading, another swipe of his tongue on your skin, tasting you, asking for you to give in.

your ribcage heaved up; rin at your feet, his hands spelling out his desire, the press of his face so comfortable and everything you wanted. your chest hurt, the arousal pooling low, “i hate you.”

he couldn't help but notice that you still didn't deny him.

“i know,” another kiss, and god, he was going to make you go—, “i know, babe, i know. but i’m— crazy, i’m going crazy.”

his nose was searching, a trail he could follow with his eyes closed, leading him under your skirt with ease, tracing the edges of your panties. his groan rumbled in his chest against your leg when he found the proof that you wanted him just as much, the vibration sending shocks through you and you couldn’t help the little pant escaping your mouth.

“fuck, you don’t even know,” suna mouthed against your clothed pussy, the desperate raw edge in his voice kissing you you through the material. your legs trembled, tiny little flutters at the way suna rintarou disappeared under your skirt so naturally, the way the hood of his sweater draped over his back peeped out from underneath, his hands steading you as he licked the wetness of your panties until his saliva drenched all of it.

“r—rin,” your hands found his shoulders to support yourself on, legs spread a little further, hair tickling your innermost skin, “i hate you, a—ha-nd i hate all those s—stupid girls you had with you, an— rin.”

his finger had wrapped around your panties, pulling it to the side, mouth latched to your pussy freely now, tongue tracing your folds like he had forgotten the look of you, the feel of you under his pink muscle, all the little things that had your breath hitching, that had you moan, that had your hands grip his thick neck to press him up further.

“i hated seeing those assholes at your arm,” he snapped against you, mouth growing forceful, and two of his fingers coating themselves in your wetness, teasing you, pushing in slowly, deliberately, “what do they fucking know about what type of sounds you make, huh? how to treat you? how to love you?”

suna knew you; he knew the spot to curl his fingers against, knew the rhythm of his tongue against your clit, knew the erogenous zones to stimulate with his other hand to have you panting, knew the tell-tale sign of you coming undone underneath his touch. and with each stroke, with each kiss, with each gasp of air he forces down his throat before diving back into you, he missed you.

“i want you,” the squelch in the air was obscene, so fucking vulgar, “i need you. please.”

your nerves coiled and crashed on top of him, dissolving into an onslaught of lust, of love, of hate, of cum, of his tongue ever-lasting, of his voice begging, and had he not been holding you up, you would have lost your footing and fallen down, too.

“rin, rin, rin, rin,” name chanting, hands sweaty on his jacket, the pull of your panties, the wet sounds of his fingers fucking you through the orgasm.

“tell me,” his hips were moving against the air, desperate for reprieve, “tell me there’s no other, babe. there’s me, hn? i’ve got you.”

another orgasm was on the edge of your perception at the continuous stimulation, at the continuous plea to give suna what he had to miss out on for the past weeks. brain drunk on you, yours drunk on him, fingers slipping, “rin, there— ah, never wa—ha-as. fuck, you make m’feel soo goo—oood.”

his cock pulsated in tandem with his heart, aching, your words beelining straight down, fuelling the haze surrounding his mind. his mind couldn’t help but conjure all the times other men’s hips snapped into your heat, imagining you opening your mouth wide to fit them. it was like a disease; his thoughts revolved around you, jealousy rushing hot through his veins. 

the way his fingers turned harsh, curling deep had your nerves tingling with an excitement that you hadn’t felt in so long, and your tongue flicked out to moisten your lips. he had leaned back, face exposed to the cool air, lower half of his face glistening in the night and the soft backyard lights. he kept you in his gaze, eyes following the movement of your tongue. his other finger joined to take over the featherlight touches to your clit, so in contrast to the filthy way a third finger joined to wedge itself into your cunt. 

he huffed, “look into my eyes.”

suna's eyes were like a maze that drew you in, the way they had from the first night you had found yourself in his bed. it kept luring you in, even when he paused to stand up in one swift move, balance found quickly, chest pressed against yours, his fingers slowing down from the pace you couldn’t keep up with. so close to you, in the familiar embrace, your head came forward instinctually to rest on his shoulder. 

“eyes up. look at me,” he repeated, nudging your head with his shoulder and you lifted it slightly to recapture the storming grey. his eyebrows were slightly furrowed, eyes half-lidded as he drank you in.

their usually sharp lines having softened, yet his voice remained rough, “nobody compares. you fuckin’ get that?”

his touch became more like a caress; the strokes plunging in deep but not with any less of the needy passion. it drew from you trembles, little moans meant for him, his name tumbling from your lips as you asked for another release; the brewing of feelings in your chest accompanying the heat pooling low.

suna’s head dipped low, found your sensitive skin littered with goosebumps and had his tongue brushing over your flesh to taste your scent. his teeth bit down lightly, a sharp canine digging into your skin; a certain intent behind the marking, possessive and pissed off. the pressure of his clothed cock rubbing your stomach had you clinging to him, and when you opened your mouth, amongst tiny mewls leaving your mouth, another inquiry did as well.

“w—what did a—ah-tsumu say to you?”

“who the fuck cares about that guy?”

he inhaled sharply, surprised, his teeth sinking in deeper and harder for a second, and a painful gasp escaped you. immediately, suna ripped his head back at the sound, half an apology in the depth of his eyes, half fogged confusion, a lot of annoyance.

he stilled, because why the fuck were you taking another man’s name into your mouth when he was knuckles deep inside you?

you visibly recoiled from the sharp tone and the way his fingers felt anything but nice anymore, yet when you stepped back, the inner walls of your pussy quivered at the loss, “why are you reacting like that?”

suna knew from the way your hands came up to hug yourself that you felt a little lost, and the way his pruney fingers grew cold, exposed to the air, squeezed his heart. he didn’t want to be apart from you, but when he stepped forward, you stepped back and suddenly, he thought that the jacket wasn’t enough to keep him warm anymore.

something licked at his heart; something ugly and anxious, clawing through his ribcage like something trying to escape a prison, “you don't get that it kind of wasn’t the time?” 

just stop asking. stop caring about that fucking miya guy. why are you so interested in what miya said? just sto—

“it never is the time with you,” another step back, your voice bitter and regretful, and suna had half a mind to try and step forward again, “you know, i didnt come out here to fuck around with you. i was genuinely concerned and there you go again, completely stuffing whatever fucking emotional connection i want to start.”

suna swallowed poison; tongue bitter and words even more so, “i didn't ask for your damn sympathy, alright?”

he was lying. 

sunarin was lying through his goddamn teeth. he wanted your sympathy and more. he wanted you to have the same interest, the same suffocating need for his presence the way he craved yours; so badly that he could vomit. yet you stared at him like he had never made you happy once, and drawing up the same old walls felt safe, a routine he had perfected, felt like something he couldn’t fuck up no matter how much he tried.

he didn’t want to mention atsumu, didn’t want to think that saying his name might prompt you to go look for that guy. because why wouldn’t you? 

you knew atsumu from before, doing god knows what. goddamn it, you weren’t even his.

suna wanted you for himself, wanted you to not even entertain the idea of hearing atsumu express any kind of interest, jest or not, couldn’t bear the idea that you might take the fake blonde up on his offer. 

he couldn’t. he couldn’t. 

he wanted you to never hear that name again, but he supposed that he had a funny way of expressing that. because what escaped his numb lips was not the love confession he yearned to say, but accusation after accusation. because he didn’t know and he needed to know and he couldn’t rest until he knew.

his palm hurt where his nails dug in harshly.

“if you just came out here because you’re scared for your miya fucking shitsumu, don’t bother. you already have his number, no? no need to go through me then.”

suna regretted his words the moment they left his mouth. because he did mention the guy. he did mention the number that would help you bridge the distance. did what he didn’t want to do because jealousy and sorrow and anger swirled in his chest and the gravitational pull of his heart for all negative things was too great. suna hated that he was the reason you looked like you were going to cry. 

he thought he was stupid. he was so goddamn stupid, and he wanted to get back down on his knees and ask you for forgiveness, but when he stepped forward, you took not one but two steps back. 

the silence stretched between you seemed to be more of a measurement of distance, and you were so far away.

“you’re messed up,” is what you replied, quiet, hands rubbing your arms. you wanted to turn around, wanted to leave and curl up because you felt so used, but he stood there with his stupid hoodie, with the stupid slanted eyes that always observed you so sharply, with the stupid glistening of his lips from where his mouth had met your body feverishly; and it was difficult to breathe because he was still the most beautiful guy you had ever met.

you turned around to leave and this time, sunarin didn’t stop you because maybe he did deserve to be alone.

taglist | @takes1

“Love is a sacrament that should be taken kneeling”

—Oscar Wilde

APHRODITE ; Osamu x f!reader

He looks down at you, his gaze betraying his words–greedy, lovesick–and you want to live in this moment forever.

contains: f!reader, dilf!Osamu, co-workers, age gap (reader is in her twenties, Osamu in his forties), mutual pining, pet names (all of them. he uses all of them), oral (reader giving), dirty talk, three lines of spit kink bc it wouldn't be a lale-txt work without it, praise kink, whipped Osamu (as in: down bad, adoring)

word count: 2.6k

You shouldn't have these kinds of thoughts. He’s your boss, you remind yourself. 

But admittedly, it’s hard when he’s currently lying under your kitchen sink, his shirt rucked up a little, revealing a sliver of soft skin and a happy trail while he aches and groans. You sit next to his figure on the kitchen floor, never been happier over a leaking pipe in your apartment.

“Hand me the ring wrench, sweetheart,” Osamu mumbles without looking at you, only holding out a calloused hand for you. You love these hands. They’re the hands you watch for hours while working, shaping the perfect onigiri and wondering what they’d feel wrapped around your neck. Sometimes he’d place them against the small of your back when passing by you behind the counter, always lingering a little longer than he had to. Last time he drove you home (he insisted because it was pouring outside), he rested one on your thigh while steering the car with the other.

You’re pretty sure Osamu Miya wants to fuck you badly. You hope he will.

“Doll,” he says again, his voice soft. He knows how often you tend to zone out. You snap out of it and rummage around the toolbox before you, handing him the thing he asked for. 

Look–you haven’t begged him to do this for you. This may be your first apartment you rented by yourself after moving to Osaka for your master program, but you were an independent one. Always have been. You built your own furniture and drilled every hole in the walls yourself. You knew for a fact how to fix a leaking pipe, you just didn’t get around to it yet because you picked up a few extra shifts at your part-time job at Onigiri Miya so you could save up for a new laptop.

But Osamu wants to help–he’s practically begging you to let him. Which is how he ended up on your kitchen floor. 

You’ve been alone with him before. When you were closing the shop together and you imagined how he’d bent you over the counter to violate every food safety regulation to ever exist. When you were the last ones at the bar during last year’s anniversary party, and you thought about stuffing your panties in the pockets of his coat for him to find later. When you spent one night at his place so you could finish a deadline before midnight on his laptop because yours gave out, and you wondered what his stubble would feel against the insides of your thighs if he ate you out. 

Nothing happened and you’ve been growing more frustrated lately. He’s sweet, he’s caring, he’s respectful and you get it. He’s trying to maintain a somewhat professional relationship between you two, especially given your age gap, but some days you wished he’d just let the animal in him run rampage and fuck you stupid against the nearest wall. 

You know he could. You know he’s thinking about it, too.

Ten minutes later he fixed your leaking pipe, but the ache between your thighs persists. He sits up again, so close that your knees are touching in your cramped little kitchen, and gives you a smile that makes your chest tighten with barely contained lust. There’s something boyish about his smile, making it easy to imagine what kind of heartthrob he must have been in his twenties. You gotta ask him about some photos from that time.

He’s still handsome, though. More than that. With his salt-and-pepper hair and the small wrinkles around his eyes, and his big calloused hands, adorned with a few scars from handling knives in the kitchen for over three decades and counting. He’s built differently than his twin, the retired pro-athlete. You’ve met him a few times at the shop. Osamu works out but he also likes to eat, granting him the strength to throw these heavy rice bags over his shoulders as if they weighed nothing. How many times have you imagined him manhandling you like that? You can’t remember. Far too often. 

Osamu wipes the sweat off his forehead and looks at you, lazy half-lidded eyes lingering on your face. He has no idea what kind of effect he has on you. Or maybe he does, but he’s not acting on it which is even more frustrating. 

“Yer hungry? I could fix us a plate,” he offers. Always looking out for you. Always caring. 

“Be my guest,” you reply, nodding over to your fridge. It’s currently stocked with two slices of toast, a cucumber that has seen better days, some leftovers from last week that you haven’t thrown out yet and a half-empty box of orange juice. You usually eat at uni or at work, and lately you’ve been so busy that you haven’t really gotten around to stocking up on things at home. 

Osamu lets out a long sigh when he peaks inside your fridge, one hand on his hip and the other rubbing over his face.

“Sweetheart,” he mutters, his tone a touch condescending, and you laugh quietly. You know this sight pained him more than anything. He looks over his shoulder back at you, his thick brows furrowed. “What is this?”

You rise to your feet as well and take a few steps towards him, firmly shutting the fridge door again.

“None of your business,” you say with a teasing smile to which Osamu huffs. He pats down the pockets of his pants for his phone and then taps the screen a few times. 

“Takeout it is then,” he sighs. This man is determined to feed you at all costs, already adding a few things to the cart. “What d’you want, doll?”

“You.”

Osamu doesn’t lift his head, but his eyes dart up to your face. Pondering if you’re serious or you’re joking. His expression doesn’t betray anything, but the small twitch of his hand and the sight of his pants tightening a little does.

“I want you, Osamu,” you say again, closing the remaining distance between you both. He’s now effectively trapped between you and the counter, and while you know he could easily shove you away–he doesn’t. You lean a little closer to him, your body pressing against his. He swallows and puts his phone aside, taking your face in both of his hands and tilting it up a little to make sure you look at him. You can tell that he’s scratching at the last bits of his self-restraint right now.

“I’m old enough to be your father and—sweetie, you have to stop smiling like that when I say this, goddamn,” he groans and looks away. You’re gonna give him a few more gray hairs, he’s sure of it. His thumbs trace absentmindedly along your jaw, fingers calloused but his touch gentle.

You tilt your head to the side, nuzzling closer into his big palm. His eyes linger on you, as if they’re silently telling you ‘behave’, but no. Of course you have to be a brat about it.

Osamu is a goner when you wrap your lips around his thumb, sucking on it while holding his gaze. 

His chest is heaving with every breath, a muttered ‘fuck’ falling out of his mouth as he pushes his thumb in deeper, pressing down on your tongue and making you open up wide for him. For a moment he thinks about spitting in your mouth, but he’ll save this for later. His cock is throbbing in his jeans, begging for release. 

Osamu has never been a patient man. For you, he tried. But right now you’re tearing him apart with your gaze alone and he lets you. He wants you to.

And now you’re lowering yourself to your knees before him, your nimble hands unbuckling his belt as if they waited a lifetime to do so, and glance up at him with these eyes of yours that make him insane if he looks back at them for too long.

“We shouldn’t,” he mutters. His voice is a little husky and his big hands wrap around yours, forcing them to pause what they were doing. He looks down at you, his gaze betraying his words–greedy, lovesick–and you want to live in this moment forever.

“Doesn’t matter,” you say, nuzzling your face against his clothed bulge and keeping your eyes pinned on him. There’s already a damp spot forming in his pants. “Do you want this?”

Osamu curses under his breath again, but he lets go of your hands and leans back against the counter, watching the smirk on your face widen now that you’re given permission to wreck him. You won’t hold back.

Hot, you think when you unzip his pants, learning that his pubic hair is also salt-and-pepper colored. Your mouth feels a little dry once you pull his pants and boxers down to his ankles, his cock springing free, pulsing and leaking, aching to be touched. It does nothing to ease the throbbing between your thighs, only worsening it, but you know he’ll take care of this for you soon, too. 

You press a few open mouthed kisses to the inside of his thighs, one hand wrapping around his cock and giving it a few slow strokes. Your hand can’t even wrap around his girth fully. He twitches underneath your touch. Osamu cups one side of your face with his hand, as if he can’t go a second without some form of contact, now that you both crossed that line. His breath is labored and his hips buck a little with every little caress of yours. 

“Yer killin’ me,” he sighs, his Kansai dialect becoming more prominent the more aroused he gets. His thumb traces the shape of your lips, coaxing them to open for him, now two fingers pressing in the cave of your mouth till you’re drooling. Your lipstick leaves faint marks on his skin when you trail your kisses up his abdomen. “Fuck, baby…” 

You spit on his cock and Osamu gives himself a few quick strokes. He looks like he’s barely keeping it together, still trying to act well-mannered, as if you weren’t silently pleading with your eyes only for him to wreck you.

He curses again under his breath and bends over till he’s hovering over you, two fingers tipping your chin up. Your first kiss is as messy and hungry as you imagined it to be, licking, biting, sucking till you’re moaning into his mouth and clawing against his thick thighs. There’s a thin string of salvia connecting you when he pulls away again. You briefly wonder if he mentally filed this under ‘proper manners’ too–always kiss your girl adoringly before making her choke on your cock. 

“C’mon now, sweet girl,” he coaxes you, gently guiding you towards his crotch with a hand tangled in your hair. “Be good for me, will ya? So fucking good for me.” His voice is low and hoarse, his cock leaking precum. Both of you know he won’t last long; he’s already on the edge of coming undone just from the sight of you on your knees in front of him.

When you take him down your throat, his head tips back and he lets out the most guttural moan. You show no mercy on him, your tongue swirling slowly around his tip before you swallow him whole. Your nose is nestled in his pubes as you glance up at him to make sure he’s watching, small tears welling up in the corners of your eyes. He collects them with his thumb and smears them mixed with some mascara across your face.

“Attagirl,” he praises you, his cock twitching in your mouth. By now he hasn’t cum yet out of sheer willpower and the desire to see you a little longer like this, as if you’re a fever dream that’s about to vanish the second he spills himself down your throat. 

You run your tongue over a prominent vein and Osamu growls, his knuckles white from how tight he is gripping the counter. Maybe it’s you who is dreaming. Sucking your boss off in your tiny kitchen wasn’t on your schedule when you got up this morning, but you wouldn’t want it any other way. You wonder if he’ll fuck you against the wall next or if he’s gonna have the decency to carry you over to the bed first. Either way you don’t see yourself walking anytime soon after this night. 

As you go on, Osamu’s breath is coming out in small huffs now, his nose scrunched up while he watches his cock disappear between your swollen lips. He never fully allowed himself to think about this, but now that he had you like that–fuck, he’ll never let you go. Yeah, he’s gonna keep you on your knees forever till your body remembers the shape of him. Fuck. 

“Baby… ‘m so close,” Osamu growls, a low warning. He taps your jaw with his fingers again, a sign for you to let go of him. It didn’t strike him as good manners to make an entire mess out of you the first time you blow him, and he wants you to remember him as a decent man (as decent as pining after your half-your-age employee can be). However he underestimated your determination to stubbornly refuse his request, making yourself gag a bit harder on his cock. Osamu’s hips jerk forwards involuntarily and he groans, barely keeping his composure. 

“Fuck,” he cusses under his breath, your hands now on his sides, steading yourself as you take him down your throat, your eyes fluttering up at him. The last bit of his carefully maintained self-restraint snaps. Osamu’s hands now find the back of your head, keeping it steady so you won’t have a chance of pulling back, then he slams his cock hard between your parted lips until you’re whimpering and coughing around his length. “Cumming, baby, ‘m cumming, so fucking tight for me, fuck–” 

He spills himself inside your mouth, the most primal moan leaving his lips. He’s trembling, his hips stuttering, thick cum spurting seemingly with no end, emptying himself into you. It’s dizzying. His breath is labored once he slides his softening cock out of your mouth.

“Shit, ‘m sorry,” he mutters, reaching behind him for a paper towel and dropping to his knees, holding it out for you. He brushes a few strands of hair out of face, trying hard not to think about how much he likes this fucked out expression on you. “Just spit it out, sweetheart. ’s okay. I was a little too rough, hm?”

What Osamu doesn’t expect is you opening up wide, sticking out your tongue. Spotless. 

You swallowed it all. Swallowed everything he gave you. His cock twitches back to life. 

“Little minx,” he growls, cupping your chin and towering over you. He spits in your mouth and watches you swallow it, again. It’s making him feel lightheaded. He should’ve done this sooner, he thinks. Making you take everything he has to offer and more. 

One of his hands wander underneath that flimsy skirt you’re wearing. He finds you dripping. A corner of his mouth twitches up in a lopsided smirk, a hint of something more sinister. His eyes darken a little. You mewl when he pushes your soaked panties aside to run a finger between your slit before bringing it to his lips, tasting you. You’re even sweeter than he imagined.

Oh, he’s gonna devour you. 

“Sweetheart. Be a good girl and spread your legs.”

a/n: osamu loving demon possessed me idk. i usually don't write part twos for my oneshots but for this one i could be sweet talked into it

hi there, I love the blog! I realize this is a super weird and specific question but is there any media out there which depicts creatures or entities that resonate stronly with you as being analogous to the Fae Folk despite not actually being meant to represent them? sorry if that's confusing!!

It is a bit strange, and quite specific, but I believe I understand what you're asking, and I actually think it's a pretty neat question. So many possibilities flow through my head that it's very hard for me to pin any one of them down, though, so I think I'll just mention the first thing that came to mind.

There is an anime called Mushishi I watched once upon a time, which essentially follows a sort of wandering Faery Doctor through the wilds of 19th century Japan as he finds and helps people with his skills. In this story, the spirits are called "Mushi", and one who deals with them is called a "Mushishi" (hence the title.) There definitely aren't any references to the Fair Folk as they are known through a European lens, but I remember thinking that the spirirts being dealt with by the protagonist felt more accurately akin to the Fae and their nature than the majority of the media I've seen referencing Them.

Any of my followers who have their own answer to this question are more than welcome to reblog with their own response!

My favorite headcanon about gods and the mortals is that gods never understand how fragile humans are and don't understand how deep god's touches go through mortal's skin. (or simply don't care)

Athena will make Diomedes's grip on his spear stronger pushing his fingers tighter and almost breaking his bones. She fixes his position making his stance perfect, but human's body was never able to get into position this perfect so his muscles will be tearing and his bones will be cracking just to be instantly healed. When Athena removes her hands, his body will be covered in bruises.

Odysseus will always feel burning and at the same time freezing gaze on his back while Athena watches him across the battlefield. His ears will be filled with her breath and whisper, that will ring in his head long after she ended speaking. She will help him shot an arrow, and he will feel his joints moving in the way they were never supposed to move.

When Apollo turns all the spears and arrows away from the Hector he will still feel them digging into his flash. Apollo will raise him from the dust again and again, and Hector won't be able to stand without hearing god's voice in his ears and feeling god's burning touch on his shoulders. He closes his eyes and still sees the light.

Helen will stand tall to speak up to Paris, and Aphrodite will place her hands on Helen's shoulders to remind her of goddess's presence and this flaming grip will weight as heavy as ten years of war. Aphrodite will wash Helen's face so her skin will shine brighter and eyes will haunt every man in the room, and the only thing Helen feels is her skin freezing from the coldness of Aphrodite's hands.

And those touches won't end with battle or even with war. Every time Diomedes fights he will feel his body taking the exact position Athena once made him in, his limbs will come into shape they were never meant to be in, without deforming cause Athena already fixed them, once she already designed him according to her vision. Every time Odysseus lies his words will echo in his head just like Athena's words did before, every time he uses a bow, arrow in his hands will feel like a burning torch or like an ice, and his joints and tendons will sing in a perfect copy of the song Athena made them perform inside his body on the battlefield. Every time Helen will square her shoulders to feel herself more confident she will feel burning touch on her chin pushing it up and freezing breath in her hair. She will look at her husband and shadow of tight grip on her shoulders will become shadow of sharp nails digging into her skin, holding her in place.

Even dying at Achilles's hands and falling to the ground Hector would still hear an order in his head telling him to get up and fight, his own blood running down a neck will feel like Apollo's hands forcing him back to his feet.

No mortal ever forgets a god's touch.

little bit of cognitive dissonance here,

Luca by Lorenzo Fresta

HOORAY I just read ur bokuto x reader p4 it was really cute :3 sorry havent updated in awhile i got busy with life… but i never forget to keep u in mind 🫶 love ur work as always, very memorable writer to me -🐈🐈‍⬛

[final] bokuto teaching inexperienced!reader

only fitting to respond to you for this last one. ughhh ilysm 🥹😭💕💕

warnings. heavy nsfw, minors DNI

details. fem!reader / first time / soft kissy missionary / safe sex / BIG praise kink!bokuto / himbo!bokuto / sweet, dumb!bokuto / inexperienced!reader / possessive!bokuto / f!rec oral / guided handjob / kuroo's sister!reader / 2.3k words / last installment

links. my masterlist. my ao3. more haikyuu. part one here. part two here. part three here. part four. request box

You tilted your head, eyes narrowed a little at the generous, clear bulge in his tiny shorts.

"Can I see it?"

He fisted the sheets in his excitement that you were thinking the same thing, biting his cheek so he didn't shout. Just by the obvious elation on his face, you could tell he was in the process of holding back a million bad responses.

Instead, he let his hands talk, lips crashing against yours all rough and thirsty as he pulled it out. You didn't want his kisses, though-- you grinned as you avoided what you could, so you could see.

Propped up on your elbows, you looked from his vigilant stare, trailing down his sculpted, smooth body down to his cock between your tummies.

It looked heavy.

You quickly learned that it was hot, too, as he guided your palm around it, and used your hand to pump himself. Your heart was racing- it was so weird, and you liked it so much, and he liked it even more.

Bokuto always stood by the idea that 'it always feels/tastes/sounds better when somebody else does it.' The kind of guy to only drink out of other peoples' cups, ask other people to read things out loud to him, massage a part of his shoulder he could get but won't.

While you didn't know what you were doing in the slightest, and he was controlling your pace, even the harsh grip, it still felt 40x better than all the jerking off he usually did.

His tongue got confident, and a bit curious, diving deeper past your teeth. He was just trying in whatever way he could to be inside of you. The weight of his body became more substantial.

You loved feeling his strength falter, his lust heightening, compelling him to get closer.

When he pulled away, he looked a little crazy- like he forgot to smile, or something. It was the nature of his eyes to not look very friendly, but it gave the impression that he was really holding himself back.

"Are- you okay?"

"Just-," He takes a sharp breath, eyes squeezing shut for a second, like he's recalibrating, "Feels really g-ood."

He wasn't prepared in the slightest for the smile you gave him. It was sweet, and prideful, and too cute with his cock in your hand.

That tortured look was back, briefly before he shoved his face in the nook of your shoulder.

"Fuck-! I need you s-o bad," He whined, pitiful, "Are- h-ahh, you ready yet?"

You could try.

With a question like that, asked so sweet, so sugary- you hummed against his hair, not quite understanding what 'ready' meant.

You hardly noticed how he plucked a condom from his shorts, somewhere in the mess of sheets to the left of you- and slid it on between clumsy kisses. Lots of practice must've made the process second nature.

It was difficult, to say the least, adjusting to him. His eagerness was already so spoken for, and you realized too late that you probably did need more time.

Bokuto could feel it too, though.

He could hear it in the thinly-veiled fear, making your voice waver, break, as you asked him to be gentle with you.

"Even if it takes all night," He kissed your nose while you couldn't move away, "I'll wait for ya."

Rough hands, so used to force and recklessness, practiced paying attention through running smooth lines across your skin.

Those hard kisses turned softer, slower, across your jaw and down your throat. He moved at a near imperceptible pace, just to get you accustomed to all of his size.

"Sooo pretty," He whispered to himself, forehead heavy on yours as he closed his eyes, "Fuck..."

The discomfort was just starting to be overshadowed with better, pleasurable, buzz. Your legs were slowly relaxing, a jelly-like feeling that spread from your thighs, squished comfy next to his hips, down to your toes.

Bokuto was capable of deliberate and soft sex. He wasn't always an animal, and he wasn't ignorant to somebody else's needs.

He was just excitable, and stupid. But all he needed was a whisper, a hint, or a reminder sometimes.

You kissed the tip of his nose, a way of telling him you were okay. Your fingers started to rake through his spiky hair, and the little smile on your face waited for him to he open his eyes.

"Shit--," He stole another few kisses from you, "Oh, you're so- mh- you're soo cute."

Between kisses, his tongue lagged, always proceeded by a sharp sigh. Almost like he was struggling to multitask. It made you curious when it started to get more frequent.

"Sh-it--h-ahh--," His curse broke into a shocked whine-- he stalled, deep.

Your higher, cuter sound at how good it felt did nothing to help to bring him down.

You watched him bite his own wrist, a small concern furrowing his brow.

Craving more, and only knowing one way to cheer him up, you rolled your hips up and locked your ankles around him with a squeeze.

"W-ait, waitwaitwait," He seethed, "Ahh- fuck-- stop moving babygirl- stop moving."

The person he looked down at was no longer a shy little nerd, incapable of handling his flirty second nature. Your mouth was curled into a coquettish grin, your pecks soft and affectionate and too much, scattered around his face.

He had to cum so bad that he felt sick. He had to look through you- draw blood to his palm, just to clear his filthy mind.

"Do I really feel that good?" You giggled- beyond flattered by his tortured expression.

There was no beat between the end of your sentence and his hushed response, "Yes."

You knew about vague stereotypes of guys with shitty endurance. You didn't have first-hand experience until you watched his expression shift, swirling, panic and euphoria taking one another over again and again.

He 'ruined' his orgasm by keeping your needs first. He knew you couldn't take what he wanted. His body was like iron, forced motionless, like a statue, except for the rapid, uneven rise and fall of his chest.

It looked like a delicious mix of pained and sexy as he came, almost perfectly still, so he didn't hurt you.

A kind of psychotic, intrusive desire made you tense-- the curious, hungry want to get rid of the condom between you. How much better would that have felt without it?

The sheets groaned, fabric snagging and snapping, under his grip. His body was all flexed up for you to watch. You knew he was trying to keep you in mind, so you didn't try anything too cute until he started relaxing, again.

"Hm-mmph--, fuck--," He groaned, a tremble in his arms as he slowly pulled out.

His exhaustion was short-lived, only manifested in a breathiness in his chuckle.

"Good thing I brought two."

This time you saw him take out a second one- but it wasn't just two. He had a whole row of condoms in his pocket this entire time.

You giggled at how he tore the second one off. What could he have possibly been thinking to bring seven along?

Bokuto harnessed some pornstar-like efficiency, tearing the outside open and pumping the latex onto himself with no waste of energy.

"Y'know," He cocked his head to the side, silly, despite his thumb sliding over your clit, "I've never cum that fast."

"Mmn-h-- Ah- that's- that's good--," You struggled.

A useful thing to know, sure, but it's not like you really cared- he never got soft. It was a non-issue because he was still clearly up for more.

He filled you back up so easy and slow, his thumb prodding stuttery waves of pleasure where there was once pain. He watched it with an air of pride about him. He sat up straighter, focused on where he disappeared into you. He soaked in all your twitching until he got his fill.

Only when he was satisfied did he lean down to his elbows to check on you.

Your had to fill your hands with his perfect muscles, all bouncy and twitchy at how overstimulated you got him. He was huffing, swallowing his groans so he didn't look uncool-- restrained or not, he would've looked just as cute.

He just wanted to fuck you good. For you to remember it well.

"Mmnh-! You're so big-,"

Those giant, fuck-me-harder eyes kept his shoulders tight. His hand was gripping your hip like a vice and bringing you down onto him.

His cock sank deep, a grumbly sound under his quiet, breathy whining-- your breath caught, and you had the brief revelation that you had been missing out on this for so long. How long had they been friends for? Years?

You wanted to make up for all the lost time. You locked your ankles around him for the second time, your hands pulling him back so you could put some hickeys all up and down his thick neck.

Though you had some vague idea that he loved when you hugged him close, you didn't understand the depth in which it turned him on.

It was one of those quick-affirming, sweet and wordless praises that resonated so hard with Bokuto's insatiable need to be validated.

He had to ask. He wanted more, he wanted to hear you.

"That feel good?" His hand cupped your entire jaw, forcing your eyes on his, ever so focused.

Your grip on his forearm was like an ant trying to push over a tree. It would never budge. And when it didn't, it took very little time to realize you actually liked it there. Your reflex did nothing to serve you, but you kept your hand still to prod at the muscle.

The breath you took to answer him was wasted on another moan.

"Ah-h--,"

"I want ya to tell me," His insistence was daunting, but filled with need.

"I--,"

Your nails were digging into his skin, and you were gasping, trying to tell him you were close- but none of it came out properly.

It was all just improper, uncontrollable, unmasked whining.

A bit late, he was witness to your adorable realization that you were cumming. He murmured a small, infatuated, "Aww..."

His lips pressed hard to your temple, and he let you pull him in, offering only the bulk of his shoulder as consolation for his deeper thrusts. It was a taste of what he could give you if only this wasn't your first, if you had been used to him from the start.

An orgasm had never felt so filled out, before. Like it was larger than you, stronger than anything you'd be able to craft on your own, from just your fingers. It was him. His cock, but moreso was his intensity and devotion to getting you there and fucking you all the way through it.

His hand was still cupping the bottom half of your face, but not covering your mouth. God, he wanted the entire world to know how good he made you feel. Especially Kuroo. Fuck that guy for keeping you a secret.

"Good girl, ohh- you did so good," He was slowing, still seeing those last, shallower, mellow waves through with dedication, "Sound sooo pretty."

Those eyes were softer, but still eating you up, savoring you while you were all messy for him.

Were you dating, now? It felt like you had been shot forward about ten years with this guy.

A light buzzing -the muted ring of a phone- was somewhere near you, interrupting your giggly, feel-good vibe. Again, and still just as surprising, Bokuto slowly pulled out of you and made quick work of that second condom.

He patted around the sheets for the source of the sound.

"Oh!"

He let the ringing continue- he had to get his idea out immediately: "That totally reminds me! I should get you a vibrator or something."

Jaw slack, you weren't given the opportunity to respond, before he answered. You lay there, a bit shivery and empty-feeling, as he hugged your thigh over his own.

"Hellooo?"

It was quiet. There was a faint, urgent, tone on the other side.

"Ummmm..."

His fingers tapped against your skin. He was lost in deep thought of how to respond. You were glad you couldn't hear the words being spoken, because you knew it was not going to be a pleasant earful.

"Yeah-... I mean, we were just talking... and... stuff."

Bokuto got droopier. He sank, sitting on his heels, still sitting butt-naked and hugging your thigh. You squeezed one of your blankets to your chest and frowned.

"It's nothing personal, man..."

He held the phone away from his ear as he was verbally berated, a pout making his whole face look cartoonishly sad. It was difficult, on your end, to understand that he could both be super into you and want to stay friends with Tetsurou.

"Would it make it any better iiiif I told you we were dating now?"

Bokuto winced and slid his free hand back and forth over your leg as consolation, for himself.

"Yeahyeahyeah, I gotchu, yeahyeah. Okay'bye," He hung up at the soonest crafted opportunity.

"Soooo," He sighed, distraught, instantly making up any distance between you. He dropped so much weight atop your sore body and covered you like a warm, weighted blanket, that you struggled to get air in your lungs.

"He's... not... happy."

The big dummy on top of you deflated with each word in a dismal decrescendo.

You had to wriggle around to find somewhere to breath from; room for your chest to expand at least a little.

"I thought you knew that?"

Bokuto made a high humming sound, feet kicking in the air, "Mmmmmmyeahhh, kinda, but..."

You freed one arm to wrap around him, so you could play with his hair, "He can't stay mad forever. He'll see that you're not- harmful- I guess, eventually."

He let his brow relax, shoved hard into your shoulder, and took in your new comforting scent.

Part of you couldn't blame your brother for assuming the worst. It took until incredibly recently for you to understand the full scale of Bokuto's fixation.

Despite all his sad body language, he couldn't have been that worried, because he was already back to sly, tongue-centered kisses on your neck.

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