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more-stuff-of-pi · 3 years ago

Text

all the familiar

wc: 6.9k

pairings: bokuto x f!reader

contains: camboy!bokuto, sort-of-shy!reader, childhood friends to lovers, post-timeskip bokuto, slow burn but at a fast pace, mutual suppressed feelings, mutual pining, fluff, eventual love confessions, masturbation (m.), pillow humping (m.), accidental orgasms (m./f.), size kink (m./f.), nervous!bokuto, soft oral sex (f. receiving), desperate oral sex, wingman!kuroo, handholding during sex, consensual sex

warnings: ! minors dni !

a/n: i just stumbled upon some information today that explained why this fic wasn't getting much traction (it was bc of a certain banned tag) so im reposting this under different tags so that this post doesn't get muted again !

He was familiar; a smile ensconced by small dimples, eyes of gold. And he was your close friend of many years, shared nights and early mornings spent at the other’s side since the beginnings of middle school.

Bokuto was familiar, but familiarities often change.

You had not forgotten when such a thing happened. He had been nervous, eyes flitting around the room, his knee bouncing impatiently.

“Kou?” you asked him, setting your mug of warm tea on the table. His own remained untouched.

Bokuto startled, hand twitching where he had placed it over the lower half of his face. He looked up.

“You wanted to talk about something,” you said. “Is everything alright?”

He had waited so long to tell you, unsure of how to say it—if he should. But you were his friend and he trusted you. Would you think lowly of him if he were to tell you?

The inhale he took was a trembling one. Bokuto began to think this a mistake: rapping his knuckles at your door late in the night with a heavy hand and a heavier heart, he felt dirty for the secret he held, what he wanted you to know. This was not an incited conversation, prompted by your finding of one of his videos. For all Bokuto was aware, you had yet to see them and he would rather it remain that way.

His frantic words tumbled from his throat, as if thrown from a stupor, “I make videos.” He looked petrified, a deep blush curling his face.

Your brows pinched, “What?”

“Like—” Bokuto winced, dragging his hand down his mouth to rest it at the column of his neck “—like… porn.”

You opened your mouth to speak, then closed it; your eyes had widened. “Oh,” you said, gently to not deter him.

His fingers lifted to smooth back tresses of silver and black, his own stare kept to the table as if ashamed.

“Kou, that’s alright.” You were smiling at him now as you rose from your seat, crossing to him. “That’s perfectly fine.”

He felt your hand on his arm, squeezing reassuringly. Bokuto’s mouth had thinned, his brow lowered. Your fingers touched his cheek, his chin.

“Please look at me,” you said, resting against the edge of the table in front of him.

Bokuto had never been one to deny you. He lifted his eyes, stopping when they found yours. You looked at him so adoringly, so tender in the way you touched him, Bokuto thought it a reverie.

“You’re not…you’re not weirded out or anything?” His voice nearly cracked like an adolescent; his knee continued shaking.

“No, no I’m not.”

He chuckled fretfully, though relieved. His arms curled around you without thought, holding you tight to him. From your standing position, and his sitting, Bokuto nearly reached your own height; your chin fell to the crook of his neck, your arms lifting from beneath his to settle on his back.

“Thank you,” he murmured into your hair.

You breathed out a laugh, “I’ll always support you—you know that.”

He let go, but his hands kept curled around your shoulders. An odd expression veiled his features, before quickly diminishing.

“Did something happen to cause this conversation?” you asked.

“No, I just…wanted you to know. I hate keeping things from you.”

-----

Bokuto left soon afterwards; you had classes in the morning, as did he. And when he returned home, he lowered himself onto the cloth-bound couch, propping his laptop on the ottoman. He began editing the video he had taken the night prior, of him humping his pillow desperately, pressing his cock into the fold he had created. Bokuto deleted eleven sections of recording where he had moaned your name in the haze of his lust.

He sighed, “Shit.”

-----

A month passed since he told you, and nothing had changed. No faint wariness tainted the time you spent together; no discomfiting conversations ensued. All was well and normal as it should be.

If only Bokuto would have checked the hour.

It was two in the afternoon on a Saturday. You had the spare key to his apartment, the result of his constant misplacing of his own, and you always knocked before entering, always made sure to tell Bokuto when you would be over. You had knocked three times now and he had yet to call out to you.

You shook your head, turning the brass key over and nudging open the door.

He’s likely in the bathroom, you thought, or taking a nap.

Bokuto was on the couch, on his knees, one hand holding the armrest tightly, the other around his cock. His eyes were shut, brows knitted, mouth open in a silent moan; his head was tipped down as he bucked lazily into his hand.

You stood in shock for a brief moment at the sight before you, of your closest friend panting and whining as he stroked himself.

“I—I’m so sorry,” you stumbled out, backing to the threshold of his apartment, your fingers fumbling for the knob.

Bokuto’s head tore upward, reddened cheeks burning deeper, gold eyes brimming with sheer panic. The adrenaline elicited the familiar feeling of the edge to an orgasm, and he tipped over terribly. He came with a choked moan that fell to a low keening, spilling onto the towel below. When his hips eased from their twitching, Bokuto tilted his head back, an arm propped on the top of the couch as he rubbed at his eyes.

“Fuck,” he whispered beneath his breath. “Fuck.”

You had pressed yourself as close to the wall as possible, your stare pinned to his kitchen, your feet, anywhere but at his direct vicinity. He was stammering his apologies, buttoning his pants and reaching for the black shirt he had thrown onto the floor.

“I thought you were coming over Sunday,” he said, regret thick on his tongue. He was grasping for words, beginning sentences before biting them off. Bokuto reached for his phone beside the TV, he had been holding a live session. And the comment section had imploded.

Looks like someone got caught. She sounds real pretty.

Get the girl to join.

You should fuck her good.

He ended the live, pocketing his phone with a wince.

“I can—” you began “—leave if you need me to. We can reschedule for another time.” You were offering him a genial smile, slight in its curvature, but you were uncomfortable, evidently so.

Bokuto watched you shift, he watched as you wove and unwove your fingers. He had made you uneasy, he thought, and he was upset at himself for this.

“No,” he said suddenly, a plea, “no, you don’t need to go, it’s okay.”

Bokuto and you had entered an unknown tract. The boundaries of a friendship were distinct, absolute; they had become muddled now.

It was quiet in his apartment, cleaved here and there by an interlude of Bokuto speaking—menial things, nonsensical things. He did not mind lapses of silence, but silence was to be content in the other’s presence. This silence was to be tense; and Bokuto did not like this silence.

He picked the towel from the couch, placing it in a washing machine. He cleaned his hands. He straightened the apartment, he kept busy as he spoke, a blush burned into his face.

“—and you should see the neighbors to the right,” he said, chuckling with tensed shoulders. “They have this dog they carry around in a stroller. It’s just a tiny little thing, I’m sure they tuck it in goodnight, too.”

“Kou,” you murmured, eyes following him as he occupied the living room, moved to the kitchen, then the hall, fixed his shoes by the door.

“They’re sweet people though, they really like Akaashi, always wanting to make conversation with him when he comes to visit.”

“Kou,” you said more distinctly.

“He asked me how you were doing just a few days ago—Akaashi, I mean—said he’s been wanting to call you, but his own classes have been piling work to his ears.”

“Koutarou.”

Bokuto stilled, his throat bobbing as he swallowed and looked to you. He was in the living room, adjusting the couch pillows again.

You had migrated to the kitchen table some time after Bokuto had washed and dried three plates that had not been dirty. His table was set low to the ground and you sat cross-legged on a pillion, your forearms braced upon the wood.

“Yes?” he asked, softly, eyes regarding you with worry. He was scared for what you would say.

You gestured to the seat opposite you, “Can you please sit down?”

“Yeah—yeah, of course.” He lowered himself before you, folding his hands in his lap. The red tincture remained on his cheeks and ears.

“Look, we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to; we can pretend it never happened, if that’s what you want.” You paused, gauging the tensing muscle of Bokuto’s jaw, his conflicted expression, and continued. “I meant what I said before.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I should’ve…” His words flitted off. He should have done many things differently; he should have checked his phone; he should have been in his bedroom, instead. Bokuto apologized again, his knee had begun bouncing, “I’m sorry.”

You laughed beneath your breath, lightheartedly, to ease Bokuto, “Can I ask you something?” He did not hear how your voice wavered, did not see your hands shake; you were nervous, restless. Watching Bokuto reach his climax—face twisting in surprise, the uneven rise and fall of his chest—had brought about a warmth to your body, to between your legs. You had always thought him handsome, kind, willful and passionate. He was the boy who thanked you with innocent hugs, who fell fast asleep with a cheek pressed to your shoulder. The boy who asked his older sisters how to braid hair simply so he could braid yours.

But Bokuto had grown to be man, evident in his large stature and honed body, how he held his chin and entered a room.

You blanched at the sudden thought. If Bokuto noticed, he said nothing.

“Sure,” he nodded his head, shifting on the cushion. Bokuto sat hunched, expectant eyes awaiting you.

You blinked, returning your attention to him before you asked, “Why did you choose to get into the industry?”

It was an unanticipated question, but he answered, nonetheless. Bokuto explained that it had initially been a bad joke, the product of a night of heavy drinking; him and Kuroo bet one another on who could produce the most views from a single anonymous masturbation video. Bokuto had won. And he found himself wondering how else it could prove beneficial.

“Do you make them alone or with someone else?” you asked, and you did not know why you had. You immediately wanted to retract your words at the rise of Bokuto’s silver brows.

“Alone,” he said slowly, “I wouldn’t feel comfortable enough with someone I didn’t know.”

Your face warmed, you nodded in understanding.

You should fuck her good.

The comment tugged on Bokuto’s sleeve like an insistent hand. He rolled his shoulder back.

-----

Bokuto called in an order for lunch to be brought to his apartment and the two of you ate together. The tension had long since stippled away.

“I forgot to tell you about this one guy I saw at the gym,” he said excitedly, speaking around a full mouth.

You pricked your food onto the fork and crooked a brow, “Oh?”

“Yeah, he had been benching some heavy weights and it must’ve been too much. I looked over and he was near purple trying to get the bar off of him—ran over there as fast as I could and helped him out.” Bokuto was smiling widely, dimples pressed in proud at the edges, “Then he got pissed at me and said I ruined his rep.”

You stifled a bark of a laugh.

Bokuto shook his head, chuckling, “The guy threatened to have me kicked out permanently for harassment.”

“Harassment?” you repeated.

He hummed, drinking from his plastic cup.

“You should’ve just punched him at that point.”

Bokuto balked, suppressing a grin, “That’s terrible, I would never do that.”

“What’s the point of all that time spent working your body if you can’t even defend yourself?” You pointed the end of your fork toward him, shaking it like a chastising finger.

The corner of his lips tilted upward. Bokuto moved quickly. You did not anticipate him to rise from the table and cross to you; you did not expect him to lift you so easily from the ground. He picked you up by the waist and you yelped in surprise as he settled you over his shoulder. Your fork fell to the table, Bokuto shook beneath you with laughter.

“Kou!” You fisted at his shirt, wrinkling the blue fabric. One of his hands laid heavy at the small of your back, the other he placed at your thighs. “You ass.”

It was futile to writhe in his hold. You grasped tightly to his shirt, lifting it as you scowled.

“I won’t drop you,” he said, walking to the hall. “Promise.”

“Where are we going?” you asked exasperatedly, his steps jostling you.

“I wanna show you something.”

“Show me what, Koutarou?”

He smiled, “You’ll see.”

Bokuto continued down the hall, his shoulder warm beneath your abdomen, and brought you to his bedroom. You narrowed your eyes in question but said nothing. He let your body slip back, hands bracketing your waist to place you on the ground; your own held his shoulders for support. He grinned down at you and turned away.

“What—” you did not finish your sentence as Bokuto plucked something small from the lounge chair beside his closet, biting at the inside of his cheek elatedly.

“Look what I have,” he crooned in delight. Bokuto held a plush toy in his hands, its stitching frayed, colors faded.

Your eyes widened. It was an old gift from Bokuto, one he had earned from a rusted prize machine for you. You had thought it lost.

“My mom found it in some boxes she was cleaning out. I guess she mistook it for toys I had been getting rid of in middle school and put it in storage when you forgot it at my house that one time.”

“God,” you took the toy he offered out to you, turning it over, “I thought I’d never see this thing again.” A breathless laugh.

Bokuto would give you every object in the world to see the amused expression you bore again and again.

You’re so lovely, he thinks, I would give you everything if you asked it.

He returned your smile, stepping forward to play with the furred ears of the plush.

-----

Bokuto was panting, whining brokenly into his pillow. He did not record himself tonight, this was solely for him. His fingers held the base of his cock tightly, hips pressing as far as his hand would allow before pulling back.

He had walked you out of his building and to your car when you needed to return home. And then you had gestured for him to bend down. Scalding warmth marred his cheeks and ears and throat in the form of a blush as you took his face in your hands and pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead.

“Be good,” you had joked, patting the side of his face before entering your car and driving out of the lot.

He would be good for you. He felt so good because of you. Bokuto stifled a whimper.

His hand twitched, cock bobbing at the memory. It was a simple kiss, platonic in its brevity; Bokuto should not have come so undone by it. He did not think of what your lips would feel like elsewhere but his forehead, it had been too innocent of a kiss. It had been the kiss you share between laughter, in tired sleep, drudging mornings. In a hello and a goodbye.

Bokuto moaned, peering down at his hand, the head of his cock that slipped through. He had not been this aroused in so long; he wanted to enjoy this.

-----

“Well, shit,” Kuroo swiped a thumb beneath the point of his nose. “So, she knows.”

“Yeah,” Bokuto said quietly, “she knows.”

They sat beside one another on an old bench, the park trees crowding above with bare limbs, the cold nipping their hands and faces.

Kuroo’s brows pinched at his friend’s tone, “Did something else happen?”

He frowned, lips pressing tight. Bokuto peered around the empty park, “She—” he looked over his shoulder “—she walked in on me…” and glanced pointedly to the ground.

Kuroo tilted his head, eyes widening, and clicked his tongue. “Oh, you can’t be serious.”

Bokuto did not speak. He drank from his hot coffee instead.

“You’re serious. Oh my god, you’re serious?” He shifted to better see Bokuto, “How the hell did that even happen?”

Bokuto shook his head, sniffling from the chill, “I forgot when she was coming over, mixed up the days. I’m so stupid, I felt terrible after it happened. She’d been so nice about it when I first told her—she didn’t care—and I put her in such a fucking uncomfortable position.” He exhaled deeply, lungs filling with guilt, “I’m a bad friend.”

“No, you’re not.” Lifting a hand, Kuroo placed it on Bokuto’s shoulder in consolation, “You’re not a bad friend. It was an accident, Bo. And she’s one of the most understanding people I’ve ever met; she would never hold something like that against you.”

“I—I came the second I saw her in my apartment…” Bokuto was shaking his knee, scrubbing haplessly at his face. He refused to look at Kuroo. He was so embarrassed, so fucking ashamed. It was an unnecessary detail, but this was the first that Bokuto had discussed the incident beyond you.

Kuroo lapsed into a quiet pause. He opened his mouth, pondered his words, closed it again. He eventually settled on: “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Bokuto mumbled.

“That’s…” Kuroo began, then lifted his head. “Right in front of her?” he asked, as if he could not believe it.

Bokuto pinned him with a withering expression that said, Yes, now please stop asking.

“Okay,” said Kuroo carefully. “Okay, and how was she afterward?”

“She offered to leave; I asked her to stay. I couldn’t bear the thought of her going without some sort of explanation.”

“And did she? Stay, I mean.”

“Yeah, she stayed and I bought us lunch. It was her, actually, that sat me down to talk. I was so damn nervous, thought I was gonna throw up. But…she was fine, I was fine. We got over it and ate and spent time together.”

Kuroo nodded, sipped in thought from his own cup. They were silent for a moment before he said, “Are you in love with her?”

Bokuto fumbled terribly, whirling on Kuroo with a slackened jaw. “What?” he asked.

“Just a question,” Kuroo shrugged, crossing one ankle over the other in front of him. “I’ve seen the way you look at her, you know, even when we were younger. You care about her, that’s obvious enough, but you get so caught up in your head when you’re with her.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he grumbled.

“If Akaashi or I had walked in on you, it would’ve been a shock—sure—but so what? It wouldn’t have been an issue and we both would go about our days. However, her walking in on you shouldn’t be such a damn big deal. She’s just a friend,” Kuroo leveled an amused grin toward him, “right, Bo?”

-----

It was eleven in the evening when you received a text from Kuroo.

Heard you found out, he said.

Yeah, he told me about a month ago, you replied.

I’m betting he was too embarrassed to give you the username he posts the videos under.

You stilled, typing back with reluctance. No, he didn’t.

You want it?

A flush warmed your body, your very blood. You could nearly hear the taunt of Kuroo’s words. No, you said.

Liar.

A minute passed, then two; you believed that had been the end of the conversation, until he sent a link.

He could be toying with you. He could be pandering for a way to get a rise out of you.

He holds live sessions every Saturday, sometimes in the middle of the week, too, if he’s feeling up to it. Just take a look for yourself, said Kuroo

The warmth burned now. And how do you know this? you asked.

I don’t watch his shit, if that’s what you’re thinking. He tells me.

You eyed the link, wary. A ruse or not, it felt wrong to even consider watching Bokuto in such a vulnerable position. So, you did not consider it, you turned off your phone and picked up a book.

It had not been enough to distract you. You kept reimagining that day you found Bokuto on his couch as if the thoughts were becoming intrusive. His body, his hands, the way he moved—

You rubbed harshly at your temples, growing irritated. He was your friend, he was such a sweetheart, and a gentleman through and through.

Someone is getting off to the thought of him, the sight of him, another thought latched itself as it laughed with delight. How do you feel about that?

I feel that it’s none of my business, you seethed.

No, you don’t. You’re jealous.

You rose from your bed and showered.

When you returned, dripping in rivulets of water, frustrated, you took up your phone. Half an hour, you had spent bathing yourself. Half an hour, and Bokuto was likely done with his live session.

You should look, the thought returned, he wouldn’t even know. What’s the harm? Satiate your curiosity, and you won’t ever need to be curious again.

It’s wrong, you said.

And, yet, you’ve seen it before.

Your phone was heavy in your hand, weighted with a lead you could not see. Yes, you had already seen him reach an orgasm by accident; he had even wanted to tell you of his side occupation; but he had not invited you to watch.

It did not matter if you loved him, if you thought of how he held you, how he might take your hand—how he might fuck you. This was not for your viewing.

-----

A few more months appeared and scurried away. Your relationship with Bokuto remained normal, if not a bit cautious. He was more careful with his touch; his tight embraces became short and sweet hugs from the side; his thigh did not brush yours when you sat beside one another; his hands did not play idly with your hair or fingers or clothing.

He was the most familiar, but familiarities were beginning to change once more.

“Kou,” you said, peering over at him as he stood by his closet.

He hummed in acknowledgment, lifting a gold patterned tie and a black patterned tie up to his throat.

“Has something been bothering you?” you asked.

Bokuto found your stare in the mirror before him, pausing, “Well, I am having some trouble trying to choose which tie would look best.”

You rose from your seat on his bed and crossed to him, picking the gold patterned tie from his hands. “This one,” you said with a small smile. “But I meant as of late. You’ve been…off.” His hands were moving the tie, manipulating the fabric to create a meticulous knot; you watched this instead of meeting his eyes.

Bokuto swallowed thickly, “Have I?

“Yes,” you said, “just a bit.” You adjusted the lapels of his suit jacket, following the sleeve until you reached his hand. He automatically lifted it for you, and you admired the intricacies of the watch on his wrist. “This is beautiful.”

“Thank you,” he said, but the words were as delicate as a breath. You were holding his hand in yours, thumbing the sleeve upward to admire the silver band. It was near torturous watching you in silence, standing ever so still, because he wanted you to continue. He did not want you to stop.

Your hand was so small in comparison to his, in comparison to him. And you were so heartbreakingly pretty; adorned in a dress that he wanted to slip from your body, carefully done hair that he wanted to thread his fingers through, makeup that he wanted to near ruin.

Bokuto took in a trembling breath and hoped you would not notice. He had asked you a week ago if you would like to accompany him to a friend’s birthday dinner, and you had said yes.

But with the way you looked tonight, he might just keep you home and to himself.

-----

In hindsight, he should not have worried about the dinner. It went well, and everyone adored you; he offered to pay for your meal, to which you declined, and he in turn took your card and held out his own to the waiter with the most endearing of smiles.

He should have worried for what came after.

You sat by his side on the couch, cheek pressed tiredly to his shoulder, your heels placed at his front door, your dress hanging in his closet. It was late when the two of you returned from the dinner; Bokuto had insisted you stay the night.

Don’t want anything to happen to you, he had said. Truly, he was torturing himself at this point, but it was a pain he had begun to crave. To have you within an arm’s reach; to have you nestled at his side on the couch; to have you wearing his clothes to sleep in; and to not do anything at all. Like a game of wills.

“Tired, huh?” he asked you, bumping your leg with his own. The TV droned on, its light shifting across the planes of his and your faces.

You sighed, “Yeah.” He was so warm, the give of his muscles so soft beneath your cheek like a lull.

He propped his chin atop your head, peering around his apartment—remembering that day. Bokuto had thought he saw hesitance in your expression when you returned from changing clothes and he had patted the space beside him on the couch, before he hurried to assure you that he had cleaned it months prior.

The cleanliness had not been your cause for uncertainty. It was the sole fact that your body flushed at the memory of what, precisely, Bokuto had done on the couch.

“You should go to sleep,” he finally murmured, nudging once at your temple with his nose to wake you further. “Take my bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Kou,” you said flatly, voice addled with dreariness, “this is your apartment. I’m not gonna take your entire bed.”

He hummed, as if amused. “Yeah, you are.” Without thought, he rose from the couch and dragged you upwards, leaning down to curl an arm beneath your knees and behind your shoulders.

A surprised call of his name escaped you, and Bokuto brought you to his bedroom. It was all so painfully similar to that day that felt so long ago and, yet, felt like only yesterday. Two lamps on either side of his bed illuminated the room from when you had flicked them on earlier to slip out of your dress and into a shirt of his that nearly hung at your knees. You bounced gently when he settled you on the bed. And Bokuto placed his hands by either side of your head, suspending himself above you lazily.

He smiled crookedly, teasingly, and you pushed at his face, scoffing.

“You’re terrible,” you laughed, and he laughed with you.

He was such a glutton for you. If only you knew. Maybe he would tell you. Maybe he never would.

Bokuto pulled away, but you caught the bottom of his dress shirt, still tucked into black slacks that he had yet to change out of.

“Wait,” you said suddenly, quietly. He stilled, halfway unfurled from above you.

His brows rose, “Hm?”

“You never…” you began. “You never answered my question, from before we left.” At the confused tilt of his chin, you continued. “I asked if there was something wrong, that you had seemed distant.”

“Oh,” he amended. And he remembered; he had avoided the question because he already had his answer. But Bokuto hated lying to you, so he simply had not said anything. He straightened and you sat up, legs bent at the edge of his bed.

“Kou?”

He inhaled, as if he meant to speak. Bokuto had become so hyper-aware of you after that embarrassing incident that every little touch, every brush and smile and whisper from you had sent him into a desperate frenzy. He had been on edge, cautious, ever careful. But now he touched you with abandon, like a man on the brink of death grasping for his fill of greed before he keeled over. Bokuto could not fathom the idea of you reciprocating his affections; it was a fool’s dream.

Your eyes searched his.

“I…” And here he was, swallowing his sentences as he had been before.

You shifted, sheets rustling, head tipped back to look up properly at him.

“I don’t know how to act around you sometimes,” he said, and he was not quite sure he should have. He continued nonetheless, “You make me nervous.” Bokuto spoke as if it were a confession, an imploring sin.

You blinked, “It’s just me, Kou. It's always just been me.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he whispered, smiling as if sad. He ran a hand down his face, glancing away; a nervous habit that you recognized.

You reached out for him again, rising to stand in front of him.

“Goodnight,” he said, and it was genuine and kind and he did not know if he could look at you without falling to his knees and asking for anything you would be willing to give him.

“No,” you grabbed his wrist, tugging gently, “no, don’t do that.”

And he stayed. How could he ever deny you?

“Tell me what’s wrong,” you said.

God, you were a sight to behold. Peering up at him, wearing his shirt. He nearly groaned. And by some stupid whim, he spilled his heart for you.

“I’m in love with you,” he breathed. It was as if everything simply ceased; to exist, to move, what did it matter when he had finally uttered the words that had bled his thoughts for years?

Your lips parted, eyes widening; your chest rose as you inhaled. Bokuto looked like a beat dog before you, tail between his legs and a darting stare.

“Oh, Koutarou,” you whispered as your hand lifted to cup the curvature of his cheek.

And how you spoke, he thought you were being pitiful. But your thumb stroked his skin, your fingers lowered until they reached his chin, his lips. His breath hitched; his throat bobbed painfully.

“Please look at me,” you said. And he did, his jaw tensing at your touch. You smiled, placed your other hand on his chest. You were near on your toes trying to reach him.

He folded his hand over the one you had placed along his face, leaning into it, closing his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them, they found yours.

You always thought his eyes were a paradox. Golden irises that belonged to the forest’s underbrush, atop a leaf-laden bough, beneath the black of water—irises that belonged to a predator. And he was anything but; he was so tragically sweet and gracious. And he loved you.

He took your hand, brought the tips of your fingers to his lips and kissed them softly. Bokuto believed he had spelt the beginning of an end for himself; he did not realize your touches were not out of sympathetic pity.

But you very nearly whimpered at the gesture. He had scarcely kissed you.

“Kou,” you murmured. “Kou, please.” You did not know what you were asking for. Anything, you thought, I would take anything.

“Goodnight,” he said again. “I’m sorry if—”

He was cut off by your grabbing of his face, your eyes shuttering in confusion. “What are you doing?” you asked.

Bokuto noticed it then: your flushed cheeks, your breathless voice, the uneven rising of your chest. You were a mirror of himself, how he felt.

Oh.

How could he be so foolish?

He reached for you, your hands fell to his abdomen, and his framed your face. Bokuto was so close now, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Need to hear you say it,” he murmured, and he spoke like a man desperate. He moved his lips to your cheek, the line of your jaw, beneath your ear. He caught the scent of that perfume you always wore and sighed.

Your fingers curled into his dress shirt, your thoughts already hazing over at the barest of his ministrations. “I love you,” you said, “always have.”

And when he kissed you, when he pressed his lips to yours, it was so gentle, so light. Bokuto was warm and he let a hand fall to the small of your back; he was pleased when you arched into him, pressed further against him.

You both breathed heavily when the kiss broke.

And then you said his name. And something snapped.

Bokuto lifted you, set you on the bed with reverence, placed himself above you. He was pressing kisses to your lips, your throat, fisting the shirt you wore —his shirt—and splaying his fingers across your hip. You looked so small beneath him, vulnerable in the pleasured twist of your face. This time, he did groan; he groaned against your pulse point at the column of your neck.

Everything seemed to burn. You pressed your thighs together at the ache that had begun to form. And it hurt in the best way.

He peered down at your thighs, understood why they curled to be close to your body. He felt himself strain at his dress pants.

Bokuto kissed you a little longer, hands trembling in restraint where they found your waist, arms, stomach and hip. Your fingers had wound themselves into the fabric below his collar and remained there; he realized then that you were nervous—as nervous as he had been before.

He pulled away. “Hey,” he said softly.

“Hi,” you whispered on a breath.

The tips of his fingers, calloused from his time playing volleyball in the past, smoothed strands of your hair, tucked it behind your ear. “Are you doing okay?”

Your want was a palpable thing, taken form in kiss-swollen lips; each beat of blood sent a throb to your cunt. It was near incapacitating how turned on you. And you could feel yourself getting wet, dampening your underwear.

You nodded at his question and Bokuto gave you a reprieving smile. Before his kisses lowered to your collarbone, between your breasts, your stomach. “Good,” he said between kisses, “good.”

Your breathing stuttered when he stopped below your navel, you still wore his shirt. It was almost lewd how you locked eyes as he lifted himself, held your knees on either side, a question in his expression.

If you asked, he would stop this all right now. If you asked, he would press his mouth to your cunt and make you cum on his tongue. He would love to do the latter; he would love to do it over and over and over until you were writhing away, tugging at his hair because you could not take anymore.

And then you nodded shyly again, and he spread your legs easily, settled flat on his bed. He wrapped his arms around the plush of your thighs, tugging you down. You might have squeaked at the sudden pull, but it subsided to a gasp at the feel of his warm mouth simply hovering.

You shifted your legs on instinct and Bokuto tightened his hold.

“Kou,” you keened, and you sounded so desperate to your own ears when he placed a brief kiss at your clit, over your underwear; too light to provide friction, but heavy enough to leave you squirming.

It was astonishing the way Bokuto had been so subdued when he confessed. He was far from it now, molding your body to him, pulling little whimpers from you at the kisses on the inside of your thighs. He wanted more. He wanted to hear so much more.

Bokuto ran a knuckle up your slit, feeling you through the cotton. He could see the damp spot of your underwear, could feel it; his hips canted against the sheets and he pressed his knuckle further on your clit. You moaned softly, smothering it with the palm of your hand. And he grinned up at you, feral in the way his canines showed.

You did not notice he had lifted up from your cunt before he was right above you.

“Are you sure?” he asked and you knew this would likely be the last unless you asked him to stop.

“Yes,” you said, “please.” You were surprised he heard you at all.

Bokuto gave you a sweet kiss on your cheek. It was such a naïve kiss in comparison to what he wanted to do to you. He did not give you time to breathe before he laid his tongue flat against your cunt, focusing on your clit; he seemed intent on pushing you to an orgasm simply over your underwear, as if he had something to prove.

The whimper that slipped from you was a broken one. He licked at you, tightened his hold on your thighs, the force of his muscle pressing into the fat of your legs. His shirt had pooled at your waist with how he tugged you down, unaware of his own strength in a lusted haze. You grasped for anything; his sheets, his pillows, his soft hair. This sensation of his tongue lapping and grazing was something entirely new to you—you were not going to last long.

But that was what he wanted.

A certain dig of your heel against his back had him biting lightly at the inside of your thigh, a gesture that might have said, “Be patient.” You gasped, regardless, lifting your head to find he was not waiting to look up at you. He was far too busy playing with your cunt, rocking his clothed cock in time with his mouth to provide himself some form of relief against the bed.

You might have been embarrassed, you might have been chagrined at the sight of Bokuto between your legs, if not for how fucking good he made you feel. This was your closest friend, this was the boy you grew up alongside.

Your thoughts fled the moment Bokuto pressed his tongue right there and you made a whine that had you blushing red. And then he moaned against your clit, sucking harshly on it. You managed to keen his name before Bokuto understood you were close. Your legs strained at his hold, your back arching, mouth falling open as the beginnings of your orgasm began to lash at your body.

He found your wandering hand that reached for him and slid his own into it. Bokuto squeezed warmly, glancing up to find you.

“Come on,” he said, “I’ve got you.”

Your eyes widened, and then you were trembling terribly, reaching the precipice of your orgasm, breathing out whines and pants and gentle moans that you tried to contain. Bokuto only moved his tongue harder and you near shouted at the change.

His hand remained in yours as he let you ride out the remnants of your ecstasy on his deft fingers, instead, moving to hover over you once more.

“I know,” he murmured by your ear, nudging you to look down with him at his hand that worked your twitching cunt, “I know, pretty girl.”

You could not form words, you could scarcely speak but for the sounds Bokuto strung from you. And when he shifted to your side, fingers drawing light patterns over your clit, you shivered at the overstimulation that prickled and numbed. Your weak hand tapped at his wrist and Bokuto finally pulled away.

“Just like that,” he whispered, as if in awe.

Your head lowered to his chest, legs moving to lift but finding they could not. You were shaking in the after-effects of your climax and Bokuto had not even touched your bare clit.

He cradled your face, brought your body closer to his. Bokuto’s cock was still hard and straining, but he paid it little mind. You looked down with a heavy-lidded gaze and Bokuto followed your stare.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, “I’ll…take care of it later.”

You were breathing hard, panting shallowly at his collarbone, the pristine white shirt that covered it. You noticed he was equally as flushed, as affected by you as you were of him.

“Will you stay with me?” you breathed out. Bokuto understood what you meant and found that your words held two meanings—of which he would agree to both.

He drew you tighter to his chest, as close as he could possibly have you. “Of course,” he said, “of course.” And you looked so vulnerable at his side, so soft and warm and lovely. “Let me help you get cleaned up.”

#fic rec :)#bokuto himself is just such a huge comfort

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more-stuff-of-pi · 3 years ago

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XP/98 remix

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more-stuff-of-pi · 3 years ago

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Levi as your older brother's best friend 😏

Anonymous asked: childhood friends to lovers with levi levi levi

bro when i tell you that writing this almost Took Me Out ™ i'm not lying

already always almost do levi ackerman/f!reader (attack on titan) wordcount: 3.1k tags: modern!au, rom-com that's heavy on the rom (com is questionable), age-gap (4 years), older brother's best friend trope, big brother is erwin, infuriating sexual tension, making out A/N: i might turn this into a full fic if there's any interest in it lmao

Levi has no family.

It's objectively sad to think about: a young man, with so much of his life left ahead of him, with no one left on earth that shares his name or his blood.

But this lack of a family is exactly why your family has taken him in as one of their own, ever since he and your older brother Erwin met in high school. For every major holiday, birthday, long weekend or time that would otherwise be spent with relatives, Levi is there.

You'd long grown to accept and expect his presence at these gatherings. It had been happening for a decade - you hadn't spent a Christmas without Levi since you were 11.

But it was a lot easier when you were still a kid.

Before you realized you had a big fat crush on your older brother's best friend.

Maybe it's not fair to say it was before you had a crush on him. Part of you is pretty sure you'd always thought he was cute, but when you were 12 and he was 16 it was in the same way that you had crushes on movie stars or the love interests in the trashy YA books you read: harmless and superficial and easy enough to avoid thinking too much about when dealing with all the other agonies of being pubescent.

But as you got older, the problem only got more difficult to ignore.

Once Levi and Erwin went off to college it got a little easier, you weren't constantly wondering when you were gonna come home from school to find him sprawled across the sofa in the living room, reading a book or scanning through some calculus homework. You didn't have to tiptoe downstairs in the middle of the night, worried that you were going to run in to him and Erwin still up working on admissions essays in the dining room when you snuck downstairs to get a glass of water from the kitchen.

But it was harder in some ways, too, only seeing him on holidays or school breaks. You found yourself waiting with bated breath each time you knew he and your brother were on their way back home to you.

Your first great heartbreak came the Christmas you were 17 - a Junior in high school, already making plans for where you'd be applying to college the coming fall. You'd rushed home on your last day of class before break, saw your brother's car in the driveway, and burst through the front door of your family home in a flurry of excitement.

And Levi was there.

With a pretty red-haired girl at his side, tucked neatly under his arm.

He'd brought home his first girlfriend.

It was the worst Christmas of your life—possibly in all of human history. You spent your time languishing in your room, listening to sad pop music and texting your friends about how miserable you were while they sent you their sympathies via emoticons. You left the sanctuary of your bedroom only when you knew no one else was home or had already gone to bed, or when your mother insisted that you join them for dinner.

Christmas eve was easier since your family was throwing their annual holiday party, and your favourite aunt was sneaking you booze at every opportunity— which made the entire ordeal a little more tolerable. But all it left you with was a hangover and a broken heart the next day.

As your family gathered around the table for Christmas dinner along with Levi and his girlfriend (who was perfectly sweet and not even a bit unlikeable, much to your annoyance), you wanted nothing more than to vanish into the background, resigned to let the conversation happen around you without participating in it.

A hand landed in your hair about halfway through the meal, ruffling you back to attention.

"Sorry, what?" you asked, blinking at your brother whose heavy hand was still resting atop your head.

Erwin laughed. "Levi asked you a question."

You steeled your nerves and turned to face the young man sitting directly opposite you—the one you’d been avoiding like the plague for the past four days. He was looking at you curiously—a brow drawn up.

"You still getting ready to start your college applications?" he asked.

"She's at it all the time," your father replied from the head of the table with a laugh, taking a sip of his wine. The sight of the crimson liquid made your stomach turn after the party the evening prior.

"Still planning on coming to Mitras?" Levi asked again, referencing the school that he, your brother, and the girl seated at his left hand were all attending.

Your mother smiled. "It's the only th-"

"No."

The table went very quiet.

"No?" Levi repeated your answer. "It's all you could talk about at Thanksgiving."

You set your jaw, holding him level in your gaze. "Guess I changed my mind."

Erwin, Levi, and the girlfriend left two days later.

But the heartache remained.

You were resolved, then more than ever, to get over your stupid, juvenile infatuation— it was at the very top of your list of New Year’s resolutions, your first thought in the first moment on the first day of the new year.

And you actually did pretty well, all things considered. You got a boyfriend a few months into the year (your first) and made plans to take a trip with your best friend’s family over spring break so that you could avoid Levi and Erwin’s visit home.

Things got easier after that. You saw Levi for a few weeks in the summer when he got some time off from his internship and came home to visit with Erwin, but you were constantly in and out of the house with your friends, your boyfriend (who had managed to last that long – a fairly impressive feat for a high school romance), and your part-time job. You weren’t as concerned by Levi’s presence, and it felt a lot like it used to, which was nice.

Time kept moving. You grew up, got into your first choice school (in Trost), graduated, started college, and went through plenty more boyfriends in the process. But one thing stayed the same – Levi was always there for every major holiday just like he always was.

And now things are fine.

Really, they are.

So what if you wonder if he still wears the same cologne? Always stopping to smell the sample whenever you visit the fragrance section of your local cosmetics store.

So what if you perk up when you catch sight of him in the background of your video calls with Erwin, shuffling around their shared apartment in Mitras with a cup of tea in his hand, coming over and dipping into frame every so often to say hello.

So what if your heart beats a little bit faster when you know Erwin and Levi are already at your family home, and you turn the corner onto your familiar street ahead of a long-awaited return for the holidays?

Levi looks exactly the same as he always has—dark hair combed neatly, undercut recently trimmed. He’s got on an apron when you walk through the door, helping your mother with something or another in the kitchen—cookies if your nose is right.

He pauses when he sees you come in and drop your bags at the door.

You shake some snow out of your hair—the fat flakes still clinging to the ends of your eyelashes—and you smile at him.

“Hey,” you say warmly.

“Hey,” he replies.

There’s a little beat of silence, so brief you would have missed it if it were anyone else. But this is Levi—so you notice it immediately.

He clears his throat a little. “You cut your hair.”

You reach up to touch the strands on your head. You laugh. “Ah, yeah. Bad breakup.”

Levi snorts. “So I take it we won’t have the pleasure of seeing John again this Christmas?”

“It was Jean,” you correct him with a roll of your eyes, peeling off your winter coat and hanging it up in the foyer closet. “And he was like… four boyfriends ago.” You count them out on your fingers to make sure. “Jean, Eren, Colt, Nack, Eren.”

“Same Eren or different Eren?” Levi drawls.

“Regrettably the same.”

“Oh, honey! Don’t tell me Eren’s not coming?” your mother calls from the kitchen, having clearly overheard at least part of your conversation, her voice growing louder as you assume she’s drawing nearer.

“I can happily tell you that he’s not!” you sing-song back, kicking off your shoes.

Erwin and your mother turn the corner at the same time, wrapping you in hugs now that you’ve shed your snow-covered outerwear.

“Honey you look more beautiful every single time you come home!” your mother gushes, holding you at arm’s length to appraise you. She turns to look at Levi and Erwin. “Doesn’t she boys?”

“She does,” Erwin agrees with a laugh.

“She’s always been beautiful,” Levi replies simply.

Your mother ushers you all back into the kitchen to resume cookie decorating, but Levi’s comment stays with you like the snowflakes in your hair—melting into a pool of warmth the longer they cling to you.

He didn’t mean it like that.

You toss and turn in your childhood bedroom that night, replaying the four words that have not relinquished their death grip on your mind since Levi had spoken them into existence. It had only taken 4 words to turn you into the blushing 16-year-old you’d been all those years ago.

You’re older now. 22. A college senior with her whole life ahead of her. Internships lined up for the spring after your upcoming graduation that would likely turn into entry-level positions, stepping-stones into your future career.

So why, why couldn’t you get past this silly, infantile, mortifying little crush?

You push yourself up in bed, throwing your legs over the edge and shoving your feet into your slippers.

The house is totally quiet as you creep down to the kitchen, careful to avoid the spots in the floor that you know will creak, a long-practiced dance you’d mastered so long ago you’re pretty sure you could do it in your sleep.

You fill a glass of water at the kitchen sink, drinking it down greedily. You didn’t realize how parched you were until the first drop of water hits your tongue. You fill the glass again once it’s drained.

“Kind of late, isn’t it?”

You jump at the sound of the unexpected voice behind you, tilting the cup up too far and spilling the water down your chin. It’s cold as it meets the fabric of the old sweatshirt you’d worn to bed, clinging to your skin as it soaks into the material, and you cough over the water that finds its way uncomfortably down your windpipe. You whip around, and see Levi staring at you with wide eyes—clearly having not meant to startle you.

“Christ, Lev, you scared the fuck out of me,” you breathe once you catch your breath. You look down at yourself and the mess you made, sighing. You tug the hem of your sweatshirt up, wiping at the water still dripping off your face, before pulling the garment off entirely. You were grateful you’d worn a tank top underneath it.

You leave the damp article of clothing on the counter, reaching for a cloth to sop up the water on the floor.

“I can do that,” Levi says as he watches you dip down.

“Why?” you reply, confused.

“It’s my fault, I snuck up on you.”

You snort. “Since when have you felt bad about making my life harder?”

“Since when have you had a tattoo?”

You freeze, looking up at Levi from your position on the ground. You hadn’t stopped to think about how this angle affords him a perfect view down the neckline of your top, leaving the small tattoo at the base of the valley of your breasts visible.

You panic, falling back on your ass, your hands flying up to cover your chest.

“Don’t tell my mom, she’ll have a nervous breakdown,” you plead desperately. The last thing you need right now is your mom throwing a fit over the tattoo you’d been successfully hiding for the past three years.

“Why would you ink something permanently into your skin?” he asks.

You pause for a moment.

“Why were you looking at my tits?”

Levi’s eyes go wide, a flush creeping up his throat.

“It’s rude to answer a question with a question,” he grunts, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“No more rude than being a pervert.”

“Shut up,” he snaps, “you’re the one walking around half naked in the middle of the night.”

“This is my house,” you bite back, rising to your feet and waving the damp cloth in your hand towards him accusatorily, “and I wasn’t half naked until you made me get wet.”

You both pause as you realize the implication of your words. Levi’s blush intensifies noticeably.

“Pervert!” you hiss, whipping the cloth at him.

He snatches the end of the cloth before it can hit him, attempting to pull it from your hand. Your grip on the other end is too tight, and he ends up tugging you forward. The water on the ground causes you to slip, the knit of your slippers offering no grip on the slick tiles, stumbling into him.

Two strong arms circle your waist as your chest collides with his, holding you steady as the cloth flutters to the floor.

Your heartbeat is so loud you’re sure he can feel it through the thin material of his t-shirt.

You risk a glance at him, swallowing nervously.

Levi is already staring at you, something burning behind his cool-grey eyes.

He looks conflicted.

He looks ravenous.

“Lev-”

“You’re such a menace. You know that?” he cuts you off, his arms tightening ever so slightly around you.

You pout. “No I’m not.”

“I’m gonna kiss you now,” Levi says quietly, “and if you call me a pervert I swear to God I’ll-”

You don’t give him the chance to finish uttering the threat, slotting your mouth to his.

And god, if it isn’t every bit as good as you’ve spent the past 10 years hoping it would be.

Better, even.

Levi freezes only for a moment when your mouths first make contact, and then he’s pressing a little firmer against your lips, relaxing into it. Your lips part, an invitation which he willingly accepts, sliding his tongue forward to tease the tip against your own.

Your arms wind around his neck, fingers tangling in the soft strands of his dark hair, and his own palms flatten against your back, holding you so tightly against him that your spine arches, pressing your chest against his.

He bullies you back towards the counter, careful not to slip in the same water that had started this all, and helps you up onto the edge of the marble surface. It’s cold against your thighs as you hop up onto it, and you hiss against his mouth as the frigid stone meets the rapidly heating skin of your thighs—which you part to allow him to slot himself between.

His hands brace himself on the edge of the counter, his grip tight and white-knuckled. Your own fingers are still carding through his hair—brushing it back from his face as you hum into his open mouth.

Levi pulls away, his chin dropping to his chest, his forehead resting against your collarbone while you both fight to catch your breaths.

“This is wrong,” he says quietly after a moment of laboured exhales. “You’re Erwin’s little sister.”

You squeeze at the tense muscles of his shoulders lightly.

“I’m an adult, Levi.”

“You were a kid when I met you,” he replies guiltily.

You take his face in your hands, forcing his gaze back up to you.

“So were you, Levi. Don’t forget that,” you say it firmer than you knew you were capable of in that moment. “You’ve had to be responsible for a long time, and I know it might not feel like it. But you were only a kid, too.”

Levi’s eyes scan your face, his eyelids fluttering a little.

“Can I kiss you again?” you ask him quietly.

“I should be the one asking you that,” he says the words with a light laugh, pressing his lips to yours softly once more.

His fingers trail along your thighs, feather-light and leaving goosebumps in their wake, up towards the hem of your pajama shorts. The tips of his fingers sneak up under the fabric as he rolls your bottom lip between his teeth. You mewl against his mouth as you feel his touch dance across the sensitive flesh of your inner-thigh, and he groans a little at the needy sound.

He draws back, his breath blowing hot against your spit-slick lips.

“Menace,” he whispers pointedly, but not without a lilt of teasing. His eyes crinkle at the corners.

“Pervert,” you answer back, tilting your face and pressing a fleeting kiss to the edge of his jaw.

You both know that there’s not much further you can go. Not right now. Not in your parent’s house, with your family sleeping a mere floor away. Certainly not on the kitchen counter you’d all been baking cookies on a matter of hours prior.

You and Levi share a look.

He helps you down from the counter carefully, setting you right on your slightly unsteady legs.

“You and I are gonna go somewhere tomorrow,” he says firmly, “talk about all of this.”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Okay,” you reply quietly with a nod.

Levi hands you the sweatshirt you’d discarded earlier, and you drape it over your arms as they cross your chest.

“Goodnight, Lev,” you say, blinking at him demurely.

He smiles a little.

“Night, kid.”

You step towards the doorway, pausing just shy of it.

“Hey Levi?” you ask, turning to glance at him over your shoulder.

He looks up at you with an eyebrow quirked.

“Whose car are we taking tomorrow?”

“Mine, probably. Why?”

“Oh good,” you say, a smirk curling one corner of your lips upward. “You’ve got a bigger backseat.”

You step through the door before you can hear his reply.

But you think it sounds a lot like ‘menace.’

#THE TENSION #i am absolutely in love with the way that build up scene is written #it's literally so cute #the banter is everything #fic rec :)

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more-stuff-of-pi · 3 years ago

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homecoming

Pairing: Denki x fem!Reader

Warnings: MINORS DNI 18+ NSFW, aged up characters, Denki being Denki, oral (f receiving), cumplay, masturbation (male), hair pulling (m receiving)

A/N: Still! On my! Denki is a pussy eating master agenda! He’s just so dumb and fun to write. Thank you to @vanille–kiss and @anime-nymph for beta reading!

WC: 2.5K

Denki appears in the doorway, disheveled as always.

His jacket is half-shrugged off; his duffle bag is caught in the crook of his elbow. He’s struggling to pull his keys from the lock, bracing his foot against the bottom of the door as you watch him from the couch, amused.

“Hi.”

A practiced twist of his wrist and another wiggle later, his keys pop free. It seems to deflate him, and he shuts the door, slouched over and groaning. His forehead thunks against the door. “Hi.”

The couch squeaks when you shift up a little, worry creasing your brow. As if he can sense it, he turns and shoots you a wide grin, tired and strained at the edges, but no less affectionate than usual. Reluctantly, you sink back into the sofa.

“How was your day?”

He hums as he meanders over, shedding his jacket, his bag, letting them fall haphazardly to the side as he makes his way over to you.

“Long.”

He’s struggling a little with tugging off his sweater, the hem of it catching the thin fabric of his shirt underneath, pulling it high. You have to resist the urge to tickle your fingers along the expanse of golden-brown skin before you, to trail along the little freckles and moles smattered across his torso.

“Don’t give it away for free.”

Keep reading

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more-stuff-of-pi · 3 years ago

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Tobio Kageyama by Dango.____

Instagram | Twitter

Posted with written permission! Please do not remove credit!

#I LOVE HIM

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more-stuff-of-pi · 3 years ago

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He holds your face so tenderly, as if he's afraid the moment will crumble away if his touches you too confidently.

"Would it be alright-" Akaashi's breath fogs his glasses as he talks, each word clinging to the cold night air, "If I kissed you?"

#yes it would be alright #in fact i triple dog dare ya #act like my tongue is the pole in a Christmas story and get tangled up with me sir #fic rec :)

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more-stuff-of-pi · 3 years ago

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osamu miya is hiding something.

he denies that he is, he denies everything that you’ve tried to insinuate, but ever since this morning — ever since you’ve made that offhand comment about moving in together — he’s been all shifty-eyed and panicky.

you initially made that comment as a joke. something to lighten the mood seeing as he’s been so awkward around you recently, but when he acted the way he did, something tells you he definitely received it the wrong way.

its just about seven in the evening, almost closing time for the infamous onigiri miya, and you sit comfortably on one of the tables close to the cashier, laptop in front of you as you prefer working closely to your boyfriend.

it’s almost always been like this — you with your laptop out, typing away whatever you need to be typed, and osamu walking by every thirty minutes with a glass of water or tea or whatever excuse he’s come up with to mingle with you.

but today — the lame excuses for the mingling has stopped.

osamu has barely said anything to you all day, aside from the “hey, you,” and the “ya want anything?”, he’s been completely silent.

“you almost done?” you look up from your laptop screen, calling to him as he’s taken the first time all day to walk to your table.

“hm.” he hums, tired and all, “busy day.”

osamu slumps down on the seat in front of you, the restaurant having been cleared of all the satisfied customers for today, and for the first time, taking his short moments with you.

he looks at you, face propped up with his right hand as he stares.

you look back at him, and he immediately looks away — osamu, pinkish in the face.

this is weird. your boyfriend is acting like a teenager pining for you right now, and whilst that’s not really out of the usual — it’s weird that he’s being so fidgety about it.

“samu,” you push your laptop aside, “is something wrong?”

and he blinks, “ya think something’s wrong?”

considering that he’s been avoiding you all day, has been falling into whispers when he talks to atsumu on the phone, and strategically staring at you when he thinks you aren’t looking — yes. you think something is very wrong.

( atsumu visited the restaurant earlier today, a big smile on his face as he slapped osamu harshly on the back, yelling something about “finally doing something right for once in his life!” and saying “take numerous pictures or yer dead meat.”

but the second they both saw you walk in the room, not only did their faces drop, but you’re also pretty sure osamu stepped on atsumu’s foot once or twice too.

you asked them what they were doing, but all atsumu told you was - in close tears, as he hugs you - “we’re having a brother bonding moment right now. please leave.”

and that was it. )

so yeah, something is very wrong with osamu miya.

“you’re just,” and you smile at him, “acting weird.”

“i am so not!” he scoffs, his own smile coming through as he looks back at you, “you’re the one who’s being weird.”

now, it’s your turn to scoff, crossing your arms over your chest as you shake your head, “do not call me weird, i sat here all day watching you be the weirdest person on the planet.”

“well, why were ya watching all day?” he leans forward, “that’s weird behavior if ya ask me.”

you smile, rolling your eyes, “you are twelve years old.”

and osamu leans back, a smile on his face that prides himself of his tone, “that’s what twelve year olds tell each other when they’ve got nothing else to say.”

and you laugh, “this is a very mature conversation we’re having.”

osamu smiles wider, his shoulders slightly raising as a little bit of a laugh escapes his lips, and for a second, he just looks at you, a glint in his eye.

he slides your laptop over to the side, leaning in over the table to be closer to you, and you do the same, following suit with a trail of laughter.

osamu smiles, “i can do something to make it more mature.”

“hm?” you indulge him, shaking your head as you let him put his hand on the base of your face.

he laughs, “hm.”

and he pulls you close — the way he’s been wanting to all day, the way he wanted to all those times he made up stupid excuses to come by your table — and with a smile, he kisses you.

the two of you have been together for a little over a year now, but he’s not gonna lie when he tells you that he’s been in love with you for longer.

the restaurant is empty, the sun has set, and he kisses you, slow and smiley and everything he’s always wanted.

osamu miya is in love with you, and for him, it’s a miracle that you love him too.

he pulls away for a second, voice above a whisper as his nose touches yours, “sorry i was weird all day.”

“yeah,” you smile, “be sorry.”

and he laughs, and he kisses you again, his hand on your face pulling you closer, repositioning his head every now and then to get a new angle close to you.

when he pulls away for the last time, he still doesn’t lean back in his seat, expectant for more of your kisses until you’re ready to go home.

“do you wanna have dinner?” your nose touches his as you ask.

and osamu, still smiling, tells you bluntly, “no.”

you blink, and you make the first move to sit back against your chair, moving away from him as you laugh.

you tilt your head, “no?”

and he tells you, amused, “no.”

only osamu miya would spend two minutes straight kissing you only to reject you for dinner not even thirty seconds later.

“okay, what is going on with you?” you cross your arms over your chest, laughter bubbling in your throat.

he leans back.

you put your elbows on the table, “ever since i dropped that comment on moving in together this morning, you’ve been all dodge-y.”

he watches you with an amused smile.

“and i get it, cause if you don’t want to move in together with me or my crappy house habits, now is the time to tell me.”

you probably sounded a bit more invested in moving-in than you probably were, but you spent the whole day thinking about it — what it meant if osamu was really so bothered with living with you — that you probably did sound as invested as you seemed.

“idiot.” osamu shakes his head, his smile as calm as ever, “i wanna move in with you, and your crappy house habits.”

you raise a brow, “really?”

and he smiles again, leaning forward to kiss you gently on the side of your head, “i promise.”

your eyes crinkle, “then you wanna go have dinner with me?”

and osamu mirrors your expression, “still no.”

“oh, come on!” you groan, shaking your head rather harshly as you slam your fist on the table as a joke, “why not!”

osamu smiles again, kissing you one more time before he says, “i can’t tell you why.”

“yes, you can.” you argue.

he shakes his head, kissing you again.

you pull away, “tell me.”

he says no, and he kisses you again.

“osamu, why the hell not?”

he doesn’t reply, but he does kiss you again.

“okay enough — samu!” at this point, you push him off, leaning him back against his chair as you try not to laugh.

he frowns, and he tries to lean closer to you again for another kiss but you shake your head.

“no kissing until you tell me why you can’t have dinner with me.” you cross your arms, and you watch as his expression immediately falls.

“no kissing?” he repeats back to you, offended.

and you nod, “no kissing.” having fun.

it all came down to two choices — either he tells you what’s been up with him all day, or he doesn’t get to make out with you all night — and really, he’s walking the fine line between doing the former just to avoid the latter.

“i can’t tell you.” osamu says, his smile failing him.

and you say, firmly, “then no kissing.”

osamu’s head falls on the table, his face smooshing against the glass as he groans, a long drag of “noooo” escaping his lips as he whines.

you lean your face against your hand, “this hurts me more than it hurts you.”

and osamu scoffs, “no, it doesn’t.”

and you smile, “i know.”

there’s a reason why osamu has been acting weird and standoffish all day — a reason why he’s been dodgey ever since you made that comment about living together.

and that’s because even though he did say he’d want to move in with you, that’s not what he wants to do at all.

it’s the same reason as to why he can’t have dinner with you tonight. the same reason why he’s got plans with atsumu when he’d rather be sharing the evening with you.

but he supposes, one night of ring shopping can be made up for with numerous more nights after it.

#i wish to marry him please omg #better get a good ring to make up for the dodgeyness #fic rec :)

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