مدهش!

cw: touching imagery, gn reader, suggestive

he's not fastidious and conscientious when you're sick -- quite lacking, actually, to your and his knowledge. It's rather strange, now that you think of it, as you reminisce about how he'd get a few weighted blankets too heavy or neglect to warn you about the soup he prepared, gurgling hot, as it singed the roof of your mouth. but mirth comes easy to him, despite everything -- he finds his frenzied runs to and from the supperette peculiarly adorable, grinning proudly as he shows you a spotify playlist he made, dramatically named 'Troubled Mind: The Cold goes On and On,' featuring Swedish and Icelandic heavy metal acts (???) previously unbeknownst to you. he can be forgetful and feverish sometimes but you know he cares, more than whatever spotify playlist and 'get well soon' card and unprompted 'if I was a heart, would u let me beat?' text could ever express.

cw: touching imagery, gn reader, suggestive

he's not fastidious and conscientious when you're sick -- quite lacking, actually, to your and his knowledge. It's rather strange, now that you think of it, as you reminisce about how he'd get a few weighted blankets too heavy or neglect to warn you about the soup he prepared, gurgling hot, as it singed the roof of your mouth. but mirth comes easy to him, despite everything -- he finds his frenzied runs to and from the supperette peculiarly adorable, grinning proudly as he shows you a spotify playlist he made, dramatically named 'Troubled Mind: The Cold goes On and On,' featuring Swedish and Icelandic heavy metal acts (???) previously unbeknownst to you. he can be forgetful and feverish sometimes but you know he cares, more than whatever spotify playlist and 'get well soon' card and unprompted 'if I was a heart, would u let me beat?' text could ever express.

'I'm too tired to argue anymore, y/n,' sakusa begins, disregarding his typical salutation for an articulate disinterest in continuing your argument from earlier. the phrase is concise and polished as it leaves his lips, as if he's practiced talking to you since your argument, all meticulous and tentative, and you soften a little at the thought.

when you respond, curious about what he needs at such an hour, the question is wary -- a little gentler from stifling any trace of residual irritation from your voice, throat thickened with emotion from having to talk to him again. Despite all the anger and irritation you had, you still love him. You still longed for a pleasant, relaxing evening with sakusa even if it meant doing the most mundane things ever. and you know such an evening would've occurred if your argument hadn't soured the possibility for domestic bliss.

"You know that it gets cold at this hour, right? Especially since the heater here doesn't work well anyway."

"I am aware," you acknowledge, pulling the blankets closer to you. "That's why I bought these blankets to sleep on the couch." You gesture weakly at the fabric. "Besides, I can handle a little chill."

You recoil a little at your declaration, embarrassed at how every little sniffle and tremor contradicts your aforementioned assertion. You'd be a fool to believe that sakusa agrees with you; his own dissent apparent as he shakes his head, curls fluttering gently against his forehead.

He nears you and bends slightly. the scent of tea is heavy on his parted lips.

"Do you need someone to warm you up, y/n?"

^

^

cw: touching imagery, mentions (3) of intercourse

sakusa's gentleness is adorable. long strokes of his fingers along the column of your neck, delicately squeezing your nape within the circumference of his fingers, attractively soft and slow. leisurely tracing perimeters of triangles and squares and polygons upon your skin, of variable width, length, and area; the movements of his prettily trimmed nails indicative of a breezy little routine he indulges in after a bout of lovemaking with you.

noticing little singularities in his touch as you lay against him -- like how he likes using your moles as vertexes, or his partiality towards skirting the borders of your scars, blemishes, and hickeys; or, perhaps, stirring as you feel his index finger brush against your collar bone (for the nth time) as he makes to draw a little heart over your chest, concentrated on getting the curves right.

playfully confronting him about it, grinning as you're met with feigned annoyance as you break him from his reverie, although the two of you know he wasn't distracted. he caresses you with intent; determined to give his touch some sort of physicality beyond the hickeys littered across your neck: a timid and closeted expression of his desire to prolong his stay by your side, in your bed. after all, sakusa's touch is gentle and silken as you weaken him considerably enough in the knees and fingers from touching you a little more feverishly.

in a few minutes he will leave your bed to take a shower and return to his own apartment. but he wants you to feel him still. he wants that god-awful cardigan to evoke memories the same path his fingers took as it stretches and brushes over your abdomen. he wants the necklace you will wear (for your dinner party) to skim against the curve of your neck the way his nails did.

you'd describe your being here as a series of inconvenient events, stiffly narrating your rain-soaked arrival at osamu's doorstep as the result of a 'typhoon ruining your day,' eyes shyly retreating to the 'hi, welcome to chili's' doormat you gifted him, discouraged to continue; flustered into silence by his unwavering, intense stare. stirred from your quietude a few beats later as osamu invites you in his apartment, and you sheepishly thank him, throat thick from convulsive sobbing and crying from earlier, noticing his slight flinch as you make to apologize for the inconvenience.

stumbling into his apartment at the pull of his hand on your jacket lapel, jostling inelegantly into his broad chest, his pectorals firm and warm against your turned cheek, his heart just under your ear; beating a steady rhythm, uninterested; pulse composed under skin and cotton. you peel yourself away from him, quietly murmuring a desire to use the bathroom, following his outstretched finger to a room just beyond his bedroom.

surely there are better places to cry; undoubtedly, delegating osamu's tiny bathroom would draw contest from anyone contemplating a suitable location to break down during the evening. the porcelain toilet seat is stiff and cold, the tiles unyielding; the shower too quiet to silence your cries. yet here you are, palpitating under the weight of your tears, hands clammy and bruised from clutching the sink, careful not to disturb osamu in the adjoining bedroom.

You ask yourself if he really cares, however; if he'd be able to hear the difference between the trickle of your tears or the splutter of cold water down the valley of the sink; if he'd discern your painful gasps from the stuttering of the water heater--if he could still make out the tremor of your hands under a quivering, saponaceous mass of bubbles.

A tentative knock on the door announces his presence on the other side of the bathroom as you scramble to regain your composure. He asks if you're using the sink. Yes, you confirm. He comments on the peculiarity of its noise.

'It usually doesn't sound like that,' your ex boyfriend explains. 'It's the first time I've heard such a thing. I'll make a note of it to talk to the plumber later.'

'Sure, Miya.'

'Can I come in? I wanna check something,' he says, uncharacteristically quiet, clearly curious about the plumbing of his sink, obviously uncomfortable at the prospect of his apartment touched, prodded, and manipulated at the fingertips of a stranger. You allow him in, reassuring him that you're decent, watching him stroll through the entrance as he quickly settles at the sink to examine it.

He turns, twists and twirls the knobs about his palm, watching the water trickle slowly at first. as he gets ready to conclude the peculiar sounds as originating from somewhere, closing the faucet, a thick, throaty sniff escapes you.

cw: slight touching imagery

sakusa turns the hot water knob to the left, skin scalding and simmering under the shower, suffocating a little under thick, heavy steam; his breath condensing on his lips before sublimating in the fog spilling over the circumference of the shower stall. He welcomes the weight of the water, minacious with every droplet thrust by the showerhead, stupidly hopeful that the spray'll efface your very trace on him. letting out an inaudible whimper when his attempts prove futile, his skin puckered and creased, seemingly sculpted by your fingers, lingering and flimsy like beads of water dribbling from his limbs to the stall floor.

sakusa gingerly applies shower gel on his sore muscles, froth and foam cushioning the spray, startled by its scent, cucumber and aloe vera, confirming its yours as he holds the bottle in his hand. shrouding his body in the mousse and suds as he agitates the soap against his skin, secretly relishing in your smell within a saponaceous embrace. imagining your hands stroking and massaging him as the suds froth and retreat with lightest pressure.

interrupting his reverie with a stream of glacial, unfriendly water as he prepares to meet his girlfriend for a date this evening. stepping out onto the bathroom floor to dry and dress himself, zipping and fastening your scent to him within a 3 piece suit. spritzing cologne to deter her from discerning your fragrance; pausing to assess himself in the mirror, satisfied.

he makes a mental note to throw away the used bottle of shower gel sometime tomorrow. if he needs to pretend he moved on from you, he needs to act the part -- with his friends, his girlfriend, and within his shower.

cw: touching and suggestive imagery

you love iwaizumi's touches. fingers bracketing your neck so nonchalantly; the presence of his hand just as assertive as his rough callouses against your skin. you redden at the way he reaches for you, fingers frustratingly light and airy as your skin bursts into goosebumps, itching and aching for the relief only his firm grip can deliver. stirring at the presence of his hand at the small of your back, parting fabric from skin, demanding your attention as his fingers linger at the hem of your t-shirt.

cw: touching and suggestive imagery

you love iwaizumi's touches. fingers bracketing your neck so nonchalantly; the presence of his hand just as assertive as his rough callouses against your skin. you redden at the way he reaches for you, fingers frustratingly light and airy as your skin bursts into goosebumps, itching and aching for the relief only his firm grip can deliver. stirring at the presence of his hand at the small of your back, parting fabric from skin, demanding your attention as his fingers linger at the hem of your t-shirt.

cw: slight touching imagery

sakusa turns the hot water knob to the left, skin scalding and simmering under the shower, suffocating a little under thick, heavy steam; his breath condensing on his lips before sublimating in the fog spilling over the circumference of the shower stall. He welcomes the weight of the water, minacious with every droplet thrust by the showerhead, stupidly hopeful that the spray'll efface your very trace on him. letting out an inaudible whimper when his attempts prove futile, his skin puckered and creased, seemingly sculpted by your fingers, lingering and flimsy like beads of water dribbling from his limbs to the stall floor.

sakusa gingerly applies shower gel on his sore muscles, froth and foam cushioning the spray, startled by its scent, cucumber and aloe vera, confirming its yours as he holds the bottle in his hand. shrouding his body in the mousse and suds as he agitates the soap against his skin, secretly relishing in your smell within a saponaceous embrace. imagining your hands stroking and massaging him as the suds froth and retreat with lightest pressure.

interrupting his reverie with a stream of glacial, unfriendly water as he prepares to meet his girlfriend for a date this evening. stepping out onto the bathroom floor to dry and dress himself, zipping and fastening your scent to him within a 3 piece suit. spritzing cologne to deter her from discerning your fragrance; pausing to assess himself in the mirror, satisfied.

he makes a mental note to throw away the used bottle of shower gel sometime tomorrow. if he needs to pretend he moved on from you, he needs to act the part -- with his friends, his girlfriend, and within his shower.

cw: slight touching imagery

sakusa turns the hot water knob to the left, skin scalding and simmering under the shower, suffocating a little under thick, heavy steam; his breath condensing on his lips before sublimating in the fog spilling over the circumference of the shower stall. He welcomes the weight of the water, minacious with every droplet thrust by the showerhead, stupidly hopeful that the spray'll efface your very trace on him. letting out an inaudible whimper when his attempts prove futile, his skin puckered and creased, seemingly sculpted by your fingers, lingering and flimsy like beads of water dribbling from his limbs to the stall floor.

sakusa gingerly applies shower gel on his sore muscles, froth and foam cushioning the spray, startled by its scent, cucumber and aloe vera, confirming its yours as he holds the bottle in his hand. shrouding his body in the mousse and suds as he agitates the soap against his skin, secretly relishing in your smell within a saponaceous embrace. imagining your hands stroking and massaging him as the suds froth and retreat with lightest pressure.

interrupting his reverie with a stream of glacial, unfriendly water as he prepares to meet his girlfriend for a date this evening. stepping out onto the bathroom floor to dry and dress himself, zipping and fastening your scent to him within a 3 piece suit. spritzing cologne to deter her from discerning your fragrance; pausing to assess himself in the mirror, satisfied.

he makes a mental note to throw away the used bottle of shower gel sometime tomorrow. if he needs to pretend he moved on from you, he needs to act the part -- with his friends, his girlfriend, and within his shower.

cw: slightly suggestive content

cw: slightly suggestive content

the lids are tighter than usual, you notice, cool metal unyielding under your grip. Not another convenient inconvenience. It doesn't help that all the cans and jars promptly positioned far from your fingertips, all attractively ordered by color, height, and content upon the counter, the way you would've done it when you're mad, lacquered surfaces still warm with kiyoomi's touch from how many minutes before. His touch, meticulously meddling and tinkering through the entire kitchen, obediently folding and tucking most things out of your reach hoping that you give up and apologize to him. He's hearing you pace restlessly around the apartment, footfalls echoing against the bedroom door, aching to right anything that feels out of place. He knows you're growing frustrated, agitated about your helplessness, begging for a distraction. There's nothing to hold, nothing to cuddle, nothing to fondle, nothing to watch, nothing to touch, nothing to do -- except for him.

cw: kissing imagery

Osamu kisses you in private, his lips following his warm breath across your cheek before settling on your own, faintly quivering as he makes to embrace you beneath streaks of sunlight despite it being a sight for his and your eyes only. Your lips gently opening and yielding under his as he pushes delicately, small crumbs of flour and cinnamon suspended between his skin and yours, causing gentle friction as he adjusts and rubs you against him, intent on kissing you a bit better. His tongue lazily melting against yours, leisurely tasting your palate, tasting like vanilla and black tea. Occasionally retreating to brush against your lips to sample that lovely cherry chapstick of yours, a little desperate, a little wanton.

Moaning a little in your mouth, a throaty, rich sound, clearly satisfied with how you taste before going to kiss and lick the morsels littered across your mouth and chin for dessert.

You don't miss how slowly he retreats from you before going to continue kneading the dough he neglected for your lips.

'Is that part of the cinnamon bread recipe?'