odetodissapointment

[odetodissapointment]

sweet L!! congrats on your milestone u deserve it so so much!! for the event, how about “meet me at midnight” and suna :)

MEET ME AT MIDNIGHT (s. rintaro)

a/n: post high school - pre college AU, talks of suna going pro, mutual pining, childhood friends alluded, slight mentions of religious comparison, i need to gargle him in my mouth like mouthwash 

L’s MIDNIGHTS EVENT!

When your phone vibrates, the sun has long set and the moths outside of your window are flocking to the dim porch light. 

And even though you know who it is texting you at this hour, your heart still does that thing—the childish fluttering of excitement and nerves and insecurity all in one. With a deep breath, you let your thumb swipe your screen. 

From: Suna ;p

[10:41 PM] meet me at midnight

To: Suna ;p

[10:43 PM] well hello to you too

From: Suna ;p

[10:44 PM] hello [10:44 PM] meet me at midnight

To: Suna ;p

[10:45 PM] that's awfully cryptic of you

From: Suna ;p

[10:47 PM] cryptic enough for you to agree?

To: Suna ;p

[10:48 PM] ... yes

Suna does this a lot. 

Both a creature of habit and the night, he loves doing this with you. Texting you when the heavy summer sun goes down and the night sky protects him from the reality of the morning. Nights that were meant to be impromptu, but are now a part of your routines, you find yourself looking forward to his (un)expected texts. 

He doesn't give a location, but you don't need one, because the two of you have been meeting at the same quiet spot outside the corner of the town's 24/7 convenience store for months now.

When you arrive in one of his old hoodies and a pair of cartoon pajama pants, he's already waiting for you beneath the store's fluorescent signage.

He looks annoyingly pretty. Neon mirrored lights illuminating his side profile like a painting, eyelashes naturally curled upwards like a goddamn prince. 

You almost want to punch him, but when he notices you walking towards him, he shoots you a knowing smile—and suddenly, that feeling of punching him slowly turns into one of kissing him, which is equally as bad. 

He doesn't say anything, merely nods beneath his hood and hands you a plastic bag. 

You take a peek inside, seeing your usual go-to purchases, and reaching into your hoodie pocket, "Thanks, I think I have a ten in my—"

"Don't want it."

You raise your eyebrows, lazily fighting off the grin that can't help but make its way across your face. But Suna, as always, is more shameless than you—not even bothering to hold back his own proud smile.

"You're paying for my pretzels and orange soda?" your voice comes airy, teasing, and Rintaro skims his tongue over his canine tooth to pretend he doesn't want to swallow the melody like water.

He's equally as playful when he flicks your forehead, "Only the finest for you." 

"And they say chivalry is dead." 

The night then goes how it always does, and the two of you begin the walk back to your house.

You never understood why it's always this song and dance, but one day, Suna insisted he walk you back. Just to be safe. You remember saying something about that not even making sense, about him walking twice as much for no reason, but he merely shrugged and continued to shove you towards the side of the pavement furthest from the street.

It's nice like this, with the sugar bubbling on your tongue and the humidity of the day dwindling to a nice cool summer night. The slight breeze is refreshing on the back of your neck.

The two of you walk in step with one another, talking about anything and everything—except what's actually on both of your minds.

Because two weeks from today, Rintaro leaves once again to travel across the world with EJP. And it's not the first time, but every time he leaves, you're afraid it will be the last. 

Because there has to be a last, there always is. 

One day, he's bound to get tired of returning to the small suburban town that holds your withering high school and shitty convenience store and you. He's destined for something bigger than this, olympic and grand and impressive.

It's inevitable that one of these times, he's going to get on a plane and not come back, and you can't even blame him. 

Noticing your faraway thoughts, he gently pushes your arm with his shoulder. 

"Stop thinking," he says, not needing to be told what you're thinking of. 

You shoot him a weak smile before your eyes return to the passing cracks in the pavement and you breathe, "I'm gonna miss this."

Rintaro thinks about saying that there's nothing to miss, that he’s still right here with you, but he knows what you mean and decides to bite his tongue. 

"Me too," he eventually sighs, kicking the rock he walks with and seeing how long he can keep it in his stride. "Being honest with you, it's like, the only thing bringing me back here." 

Your walking slows, eyebrows furrowing when you ask, "What do you mean?"

Rintaro follows your pace, eventually coming to a stop and turning around in front of you. The two of you stand on the barren sidewalk in the middle of the night, and though the silence is deafening, everything in the moment feels far too loud. 

In a wordless battle of who's gonna break first, Rintaro bites the bullet. 

"You're really gonna make me say it?" he whispers. 

You continue staring at him, and beneath the gaze of your pretty eyes, Rintaro finally allows himself to say what he's been trying to for all these months. 

"I've traveled the country, got to see places I didn't even know existed on the other side of the planet. I think I've tried every type of pretzel and shitty orange soda in the world, and then some." 

His voice falters a bit when he sees your face slightly fall, getting the wrong impression from his confession.

So naturally, he panics. Pathetically trying to find the correct romantic string of words to tell you everything he feels accurately, what ends up fumbling out of his charismatic mouth is—

"And you think I keep coming back to our shitty hometown for any reason other than you?"

You feel like all of the air has been ripped out of your lungs and the rug swept beneath your feet.

Suna swears that, thanks to some miracle handed to him, you’re laughing and shaking your head. And beneath the summer stars and humming of the streetlights, he decides that your smile is the closest thing he's seen to any kind of good omen or message from above. 

And a few weeks from now, you'll learn that irony is a funny thing—because while you were under the impression that this was the last time you'd be seeing Suna for a while, his nervous hand fiddled with his phone in his pocket, the same one he knew to hold two digital plane tickets, instead of one. 

[odetodissapointment]

fallen for another fictional older brother btw!! griffin lovell you will be mine and we will be happy!!

[odetodissapointment]

You can love a character and still admit when they are wrong. I love Griffin Lovell but I acknowledge his flaws (None. He is perfect) and can hold him accountable for his wrong doings (He has never done anything wrong in his life) and call him out on his actions (Which are always right).

[odetodissapointment]

back to reading fanfics…i feel like me again

[odetodissapointment]

L, pro athlete atsumu and reader for "the only kind of girl they see is a one night or a wife" has me THINKING

ONE NIGHT OR A WIFE (a. miya)

a/n: pro athlete atsumu, implied woman identifying reader -> slight talks of womanhood and slut-shaming, atsumu is trying so hard he has the spirit he’s just ken

L’s MIDNIGHTS EVENT!

When the front door clicks behind you,  you're greeted with the back of a messy blonde mop peeking from above the lip of the couch. Atsumu doesn't have to turn around to know it's you coming through the door, but you don't even give him a chance to guess with the immediate interrogation flying from your lips.

"Why are we trending on Twitter?"

Amused, Atsumu turns around to catch a glimpse of your panicked face before he smirks, turning around and redirecting his attention back to the television.

"Oh, they think I proposed to you again."

His words oddly bring a wave of comfort over you, and when you exhale and plop down on the cushion next to his sprawled-out limbs, he lets his hand gently run through your frizzy hair.

And you don't pretend to ignore how it's weird that this calms you—that enough people on the internet typed and searched and chatted about the two of you to get it trending. How many people need to talk about something for it to trend worldwide? You think about googling it, but that's a headache waiting to happen.

Instead, you slump into his touch and try to keep your tone humorous when you ask, "On what grounds this time?"

Atsumu is now far from affected by the newlywed allegation, as this isn't the first (or second) time the media thinks he's popped the question to you. You always feel a bit warm when remembering the first time the rumor spiraled. How flustered he was, how he couldn’t meet your eye when opening the app for weeks, how it led to your first actual conversation about a future together. 

Now immune to the gossip, he casually fishes for his phone in his sweatpants and lazily pulls up a paparazzi photo of the two of you leaving dinner a few nights ago.

"Here," he hands the screen to you, borderline yawning. “This picture from the other night,” he has the audacity to point knowingly, like it’s common sense when he says, "left hand is hidden in yer jacket pocket."

You guess he is right, your left hand is tucked away into your coat in the photo, but that's because it's almost winter, and you're human, despite what some may argue.

The photo itself isn't even anything crazy—a candid shot of the two of you walking to the car. Atsumu's hand is on your back, seemingly guiding you as you walk along the curb. Your right hand rests on your purse, and your left apparently hides a flashy diamond ring in the suede of your pocket.

Atsumu hears you scoff at the stupidity, "So naturally that means I'm your wife now?"

He smiles and scratches your head with loving fingers.

"Yup," he pops the last part of the word before looking over to you with a grin. "Apparently the rock was so big, it had to be hidden in fear of blindin' the paparazzi."

He’s teasing, it’s lighthearted, but your eyes don't leave the photo when you softly furrow your brow.

"Why do they keep assuming we're engaged?" you lowly mumble, to him or yourself, Atsumu doesn't know, but he hears it all the same. Your voice almost wavers when you weakly exhale, "This is like the fourth time."

Carefully, as if you’re suddenly made of glass, Atsumu pulls the phone from your grasp, and you don't put up a fight when he easily swipes it and shimmies it back into his pocket.

"Dunno baby,” his voice whispers as his hand finds your shoulder. “People like to talk. I can't even begin to name the craziest rumors I've heard about me."

You hum to let him know you're listening, but when you don't elaborate much more than that, Atsumu knows something isn't quite right.

Not one to let his thoughts spiral, he thinks for all about two seconds before deciding that he’s getting to the bottom of this.

He tries to act like a normal person, stretching his arms and casually asking, "Does it bother you or somethin’?"

You're quiet for a moment like you're thinking extra hard about what to say. And when you do take a deep inhale and open your mouth, Atsumu feels a bit queasy.

"In a way," is all you allow to come out.

In a way? Atsumu doesn't know what to do with that. That could mean a million things. In what way? A good one? A terrible one? A way that makes you mad at him, at the world, at yourself? He needs more from you, but he’s too afraid to ask. 

You think a part of you breaks when his big brown eyes water a bit, but the tears are quickly blinked away through long lashes when he shakes his head.

"I—I'm sorry. I didn't know you felt that way."

You shift to sit up on your knees a bit, gently touching his jaw that's clenched to the touch. "Hey, hey no,” you watch him tilt his sour face away from you when you coo, “Not like that, don't apologize."

With the slightest pressure on his cheek, you're able to get him to face you again, where you're met with a grouchy pout and some slight hostility. 

You feel his jaw twitch and unclench when you place a delicate kiss on the carved bone. Your voice is soft, cautious when it rises to elaborate.

"People thinking we're married isn't what bothers me," you gently breathe. "We've talked about it, right? We're just not ready yet."

True, he thinks, logic returning to his clouded thoughts. Atsumu nods at your words, though his eyebrows are still downturned with stress.

"Right. So what does bother ya about it?"

He watches you open and close your mouth a few times, trying to find the right way to say the right words, but there really isn't a tailored combination for the sticky conversation at hand. He almost thinks you give up until your hand tenderly rubs his stiff neck and your voice comes out barely a whisper.

"It can be tough sometimes," your voice wavers with uncertainty, "y'know, being a woman associated with someone like you."

Atsumu turns his head to you in confusion, but he doesn't say anything. Because he trusts you—he might not understand, but he trusts that you do, that you're aware of something he might not be, and that you can explain it in a way he might be able to grasp.

He watches you shy in the slightest, struggling in silence with your tongue.

"I'm either slut shamed for being someone just fucking you or written off as your property. There's never really an in-between, y’know?" you choose to shrug. 

Atsumu shoots you a sympathetic tight-lipped smile because though he'd never agree, he's not stupid. He knows what people can say about you, sees the headlines and hashtags every now and then.

"Y'know," his voice comes uncharacteristically soft, "one time I read that I flunked out of high school."

Your eyebrows raise at the turn in conversation, "Did you?"

"No," he scoffs. "Wasn't a nerd or anythin' but I graduated like everybody else."

You hum in thought at his confession, but it doesn’t seem to get his point across so he continues. "One said I was on steroids, another said pills."

He takes a small amount of pride in the way your frown slightly quirks up at the corners.

"Please,” you huff out a breathy scoff, “you pout like a baby when you get your blood drawn and can barely keep up with your daily vitamins."

He fights off a smile, ignoring the teasing and resting his head on yours as he goes on.

"My favorite was that one theory that me and 'Samu switch lives regularly. Sometimes when I look a little pudgy, they claim it's him with bleached hair, so we can both live out the Olympic dream."

You actually laugh at that, a real one, and Astumu thinks the sound itself could make flowers bloom and storm clouds disperse.

"Well that one can't be true, you can't cook for shit," he hears you mumble against his neck. 

"Hey now," he gently smacks your thigh at your fresh words. "The point is that people say things all the damn time and I know it's not really the same as what they say about you, but..."

His tongue falters at the touchy subject, a hill he knows he’ll never conquer but is willing to die trying to defend you on.

He thinks for a moment before saying with certainty, "But we both know what's true and what isn't, right?"

You angle your neck to look up at him with sarcasm. "And what's true? That you're a healthy high school graduate with a twin brother who doesn't play Parent Trap with you?"

"What's true," he whines a bit, flicking your forehead before placing a small kiss on it, "is that I love you, and I'm absolutely marryin' you, just when the time is right."

You melt, both at his touch and his words, and for once in his life, Atsumu knows he's said the right thing when he feels you lean onto him a bit more. He takes on the comfortable weight like an Olympic medal, one he’d proudly wear everywhere if he could.

And as Atsumu goes on and on, your night gets that much better, and the silly rumor from some stupid tabloid doesn’t seem nearly as important as it did when you first got home.

"And yer ring is gonna be bigger than whatever the paparazzi imagined. And they'll be pissed when they find out we eloped and they missed the ceremony pics. And when we actually trend on Twitter for the right reason—"

[odetodissapointment]

"we were supposed to be just friends." and gojo please?

WE WERE SUPPOSED TO BE JUST FRIENDS (s. gojo)

a/n: slightly suggestive, will they won't they (they will), mentions of alcohol, satoru can't not be annoying for like three seconds

L’s MIDNIGHTS EVENT!

Everything feels hot. And it shouldn't.

Because it's the end of autumn and your dress flows down past your knees and the wine in your glass was supposed to warm you up but now Satoru is everywhere and everything feels hot.

He has you pinned against the wall, and how you got from the front door to the hallway, you don't remember, but his lips feel like fire as they dance along your neck and down to your exposed collarbone.

Even breathless and tingling, you know this is wrong.

You knew from the moment Satoru asked you out for a few drinks—as friends, he promised. The second he pulled your chair out for you at the bar, the moment you took too long to pick out a dress, you knew this was how the night would end.

Because while you and Satoru are supposed to be friends, that's never been quite the case.

With eyes closed and a heaving chest, you manage to pant out a pathetic, "This shouldn't be happening—"

"Y'know, I'm not judging you or anything," Satoru chuckles against your sticky skin, his lips moving faster than the speed of light as they crawl up your neck and below your ear, "but if that's your idea of dirty talk, we might need to teach you a thing or two."

When he gently paws at your earlobe, you disguise the wanton whimper as an aggravated sigh, attempting to paw at his broad shoulders and remind him.

"This is a bad idea, we both agreed that it's a bad idea."

"Impossible," he gently smirks against your jaw before sinking his canines into the bone with a smug exhale. "It's half my idea, and I've never had a bad idea in my entire life."

Wrong, you immediately note.

You can think of a minimum of seventeen bad ideas Satoru has had, and that's just off of the top of your head. And of those seventeen, at least ten of them ended up like this—with the two of you gnawing at one another like animals.

Still embarrassingly breathless, you try to regain the upper hand, "So you're just talking to hear yourself speak?"

"Well, I can think of a few sweeter things to say," he smoothly mumbles against your jaw, relishing in the way his teeth gently scrape the skin lovingly.

His (huge) palms find your thighs with ease, and just as he's about to lift you in his arms and inevitably fuck you raw against your shitty apartment wall, a miracle happens.

With every ounce of strength you have, you're able to push him far enough away from you to actually look at him. Both of you panting and warm to the touch, you're able to look into his eyes with a telling frown.

"Satoru, we are supposed to be just friends."

And though your tone is stern, his reply is light and airy as he leans back in, insistent.

"We are friends."

When his tongue prods at your swollen lower lip once more, you pull him back by his hair. Not missing how he whines at the tugging, you raise your eyebrows, unamused.

"You kiss all your friends like this?"

"Only the ones as pretty as you," he coos immediately, leaning back into your mouth. But your grip on his hair prevents him from reaching what he wants, and when he notices the stern look in your eye, he softens.

"No," comes softly from his chest as he pulls away to properly look back at you. "No, I don't."

You exhale deeply, catching your breath and attempting to firmly plant your feet on the floor. Satoru's listening to you, or at least he's doing a good job at pretending to, and your gaze can’t help but fall to his swollen and spit-shined lips.

"We agreed to take things slow, to be friends for a while and not rush into things like we—"

Conveniently, his eyes do the same and flicker down to your own distracting pout.

The words meekly crawl out from his throat when he practically whimpers, "But you're wearing that lipstick you know I like."

"I shouldn't know you like it," you coldly remind him, "because we were supposed to be friends."

Satoru moves his hands from your thighs to your hips which, believe it or not, is a conservative improvement for him. Though his hands made a safe choice, his eyes falter back down to your neck when he presses a feathery kiss to your pulse point.

"Baby," he coos and you despise that you feel yourself clench around nothing. From a sixth sense or eye, Satoru somehow knows, because he smirks against your skin and brings his attention right before your lips.

"From the moment we met, we both knew we were never gonna be just friends."

He doesn't give you the privilege of a kiss, but lingers just above your lips as if his infinity is still on. You know enough to know it's off, it always is around you, but with the way he's so close and denying you his actual touch, you don’t quite know the difference.

When you don't answer, he prompts you tenderly. "Right?"

Stubbornly, you turn your head to look away from his stupid face, but all that does is further expose your neck to him.

Practically singing with mockery, Satoru's tongue dances along your jaw when he grins.

"Your silence is more telling than you think."

You gently shove him off of you, rolling your eyes in frustration at his cocky (yet correct) statement. He jokingly stumbles back at your shove, hand over his heart as he huffs out a whine.

"I can't stand you," you grumble.

With a shit-eating grin, Satoru sighs and lays back on your sofa, spreading his legs comfortably wide and patting his thick and barren thigh.

"Then come sit."

[odetodissapointment]

happy wolfwood wednesday (he's happy too!)

[odetodissapointment]

i just KNOW prince getou would eat the pussy so so so so so mfing good. He is obsessed with it actually.

Oh he does, he certainly does—at the expense that you’ll be completely laid out for him, and he can do as he pleases. He’s not cruel about it, but he’s just so lewd (and…a little mean). He’ll let you squirm, he’ll let you claw at his hair, he’ll coo sweetly at you, but there’s no stopping him, not unless you beg for a reprieve.

In his culture, sexuality is an embraced thing; it’s not a topic the lords and ladies shy over when brought up. It’s not something he shies away from with you either.

“When is the last time you’ve had sex?” The question from him is sudden and unexpected.

You blink, brows furrowing in offense and anger. How dare this rotten prince ask you something so intimate in such a flippant way? But you suppose you shouldn’t be surprised; you believe he enjoys watching you balk and falter.

When you don’t answer, Getou plucks a piece of meat from the platter between you—he uses his hands, not the thin, tined metal rod. The dark sauce atop the meat drips down his fingers before he presses it into your mouth, against your tongue.

“I know how your people are more…reserved on this, but sexual release is healthy for the body, encouraged,” he says.

You take the meat between your back teeth. Getou pulls away, wiping his hand with a cloth.

“Maybe an orgasm might take away that ill-temper of yours.”

[odetodissapointment]

dem ur gonna drive me insane with prince geto wtf pls keep going it’s rewiring my brain i’m about to evolve

falling into the abyss that is getou brainrot, there is no escape

Contains: prisoner of war fem-reader x enemy prince getou, forced intimacy + proximity, bathing together (he makes you bathe him), he has tattoos + 1 nipple ring, based on @saintshigaraki’s thoughts that he is a twisted caretaker and it shows in this, 1.4k word count

[For more Prince Getou!]

He’s late when he returns to you, his white tunic soiled with red and brown, like an artist who spilled his water colors into his lap. Blood, mottling his clothes and skin and hair; he has never come to you so disheveled.

You startle at your writing desk, something large and carved by artisans of an older time (everything in your chambers is more luxurious than you could have ever afforded before; it is a gilded cage). If Getou notices, he says nothing, stopping partway into your rooms.

“Come,” he tells you, lifting a dirtied hand. There is an expectation that you will walk to him.

Slowly, you rise from your seat, closing the old tome you had been reading. He watches you with rapt attention—it is the only way he knows how to: engrossed and careful, those sharp eyes of his. Getou’s hand hovers at the middle of your back as he herds you to the adjoined bathing chambers, a shepherd and his prized sheep. He does not touch you until he closes the door.

He’s silent as he picks at ribbons and lacing and knots and little hooks, baring you to him as he’s done many times before. He smears blood into the silk, against your skin; he is not being careful.

And despite the many times he has done this before, the shame is not easier to swallow, being stripped naked by a man. The enemy prince, the throne heir that only existed in conversation and counsel, represented by a little marble figurine on your general’s drawn maps and plans. But he is so very real.

Your hand lifts to cover your breasts, wanting a sense of security; Getou grabs it just as quickly. His long fingers encircle your wrist and place it back by your side. You know better, his actions chastise.

When he speaks to finally break his silence, he instructs you to get in the broad bathtub. The porcelain bowl is much too big for you, tepid water swallowing around your body. You prepare yourself for how he will bathe you, gentle but invasive. He will clean beneath your arms, under your breasts, everywhere; he will make you turn around and spread your legs while you bury your face in your arms, and he reaches beneath you to wash front, then back.

There is nothing and nowhere to hide from him like this. It is how he prefers it. (You could say it is for his own enjoyment too, but that would not be quite true. It is for your betterment, he would correct you, there is a difference between care-taking and pleasure-taking. He is your provider; he is your caretaker, he takes care, he does not ask for it, just like he has taken you.)

But he is not reaching for the fresh cloths brought by the servants earlier. You give pause—Getou never breaks his habits, he loves predictability here with you because he can never have it anywhere else.

An odd look passes across his face when you catch his eye. He begins to undress himself too.

The implication has your heart beating like a little rabbit’s, frantic and desperate. Not once has he undressed himself in front you. You stay ever still in the water, as if hoping he’ll forget your presence and, ultimately, forget you. Is this how he will have you? By force, in cooled water drawn by servants when it had been scalding an hour before? Hidden deep within your chambers where no one can hear?

He must be planning to kill you when he is done, surely he will have no use for you when he realizes that you will not submit so simply. He’ll drown you afterward, that’s what he’ll do, that’s how you’ll die.

“Such a skittish thing,” he sighs quietly, removing the last piece of undergarment and standing nude. He lets his hair down last, ink-black tumbling down strong shoulders and back.

His body is gouged with scaring new and old, bruises dusting tan skin, dried blood flaking from his stomach where it had seeped through clothes. He is muscled and wide-shouldered. There is no doubt that, in a test of strength, you would not win.

Getou steps into the bathtub, causing you to curl to the other end.

“I will not touch you,” he says, settling into the water and leaning back against the tub lip, arms resting on either ledge. His head tips back as he closes his dark eyes. Black hair, long and thick, swirls in the water around him, ink bleeding from paper.

He will not touch you.

You have no reason to believe him, but he has never gone against his word. Even now, he still adheres to the first promise he made you: You will be in my care from this point onward.

Water breaks as you shift in the tub. It is enough to draw his attention again.

His chest rises and falls, the pigments needled into his skin seem to move as well: bold patterns of symbols and animals, horned demons with wide eyes and forked tongues, serpents that coil and constrict, all intercepted by knotted scars shiny with age. Each tattoo serves a purpose to represent a feat this man has completed, similar to the silver ring threaded through his left nipple: a symbol of accomplishment, strength and virility.

He is watching you again, then, “Will you wash me?” A demand poised as a question, this silver-tongued prince.

He will not touch you, but he will make you touch him.

Your eyes flit to him. He must be toying with you, though you know that if you do not heed him, there will be a punishment of some kind—something subtle, painless to the body but infuriating to the mind. You believe this is his exchange: he will not touch you but bathing him will be the price you pay. Such a twisted man, such a cruel one.

He plucks a cut of soap from the side table, folding a wet cloth over it and pressing the fabric against the soap. His movements are methodical, slow…they are almost perverse, thumbing at the cloth gently, massaging it between his wide hands. Getou is giving you something to focus on other than his bearing eyes; he hopes you’ll appreciate this reprieve.

Finally, he removes the soap and holds out the sudsy cloth. You take it, tight-mouthed and hesitant, to which he makes a noise of appraisal. Smart girl. He spreads his legs to allow you more room to perch between them, to bare himself further, to allow you closer (an act of submission from him, rare as it is). Careful, you listen to the unspoken command, tucking your calves beneath you, still trying to curl into yourself even as you sit in the space he creates for you: close, so close. Wise girl. He props an elbow on the ledge, pressing his temple against a fist, head tilted like a tired lap cat. At the first swipe of cloth to his body, you see him swallow. Good girl.

You clean him with trepidation. You cannot hide your body from him when you work like this, and he is aware of that fact. Soap bubbles and falls away pink along his chest and throat and stomach and arms. You are rougher than he is with you, perhaps because you are rushing, or maybe to make it uncomfortable, but then he hisses, stomach clenching when your abrasive scrubbing reopens a scabbed wound beside his navel.

The cloth is pulled from him quickly as you create distance again. He bleeds beneath the water, a little trail of rust-pink diluted and carried away by the bath.

He does not chastise you, does not lightly reprimand. Instead, Getou closes his eyes like he might fall asleep. You’re learning, he thinks. You are still learning how to be gentle, how to take care of someone without the pain of teeth and nails to make them listen. And I will teach you. I will show you unconditional care that your motherlands and warlords and generals and monarchs did not give you.

I will take your shame and I will take your care.

[odetodissapointment]

Osamu Miya 🍙

He's got messy hair and smells like cooked rice and cigarettes~

[odetodissapointment]

no way did she lock me out oh

[odetodissapointment]

i’m sorry but she can’t stand to spend time with me alone if there’s a possibility she’ll be able to meet other ppl which i’m fine with btw but it just feels like i’m here for convenience like idek if she enjoys spending time with me atp ‘cause last time we went out it was awful

[odetodissapointment]

and there go my plans ig

[odetodissapointment]

[odetodissapointment]

and there go my plans ig

[odetodissapointment]

because why do you have to roll ur eyes and apologize on behalf of me whenever i talk pls tolerate me for one minute

every time i see a normal healthy happy mother daughter relationship i feel like d3ath

[odetodissapointment]

every time i see a normal healthy happy mother daughter relationship i feel like d3ath