#DEFIANT. its ALMOST HERE

[lucydoodlessometimes]

jorgen weight my beloved blorbo. see you soon

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

This Halloween | Yandere SatoSugu

“Hi, gorgeous! Surprised to see me here?”

“Don’t cry, (Y/n). We were never going to kill you.”

The reveal that the small town’s biggest menace was your friends Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto. To think that the golden boys of Jujutsu High who were dating two of the victims were hanging off one another in their bloodied costumes. Smiles wider than they’d ever been with their supposed partners, the reality sinking made the bile rise in your throat. 

Thinking about your meditation you close your eyes. The smell of partygoers rotting all over the small beach house fills your nose. The sound of the back screen door bumping against the frame as the beach breeze goes in and out with the tide surging outside. The taste of pennies filled your mouth as you gnawed at the inside of your cheek. The twitch of your fingers awkwardly hovered in front of your chest as they flexed in and out. On top of your breathing didn’t calm you as much as it usually did.

“(Y/n) did you hear what I said?”

The voice of Suguru somehow made it past the warbled sound of absolute confusion that clouded your brain. The leather glove lightly held your left hand as he slowly came closer to you’re shivering state. Those brown eyes looking so deeply into your own, it felt wrong to look away. 

“All you have to do is say we left early.”

You opened your mouth to ask but the growing sound of sirens stopped you. Gojo was the first to let out a curse, giggling about running away. He shook his raven-haired partner who hushed him with an amused smile, turning back to you. 

“You can do that for me can’t you Dove?”

The duo left out the back. That screen door screeched as they ran through it; returning to bang against the frame angrily. Its aggressive banging triggered an all-new set of shivers to wrack your body, causing you to fall to the floor. Closing your eyes you try to level yourself again but the sound of your own heartbeat is deafening and the eyes of your best friend pleading with you.

It will haunt you forever.

The sight of Detective Choso brought an uncomfortable pit into your stomach. The man you’d met years ago in another city–your city, with his hair down and his eyes had bags like a masked vigilante. 

“He’s out.”

The news didn’t scare you. Not as it should have. Many may find it strange to know you dreamt about serial killers on death row. But it warned you. Prepared you for the day you’d need to run as far as possible from anything you knew. On the anniversary of that day no less.

“What’s the plan?”

The detective pursed his lip and his eyes wandered. His feet, running the flat of his oxfords on the carpet of the entrance to your apartment. The silent scratch of the wool under his shoe irritated you almost as much as his request.

“We wanted to lure him out. Will you—”

He didn’t need to finish before the door was slammed in his face, pushing him back into the apartment hallway. Choso groaned to himself, the situation's futility ebbing at his already short patience. He calmly knocked on the door again.

A muffled, “Go away!”

He sighed, lightly banging his head on the rusted number of the apartment. With his ear so close to the door he could hear the receding footsteps and the mumbled curses directed at him. He looked down the hall making eye contact with the local department’s plant taking out the trash. He didn’t feel completely terrible leaving when there was a guard there, making a note to try again in 24 hours. 

“I’ll be back.”

It was meant to be assuring but Choso worried it came off threatening as heard a defiant thump on the opposite side of the door. Resisting the urge to sigh again Choso turned tail, making his way to the elevator. Pulling out his phone he scrolled through his contacts, landing on the name: Idiot surrounded by blue hearts. 

Holding the phone at his waist he timed the ringing until he heard said idiot singing out a ‘hello.’ Only then did he bring the phone to his ear and respond. 

“The eggs secured and it’s staying in the next. How’s the snake?”

_____________________________________________________________

Gojo Satoru finished his lecture with a grand gesture as though he had finished giving a presentation. When in fact, he’d pressed play on the school’s TV the second his students got in their seats. Maybe in the back of his mind, he’d thought to make himself look better for the detective standing just outside the classroom. Even though they both knew it didn’t matter.

“I appreciate you waiting until the kids were outta the classroom. Wouldn’t want to explain to the parents why the police were in their school.”

The white-haired teacher spoke so cheerfully, that his familiarity with the detective might have seemed positive. The detective wasted no time calling their partners in; the stout one stood at the door while the taller one pulled at the blinds of the classroom. With the classroom darkened and the school slowly emptying the head detective decided to speak. Making a dramatic move of pulling a voice recorder out of his pocket he held it up as he asked his question.

“Where were you the night of October 7th?”

Gojo sat on his desk, kicking his feet as he mockingly thought hard. He pretended to put his fingers to his temple as though that would provide answers. The detective associates sneered at the childish display. 

“Hm on the night of October let me see–”

The man trailed off as he reached over his desk, pulling a calendar out of a drawer. Flipping through it he animatedly pointed his index at the circled date on the calendar. 

Smiling up at the detective Gojo exclaimed, “The anniversary of those horrible murders? Well, I was grieving over the victims by grading my kiddies homework.”

The detective snatched the calendar from him, letting his eyes glaze over the marked paper. Confirming the statement, he tossed the calendar back to him. 

“Can anyone confirm this statement?”

Gojo let out a playful whine in annoyance as he dramatically flung back on his desk. The detective and their bodyguards all flinched at the large movement, hands hovering over the fire-arms tucked under their coats and at their belts.. 

“It’s always evidence with you guys, geez. I have it on the calendar, I never left my house you can ask my neighbors about that.”

“Your neighbors all live three kilometers away from you, That’s not an option.”

“So critical. If I personally broke out some poor inmate on death row do you really think I would have let you just walk into my space like this?”

The question had the detective hovering over their weapon again. Gauging the posture of the white-haired man who was only smirking in their direction with an unsetting nonchalance. The pause that ensued allowed the detectives to reluctantly let their hands drift from their weapons as the sound of multiple chattering students hurriedly approached the empty classroom. The door previously closed swung open to reveal Gojo’s most loyal student–a pink-haired teen leading the charge.

“Teacher! Did you see my post?”

With that smug persisting smirk on his face, Gojo turns his head feigning surprise. 

“Unfortunately no. I was too busy talking with these old friends of mine. What’s up?”

“Dude! The police are totally raiding your place!”

The teen turned his phone around to reveal a short video of police and armored vehicles surrounding the luxurious Gojo estate. Plenty of onlookers also recorded the unnatural phenomenon for the typically small town. Granted the amount of paparazzi that constantly come in and out of the town to film anything they can on the Gojo head wasn’t all that rare, but the authorities looking so closely was. And like everything in this town, it was all anyone would talk about for months. 

“Well, Detective Mahito am I under arrest?”

The long-haired detective sent a look to his partners and the curious teens absorbing the situation. Coming to a decision he openly hovered his hand over his weapon. 

“You are not under arrest but for your safety, you need to come with us.”

Of course, there was a video preceding this of the beloved teacher being escorted into an unmarked vehicle and the students behind the camera being shooed away as it drove off. With all the interested eyes on this case, it almost felt impossible that anything would slip under the radar of millions of curious eyes.

_____________________________________________________________

(Y/n) remembered the way the couple went public with one another. After the tragedy that ensued at the annual Hallow’s Eve party, it was of minor shock that the two golden boys of the high school found solace in one another. Everyone chalked it up to the bonding of trauma after both lost their girlfriends.

“I just found that no one could relate like he can.” 

You heard the reasoning in passing, always around the surrounding crowds curious about the latest scoop on the survivors of the Hallow’s Eve tragedy. No doubt some of them will have turned around to tell the outlets interested in the story as well while others would theorize about the identity of the masked killer.

“Maybe it was them!”

“Yeah, what a defense! ‘I don’t talk anymore after what I’ve seen!’ As if!”

The nauseating feeling would eventually go away but the pressure was suffocating then. Haunting your mind with their echoed speculations and the image of your dead friends. What’s worse was the killers so happily parading their sorrowed expressions along the halls. Accepting the gift baskets and surface-level condolences without an ounce of suspicion. The feeling of your hair raising along your skin when one of them mocked their sympathy towards you.

“Don’t be so hard on them, they’ve seen things no one should have to see.”

The constant threat of tears was a reoccurring pain, as you replayed the events of that party. It was never to be soothed by the couple who’d spend their free time pestering you. Often leaving quickly thereafter to repeat their sick game. 

“Just keep quiet, Dove. We were here the whole time after all.”

“Yup, and to prove it we’ll take a picture. Don’t tell anyone okay?”

You couldn’t bare listening to them any longer. 

______________________________________________________________

Conveniently the press that did have your new contact information weren’t as insistent as before. Quietly asking for a comment on the criminal notoriously associated with Hallow’s Eve murders. After all the rumored victim of the killer was recently detained, surely as the witness that convicted the killer to death row you’d have something to say. You kept quiet. Deleting emails and hanging up phone calls from unidentified numbers, solely focused on getting to your plane on time. 

“I’m so sorry but all commercial planes have been grounded for the foreseeable future.”

Like glass breaking at the perfectly angled rock, you started to crack. 

“What. Do. You. Mean?”

This poor employee didn’t deserve your wrath but she also wasn’t betting on this plane to save her life. She’d nervously stutter and stumble over her words as she denied every out or once of compensation to make this any better. 

“There may be some private planes but those are in incredibly high demand–”

“I’ll go! I don’t care how much just tell me where!”

She seemed reluctant to say but she still told you. Maybe it was because she felt bad, seeing someone so desperate to get away or maybe it was because you were inches from her face. Either way, you were on the tarmac within the hour, along with a few others desperate enough to pay privately. Only to be crestfallen when you arrived at the staircase to enter the plane; letting the other exasperated passengers pass by your still form. 

“May I help you with your bags?”

An attendant, with a shining smile and neatly pressed uniform with the plane’s company proudly pressed right above his heart. Greeting you with nothing but an offer to help; you cursed the involuntary reaction to vomit.

“Are all…the private planes available…from this private airline?”

You tried to keep the tremor in your voice to a minimum as you nervously wrung your hands around the handles of your bag. 

The attendant—none the wiser—smiled and gestured to the other planes lining up the tarmac with rows of people.

“Yes, they are. Gojo Airlines is offering a discount during these trying times–”

He kept talking but you weren’t listening. Turning around to leave, ignoring the airport security and the attendants who were preparing to let you onto the plane. It meant nothing to you for the beating of your heart and your panicked breathing is all you can hear. When you finally waved down a taxi, you quickly dialed a familiar number.

“He knows.”

______________________________________________________________

Detective Jogo looked nervously at the contact of his partner miles away. Since the week that their missing subject committed the grand massacre, he was infamous for. Because of the nature of the parties involved, he was strictly instructed to not call unless absolutely necessary considering they suspected their phones were compromised. 

“You eat yet?”

The question came with a warm bagel and a cup of coffee. Held over his seated form by the burly officer Hanami; coming from the breakroom on the other side of the station. For the first two weeks, it was just following the heir around. But with the inmate scheduled for death row at large and another anniversary coming up, it was decided they’d move the heir into one of their holding cells. Of course, it was lavished with furniture and decorations all chosen by the illustrious Gojo Satoru. He did whine when they demanded to inspect and bug his phone and laptop but the station was taking no chances when it came to this specific case. 

The rumors were enough too.

“Have you checked on him within the last few hours?”

Hanami tilted her head looking at the one-way glass of the blue-eyed witness pacing casually in the fortified room. From the glimpses that Jogo got from his chair across the room, their witness was unusually chipper. The days they spent guarding him throughout the day were incredibly boring; temporarily leaving his job as a teacher to gallivant around a hotel of his choosing didn’t make it better. Throughout those weeks Gojo had subjected the team to an aggravating amount of chatter—none of it helpful or even worth repeating. Detective Mahito was plenty great at keeping up but Jogo and Hanami opted for alternating earplugs. Even with the earplugs in he could pick out the strong hints of annoyance bubbling underneath his wide smile and piercing gaze. 

The change unnerved him. Especially with the rumors circulating around this specific witness. 

“Didn’t want to besides I’m watching from the camera.”

Blunt and unforgiving Jogo wouldn’t expect anything more from the officer. It didn’t put him at ease. 

“Where’s Mahito? Still investigating that place?”

If it was possible Hanami’s apathetic expression tightened, her brows knitting at the thought. 

“Yes. Last he called all the evidence had been scrubbed and all we can hope now is that they forgot something we could use.”

Jogo sucked his teeth in shared annoyance. The rumor he was dreading was more like an undisclosed fact. The true masterminds behind the Halloween Massacre were both Gojo Satoru and the death row inmate Suguru Geto. The files say the Gojo family lawyer fought hard for the heir; effectively blaming it all on Suguru Geto. With prints, hair, witness testimony, and photographic evidence all on the heir they were able to plead for coercion by malicious manipulation. Getting their heir off and painting his partner in crime to be a greater threat than he. The whole fiasco of the jewel of the Gojo clan being involved made the whole case a living nightmare, that their superior Choso Kamo rose to fame with. By finally encouraging the only witness with viable evidence to testify Suguru Geto was sentenced to death row. And through expert lawyers mysteriously hired, he remained waiting for years. 

Choso, before he left to guard the witness, believed it wasn’t just an escape attempt but a chance for the killers to tie everything up. Destroy the evidence, stop the search for the death row inmate, exact revenge on all who participated in the case, and reunite with their loved ones by the end of Halloween. 

Of course, it was their best detective leaving to protect the witness who was in the most danger. Leaving his underlings—Mahito and Jogo to keep them on the pulse of the case and their eyes on the man believed to get off scot-free. 

If it weren’t for him knowing Choso cared so much for this specific witness; he would have thought he was leaving them the rough side of this mission. He knew the hardened detective could be a compassionate man–a hard thing to retain in this line of work. 

Jogo huffed taking a sip of his coffee,” I hope he’s having a better time than we.”

Hanami made a grunt of agreement before returning to the hall to stare at the monitors she had been for the past couple of days. He would have offered to switch if he didn’t think he thought this pit in his stomach could be resolved. 

The 40-year-old detective stood from his seat. Careful to nurse the leg he’d fractured from two cases ago. He took his uneaten bagel, noting it retained some of its heat. He headed to the holding cell. Sending a look to the guard at his station, a buzzer rang and the door unlocked. With the final swipe of his keycard, he let himself into the semi-messy room. The culprit was sitting on his bed, a smile still on his smug little face.

“Hungry?”

Those cerulean eyes weren’t on him the second he came in, instead looking at the clock left graciously in the upper corner of the room. Nor did they flicker when Jogo asked his question. The disrespect made the Detective’s eyebrows twitch as he kept his hand holding the bagel. 

“I’m not going to eat your leftovers, old man.” 

“Not good enough for you!? Not up to your snobby standards,” was what Jogo wanted to say but he didn’t need to get kicked off this case for suspected bias. It didn’t help that the man still wasn’t looking at him, laughing to himself as though Jogo told the funniest joke. 

“Have you eaten anything today?” 

Jogo was trying. He really was.

“Nope, but I’ll eat later today.”

Jogo loosened up,” Have any idea what you want?”

The Gojo heir’s smile didn’t compare to the smirk he had on before. His smile practically reached his ears and those haunting eyes staring right through Jogo, “All of your livers.” 

“What?!”

The suspect wasn’t speaking anymore and Jogo’s phone was ringing. 

Jogo had a decision to make. Answer the call or make sure he just heard what he did. 

“You should answer that. He might never call again.”

Despite his better judgment, Jogo pulls out his phone, seeing the name of his fellow detective and the goofy photo they took on his phone. Another look at the white-haired man and he answered the call. Immediately his ears were assaulted with the sounds of wood crackling; the unnatural sound made his mind piece together what was happening.

“I-it’s a trap!” the tearful voice of Mahito rings the loudest. Jogo almost doesn’t want to speak as if that would make what he heard go away. “G-get out–”

The sound of something large falling and the frantic screaming from either the detective or some other poor soul being abruptly cut off. Punctuated by the phone call ending. 

Jogo couldn’t take it anymore throwing his phone aside to reel his fist back to punch the chuckling man in the face. Prepared to fight against the guards that would be arriving any second he aimed with urgency. He was certain he’d have time to get in one. One good hit to the face of the man responsible for the chance that his partner might be dead. 

“Did you really think I’d just let that happen? That’s cute.”

Jogo’s fist was easily captured by Gojo’s hand, a careless gesture strong enough to keep the shaking fist static and far from its intended target. Unnerved by that restraint the detective launched his other fist only for it to receive the same treatment. Pushing with all his might Jogo–in the split seconds of any fight—found himself at an impasse. Figuring if both his fists were being thwarted he’d go to the next best thing–his legs. Cursing the ache he’d have later he aimed to kick the heir in the gut. 

“But not that cute.”

The quip was a warning barely processed as Gojo caught the man off-guard, releasing his fists to latch onto the outstretched leg. Gripping the ankle of the old man swung the body of the detective into the one-way glass. It crackled under his weight bursting with shards of glass as the stout man rolled past the curious guard’s post. 

Jogo didn’t feel like he could get up but he did watching the blue-eyed man let himself out of the holding cell, a stolen I.D. being twirled in his hands. He didn’t need the guard to let him out, outright kicking the metal door until it flew off its hinges.  Of course, the guards in the room moved with a taser and baton in hand. 

“You guys are so dramatic! How about you go out begging then maybe I won’t make you suffer.”

The guards didn’t bother responding to the one with the baton going first. Swinging from above any normal man could barely manage to dodge but Gojo was by no means normal. He easily sidestepped the baton using the downward stroke of the officer to grab at his neck. At speeds, Jogo couldn’t comprehend the officer’s head was facing the opposite direction. Even worse they weren’t dead their eyes darting around as they tried to scream—making a gargled plea instead. The one with the taser barely had time to fire, missing the dodging assailant who easily grabbed the coils beaming with electricity to pull the gun from the guard's shaking hands. Defeated with a hand slicing toward their exposed neck also making the man gurgle as he fell to the floor.

“Now what was it we were talking about?” 

The question was directed to Jogo and the pain paralyzed him to the floor. Helplessly watching as Gojo slowly walked closer. The old man’s eyes darted nervously around searching for anything to use. His thoughts raged with an all-manner of possibilities running through his mind there was one tool bound to stop the incredibly durable heir. His gun. Jogo took great care to not let this realization be made. Planning to only reveal this when he needed which would be soon, judging by the way Gojo was cracking his knuckles. 

“About how this was all planned by you?”

Jogo was stalling but it didn’t seem Gojo was listening. The heir tapped his foot impatiently against the floor as he looked annoyed at the aching detective. 

“Are you done because otherwise, I’m just going to end–”

In a large flash of blue, the heir stood back just barely dodging the hurling form of Hanami. Using her natural height against him she aimed a violent punch into the ground, cracking the concrete the heir was standing over just a moment before sidestepping. Jogo felt his heart lift, who greater to fight alongside than Hanami—the human tank with punches as strong as steel. Surely now they had a chance.

Jogo pulled out his gun aiming at the dodging heir. Waiting for just the right moment to pull the trigger and finally end the menace that got to run free. 

“This really was fun but I’m tired of this place.” The declaration sounded petulant like a child,” and I’m tired of you.”

Almost in annunciation a pale hand shot through the chest of Officer Hanami–the human tank stopping her assault to look down at the hand pulling out of her. Before Gojo’s bloodied hand could leave a spray of her blood dousing her face and eyes. Fear-filled eyes watched his partner struggle as a waterfall of viscous carnage poured out of her baffled mouth. 

Through the tears growing in his eyes, Jogo fired his gun. 

Over a year spent in the police academy and being a rookie in the small town. To a supervisor to a junior detective who humbled himself to learn the young genius detective. More than certain his aim was true, he collapsed into himself. The weight of both his partners, his friends dead when just hours ago they were as lively as ever. 

Thankful that the beast responsible was gone.

“Glad you came I was just about ready to clean up myself.”

The monster he thought he’d defeated was standing above him casually calling out to another down the hall. Whoever this was holding a disembodied arm and was casually walking in the halls surrounded by bloody remains of the investigative team. 

As frightening as it was to revel in the new threat having gotten past security and was brutal enough to be carrying the limbs of his coworkers. But it didn’t take away from the horror of realizing his gun never did go off. Instead, his gun was squished with the bloodied hands of Gojo Satrou, who sent one last disgusted look in his direction before dropping the disfigured gun in his lap. 

“I told you, I had it under control.”

“Whatever you say ‘kuna.”

“Don’t call me that. Now go on get to your ‘date.’”

If Gojo had taken the talons he called fingers and torn out Jogo’s heart it would have been better than recognizing the pink-haired, tattooed man, covered in blood. To think he’d have the privilege to die near the detective-turned-mercenary Ryomen Sukuna. Face ashen and succumbing to his fate, he wistfully watches the white-haired man skip over the carnage of the force. Without so much of a glance, the Gojo Satoru had taken everything from him in a matter of minutes. 

The only thing he did have left was doomed to be gone soon.

“You ready to fight to your death?”

An idol asking a question worthy of someone who wasn’t likely paralyzed by merely being thrown through a window and failing to shoot the man responsible for the destruction of an effort to maintain justice no matter who the suspect is. There was only one thing he could say as Sukuna awaited his answer. 

“Yes. More than ready.”

______________________________________________________________

Today was the day you’d broken your silence all those years ago. Once again traveling with the detective to the far reaches of a rural town far away within the safe confines of a car. It didn’t soothe you in the slightest. From the airport incident, the unnerving shiftiness within your stomach hadn’t settled not like it did when Suguru was finally shipped off to prison and not like when Gojo was sent to a foreign exchange school. It wasn’t over.

“How are you doing?”

The question was worthless but you hadn’t said anything since Choso dignified the plan. A lot was unspoken between you but talking was still necessary.

“Like throwing up. How’s your brother?”

The immediate question was not just a deflection, it was the easiest way to distract the detective. Choso was a proud older brother who at any topic that reminded him of his little brother ensued in long rambles about said brother. It’s a perfect soundtrack to drown your thoughts and avoid playing therapist with the detective you’re effectively running away with.

“Since you asked—”

Seeing the tired straight-faced detective finally begin to smile as he proceeded to rant. It’s a nice change to the gloom you both permeate. You figured you’d help stave it off for a while with some light chatter. 

“---and his little friends all look up to him like the natural-born leader he is!”

“He’s in high school now right?”

“He is. He’s actually….” Choso trails off as his smile falls,” he’s actually going to Jujutsu High.”

The name of the familiar school renews the tense atmosphere and with terrifying speed, the synapses of your brain begin to fire off. Suddenly you can guess why Choso insisted the plant stay behind or how he refused the undercover police escort. Or why instead of awkwardly attempting to cheer you up he keeps his tired eyes on the road ahead. 

“So the safe house was a lie.”

Choso visibly grimaced, “Not entirely. I wouldn’t give you to them if I wasn’t sure you’d be safe.”

“Them!?”

He dared to look at you out of the corner of his eye. 

“I know what they’re after and they’re not going to hurt you.”

You rolled your eyes, “You trusted the serial killers who promised they weren’t going to hurt me?! Gee, what a smart detective you are, let’s blindly trust the guys who have a death wish for me!”

Choso had the nerve to look offended at that. You didn’t bother holding back your glare, anxious to hear the reasoning behind this betrayal. His hands tightening against the wheel told you there was some turmoil—as if that would resolve the bubbling fury that had you debating about taking the wheel and driving you both off the road.

“My partners went back to the place, searching for evidence.” He spared a look towards you as if confirming you’d shrink in on yourself at the mention of that Halloween Night. “It was rigged to explode after they found some evidence. My other partners that were meant to guard him….”

His tired eyes were blinking in a futile effort to hold back tears. Thankfully he had the decent to pull over before clasping his hands over his tired face. With only the light sniveling filling the car, you were forced to remember that night. The fire. The blood. It was all too much. You reached for the handle of the door, pulling at it to get into the open fields Choso pulled in. Only to find the door would not give.

“(Y/n), their funerals will be closed caskets and the cause of death will be chalked to some accident that explains the state of the bodies.”

He was trying to look at you, to get you to look at him. The droplets clouding your vision and the frantic breathing you were trying to regulate weren’t helping. Recognizing your struggling he grasped your hands, holding them the way he did when you first fought to retell the tale that imprisoned one of the most infamous killers to exist. Rubbing his rough thumbs over your knuckles in comforting circles encouraging you to slowly inhale and exhale.

“They did that to the ones they wanted dead for years. They told me, the last thing they wanted to do was harm a hair on your head.”

The tears were running as Choso pulled you into a hug, listening to you blubber about it being a lie.

“I think if they wanted you dead they would have done so by now.”

His assessment was crude but the truth. Deep down underneath the fear and noxious feeling of encountering those two again, there was still disbelief. A part of you that always denied that the friends you’d seen reveal themselves to you would ever think about reducing you to one of their many victims. Perhaps for your sanity, you’ll have to trust in the friends you know. The friends that confided in such a secret all that time ago.

“So your brother…anyone else?”

He knew what you meant and as he lit a cigarette; he answered with a puff. 

“The whole town. Practically wiped out the entire workforce with the stunt they pulled.”

He inhaled with a wince, taking in another painful huff. He hated smoking.

“If they did do anything the whole town would be completely at their mercy…”

Reaching into his coat pocket, you pulled out a cigarette for yourself swiping his lighter to enjoy your cancer stick. Both of you fill the inside of the car with your despair, smoking your anxieties into something smaller. Hopefully weaker. 

“Well if it’s for your brother and the whole town then I guess it’s a worthy sacrifice.”

Both of you joylessly laughed, taking long pained drags of the sticks—all the while licking at the tears that escaped your blinking eyes. A couple more puffs of smoke were had before Choso pulled back onto the road.

For whatever reason things were lighter as if that would take away to the possibly dangerous future you’d be subjected to.

“When you can, you should take Itadori to see the city. That’ll really change his life.”

“Any places you recommend?”

“Do you want a list?”

It was nice to fill the space with something positive—a rare activity you two partook in after the court case. It was nice to do it one last time. 

The drive wasn’t much longer, eventually pulling up to a small neatly painted house with no car in sight, if it weren’t for Choso’s intel you’d have been none the wiser. 

As he put the car in park, he looked at you. As sincerely as he’s always done despite visible tiredness in his face. His arm wrapped around yours with a hesitant hand. 

“If you really don’t want to do this you don’t have to. You can punch me and we can say you ran off into those cornfields we passed by earlier.”

Mustering a smile as you leaned your head against his chest, “I’ll be fine Choso. Say ‘hi’ to Yuji for me.”

He helped you get your bags, knocking in a specific tune on the door. The door opened and an old woman revealed herself, welcoming you with a warm smile inviting you both inside. You looked to Choso in confusion as you followed closely behind leading you to a parlour filled with hideously dated and flowery decor. She insisted you sit, promising to fix some lemonade for you both. 

“Oh, young man can I have your help with this? I’d get it myself if it weren’t so high.”

Choso hurriedly followed after her, sending a look for you to sit and relax. 

This felt weird throwing off your expectations for your meeting with the murderous duo. Managing the burden of a fate to come you allowed your hands and eyes to wander. Letting your eyes glaze over with thoughts of how old the intricate wooden end stand is. Playing with the frayed edges of the quilt decoratively draped over the couch. It kept you distracted long enough, finally breaking out when you saw the long and pale hands coming to wrap around your chest. In a perfect world, it would have been Choso being oddly affectionate but these fingers were longer than his, sculpted to the very knuckle to become a living weapon. Accompanied by an inhale against the top of your head the owner of these hands pulled you further against the back of the couch; further pulling you into the warm soft and sturdy chest of a man you’d feared. A curtain of silky black hair much longer than you remembered dropped just past your shoulders, daring you to look up at its owner who refused you the luxury of space as the shadow-colored eyes stared deeply into yours.

“Hello, Dove. You look radiant as ever.”

Velvety as the day he testified and was sentenced was Suguru Geto. Older but just as handsome as the day you met; exuding the air of gentleness that made anyone feel at ease. That is until he didn’t need to. Those hands long and spindly trailed from your chest and on to your neck tracing your collarbone through your clothes. Finally resting on the middle of your neck, index fingers toying with the organ underneath your skin.

“Hum for me Dove.”

It was just like old times, unwilling to speak and yet plagued by the demand into those dark eyes to give something. So you hummed broken and uneven, in your ears it was hardly the symphony he claimed it was. But it didn’t really matter what you thought now.

“That’s my Dove.”

He annunciated proudly moving his hands to hold your face up, keeping you in place as he softly explored your mouth. Nibbles were soft but urgent as though there was a timer for this reacquaintance unlocking the memories of this exact kiss. 

Under the stairwell after a big game, the first after the reveal. Satoru was insistent you come, unable to goad a word out of you, he had you hum. A promise to come to their game and cheer them on. As per usual they won, despite suffering from so many late players the team relied on their surviving all-star players. Unsurprisingly Satoru was majorly credited with their win, allowing Suguru to pick you out from the cheering crowd leading you under the stairwell.

“Aren’t you proud of me, Dove? Show me how proud of me you are.”

The kiss was just like this, still soft but needy. Hands methodically wandering to allow for an opening; some easier access to melt his body into yours in the minutes he had before the others came. It was just like this.

“Aw gorgeous, you missed us?”

Playful as always and hands eagerly running under the hem of your shirt to rub thumbs along the soft expanse of your skin. Pecks in between the hands creeping higher all the while Sugure tightens his grip on your jaw a warning not to forget him. Not ever again.

When Suguru does pull away it’s to suck at your neck, holding you by your shoulders as you’re hands wiggle with uncertainty. Even subconsciously you hesitate to have your hands reciprocate while the two assaulted you with kisses that were getting rougher by the minute. Satoru ignored Suguru when he climbed up higher to meet your lips; and worked to intertwine his fingers with yours. With another attempt, he roughly pulled at Suguru’s lips with his teeth demanding they share a deep kiss of their own before returning to you.

“Oh Gorgeous we’ve been waiting to do this since forever.”

Two more final pecks from each of them, allowed you to breathe leaving you limp and pliable for the especially touchy Gojo Satoru who slotted you into his lap as he settled onto the older couch. Suguru sat closely his arm reaching over the top of the couch to let his hand rub at your neck once again. 

“Missed you at the airport.”

The pit in your stomach returned at the loaded judgment and came with a pinch into your side. Under Suguru’s scrutinizing gaze and the feeling of Satoru’s eyes from behind you, had you hoping to defend yourself.

“I thought you were going to kill me.”

You said it with attempted laughter, begging for the laughter of the killers you’ve feared for years–all to confirm that still wasn’t the plan. 

Suguru in his forever-contained demeanor sent you a smile with half-lidded eyes. The most unclear answer to the anxiety that hadn’t rested even with the butterflies of kissing these two again. The vibration of a laugh from behind wasn’t an answer either and neither were the muscular arms circling you. 

Suguru released your neck, and brought his hand to hold up his head,” So you and the detective. Did you get together, after I left?”

The growl behind his smile reminded you of why it took so much courage to speak out. Something you bore witness to since the couple decided to reveal themselves to you. Not only for the fear of ending up like their victims but for the entirely personal punishment only Suguru in all his infinite fury could conjure.

“No! I’ve been single this whole time.”

That got you a squeal from Satoru who lightly squeezed you tightly into him giving light pecks to your neck. Not stopping anytime soon you turned your attention back to Suguru, who still didn’t look pleased.

“Hm, I’m not convinced.”

The nonchalant claim made you feel like crying again. You remember this conversation when it came to an old friend. Even when you pleaded, silently albeit he’d scoff and smile at you while he remained ‘unconvinced’. Kissing your forehead before leaving to claim another victim for the masked killer. 

“He brought you to me …he-he convinced me to talk.”

That wasn’t true. It was you. Through a month of self-care and therapy, you were able to muster the ability to speak again. Choso was great support but it was you who did it. You who gained the courage to move away and restart your life away from the memories of your serial killer boyfriends. Speaking of, you whimper at the sting of pain along your neck.  

Straining your gaze to look at the man whose admiring the mark on your neck. Despite the loving caressing of his hand along your neck, the glare of Satoru Gojo was just as frightening as the killer sitting across from you.

“I don’t know I think that’s all the more reason!” 

You couldn’t restrain yourself from silently pleading with Suguru looking deeper into the house where Choso disappeared with the older woman. Suguru sent a hand through his unrestrained hair as he sighed.

“I’m not pleased with you (Y/n). Telling on us like you did someone’s got to pay.”

You could hear Gojo smirk behind you.

“So what do you say, babe round 3 of our favorite Halloween Night?”

Suguru released his locks as he mockingly stuck his nose to the sky,“I’ll think about it.”

Suddenly the rickety old house shook from a plane overhead; thinking nothing of it you expectantly looked at Suguru who seemed to be debating. Only for him to abruptly stand and make his way to the door. Satoru hopped up with you in tandem refusing to let you walk on your own without him clinging onto you.

They both made their way to the back porch where the very plane you’d refused to ride a day ago was releasing its stairs. With the steps fully extended Satoru tugged you along as Suguru began to ascend. With the question of Choso’s life still hanging in the balance you dug your feet into the ground pointing at the house which Satoru barely acknowledged until you’ve turned yourself in his direction.

“Wait! My bags! Choso has my bags!”

That had Suguru coming down the steps faster than you could turn; feeling that familiar grip on your jaw as he forced your gaze on him.

“You don’t get to choose if we bring that with you. I didn’t get to choose what I got to bring when you sent me to that cell. ”

You held your gaze as you stood your ground, “Not him. Be mad at me! Not him.”

For a moment those black depths flashed with something violent; a glimpse of what hundreds had seen in their last moments. 

It wasn’t for you but how could you know that?

Suguru sighed lessening his grip on your jaw, using both his hands to hold your face. Running his thumbs along the creases of your face as if he had to remember the texture of your skin against his own. Since his reunion with Gojo, he fought tears, pulling you into a hug. One you returned on instinct, somehow even with the blood splattered on his face with the mask of a serial killer hanging on his head he was still your friend. As Gojo closed in from behind you you reminded that you felt the same for him; more than certain that you’d be rendered the same helpless witness to the deaths of so many friends.  It would always end this way. 

with them at the end of the blade, with the power they’d always have. 

Satoru settled a hand on your waist and his other on Suguru’s face, his smile as warm and welcoming as the day you first met. 

“Come on you two. Let’s spend this Halloween together. We’ll figure out the rest later.”

Finally entering the plane a part of you felt like you lost. That you succumbed to the imbalanced rulers of the system. But the largest part of you knew since you’d gotten involved with these two, you’d been given the footprint of a giant and it really would be better for everyone if you let them win especially this once. 

At least with certainty, you can say this Halloween no one else is dying because of you.

[sugurouge]

— flame of despair : soulmate! sukuna ryōmen x rebirthed! f!reader

content warnings! DARK CONTENT, historical au, noncon, monsterfucking, aggressive hair pulling, dacryphilia, hurtful pet names (whore & pet), yandere themes, reader is viewed as sukuna’s property, deep throating, cunnilingus, blood, mindbreak, misogyny (he makes a nasty remark about the role of a woman), degradation

summary: Each and every life of yours will always belong to Sukuna. He will remind you of that promise with every new life, no matter the methods used. The idea of romance and being bound to your partner by soul, the thing you always dreamt of, becomes ruined and reality turns out to be a living nightmare once your soulmate claims you.

wordcount: 2.5k | my kinktober masterlist

by clicking read more you are agreeing to consume dark content. don't interact if you cannot differentiate fiction from reality.

"No, no, let's try that again, pet."

The monster looming above you muses, mischief gleams deep in those dreadful red eyes as Sukuna watches your trembling form at his feet. You're exposed to him, the white fabric of your drape drenched with blood and water from the unfortunate weather of the recent weeks; almost as if some higher being has been angered by your reunion.

Your hair is a tangled mess from where Sukuna's claws dragged you to kneel in front of him, and your lips are bruised thanks to a previous blow to your once-pretty face. The bitter taste of iron taints your tongue, yet the flavours pale in comparison to the horror that awaits every time Sukuna decides to let you out of your cage to 'play'.

"I—"

"Who do you belong to?" Sukuna interrupts, shattering the last fragments of your dignity.

"N-no—"

No one. No one, you were trying to say. You’ve tried to tell him that for weeks, ever since he found you and claimed you, spouting wild fantasies of past lives and how, in every new one, he would always come to find you again.

But you can’t even force those two small words past your lips before a harsh slap to your cheekbone sends fresh tears streaming down your face, sobs erupting from your throat. The claws digging into your cheeks sting, they tear at your skin as sharply as his words pierce your soul. "You belong to me. You’re mine. My property, understand?"

He makes you nod, grinning as your tears glisten under the dim light of the fires dancing around his hall. "Repeat it for me." His deep voice rumbles ominously, the tip of his nose brushing almost affectionately against your tear-streaked cheek.

"I'm... I'm," you falter as your brows crease in disgust over the words about to escape your lips. You’d rather die than give him the satisfaction, the defiant glare in your eyes stating as much as you meet his gaze.

"Say it," he drawls, his voice is sending shivers down your spine. Four eyes bore into you as Sukuna seems to grow larger with each passing second, his presence is suffocating.

Yet here you are, as helpless as an infant, yet as brave as a tiger whilst you shake your head in his iron grip. You don’t even have time to blink before your face slams into the cold, unforgiving floor. Your cheek is pressed into a vile mixture of dried blood and water as a thunderstorm rages above, the temple trembling beneath its wrath.

You feel numb, the groan that escapes from deep within your lungs barely registering in your mind since you're fully overwhelmed by the high-pitched ringing that clouds your senses. But the violent tugging on your body snaps you back to this living nightmare as four hands tear at the flimsy fabric Sukuna dares to call a dress, leaving you naked and vulnerable under his cruel gaze.

Your tears mix with the blood running down the side of your temple as you stare up at him in horror. You wouldn’t even be able to attempt to cover yourself, your limbs feeling as though they don’t belong to you as they are pressed to the ground by two strong hands.

“Look at me.”

You comply, your eyes slowly focusing on the blurry demon as you blink the tears away. “Stop, please…” you hear your own voice, shaky and weak, yet apparently utterly entertaining to Sukuna, judging by the grin etched on his face.

He guides your nimble fingers over his muscular body, across his black markings and prominent pecs, as his lips graze your ear. “If you’d stop being so ungrateful… you could enjoy all of this,” his faint whisper tickles your neck, his hot breath contrasting with the icy cold water on your back. “Just say you’re mine. Admit it.”

“I’m not yours.” You don’t even have time to groan as a third hand snakes around your throat and applies pressure to your airways, nails tearing through the first layer of your skin and continuing to dig deeper into your flesh.

“You’re mine. You have been mine from the moment you were born, you dumb whore!” he snarls, fingers forcing their way through your tangled hair, exposing your neck to his teeth. Sukuna savours every drop of your blood, every dried tear and bead of sweat before his teeth sink into your body, eliciting a defeated whine from you. Yet it’s the fourth hand applying pressure to your hip bone that has you gasping in horror, a new set of tears welling up along your lash line as you vehemently shake your head in denial.

“You’ve been mine ever since your village offered me my soulmate, isn’t that right?” he breathes, the devilish grin returning to his lips as he leans in to kiss you harshly. His tongue invades your mouth, spreading the taste of your blood to every corner before he pulls back, leaving only a thin string of saliva connecting your bodies— as faint and delicate as your bond to this monster.

“They threw you at my feet. Offered me my toy to play with in exchange for protection.” His lips trail between your breasts, greedily pressing against your heaving chest and staining your skin as Sukuna’s journey takes him further south.

“Dumb as they are. As if I’d let anyone live who treats my property with such shame.” Sukuna traces the lines of your bondmark; the action almost seems adoring by how gentle his touch is before his nail redraws the lines in red.

“You’re mine,” his eyes snap up to your face. “You’ll forever be mine. With every reincarnation, I’ll find you, claim you, and break you until you’re my queen again.”

Your voice finds its way back to you in this moment, as you cry out from the pain Sukuna inflicts on your body, his words reminding you of the horrors you witnessed that day.

How your mother dressed you in her finest dress and let you play princess, promising you the world as soon as you found your soulmate. Only for your father to push you to your knees in front of a demon, a curse—him. Sukuna Ryomen.

And your eyes saw the lines on his side as the top of his yukata pooled around his hips. The same devious mark you had on your body ever since you were a baby.

You were cursed. The entire village treated you like a lesser being, like filth and a secret, promised to stay hidden until they could rid themselves of you—all because of legends passed down for hundreds of years about the only weakness the King of Curses holds.

They all too willingly tore the beautiful dress off your body and gave the devil not what he came for, but what he most desired.

“I don't want to be a monster’s queen,” your bold statement makes Sukuna’s face deform into a hideous mask, violent laughter erupting from deep within his chest at the fighting spirit you try to uphold. “Were you not dreaming of the day your soulmate would find you like all those other pathetic little mortals do?” The words are nothing but a murmur; Sukuna doesn’t even make it sound like a question, and he leaves no room for your reply either—not when black nails dig into the fat of your thighs or strong hands pin down your wrists to the floor. “I understand, you must be claimed, to learn to appreciate your life at my feet, pet.”

The most disgusting part of this moment is not the grimace looming above you, or the horror in Sukuna’s eyes, no, it's the feeling of a wet, hot tongue lapping at your cunt while this abnormality holds you spread open like you’re on a serving plate.

Sukuna sees the aversion on your face, the way your eyes squint before you have to look away once the pleasure starts to feel undeniable as he fucks you open on his tongue. The squelching is so lewd, you can only cry over yourself.

“Stop your miserable act, whore,” Sukuna punctuates his words with a deep thrust of the thick tongue from his stomach, forcing a moan from you whether you like it or not.

The hand around your small wrists hurts, feeling as if Sukuna wants to actively burn his fingerprints into your skin as his eyes stare into the depths of your soul. You know where his tugging leads, know what you feel when the hot, sticky sensation meets the palm of your hand. Encased between your much smaller and Sukuna’s own large palm are his cocks. Your whimpers are unending as he forces your hand to drag over their shafts, his maniacal stare into your disgusted face unwavering. How dare you continue to insult him like that? You should feel grateful for his attraction towards you.

You whine the moment your head hits the floor once more, Sukuna easily pressing your form against the stone-cold ground, finally forcing your eyes to snap up to look directly into his red gaze.

There is no such thing as tenderness to be found in them, no love, no sympathy. The concept of soulmates is nothing but a nightmare for you.

“You’re hurting me…” you whisper in desperation, yet Sukuna only basks in this newfound tenderness in your eyes as fat tears stream down your cheeks.

“Then stop denying me!” Sukuna growls right next to your ear. His dominance and your own fear send shivers down your spine, rendering you limp beneath him.

The rough pads of his fingers squish your face beneath his grip—disabling you from facing anything but him. “You could have another fulfilled life…” Is this tenderness you see in his eyes? Love he held for the yous from the past? It can't be. Not him. “But you leave me no choice.” In one fell swoop, you find yourself back on your knees, your face brought up right in front of the tips of his cocks.

The cold flooring hurts your joints, making you wince once more, but your sounds are all the same to Sukuna—simply confirmation of his influence on your body. In pleasure or pain? Who cares.

However, he notices the slight shake of your head. It's causing his grip on your hair to tighten, eliciting another loud whine from you.

Your dainty fingers try to ease his grip to no avail. “Please, I don't de—” but the loud gulp of your throat cuts off any protest. The thick tip of Sukuna’s shaft spreads your mouth beyond your imagination, the salty flavour of his pre-cum coating your tongue and messing with your taste buds before he prods at the entrance to your throat, muscles trembling around his infiltration. You struggle to keep the choking at bay, swallowing back any disgusting liquids threatening to crawl back up.

Sukuna groans in satisfaction. His darkened eyes stare down at your weak figure, admiring your hollowed cheeks and stretched lips. His thumb sweetly swipes over your cheekbone, followed by a slap to the same area. When he pulls back, you choke up a mixture of nasty fluids, but there is no time to recover due to the way he forces your head to stay in place. Once more, you are overwhelmed by his length, his second needy cock now taking the spot inside your mouth. “Silence and a breedable womb are the best presents a woman can give.” As if to highlight his words, Sukuna pushes in deeper, the choked squeal of your panic drowned by his girthy cock as he holds your head in place, nails harshly digging into your scalp as he bottoms out.

His pelvis presses against your mouth and nose to further restrict your breathing. Every attempt at swallowing your saliva makes you feel his cock even more, it's almost impossible to stay conscious as Sukuna opts to abuse your throat only seconds after he enters you.

It hurts—the pistoning of his hips, the repetitive assault on your throat by his thick member, and the hateful words hitting your skin with no form of defence.

Demands to take it, to stop being weak and disgusting, are just a few of the many insults you have to endure. By now, your nails have left nasty scratches on his thighs as you desperately try to relieve some of the pain he forces on your body, while your mind isn’t sure if passing out would be the safer option for your sanity.

Tears won’t stop running down your face. The mixture of your spit, tears, and his arousal creates a nearly disgusting flavour in your mouth, causing you to gag further on his cock.

“Get your act together,” Sukuna bites. At this point, it actually feels like he is ripping strands of your hair out due to his harshness.

But you can’t—it’s impossible, especially once you feel him twitch at the back of your throat, prodding against the muscles of your pharynx. The second your tongue can nearly trace the load of cum being pumped through his shaft, Sukuna pulls out. You didn’t have time to notice him stroking his second cock, couldn’t register fast enough the fate you were about to meet as one of his hands holds your head in place.

Sukuna’s deep moan rings through the echoing hall and sears into your memory while the white-hot seed lands on your face and chest, tainting your figure with his cum.

It’s the most humiliating way of claiming you.

Sukuna kneels down to be at eye level with you, proudly taking in his all-white masterpiece before his thumb swipes part of his load off your cheek and holds it in front of your lips.

You glare at him, the hatred in your eyes a challenge he will fuck out of you. “Dumb little bird,” he murmurs while smearing his cum over your tightly sealed lips before hoisting you up and over his shoulder in an instant.

Sometimes it is best to show patience. Most of the time, it is better to teach through pain. Your fate for the night shall be to learn to love your throne, positioned on top of Sukuna’s lap, stuffed beyond your capabilities until either your mind or your body gives out first.

dividers by @/cafekitsune

[p0orbaby]

Sinners | Envy

summary: jealousy rears its ugly head

warnings: SMUT 18+, use of a strap, dom!leah, angry sex

a/n: this one’s a little feisty

word count: 1.3k

Lust | Gluttony | Sloth | Greed | Wrath | Pride

-

Leah’s face is flushed, her eyes blazing with an anger that mirrors your own. This argument has been escalating for a while now, words sharpening into knives that cut deep. The room is thick with tension, the remnants of the stupid awards ceremony still hanging in the air like a bad smell. You can still hear the distant echoes of laughter and conversation from the afterparty, but here, in the suffocating silence of your living room, everything feels like it’s on the brink of exploding.

“Are you seriously trying to make this about me?” Leah snaps, her voice razor-sharp, slicing through the fragile calm that had barely been holding. “You were practically draped all over her. I invited you, for fuck’s sake. Do you have any idea how that made me look?”

You shove a hand through your hair, your frustration boiling over, turning your blood to lava. “I was just being friendly! You act like I’m not allowed to talk to anyone but you. That’s not my problem if you’re feeling insecure”

Leah’s eyes narrow into slits, and she steps closer, the heat radiating off her body making the air between you both almost unbearable. “Insecure? I’m not insecure. I’m pissed off because you’re being fucking disrespectful. You think you can just waltz in there and flirt with everyone while I’m supposed to sit there and smile?”

Her words sting, lashing out and striking nerves you didn’t even know were exposed. But beneath the surface of your anger, something else bubbles up—a twisted, burning need that’s just as furious and insatiable as the rage. You can’t deny the way her jealousy, her possessiveness, ignites something primal in you.

Before you can think twice, before you can convince yourself that fighting her off is the right move, you surge forward, grabbing her shirt and ripping it open, buttons scattering across the floor like shrapnel. Leah’s eyes widen in shock for just a moment, but then she’s on you, her hands yanking at your clothes with a savage desperation.

“You want to make a scene?” she growls, her voice rough and feral as she shoves your pants down your legs, nearly tearing them in the process. “Let’s fucking make one”

Clothes are discarded carelessly, the fabric pooling on the floor as your bodies clash in a heated frenzy. Leah’s hands are everywhere at once, her touch rough, almost punishing, as she presses you against the cold glass of the living room window. The sensation sends a shiver through your overheated skin, the stark contrast heightening the tension coiling in your belly.

Your breath fogs up the glass as Leah’s fingers slide between your legs, her touch demanding, insistent. “Stay right where you are,” she orders, her voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. “I’m going to show you exactly what happens when you step out of line”

You shiver at the raw authority in her voice, a mix of fear and arousal twisting in your gut. But the words that spill from your lips are defiant, almost mocking. “You think you can just control me? I’m not some toy for you to play with, Leah”

Her fingers pause, and for a moment, you think you’ve pushed her too far. But then she’s right up against you, her body pinning you to the glass, her breath hot against your ear. “Oh, you’re not just a toy. You’re mine,” she hisses, her voice laced with a dark promise. “And I’m going to make damn sure you never forget that”

She pulls away abruptly, and you hear the rustle of her moving across the room, followed by the unmistakable clatter of a drawer opening in the distance. Your heart pounds in your chest, anticipation and dread warring inside you. When she returns, she’s holding a strap, her eyes gleaming with a mix of determination and something darker, more primal.

“Since you want to act like a little brat,” Leah says, her voice low and intense, “I’m going to show the world who you belong to”

She doesn’t give you a chance to respond before she’s positioning herself behind you, the cool plastic of the strap pressing against your entrance. You barely have time to brace yourself before she thrusts into you, hard and unyielding, the sensation almost too much too fast.

Your gasp echoes through the room, your body instinctively arching away from the cold glass as Leah grips your hips, holding you firmly in place. “Stay still,” she commands, her voice brooking no argument. “You’re going to take every inch of this, and you’re going to love it”

You can’t stop the moan that escapes your lips as she starts to move, her thrusts deep and punishing, each one driving you further into the window, the cool surface biting into your overheated skin. The pleasure is sharp, almost painful, but it’s exactly what you need, what you’ve been craving since the argument began.

Leah’s pace is relentless, her hands tight on your hips, her body pressing into yours with each thrust. “Tell me you’re mine,” she demands, her voice a fierce whisper, her breath hot against the back of your neck. “Say it”

You grit your teeth, stubbornness flaring up even as your body betrays you, pushing back against her with each thrust. “I’m not yours,” you manage to gasp out, even as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your core.

Leah’s grip on your hips tightens almost painfully, and she leans in closer, her lips brushing against your ear. “You’re about to be,” she growls, punctuating her words with a particularly hard thrust that nearly knocks the breath out of you.

Your defiance crumbles under the weight of her dominance, the pleasure and pain blurring together into a dizzying whirlwind that leaves you gasping for air. The slap of her skin against yours, the rough drag of the strap inside you, it’s all too much, too overwhelming.

“Tell me you’re mine,” Leah demands again, her voice harsher now, tinged with frustration and something more—desperation, maybe. “Say it, or I swear I’ll fuck you until you can’t speak”

The threat sends a thrill through you, your resolve wavering under the onslaught of sensation. “I’m… I’m yours,” you finally gasp out, your voice trembling, the admission dragged from your lips like a confession.

Leah’s pace doesn’t falter, but you can feel the satisfaction radiating from her, a dark chuckle vibrating through her chest as she leans in to nip at the back of your neck. “Good,” she murmurs, her tone dangerously soft. “Because you belong to me, and I’m going to make sure you remember it”

Each thrust drives the point home, the rhythm of her movements becoming almost hypnotic, your body surrendering completely to her control. You’re pushed closer and closer to the edge, your hands braced against the window, your breath fogging up the glass as you struggle to hold on to any semblance of control.

But Leah doesn’t give you that luxury. She fucks you harder, deeper, her grip on your hips unrelenting, her dominance absolute. “Look at yourself,” she demands, her voice a low growl. “Look at how good you take me. How much you need me”

Your eyes flicker open, catching your reflection in the window, and the sight that greets you is almost too much. You’re pressed up against the window, your skin flushed, your lips parted as you pant for breath, Leah’s body moving behind you with a determined ferocity that leaves you trembling. The image is raw, primal, and the sight of yourself like this—vulnerable and utterly dominated—sends you spiraling over the edge.

You come with a cry that echoes around the room, your body shuddering violently as the orgasm rips through you, Leah’s name falling from your lips like a prayer. But she doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down, driving you through the aftershocks, her own breaths coming in ragged gasps as she holds you steady.

When she finally pulls out, you’re left slumped against the window, your body trembling, your mind a hazy blur of pleasure and exhaustion. Leah presses a kiss to your shoulder, her touch now gentle, soothing the sting of her earlier roughness.

“Remember, please” she murmurs, her voice low and almost tender, her lips brushing against your ear. “Remember that you’re mine”

[honeekyuu]

genius. [akaashi keiji x f!reader] chapter two.

>>You struggle to pay rent on your limited graduate student salary, and your worst enemy agrees to help you out.

or

You realize you need to find a partner for your faceless porn account, and Akaashi Keiji is the only man who meets all your requirements.<<

series status: [ongoing]

taglist: [open]

@kodsuken @onlytendoguesses @kakeru-eem @itslawful @rikari0913

tumblr didnt let me tag some of you -- please check your settings and let me know :'))

previous. || masterlist. || next.

a/n: im never writing a 30k chapter ever again in my entire life. i hope you like it :))))

[feel free to buy me a cup of coffee!]

---------------------------------------

Akaashi arrives on Saturday morning at 8am. You’re making coffee when he knocks.

It feels almost illegal to be filming porn so early in the morning, but Bokuto had texted a large group of people at 2am, inviting everyone to a party that same day, and you’d sleepily texted Akaashi instead of responding to the group message.

“Come over at 8 if you plan on going to Kou’s thing,” you’d said. It’s the only text you’d sent him after his impromptu video message, and you’d hoped at the time that he wouldn’t be offended by it. “Otherwise, come at 11 like we planned.”

“8,” is all he’d responded, and you’d gotten the feeling Bokuto’s text had woken him, too.

He looks exhausted when you open the door, and you latch onto that so as to not be overcome by the weird tingling feeling that’s starting to swirl in your stomach at the sight of him.

“Hi,” you say plainly, looking him over. He’s wearing a pair of grey sweats – a different pair than last night’s, you hope – and a black t-shirt, his hair falling into his eyes and his glasses barely staying on his nose. He’s got a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. You point to it now. “What’s that?”

“Three changes of clothes, so all the videos are different,” he mumbles, his voice tense. “Do you have coffee?”

You can’t help the smile that breaks out on your face. “Akaashi Keiji, are you a crabass in the morning?”

He rolls his eyes. “Do you have coffee or not, Y/n? Because I need to go to the shop downstairs if-” He points over his shoulder in the direction of the elevator, but you wrench the door open, waving him in with a laugh.

“I made it, I made it.”

He gives you a snippy hum and makes his way through the foyer, leaving his shoes behind as he moves to drop his bag by the couch. He goes straight to your kitchen, and you wonder if his usual polite tendencies only show themselves post-caffeination.

“Cup?” he calls from the other side of the wall, and you follow him in there, seeing that he’s opening all of your cabinets. 

You laugh. “I’ve never seen you not be a good guest-”

“Cup, please, Y/n – I’m dying.”

“Last one on the right.” You chuckle to yourself and open the fridge, pulling a bottle of cream out and leaving it on the counter. He meets you halfway, setting two mugs between you and reaching for the pot of coffee just as the machine is beeping its completion.

“Breakfast?” you ask, already reaching for the fridge again while he pours a heavy cup for each of you. You have eggs, and you’re sure there’s bacon in there-

“Do you have pop-tarts?” is all he says. You stay silent, just staring at him. He cuts you a tired glare. “Don’t look at me like that. I can’t be perfect all the time.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “Does anyone else know you’re this humble?” He takes a defiant sip of his coffee instead of answering you, sighing contently afterward. You move to your pantry, extracting a variety pack of pop-tarts. “Here,” you say, sliding it to him.

“Thanks,” he grumbles, poking through it and deciding quickly on the smores flavor. “I’ll get lunch. Chinese?”

“Free food is good food,” you respond, mixing your coffee with cream and sugar from the little jar on the counter. You watch him rip the plastic open with his teeth. “Do you need… I don’t know, a toaster or something?”

“Nope.” He talks through a mouth full of smores pop-tart and walks off, disappearing into the living room. You stare after him, laughing in shock as he goes. You’ve never seen Akaashi Keiji like this.

You move to the couch with your own pop-tart (strawberry) and sit on the opposite side. He already looks better, his fingers tangled in his hair as he chugs coffee that’s scalding hot.

You feel odd starting right away with a conversation about the filming plan, so you take a quiet sip of coffee. “So… how was your night?”

Akaashi chokes on pop-tart crumbs.

Your face burns with realization. “Oh– I…”

He shakes his head, laughing while he coughs. “You did that on purpose.”

“I didn’t!”

“How was your night?” he asks, meeting your eyes. You purse your lips – you hadn’t responded to his text, after all.

“It was… fine.”

“Fine, good? Or fine, bad?” You don’t answer, and he gives you a meaningful lift of his brows. “Some feedback would be nice.”

“Well, you let me know when you make your own porn account,” you joke. “I’ll be sure to leave a comment.”

“Hey, now.” He tuts and shakes his head. “I showed you what I thought of your video. I think a little reciprocity’s fair.”

“I’m about to take my clothes off for you,” you argue. “I think that’s your reciprocity.”

He hides his smile behind his hand. “Fair enough.” He downs the rest of his coffee and then sighs, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I needed that.”

“Clearly,” you mumble, leaving your own drink and pop-tart on the coffee table. “Better, crabass?”

“Better,” he says plainly, accepting the nickname. “What’s the plan?”

That quiet tingle returns, prickling in your fingertips and toes. “Uh…” You stand, moving toward your bedroom. “I suppose I should figure out what I’m wearing, but… generally, I was thinking we could film enough for three or four videos? I can fill the rest of the week in with solo videos.”

“Okay,” he says behind you, and you hear him stand and move to the hallway. “Is what I’m wearing now okay for the first one?”

You leave the door cracked while you change. “Yeah, that looks good!” you call, pulling out a yellow crop top and a black, lacy thong. You grimace down at the set. You usually don’t put much thought into your outfits, but having Akaashi here makes you a little self-conscious. “Which video should we do first?”

“Well, I’m not sure that 8am is the best time for freaky, screaming, headboard-slamming sex, Y/n.” 

You laugh to yourself. “Something softer? With the morning sunlight coming in through the window?”

“That sounds better. I’ll get the windows in the room.” 

You change into the set quickly and stand in front of your mirror, fixing your hair. You look down at yourself, turning back and forth, and decide to forgo the bra. There’s no point in it, but you do feel a lot more exposed now. “Are we gonna talk for any amount of time, or are we starting?” you say, a little louder so he can hear.

“We should probably figure out the order of the videos,” he responds, back in the living room now.

“Okay, then I’ll get a sweater.”

What you walk out in is more of a moomoo than a sweater, and Akaashi tells you as much.

“You look stupid,” he says, amused, when you stop outside your bedroom door.

“Be quiet – wearing nothing is a cold affair.” You scoop your coffee from the table and follow him toward the hall, but he stops before you can get there. You have a whiteboard hanging on the wall in the living room, one with your research ideas and spare thoughts. He takes the marker now, hovering over an empty spot, and looks down at you expectantly.

“Order?”

“Not on my precious board,” you complain, and he rolls his eyes.

“Fingering for the first one? And then I was thinking something with the desk,” he says, writing down the first point quickly.

“I think oral’s probably good. Both kinds.” When he grimaces, you nudge him. “Would you rather do isolated videos, or have me give oral as foreplay in every video-”

“Isolated sounds lovely,” he says quickly, starting to jot that, too, but you stop him with a slight laugh.

“Why don’t you like having your dick sucked, Akaashi? Is something wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he argues. “The attention’s just a little weird. I prefer doing other things with the time.”

You tilt your head at him, brows furrowed. “You feel weird about the attention?” He meets your eyes briefly, and you spot the scowl forming. “Sorry, have you never gotten good head before?”

“Shut up,” he bites. “I just get a little lost in my head. Makes it hard to enjoy it.”

You blink. You think you can understand that – having an overactive mind must make it hard to relax. You can’t say you don’t know what that’s like.

“Okay, then,” you say, taking the marker from him. “You just need to get out of your head.” You write ‘Give Akaashi Good Head’ under his first point, and he snorts.

“Good luck,” he mumbles.

“I don’t need luck,” you beam at him, confident. “What’s next? The desk?”

“I can eat you out there,” he says plainly, taking the marker back, and you’re suddenly caught off guard again by his jarring language, as though you hadn’t just done the same. You blink rapidly.

“O…kay. And then?”

He shrugs. “Bed? Sex?”

“Right,” you say, nodding. “Sex. Sure.”

He eyes you while he writes. “You’re getting nervous.”

“It registered while you were talking.”

“Registered for me last night,” he says, capping the marker and replacing it. “I’ll take over while you process.”

“Shut up,” you say weakly, letting him lead you down the hall anyway. “When’d you process? When you were coming to a video of me?”

He has the decency to blush. “Somewhere around there, yeah.”

You snicker, leaving your coffee on the dresser. “Shall we? Before I get cold feet?”

“Does your rent due date get cold feet?” he asks, moving to the chest. He extracts a small vibrator and a dildo, and then, after careful consideration, he puts the dildo back. He moves to the couch with the vibrator and settles down with a sigh. 

You nod at his question. Right. You’re here to make rent. This is a business arrangement. You can do this.

Your eyes scan the room. He’d popped one of the windows open and raised the blinds for all of them, making the room just a little chilly but overall comfortable and sunny. There’s a golden glow in the room, birds chirping peacefully, and you smile, pleased with the environment. 

“Okay!” You say, mostly to hype yourself up, and strip from the moomoo. You leave it on the bed, shivering slightly, and turn toward Akaashi. He’s looking at you blankly, but you can see a pink tinge in the tips of his ears. You take your phone to the tripod, bending at the waist to set the camera up. You change all the settings the way you like them, keeping him in frame to position the phone right. 

You realize upon glancing at him in the front view that he’s got his eyes on you.

“Are you staring at my ass?”

He jumps, meeting your eyes in the camera. And then he scowls. “Don’t scold me. I’m processing again.”

You snicker, shaking your head and pressing record before joining him on the couch, a good foot or two of space between you. “I’m just fucking with you.”

He eyes the camera, seeing both of your faces in frame. “You’ll crop it?”

“Zoom and crop,” you reassure. “I’ll even send you the login to my account so you can review the videos before they post.”

He nods, seemingly comforted by that. “‘Kay.” 

You swallow. “... ‘Kay.” 

It hits you in this moment that you haven’t been with a man in three years – and that Akaashi Keiji is one very handsome man.

He looks at you expectantly, lifting his brows. “Wanna start?” he asks, in a voice gentler than before – you’re struck with the thought that Akaashi is one of those men whose soft features make him all the more masculine. Long eyelashes that make his eyes darker, a lean frame that makes him tower over you, a voice so soft that the depth of it is striking.

You like men like that.

“Right.” You blink rapidly, panicking at the realization that he might just be your type. Panicking because you hadn’t noticed it before. “Okay. Uhm-” Your face warms, worsened when he starts to smirk. “Oh!” You say, an idea coming to you. “Music! Maybe music will help-” You rise, starting to question where you’d left your speaker, but Akaashi’s hand wraps tight around your wrist, warm and secure.

“God,” he says, laughing slightly. His grip drags you down, your knees hitting the couch and your body slumping against his. You yelp when you land, and he releases you in favor of sliding one hand around your waist and the other around the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. “You’re a mess,” he jokes, his voice suddenly a lot closer than you’d prepared for.

When his lips touch your throat, the room starts to spin.

Your whole body breaks out in goosebumps, starting from the crown of your head and melting down over you.

“Oh,” you breathe, your head falling to the side all on its own, resting against his hand and giving him better access. He drags his lips across your throat, kissing the skin quietly and easing the tension in your muscles. You slide trembling fingers into his hair, holding tight as he uses the hand on your hip to pull you half onto him, your legs dangling between his knees. 

There are a hundred different sensations you’re struggling to come to terms with. Every touch of Akaashi’s skin to yours is new, because there’s never been a situation where you’d needed to make physical contact with him. His hands are large and his fingers are warm. His mouth is warmer, and his tongue and teeth send shockwaves down your spine with every pass and nip of your skin. His body is hard against yours, and, when your free hand searches for somewhere to anchor and lands on his bicep, you realize that Akaashi’s endless wardrobe of cardigans, sweater vests, and button-downs has done remarkable things to hide his physique. 

He’s strong, strong enough to hold you steady as you all but go limp in his arms. And his hair tickles against your skin, but it smells nice. He smells nice – he hadn’t put cologne on this morning, but he smells nice. And his eyes are dangerously blue when he pulls back to look at you, that deep blue that’s close enough to a dark green to be confusing in the golden light of the morning.

“Princess,” he whispers, and you start, staring down at his lips. They’re pink and look soft – they are soft, you register. You know that now. You know what his lips feel like. “Do you plan on doing anything at any point?” he asks, and you blink, meeting those blue-green eyes again.

Oh, right.

Right.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “Just… took me a second to get used to it.” 

He doesn’t quite smile, but it’s close enough. “Second’s up, darling. Take your shirt off.” 

You nearly laugh, your face warm, and then you shift, using your fingers in his hair to tilt his head away. “Gimme one more second.”

It is way too satisfying to hear the way his breath hitches when you press your lips to his throat. His skin tastes the way you imagined it might – like soap and salt, clean and chilled against your tongue. You let your hand roam his body while you kiss him, your teeth sucking marks into his skin while your fingers curve over his shoulder and across his chest. You wonder if he’s as affected by all of this as you are. If he’s as confused, if his nerves are as electrified by the newness of it. 

His fingers leave your hair to latch onto your leg instead, fingertips sliding across the skin as he runs his hand slowly up and down your thigh. When your hand drops to front of his sweats, he manages not to jump. His fingers dig into your skin, and he lets out a rough breath, but he manages to not make it look like you’ve never touched each other before. You palm him slowly, doing your best not to react when his cock jumps under your fingertips. You keep kissing him, palm tracing the outline of him as he grows hard at your touch, his breath short in your ears.

He doesn’t say anything else to you, only anchoring both hands to your waist after a moment and hauling you up. You gasp quietly, lifted and turned until you’re on your knees, straddling his thighs. He looks up at you, and you see that his eyes have darkened since you’d last looked at them.

“Take your shirt off,” he says again, and it’s not a joke this time. You cross your arms over your chest and hook trembling fingers under the hem of your crop top. Your stomach flips in a moment of nerves and anticipation, but you brush it aside, lifting your shirt clean over your head and dropping it to the couch. 

Akaashi’s fingers tighten on your waist, and you only have time to slide both hands into his hair before he leans forward and takes one nipple in his mouth. You gasp loudly, a quiet moan leaving you. He takes the other breast with one hand, sucking and dragging his teeth over one nipple while his thumb tweaks at the other. You moan louder, fingers tightening in his hair, and your thighs shake. You lose the strength to hold yourself up when, eyes shut and eyelashes fluttering prettily against his cheeks as he suckles you, he slides his hand blindly up your body and pushes his thumb against the seam of your lips.

Your knees give out, and you collapse into his lap with a breathy moan, the sound parting your lips and granting him the room to slide the pad of his thumb against the flat of your tongue. His head stays nestled against your chest, his ministrations never stopping, and you moan loud around his thumb – for the camera, because you realize suddenly that all that’s visible is your back and the supporting hand Akaashi has pressed to the center of your spine.

When the sound leaves you, admittedly a little performative, the rest of his fingers tighten around your jaw, and he releases your nipple from his mouth with a quiet pop. He lifts his head to meet your eyes, lips pink and wet, and he uses the thumb in your mouth and the fingers on your jaw to grip you, pulling you close.

“It’s annoying when you fake sounds like that,” he whispers, eyes hazy but piercing straight through yours. You stare back, your own eyes wide. He lifts a brow. “Understand?”

You nod back dumbly, and he pulls his thumb from your mouth. Both hands fall to your waist, and he mumbles ‘turn’ close to your ear. You let him turn you around, settling between his thighs with your back to his chest, your heart beating loud in your ears after the way he’d spoken to you.

“Do you need to fix the camera?” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, and you lean forward shakily, pulling the tripod closer and lowering it so only your mouth and below are showing. You relax your head against his shoulder, sighing nervously when he cups both breasts in his hands.

You arch your back a little dramatically, glad that he seems to realize that some things need to be performative, and spread your thighs, hooking them over each of his. He slides his hand up your chest and pushes the middle two fingers into your mouth. You wrap your lips around them, tongue swirling around the tips, and you hear his breath stutter in your ear. His hips push against your ass, and you realize with a rush of heat and a flip of your stomach that he’s properly hard now. 

You twist one of your arms behind your back and slide your palm against him carefully. He groans low against the side your head, pulling his fingers from your mouth. His hand falls to your pantyline, and he slips his fingers past while you’re distracted with touching him.

You jump when his wet fingers, cold from the air, make contact with your heated core. “Oh, my-” He swipes two tight circles over your clit before sliding his fingers through your folds, repeating the motion a few times – just the way you like it. 

He’d paid attention during that video last night, then.

“Mm,” you groan, feeling his middle finger push gently against your entrance. You grip him harder behind your back, and he shudders against you, his teeth grazing the tip of your ear.

“You’re really wet,” he breathes, teasing weakly. “How long’s it been, again? Three years?”

You arch your back, nearly distracted by the way he pushes his fingers through your folds. “Take your pants off, then. Let’s see how long you last.” 

You feel him grin against your ear, and that does something to the flip of your stomach and makes you twitch when he swipes the pads of his fingers over your clit. His free hand pushes at the lace of your panties.

“You first, princess,” he breathes, and you lift your hips in compliance. “Your viewers are gonna wanna see how you look with two of my fingers buried inside you.” 

Your heart explodes in your ears, and you go limp against his chest, your head turned and your face pressed to his neck when you moan weakly. He laughs quietly, jostling you and the million tiny needles pricking your skin as his comment sinks into you.

Akaashi gets your underwear off of you with very little help from you, and then he pries your thighs open with both hands, your whole body on display while he holds you, still fully clothed. “Shit,” he whispers to himself, fingers hooked behind your knees and pulling your legs open a little further. Your eyes flutter open, and you find his gaze flicking between the camera and your body, his lips parted as he looks down at you.

“Like what you see?” you whisper, pulling your arm out from behind your back and wincing when it aches. He adjusts you, sliding one arm around your waist and pulling you tight against him. The other lifts, the same fingers from before finding your mouth. You let him in, whining when you taste yourself on the pads of his fingers and shivering when he murmurs ‘there you go’ against your ear.

When his fingers find your core this time, all you can do is breathe out shakily and relax against him. He swipes twice and dips toward your entrance. You manage to keep the video in mind, arching your back and cupping your hands over your breasts, kneading and touching yourself for the camera. Akaashi nudges the tip of his middle finger past your entrance, and the moan that falls past your lips is breathless and shocked.

You purse your lips, your body trembling as it realizes that someone who’s not you is doing this. Akaashi pushes his lips to the crook of your neck and tries again, using two fingers to work you open carefully. Your breath is shallow and harsh in your chest by the time he gets both fingers inside you comfortably, his cock twitching against your back.

“God, you’re tight,” he breathes in your ear. The pads of his fingers brush up against the spongy spot that’s normally so hard for you to reach on your own. “You need to relax.”

“Trying,” you bite, breathing hard. “Your hands are a lot bigger than mi-mm-” You jerk when he starts to move, thrusting his fingers slowly and curling them inside you. “Fuck,” you breathe sharply, a rush of heat washing over you. He picks up the pace, flicking his wrist and snapping his palm against your skin. Your mouth falls open, breathy, high-pitched moans tumbling out with every push of his fingers into you, and your hips start to roll against his hand, entirely unconscious. You can’t remember the last time you’d gotten a stretch like this, and there’s a brief moment of insanity where you imagine calling Akaashi Keiji any time you need to get off.

It should be embarrassing, the way your body’s reacting, but your brain is full of static, and you can’t hear much aside from your own breathing and the low moans buried in Akaashi’s throat, quiet with each push of your core against his hand. He’s rocking his hips slightly against your ass, his fingers stalling and stuttering after a moment. He lets out a harsh breath on your skin, and you manage to crack your eyes open enough to see he’s got his eyes squeezed shut and his forehead pressed to the side of your head. His lips are parted, breath warm on your sweat-chilled skin, and, when your walls flutter around his fingers, his hips jerk against you, breath hitching on his inhale.

“Fuck,” he breathes to himself, his chest rising and falling faster now. “Fuck, fuck-” 

He reaches out blindly with his other hand, patting the couch frantically. You don’t have the energy to look, but the buzz of the vibrator coming close makes you whine. When it touches your skin, his fingers finding your clit with ease, your back arches and you cry out, the extra sensation too much.

“Oh, I’m- I’m gonna-”

Akaashi holds you tight, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Come on, come on, come on, com-”

You gasp loud, twitching and jerking against him while you come around his fingers. There’s a warmth that spreads over your lower back, but you pay it no mind, your ears ringing too hard and your body shivering too much against him. 

Your hand clamps onto his wrist, pushing the vibrator just far enough away from your body that you can catch your breath. Heart thundering in your chest and throat, you focus on regaining control of your limbs, your fingers and toes numb.

You’re not sure how long you lie there, splayed open on Akaashi’s lap as you try to remember your own name, but you do shiver and whine when he pulls his fingers out of you slowly. He runs them through your folds one more time, the touch to your clit making you twitch against him again. He breathes a shaky laugh into your ear and rests his hand on your inner thigh, sighing quietly.

“How was that?” he asks roughly, his breath as unsteady as yours.

“Mhm,” you hum. “‘s good. Nice. Well done.” His laugh is delirious, and it draws your own spare breath into a tired chuckle. “Dude, I can’t feel my toes.”

He laughs harder. “I just came in my pants.”

“Is that what that was?” you ask, turning your head enough to look up at him. His cheeks are flushed a pretty red, and his eyes are glazed over slightly. You reach lazily behind you, fingers dipping into the wet warmth on your lower back. He gives a pained groan when you whisper ‘nice’ in a voice that’s horribly smug, and he scrubs the bottom of his shirt over your skin to wipe it away.

“I haven’t done that since I was a teenager,” he complains, dropping the vibrator on the couch and reaching for your panties. He helps you put them on, propping you up while you complain about being lifted. When you pull away from him, sitting up properly between his legs, he laughs down at himself. You look back, finding a wet spot on his sweats and his t-shirt stained with cum. 

He meets your eyes, ears burning. “You can’t give me head today. This is embarrassing.”

You laugh loudly, turning to reach for your phone and end the recording. “Okay, fine. You got off easy this time.”

“Yeah, you can say that again,” he mutters, and you drop your face to your hands, groaning. 

“Can we take a small break?” you ask. “I dunno if I can handle more right now.”

“Yeah, I should change anyway.” He climbs out from behind you, taking your coffee cup with him as he heads back to the main room. You pull your shirt back on and then stand on shaky legs, padding over to the bed for your cover-up. Sitting on the couch in your Bokuto-sized onesie and going through your phone, you send the video to the locked photo album in your camera roll and try to recover from the small shockwaves still sparking through your body.

Akaashi returns in fresh clothes a few minutes later, black jeans slung low on his hips and a white t-shirt hanging over the hook of his forearm. You realize, by the wet edges of his hairline and the few wet strands that hang over his eyes, that he’d washed his face and freshened up. You also realize, with a sneaky peek at his lean build, that you hadn’t been wrong about the physique he’s been hiding.

“Couple questions,” he asks, holding both cups of coffee as he makes his way to you carefully, the open pop-tart packs pinched precariously between his knuckles. You sit up, taking yours and thanking him quietly. He sits beside you, sipping happily at his fresh coffee and letting out a large sigh when he’s done. “First, when do you want to eat lunch? Because, by the time we’re done, I’m gonna be crabby again.”

You snort, checking your phone. It’s already 9:15, you realize with surprise.

“Oh. Well, if we keep this pace…” You blink a few times, thinking. “We could order around 11?”

“Between the desk scene and the bed scene?” He lifts his mug to his lips again, and you lift a brow.

“Why? You think it’ll only take thirty minutes to fuck me? Just in time for delivery?”

He coughs into the cup, splashing hot coffee all over his face. “Fuck-” He tosses his clean white shirt in your lap and wipes at his face with a wince. “That’s not what I meant-”

You bite your lip, laughing quietly. “Sure, we can order before the bed scene.”

“You’re such a-” He shakes his head, cleaning his hands on his jeans.

“A what?” you tease, leaning toward him with a smile. He leans toward you, too, his brows lifting. 

“A brat.” He leans away, leaving you with warm cheeks and a set of rapid blinks. “May I continue, or do you need more time to be annoying?”

“The floor is yours, Your Highness,” you say, picking at your pop-tart before leaving it on the little coffee table to your left.

He gestures to his jeans. “I put on a real outfit because I was thinking we could make it more… roleplay-ish.”

You hear his intended question. “I can find an outfit for that. What’s the vibe you’re going for?”

“I don’t really know. Something… spontaneous. Like you invited me over and things got out of hand, or something.”

You squint playfully at him. “I can’t tell if you read a lot of smut or watch a lot of porn.”

“I have an active mind.” He shrugs, rolling his eyes when you make fake gagging sounds.

“You want me in a school-girl skirt?” you joke, but he cuts a glance at you.

“You have one?” He laughs when you smack him on the arm. “I’m just saying – I’ve never seen it.”

You throw your hands up in exasperation. “When would you have seen it?!”

“We run the same circles!” he tries. “I see a lot of you on a daily basis.”

You groan, turning away from him and giving your coffee extra attention. “I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a schoolgirl miniskirt to Bokuto’s biweekly parties, Akaashi. Use that brain of yours.”

There’s a pause, and then he chuckles to himself. “Oh, I get it – I should have scrolled a little longer on your account last night.”

“You’re so irritating,” you say, standing. “Is that what I’m wearing? I need to change.”

“Let’s see it, then,” he says, waving a polite hand at the door.

You pad to your room, your head swimming slightly. It’s weird, you think as you search your closet – you’d spent an hour reveling in new discoveries of Akaashi Keiji, but the moment things had ended, you’d gone back to normal. Is it the continued absurdity? Is it some weird, twisted form of suspended disbelief – where, when the camera’s rolling, you’re allowed to forget who you are with him? And, when it’s done, you’re able to snap back to reality without issue?

And does he feel the same?

You choose an outfit while hyper-analyzing him, sliding on a matching bra-panty set while wondering if he’s thinking the same about you. Zipping your plaid miniskirt while considering if things would be this easy with Bokuto or Kuroo, or if things are easy because it’s Akaashi – because of that strange sense of detachment you’d noted before. Tying your hair up and tucking a white button-down into the skirt, the first three buttons undone, while secretly hoping that things continue to be this strange and simple.

You’re still messing with your hair by the time you head back to the spare room, and you barely notice the way Akaashi’s eyes go wide when he sees how short your skirt is.

“Okay, I see what you mean.”

“Oh, yeah?” you laugh. “Think I should wear this to the party tonight?”

“Sure, if you want to put on a live show.”

You roll your eyes, straightening your clothes. “Slutty schoolgirl enough for you?”

“Incredibly,” he says, standing and pulling his shirt over his head. “Shall we?”

You move the tripod toward the desk by the windows, setting your phone up so it’s level with your chest. “I think we should probably walk into frame if we’re going for roleplay.”

“Okay.” Akaashi stands at the open window nearest the desk, peering down to the ground level and then out across the way. You hadn’t lied about your balcony yesterday – your apartment doesn’t face the street, because your residential high-rise looks out to water. The nearest building this tall is across the river. Still, he glances at you. “Do you close these when you film here or leave them open?” You don’t answer, your face warming instead. His lips split in a knowing grin. “I see.”

“It’s not what you think-”

“So, you’re not an exhibitionist?”

“Not a big one!”

He turns away, backing out of frame and waiting for you next to the end of the bed. “I don’t know about the degrees of exhibitionism, but I’d say leaving your windows open while I eat you out is pretty up there. Freak.”

“Do you always have to talk?!” you snap, embarrassed and a little warm from the way he’d called you a freak. “Always talk, talk, talking. Some of us like our windows open, Akaashi. It’s not like anyone can actually see.” You press record angrily and stomp over to him. “You can never just shut the fuck up-”

His hand flies out, latching onto your waist and dragging you the rest of the way to him. You gasp, hands landing on his chest as he pulls you flush to him.

You’re no less unprepared for his mouth on your throat this time around. You stumble back, grabbing onto his t-shirt to keep yourself standing while he sucks on a spot under your ear.

“‘m I still talking too much?” he murmurs, walking you slowly into frame. You card your fingers through his hair and trust him to not let you fall on your ass.

“Always,” you breathe, that strange suspension of disbelief setting in when you bump against the desk and Akaashi slips his fingers around the backs of your thighs to hoist you up. You lean up, pressing your lips to his jaw and kissing carefully down the line of it. He tugs your shirt free of the skirt and undoes two of the buttons with one hand, the other hooked under your knee so he can slot his hips between yours. Then he nudges you away, taking over.

You let him touch you, his fingers fondling and groping your body while you lean back on your hands with a sigh. His mouth finds the hollow of your throat, teeth nipping at your collarbones while his hands slide your skirt under the curve of your ass. The material bunches at your waist, and he slips your panties off of you and throws them somewhere behind him. When he meets your eyes, you catch the glint in them.

“Maybe you should do something about that. Since you want to be a freak.”

You narrow a glare at him, heart skipping a beat when he says that stupid name. You let him pull your thighs open, and then you reach between for the button on his jeans. He lifts a brow, interest piqued, as you undo his pants and push them past his hips. You slide your palm against his boxers, smiling up at him when he sucks in a breath.

“You like that, baby?” you ask, your grin widening when he narrows his eyes. “Even though someone could see?” His cock jumps under your hand, and your eyebrows fly to your hairline. He has the decency to look embarrassed. “Oh?”

“Shut up,” he mumbles, knocking your hand away. You shrug it off, pushing that hand into his hair.

“Then say I’m not a freak,” you say, pulling tight. He doesn’t seem to mind it, but he does narrow a glare and an irritated grin at you.

“You’re not a freak, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice saccharine. “But you love it when I call you one.” He lifts his brows when you say nothing. “So what does that make you?”

You glower and push down on his head, and he drops to his knees with a snicker. You check the camera quickly, making sure that his face is hidden behind your thigh. Keeping your hand on the side of his head to provide more coverage, you try not to shiver when Akaashi presses his lips to the inside of your thigh. When he hooks both your legs over his shoulders and holds on tight, you whimper quietly.

And then the bickering and the nerves all fall away. The flat of his tongue presses to your core, and you make the mistake of looking at him with wide eyes. 

Akaashi’s eyes are a lot bluer when he’s got his face between your thighs.

You suck in a sharp inhale, legs trembling when he drags his tongue over your folds, slow and torturous. You’re unable to keep eye contact with him, a flush rising to your cheeks and your stomach flipping with nerves every time you glance down, because he’s staring right back at you.

Finally, he lets his eyes slide shut, his movements more intense now that he’s not focused on anything else. Your fingers shake in his hair, and your chest rises and falls with something akin to a live wire straight to the veins. Akaashi’s fingers tighten on the tops of your thighs, and he shuffles closer on his knees, his head bobbing as he slides his tongue, velvety and searing hot, through your folds before latching onto your clit.

“Oh, my God-” Your body twitches when he suckles gently, his lips soft around the nub. Your grip tightens on him, and your hips rock forward of their own accord. He follows your lead, finding his timing within the rhythmic cant of your body’s response, and soon, he has you gasping and moaning audibly. 

His glasses sit knocked askew and pushed up against his forehead the more certain he becomes between your thighs. You feel the cold metal on your skin and glance down blearily. A fresh wave of heat washes over you when you realize that they’re smeared with dewy drops of you, and you move them shakily off his face and set them beside you on the desk. Akaashi’s hands respond, sliding up and over your hips, reaching for you. He finds the last button on your shirt and undoes it with a flick of two fingers, and there’s something about the way he moves, skilled and smooth, that makes you shiver visibly in front of the camera.

One of Akaashi’s hands slides up your torso, and he cups your breast firmly through your bra, squeezing and twisting at your nipple until you start to squirm, a whine building in your throat.

“Too much,” you whisper, and he pulls his mouth away from you with a warm huff, his lips wet and glistening when he looks up at you.

“Color?” he murmurs, his breath sharp against your core with each ragged exhale.

You purse your lips. “Green.”

“Then stop complaining,” he says, already lowering his head again. When he pinches your nipple this time, it comes with the aid of the tip of his tongue, pushing carefully against your entrance.

“Holy shit,” you gasp, eyes wide and fingers tugging his hair tight enough to hurt. He pushes once more and then relents, sliding up to suck hard on your clit. You choke, your body arching and trembling against him when he lowers his head and tries again, slipping gently in this time and moaning against you when you squeeze your thighs around his head. He uses both hands to hold tight to your waist, grounding you against him and keeping you from wriggling too much while he fucks you with his tongue. Your skin burns with every drag of his tongue against your walls, and you reach the summit alarmingly fast. “Wait, wait, wait-” 

He slides out of you, and your chest bursts with air, gasps coming to you in choked breaths and shaking thighs. But then he leans up, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard, his teeth brushing against the nub in a way that feels a lot like Akaashi putting his hand on your back and shoving you right off the cliff with no warning.

You scream, your head thrown back and your back arching painfully as you see stars. You feel a slight pain in the back of your head, but you don’t register that you’d hit your head on the wall until much later, when the stars are gone and your vision isn’t blacked out any longer. When all that’s left is the camera rolling and your fingers aching where they’re clenched in Akaashi’s hair.

He’s pressing kisses along your thighs slowly, thumbs rubbing circles into your hips. He glances up when your lungs finally relax, your breaths much longer and drawn out now as you find yourself again.

“You okay?” he mumbles against the inside of your knee, examining you through long, dark eyelashes. “You hit your head.”

You nod dumbly and meet his eyes, flames licking up your navel when you catch the thinly veiled heat in his expression. “It can’t be fair that I’ve come twice and you haven’t come at all.”

“I came once,” he reminds you quietly, the breath of his whisper seductive on your thigh. His lips brush over your skin, feather-light and wonderfully soft, and his tongue tracks the path of his mouth, too, warm and wet and drawing your breath short in your chest again. “But I wouldn’t mind taking you up on a second time.”

Your skin heats, the air buzzing in your ears and your heartbeat audible in the silence between you. You nod shallowly, your lips parted, and his eyes flit around your face, searching you. He must like whatever he finds, because he doesn’t respond. He only stands slowly and towers over you, his shirt pulled swiftly over his head and dropped on the desk next to his glasses. He leans down and wraps his arms around your waist, hoisting you up.

You gasp, wrapping yourself tight around him as he crosses the three steps to the bed, the tripod with your phone dangling between his knuckles. He sets it down on the end of the bed, and then he drops you unceremoniously on the mattress. You bounce lightly on it, staring up at him with wide eyes, and he nods at the camera.

“Need to set up?”

“O-Oh. Right-” You blink rapidly, crawling over to the edge and adjusting it quickly while he comes to stand at the side of the bed. You scoot back after, your head facing the top of the bed, and make sure you’re centered in the frame before looking up at him with wide eyes. You purse your lips, skin buzzing with anticipation. “Okay – ready.”

Akaashi lets his eyes roam your body – they land on your shirt, lying open uselessly on your shoulders and showing off your pretty, black bra. Then down to your skirt, bunched up against the tops of your thighs when your knees are bent like that. You do the same, shamelessly – drinking in his body, lean and lanky but muscular all the same. With those black jeans sitting so low on his hips that you can trace the dark trail of hair that disappears into his boxers, an invitation.

You take it, sitting up on your knees and reaching hesitantly for his unbuttoned jeans, your eyes on his. He says nothing, but his lips part when you hook your thumbs into his boxers and start to push them down.

“Shit,” he sighs under his breath when you get his pants down, his cock hard and smeared with precum. You inhale sharply, staring at the pretty curve of it – pretty like his long fingers and his warm lips and his piercing blue eyes. Pretty like the thumb he’d put in your mouth. You want to put this in your mouth, too – your mouth is already watering, funnily enough – but he’s already told you no.

So you settle for wrapping your fingers around him instead, satisfied with the quiet hiss he lets out. You stroke him a few times, twisting your wrist and running your thumb over the slit slowly, the way you’d seen him do it last night. He cards his fingers through your hair, holding loosely.

“How many times did you watch that video?” he asks quietly, the teasing edge in his voice lost to the breathless sigh he lets out after. “You’re doing it the way I like.”

That makes your heart swell with pride, and you can’t help the smile you give him, bright and giddy. “What can I say? I’m a fast learner.”

He chuckles back. “The academic uses her gifts for good.”

“You callin’ me smart, baby?”

He rolls his eyes, taking your chin between his fingers and tilting your head up. “How about you focus, huh? I’ll admit you’re smart when you get me off.”

You sit up a little straighter at that, pursing your lips and mimicking how he’d touched himself last night, flicking your wrist hard around the base and softening your touch at the tip. He swallows when you repeat the motion, his grip on your hair tightening, but he gives you nothing else, his eyes devoid of emotion otherwise. It spurs you on, targets the piece of you that seeks validation. He’d only given it to you once, but you’re eager to hear it again.

“How’s this?”

He just lifts his brows. “What’s wrong? Already need my approval?”

You scowl, returning to the task at hand. It doesn’t take long, not with the way the muscles in his abdomen keep tightening, or the way he’s breathing shallowly through his nose, or the way his hips start to push up to meet your fist halfway. No, it doesn’t take long at all.

But before you can get him off – before you can have the satisfaction of him swearing over you as he comes on your skin – he wraps a hand around your wrist, stopping you.

Your eyes fly up to his, alarmed and disappointed. “What?”

His cheeks are flushed, lips a little swollen from what you can only guess is biting, but he just moves your hand and reaches down to remove his pants. “Lie down. Shirt off.”

You strip from the button-down and toss it uncaringly off the edge, scrambling back to where you were before and leaning back on your elbows with growing anticipation. Your stomach flips when he starts to climb over you, his eyes searching yours. There’s a glint in his eye that seems to signal that he’s processing this, too – that you’re about to have sex. That, out of everyone – out of everyone you actually like – you had decided to come to the one person you don’t like. To the one person you hate most days, because of the way he is and the way he treats you.

But it’s the way he is and the way he treats you that had made him perfect for this.

So, out of everyone, it’s Akaashi Keiji that you’re getting into bed with.

Your tongue darts out when he settles between your legs, your skirt falling up to your hips when your thighs open for him. He glances back and checks the camera frame once before leaning down over you. His brow is furrowed as he slides his cock through your folds, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he feels you. He pushes his hips forward once, twice, and then re-angles himself on the third, his fingers lining the head of his cock up against your entrance.

You watch him when he finally slides into you, the rest of the world lost in a dull buzz that fill your brain.

When he nudges the tip past your entrance, gliding slowly past your walls, his chest rises and falls with the breaths he’s keeping trapped inside, but he’s short of breath nonetheless. His skin is radiating warmth in that way that you find pretty, just like the rest of him, and his eyes are dark when they meet yours. His eyebrows twitch the further he sinks into you, and his lips – pink and wet and pretty – are parting as he bottoms out, and he lets out a soft sigh.

The dull buzz is cleared away like smoke, and you realize there’s a needy moaning echoing in the room, one that can only be coming from you.

“Oh, my God,” you cry, falling back on the mattress when he starts to thrust into you. “Oh, my God, holy shit-” Your heart is pounding hard in your ears and throat and veins, and you’re caught between wanting to claw at the comforter desperately and wanting to hide your face behind your hands.

Akaashi drops down over you, caging you in with one arm as the other bends back, his hand tight on the underside of your thigh as he picks up his pace. You gasp, unable to find enough air in the room to fill your lungs. One of your hands finds his wrist by your head, clamping on tight, and the other smacks down over your eyes – you can’t look at him, not when you’re like this. Not when you’re sweating and breathless, not when your stomach is fluttering with some unfamiliar mix of nerves and desire with every bump of his hips against yours.

Not when you’re realizing that no one else has ever made you feel this way before.

“Look at me, princess,” he grunts, and your stomach flips at the ragged sway of his voice. 

“I-fuck – I can’t-” you whine, but the sound catches in your throat when he angles his hips and the head of his cock smacks right up against your g-spot. You gasp loud, your grip on his wrist tightening with all your strength. “Oh, my God-please-” 

“There?” he asks quietly, and he drives his hips forward at that angle once more. You cry out when he hits it again, but then he stops.

He stops, just hovering over you silently.

The hand on your face drops in shock, and you stare up at him. “What-”

“I told you to look at me.”

“You-” You want to smack him so badly. “You can’t just stop-”

“Can’t I?” He tilts his head, eyes filling with disinterest, despite the breathy quality of his voice. “You weren’t listening to me.”

You remember now, the things he’d said yesterday.

‘Is it alright if I’m a little mean?’

Fuck.

“Uh-fuck,” you laugh pitifully. “Fuck. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.” Your chest starts to fill with a strange feeling, a clawing that reaches for your throat when he only stares, dissatisfied. He doesn’t seem happy with you, and – for every piece of you that doesn’t give a fuck what Akaashi Keiji thinks in any other situation – there’s a panic that’s starting to swirl in you at this very moment. “I’m sorry, please don’t stop-”

He draws his hips back, and the panic forms into a knot all at once when you realize he’s pulling out.

“No, no, no-” You dig your nails into his shoulders, keeping him close and staring up at him with wide, terrified eyes. “No, please, I really am sorry.” The clawing in your throat starts to burn, and your eyes sting at the thought that he’s decidedly finished with you. There’s a rational part of your brain that knows he isn’t. He can’t be. You’re still filming. But the part of you that’s very rapidly become addicted to the feeling of Akaashi fucking you is panicking hard enough to make tears fill your eyes.

His cock twitches inside you when you start to sniffle, and the word ‘dacryphilia’ floats through your brain, the ghost of a memory.

If he wants you to cry, you’ll cry.

“Please, baby,” you murmur, your head falling back on the mattress and your nails clinging to him. You let yourself sink into that panic and your vision blurs, the tears hot and embarrassing as they stream down the sides of your cheeks onto the bed. “Please don’t stop.” 

You don’t see his reaction when you give in to him, but you hear his shaky breath. And you certainly feel when he relents, because he’s pushing slowly back into you. You find yourself whispering ‘yes, yes, yes’ as he’s coming back to you, and the tightness in your throat starts to loosen.

“You gonna listen?” he murmurs, and you nod again. “Because I’ll stop. I’m fine either way.”

He’s bluffing, your brain tries to tell you, but fresh tears are burning your eyes and you’re choking on the lump that’s reforming at the base of your throat. He can’t stop, he can’t. You don’t know what you’ll do if he stops.

“Please, don’t-” you sob, shaking your head. “I swear I’ll listen.” 

Your heart jumps when the mattress dips by your head again as he cages you in. When his other hand finds the underside of your thigh again, the bruises his grip had left the first time ache as his fingers fill those prints once more. He leans down toward you, and you blink through the tears just enough to meet his eyes.

“Cover your mouth,” he whispers, staring down at you with a dangerous glint in his eye. You’re quick to slap your hands over your mouth, terrified of taking too long and testing his patience. He doesn’t smile at your obedience or give you any visual signal of satisfaction, but his eyes do trace your face meaningfully. “Well, if you’re gonna be that good for me, I guess I can let you have it.”

He thrusts his hips forward sharply before you have any time to process what he means. You scream, your back arching when he slams up against your g-spot, and you’re distantly grateful that he’s minding the noise limits on your apartment while he decidedly fucks you into oblivion. He keeps that pace and that angle, and his head drops down beside yours as he does.

“Let’s make a deal,” he says, breathless and rough in your ear. “You listen to me when I talk to you, and I’ll abuse your tight little cunt as much as you want.” Your eyes roll into the back of your head, your body starting to go numb as the pressure builds in your navel for the third time in one morning. “Sound good?” he whispers, swallowing hard after. You nod frantically, and his panting becomes audible in your ear. “Fuck, I’m close. Where should I-” He starts to pull his hips away, but your hands fly off of your mouth and grip hard on his biceps.

“If you pull out right now, I’m going to fucking kill you,” you say, staring straight into his eyes. Your eyes burn, and you’re sticky and warm, and you know you look like a mess, but you keep your eyes directly on his. “We just made a deal.”

He stares, wide-eyed, and then breathes out a laugh. “Okay. I hear you.” When his hips touch yours again, it comes with him dropping down to his elbow and carding his fingers through your hair tight. “But I want you looking at me.”

You’re surprised by that, because it feels oddly intimate for him to chase an orgasm while looking into your eyes – but then he finds that special pace and angle, and you can’t think of anything but giving him what he wants, just so he doesn’t take away what you want. 

You look right into those blue-green eyes as your navel curls and twists, despite every urge to let your eyes roll back and your mouth hang open. You slide your arms around his neck and look into his eyes, clinging tight as he takes full control of your body – prying you open and kissing that particular spot inside you that no one else has ever found before. You look into his eyes up until the very moment you find that summit, the morning light golden and warm and blinding. You find him there, too.

You won’t realize it for a long, long time, but something slides into place and locks tight when your body registers that the last thing you see before falling off the edge is the dark cyan of Akaashi Keiji’s eyes. When it registers that the last thing that he sees – before his eyes roll back and his forehead drops to yours, his hips stuttering and stalling as he fills you – is you.

You think you might have fallen asleep in that spot, because you’re not sure if it’s been minutes or hours since you moved. Your body trembles under him, and you feel him starting to release you achingly slow – his elbow cracks when he lifts off of it, and his breath is taxed and heavy while he pulls out of you. He holds you like that for a minute, just long enough for the creampie to be visible to the camera, and then he sets your thigh down gently. But you whine anyway, because there’s a horrible soreness that’s starting to set into your muscles and bones.

“Shit,” he whispers. “That was-”

You let out a weak laugh, immediately groaning at how it rattles your body. “This Chinese food is going to be the most glorious meal I’ve ever earned.”

He laughs back, that delirious one that comes when he’s struggling to find himself. “I forgot to order it between the desk and the bed.”

“I don’t think we would have made the thirty-minute deadline.”

He laughs harder, collapsing back down on his elbows. “God, I think I’m dying. I don’t know if I have the stamina to be a porn star.”

You groan, planting both hands on his chest and pushing him slowly off of you. He hits the mattress beside you with a sigh, and you curl up in place. “This was hard. I’m tired.”

“There’s no time to be tired. It’s already-” He sits up slowly, reaching for your phone to end the video and check the time. “-noon, apparently.”

“Noon?!” You dig the heels of your hands into your eyes. “Four hours, holy shit.”

“I need food,” Akaashi mumbles to himself, rising off the bed with a groan and searching the floor for his boxers. He finds and trips into them on his way to the door, muttering ‘phone, need my phone’ as he goes. You roll off the side of the bed unceremoniously, swiping your shirt and underwear off of the rug and slipping them back on.

“We were supposed to change,” he calls from the other room. “You’re a slutty schoolgirl in two videos.”

“I don’t care,” you whine, stumbling back into bed and lying flat on your face, your voice muffled. “Let me be a slutty schoolgirl, fuck.”

“Do you still have your pop-tart?” he asks, back in the room and completely ignoring your complaints. “What do you want for takeout?” You hear him snatch the plastic package off the little coffee table by the couch. “I’m eating your pop-tart-”

“Oh, my God, Akaashi, just eat the fucking pop-tart,” you snap, growing crabby. There’s silence, and then he flops down on the bed beside you. 

“Maybe you should eat the pop-tart.”

A laugh bubbles and bursts in your throat, and you start to giggle uncontrollably. “What the fuck did we just do?”

“Burn a lot of calories,” he jokes through a mouth full of your strawberry pop-tart. You turn your head toward him, watching as, half-naked beside you, he scrolls through the delivery menu of the nearest Chinese takeout place. “I’m getting kung pao chicken.”

“Ew.” You wrinkle your nose. “Peanuts.”

He looks at you in confusion. “You’re allergic to peanuts?”

“No. I just don’t like them.”

“Oh,” he grumbles, turning back to his phone. “That’s stupid.”

“You’re stupid-”

He flaps the silvery plastic of the pop-tart in your face. “Eat this and tell me what you want before I get double kung pao-”

You snatch the stupid pastry away from him, watching him lift his hand in defeat and whisper ‘okay, crabass’ as you stuff your mouth with sugary nothingness. “I want beef and broccoli.”

He grimaces. “Boring.”

“Get out of my house, Akaashi-”

“I got it, look-” He brandishes the screen at you, showing your food in the online cart. “What else?”

“Egg rolls. Crab rangoon. Maybe some pot-stickers, too-”

“You’re just trying to spend my money,” he complains, adding it all anyway.

“We’ll make it back soon enough.”

He meets your eyes, and you both seem to re-realize how you’ve just spent a full Saturday morning. It settles in then, the arrangement you’ve made with Akaashi Keiji. Saturday mornings and weekday evenings, a suspended disbelief that you’ll never be able to explain to your friends. Pop-tarts in your slutty schoolgirl skirt, Chinese food in his boxers. A series of life experiences that can never leave this apartment, shared with the singular person you’d tried so long to keep out of your life entirely.

Akaashi blinks, and you blink back, infinite realizations passing by all at once.

He turns his head back to his phone. “Fried or steamed pot-stickers?”

You turn your face back into the mattress, your voice muffled. “Fried.”

–

While the food’s on its way, you leave Akaashi to wash up in your bathroom. You disappear into your bedroom and change, hearing when the sink stops running and the door opens. 

“In here,” you call, pulling your hair back as you head to your desk that’s pushed against the wall shared with the living room. He appears in the doorway in a pair of athletic shorts and a hoodie, his hair and face damp and his glasses a little foggy from the moisture on his skin. 

“Should be ten more minutes,” he says, checking his phone. And then he glances around your room in a way that appears casual, but you can tell he’s curious. 

“You can come in,” you joke, waving him in. You take a seat at your desk, shaking the mouse attached to your monitor to wake the computer up. “I’m gonna give you account access now before I forget.”

He hums, wandering your room slowly and taking it all in. The photos of your friends on top of your dresser, the plushies on your bed that would be embarrassing to show anyone that’s not him. The bookshelf in the corner, filled with fun novels and academic textbooks alike. 

“I have a few of these,” he murmurs, crouching and thumbing through the volumes. You smile to yourself, logging into your account while you respond.

“The smutty romance novels? No wonder you’re such a creative porn star.”

“You’re funny,” he says, not an ounce of humor in his voice. “You’re missing the Cambridge handbook on Korean morphosyntax.”

“‘s here,” you nod at the small pile of books on your desk, spines facing outward. “I keep the best ones close.” You hear him approach behind you, your eyes busy locating his own account and inviting him as a collaborator. 

But then his hand reaches past your head, and you realize with a drop of your stomach that he’s plucking a paper off the top of a pile that you keep next to your books.

A paper with his name on it, published in Syntax last year, on Korean case marking. It’s full of pen, highlighter, and sticky tabs – your thoughts on his work.

“Oh?” he says, his voice dreadfully smug. “You keep the best ones close, you said?”

“Shut up,” you say, shaking your head. “Research is research-”

“Good research gets cited. You gonna cite me, Y/n?”

“I’m sure you’re no stranger to good research, Akaashi Keiji. I’d be stupid not to.”

“So-” He steps closer, and your lift your eyes to his reluctantly. He looks excited. “-you’re including the case marking, then? In the dissertation.”

You roll your eyes. “Would you like me to say ‘thank you, Akaashi, oh Brilliant One’?” 

He lifts his brows with a smirk. “Yes, actually. I would.”

“Kiss my ass,” you say with a laugh, shaking your head and returning to the task at hand. “Now that I don’t have to find a second job, I might actually have the time to include it.”

“You would have made the time anyway,” he says confidently, and you give an exhausted sigh.

“Okay, I gave you access. Can we-” You stand, snatching the paper back and dropping it on the pile. “-exit the research chat, please?”

“Why?” he prods, following you out the room. “Worried I’ll make good points without our referee around to keep me in check?”

“The fact that you need to be kept in check in the first place is a bad sign.” You flop down on the couch with a sigh, and he follows. “You’re so abrasive.”

“Being gentle doesn’t get you published,” he argues, and you snap back quick.

“Shockingly, I still managed it.”

“You got published?” He lifts his brows, turning to you with interest. “Where? When?”

You sigh. “Language and Cognition,” you mutter, watching his eyes go slightly wide before flattening out again. “End of the month.”

“Holy shit,” he says, nodding and looking away. “Language and Cognition. That’s top-shelf stuff.” You think that might be a compliment. The first he’s ever paid you. “It’s about time.”

The compliment is magically negated.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You say, heated.

“Nothing!” he laughs, shaking his head. “I wasn’t trying to be mean.”

“You’re saying it took me a long time to publish-”

“Considering your skillset,” he argues pointedly. “Yes. I’d say I’m surprised it took this long.”

“Are you insulting me or complimenting me?” You throw your hands out. “Choose, Akaashi.”

“Don’t wanna,” he says childishly, smiling in a way that’s intentionally irritating. You scoff, but his phone pings with the delivery notification before you can pick a fight. He stands, disappearing out the door to get it, and you take a long, deep breath to relax yourself. You turn the TV on, flicking through the options before landing on the nature channel.

He slips back in after a few minutes, bag dangling from his fingers. “What are we watching?”

“Squirrels fighting for their territory,” you say, completely entranced by the action happening on the screen.

“Seriously?” he asks, stopping by the couch briefly to look at the TV. 

“Look at them go,” you whisper in amazement, shaking your head as you watch two squirrels positively tear each other apart.

“Are you in the habit of watching the nature channel?” He wanders to the kitchen while he asks, and you let him struggle to find bowls and unpack the food.

“Every night,” you say, distracted. “Relaxes my brain.”

“God, you’re insane,” he mumbles from across the room.

“Well, what do you do to relax?” you ask. There’s silence in the kitchen, and your attention’s torn from the screen as you look over your shoulder at him. He’s frowning slightly down at the food while he serves it, and you grin smugly. “Oh, I get it. The stick in your ass is there for a reason.”

“Fuck off,” he breathes with a shake of his head. He carries both plates to the couch, handing you one and staring with skepticism at the TV. “We’re really watching this?”

“Look how that one stands on his hind legs and asserts his dominance!” you exclaim, pointing excitedly at the TV before stuffing your mouth full of beef and broccoli. “The other one’s totally gotta give up his acorns now.”

Akaashi sighs, digging into his food with a shake of his head. “Squirrel social dynamics and Chinese food. My Saturday morning.”

You eat in relative silence, the only comments coming from your enthusiasm about nature and his quiet, exasperated laughter. Finally, he sighs, setting his empty plate on the coffee table.

“I should go.”

You nod, reaching to mute the TV. “I gotta edit these videos and draft one to post tonight. What time’s the party?”

“Starts at 9,” he says, standing slowly. You purse your lips, realizing that you’ll have to see him again today – in public, where you’ll have to pretend you hadn’t spent the morning together. 

“Okay.” You nod. “See you then.”

There’s a moment of silence, where he seems to realize the same thing you had, and then he just nods, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Kay. See ya.”

The apartment echoes with the click of the door behind him.

You stare at it, feeling a bit weird, as though the entire affair is finally starting to crash down over you now that he’s gone. Your phone buzzes on the table, and you shake off the feeling, snatching it up. Your heart beats a strange little rhythm at the sight of his name.

[1:24 PM]

Akaashi: dont forget to cover your hickies tonight

“What?” You stand, padding to the bathroom quickly. The reflection in the mirror is horrid, your throat already bruising on both sides. “This motherfu-”

You: youre such a dick.

He sends back a shrugging emoji and nothing else, and you move around the apartment with a little more stomp than usual, minimally annoyed as you clean up the tables and put the leftovers away before returning to your desk to edit the videos.

–

Keiji arrives at Bokuto’s townhouse at 9 o’clock on the dot, knocking quietly. It’s Tsukishima who opens the door, just lifting his brows in greeting before leading him back through the living room. There’s no one else here, and Bokuto is filling bowls with chips in the kitchen.

“Hey!” he calls excitedly. “I’m so ready to be trashed!”

Keiji sets two handles of vodka and a case of Coke on the counter. “In a good way or a bad way?”

“Good, of course! Life is good!” The kinesiology student starts organizing the bowls by color, smiling to himself while he talks. “Research is good, friends are good, life is good!”

There’s a knock on the door, and Keiji’s heart jumps without his permission. He glances at the new arrivals that enter when the host yells ‘it’s open!’, and he’s oddly disappointed to see it’s just some of the people in Bokuto’s cohort.

Tsukishima dims the lights in the main room and connects his phone to the speaker, and Bokuto starts to dance while he chats up his friends and preps the kitchen with more food. Keiji stands off to the side, pouring himself a drink and nodding politely when a guy he recognizes greets him.

Thirty minutes go by like that, with Keiji standing in sight of the door and glancing up, a little nervous, every time it opens. He doesn’t know why he feels this way, but he does know it’s your fault.

He’d felt it when you’d texted him a couple hours ago, too – it was only to let him know that the video for tonight had been edited, but he’d still gotten a strange twinge of anxiety when your name had popped up on his phone. He had watched the video back, impressed at how you’d edited the tattoos out and muffled both your voices – creating what’s essentially a quiet, faceless video with only your moans to show for his performance. He’d also refrained from watching the video in too much detail, because even just skimming through it, he’d felt renewed desire stream through his veins.

He wonders if it would be too much to go back and watch it later tonight, when he has too much alcohol in his system to worry if it’s weird.

Tsukishima finds him again after a while, lingering with him in the corner. “Research?”

“‘s good,” Keiji says, lifting his drink to his lips – the second in half an hour. “Finally started writing the dissertation chapters. Should be done next year.”

“God, I’m jealous,” the blond laughs quietly. “With working at the museum, everything takes twice as long for me.”

Keiji hates that his first thought is you – that that could have been you, too. “Did your advisor tell you when you’re s’posed t’finish?” He should slow down. Water, maybe.

“Two years,” Tsukishima groans, emptying his cup and then reaching for the vodka again.

“That’s what Kuroo has left, too.”

The blond shoots him a side glance. “So?” Keiji sees the tinge of pink at the tips of his ears, so he shrugs.

“Just an observation.” The door opens behind Tsukishima, and his eyes flit to it, just over the blond’s shoulder. 

It’s a couple he doesn’t recognize, but Bokuto clearly does, his ‘hey, hey, hey!’ audible from here.

“Who are you lookin’ for?” Tsukishima dips his head into Keiji’s way, an eyebrow arched and his words slower than usual from the alcohol. “You keep doin’ that.”

Keiji blinks and clears his throat. “No one. It just-” The door opens again, and you walk through it with Kuroo and Yachi. Keiji’s throat dries up. “-catches my attention.”

Tsukishima glances back, but if he notices that you’re clearly what Keiji had been waiting for, he doesn’t say anything. He just whips his head back around, swallowing hard and taking an aggressive swig of his drink.

God bless Kuroo Tetsurou.

Keiji watches you greet Bokuto and some of his friends, your smile wide and your hugs generous. His eyes scan you carefully. You’re wearing a pair of black jeans that hugs you in all the right places – places he knows now – and red long-sleeve shirt with a v-cut so low that his mouth waters slightly. You’d covered the bruises on your throat, and there’s a piece of him – small but troublesome – that’s a little dissatisfied to see the skin smooth and mark-free. Especially with the way you giggle at something Bokuto says, the taller man smiling down at you and holding your waist in a friendly way. Keiji swallows and brushes that odd little feeling away.

His heart flips over itself when you turn in his general direction, and he’s quick to turn back to Tsukishima, blinking rapidly. He feels weird – he wants you to notice him there, wants you to say something to him, even though you’d both agreed not to act any different. You’ve never spoken to him at these parties unless absolutely necessary, so he shouldn’t be wishing for anything of the sort. 

But he wants to know that you feel weird, too. That you want his attention, too. That you don’t know why, either.

“So,” he clears his throat, getting the history student’s attention. “The museum. Have they gotten back to you about the full-time position?”

“Not explicitly,” Tsukishima responds, seeming equally grateful for the distraction. “But they basically said it’s mine whenever I’m done.”

“That’s good. Makes things a little less stressful,” Keiji says, pointedly looking down into his cup, because he feels you behind him, passing by. Your perfume makes his nostrils flare, and a shiver – traitorous and laced with want – runs down his spine. 

“Hey, Tsukishima,” you say, brushing past the taller man. “Good weekend so far?”

The blond nods. “A little pissed to get a 2am text of Bokuto screaming, but otherwise, yeah.”

You laugh gently, and Keiji’s skin floods with goosebumps. He looks at you without meaning to, and a white-hot heat sears through his stomach, because you’re already looking back. You don’t greet him or betray any visible emotion when he makes eye contact, but he sees your breathing change, and there’s a warmth that makes your skin glow in the dim light. 

You’re nervous. He’s making you nervous.

And that’s a dangerous little piece of information for him to have access to.

“Y/n,” he says, rolling your name around on his tongue like he’s tasting it for the first time. He’s glad that Tsukishima’s distractedly looking over his shoulder at Kuroo, because he doesn’t see the way your breath catches or the way your spine straightens.

“Akaashi.” It’s weak, and your voice wavers on the last syllable, cutting out and filling with the breath that you draw in sharply. His body hums when he hears it, and the urge to hear it again – the urge to witness your poorly concealed emotions – grows to the point of being unbearable.

He wants to make you nervous.

“Get started on those case marking materials yet?” He’s careful to reference the LEM meeting only, not the things you’d talked about this morning. Still, it makes you swallow, and you pluck a red solo cup from the stack before reaching for the vodka. 

“Do you really want to talk about research here?” you ask, mixing it with some of the orange juice that Yachi had dropped off a few minutes ago.

“Why not?” he says. “Tsukishima and I are.”

You level a grin at the blond, who’s tuned back in at the sound of his name. “Don’t you want a night off, Tsukishima?”

Keiji doesn’t hear what his friend’s answer is. He’s too busy dragging his gaze slowly down the length of your body while the taller man’s talking to you. You shift slightly, and his eyes find yours. You’re flitting your gaze between his and Tsukishima’s, trying to stay engaged with the conversation but also clearly distracted. Keiji just stares, his eyes unyielding on yours whenever you meet them. You drink urgently from your cup, chugging until it’s empty and then reaching back to make another, a grimace tugging on your lips.

He looks away, because he can hear Bokuto storming into the kitchen.

“Hey, my favorite pals!” He slings his arms around Keiji’s and Tsukishima’s shoulders, and Keiji tips forward into you. You yelp, barely managing to steady your drink on the counter. He slips his arm around your waist to catch himself – definitely not for any other reason – and he hears you gasp in his ear at the contact. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, head swimming with alcohol.

“No, you’re not,” you whisper back heatedly. But Keiji can feel you leaning into him, too, your fingers brushing on his arm. 

It fills his chest with a giddy excitement – the realization that you can’t help yourself, either. 

He decides in that moment – in the mere milliseconds where Bokuto’s straightening and exclaiming in Tsukishima’s ear that the friend group should collect by the couches in the living room, the two of you completely unnoticed – that he doesn’t want to stop doing this. He doesn’t want to stop provoking you, even though he very well should. Because he can see that you don’t want it to stop, either. Because you’re searching him with wide eyes and the kind of attention that he could get high off of.

Because, in a single morning alone, Keiji’s learned to recognize when you’re turned on. 

The flush of your cheeks and the tug of your bottom lip between your teeth. The way you hug yourself, like you’re worried you might do something with those hands if you don’t. The uneven pattern of your breathing, your chest rising and falling with attempted recovery.

God, he thinks he’s turned on, too.

He swallows, leaning away and letting Bokuto sweep the three of you away into the living room. You’re still pressed to his side unwillingly, your body heat making him shiver with excitement – you smell the way you did this morning, like warmth and the laundry detergent of the sheets he’d fucked you into. Like the memory of your tears and the way you’d begged him not to stop, the memory of your walls fluttering around him and the way your back had arched when you’d come–

He scrubs drunkenly at his scrunched eyebrows, stumbling to wherever Bokuto had guided him and throwing himself down on the couch. Even with his eyes closed, he knows that the body that lands next to him is yours.

When he opens his eyes, the world a little blurry and tilted, Kuroo and Yachi have joined the group – Hitoka’s on his other side, and Bokuto’s taken the armchair, Tsukishima and Kuroo sitting awfully close together on the floor. It always happens this way – the group of you always end up in your own corner, the rest of the party carrying on without the host needing to entertain. The music is always thumping just loud enough that everyone has to raise their voices to be heard, but it’s never annoying. Never too much, never overwhelming. It’s why all these people always come back – Bokuto Koutarou’s parties are always the perfect escape.

He’s starting to understand why, tonight.

The night goes on like any other. Yachi rambles about her current dissertation progress, clearly excited to talk about her graphic design and marketing ideas. Bokuto engages her excitedly, asking if she could help him make some recruitment flyers for the volleyball class he’ll be teaching next semester. Kuroo whispers things to Tsukishima, the smirk on his lips pressed to the blond’s ear and Tsukishima’s cheeks burning with a cherry-red blush.

Which leaves Keiji with you. Surrounded by friends who are much too drunk and distracted to care what he does.

So he settles into the couch, spreading his legs to get comfortable – at least, that’s what it looks like. No one questions why he never intrudes on Yachi’s space, why he angles his body toward yours, why his knee bumps yours and then stays there. No one asks why you suddenly look nervous or why you silently decide to let his thigh press against yours. Why your own thigh, radiating gentle warmth, presses back after a moment – although it’d be completely in character for you to make some snappish remark about respecting personal space. 

No one asks why your fingers twitch on your leg, your pinky brushing up against his leg, stretching toward him and then retracting.

No one asks about the slight bulge in his jeans. Or the arm he stretches across the back of the couch – in your direction, not Yachi’s.

Your breath catches, and you lift your cup to your mouth quickly. “Cut it out,” you hiss, hidden, and he smiles down at nothing.

“‘m not doing anything,” he breathes back, unheard over the music.

“Bullshit.” 

He laughs softly, but he knows you’re right. So he extracts himself, standing carefully and pointing in explanation toward the hall when Bokuto looks up at him curiously. He pushes through the crowd, rounding the corner and taking the stairs up to the second floor. The music is quieter here, and he knows that no one else would venture this far – because everyone knows Bokuto, but no one knows Bokuto. Not like the group of you.

He disappears into the bathroom by Bokuto’s bedroom, clean and uncrowded. His phone screen reads 11:08 when he checks it – endless parties just like this, and tonight, he’s barely managing an hour and a half in the same room as you. He stares at his reflection in the mirror, breathing deep. His vision’s still a little blurry, and his head is still swimming. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are heated, betraying how you’re affecting him. 

He fixes himself in his jeans so it’s a little less obvious and then runs his fingers through his hair with a sigh. Now that he’s alone, he can see that he definitely needs to sober up a bit. He needs to act right, because he knows the stakes are high. His brain feels clearer, and it’s sinking in that he’s pushing the line with you. That there’s something about you – something about this morning – that makes him want to forget the rules, when he really shouldn’t.

Maybe he’s just too drunk. Maybe he’ll be better about this when he’s sober.

The memory of you crying under him flashes in his mind, and he has to shake his head, leaning his hands on the counter. Maybe those memories won’t come when he’s in control enough to stop them. He has to hope that they won’t, because right now, his mental faculties aren’t listening to him.

Right now, he’s thinking about how you’d squirmed in his lap when he’d fingered you. About how your head had knocked back lightly against the wall when you’d come on his tongue, sweet and warm and wet enough to make him just a little bit obsessed with you. About how you’d looked up at him with wide eyes while you’d jerked him off, asking if you were doing okay. Asking for his approval. 

Keiji’s breath comes hard now, and he shakes his head again in a weak attempt to clear it.

The way you’d moaned like a proper porn star when he’d pushed into you for the first time.

The way you’d felt around him, velvety and tight and like no one he’d ever been with before you.

The way you’d clung to him, desperate and scared when he’d threatened to pull away – pleas on those plush, pink lips and tears in those pretty little eyes. Bullying him rudely to his orgasm.

“Fuck,” he breathes. He needs to get it together.

He thumps himself lightly on the head a few times with the heel of his hand, silently begging his boner to go away as he turns to leave the bathroom.

You’re standing on the other side of the door, a frown on your face as you lean against the wall.

Fuck.

“What’re you up to, Akaashi?” you demand drunkenly, your lips pushing out in a whiny pout that makes his cock twitch in his jeans.

Fuck.

“What?” he says, trying to slip past you toward the stairs. You get in his way.

“We decided t’be normal,” you slur, stepping close to him. Your perfume clouds his brain. “You’re not bein’ normal.”

Your chest bumps against his when he tries to move past again, and he finds his hands on your waist before he can think it through.

“And you decided t’follow me up here,” he breathes tightly, walking you back quickly into the wall. Your eyes go wide when your back bumps against it, but the gasp that falls past your lips is because he’s pushing his hips against yours, still half-hard. “You did this.”

“I didn’t-I haven’ done anything,” you try, glancing down in hazy surprise at where he’s pressed against you. “You’re the one who keeps touchin’ me and– and teasing me.”

“Yeah? Is it fucking with you?” he coos, mocking. “Welcome t’the club.”

Your eyes search his. “'Kaashi,” you whisper, slurred. His eyes drop to your lips.

He doesn’t like it when you say his name like that. Soft and pleading. 

It makes him want to do terrible things to you.

“Careful, Y/n.”

He doesn’t mean to say it like that. He’s actually asking you to be careful, because he’s not in his right mind and you’re making it worse. You’re making everything worse, and he’s more than happy to blame this on you. But the way it comes out – the way he talks to you – is with a tone he knows better than to use outside the bedroom.

He watches the tension leave your body, and you start to blink up at him rapidly, your face burning and radiating heat into the very limited space between you. He watches your demeanor change – watches you swallow nervously and break eye contact, watches you purse your lips and breathe shallowly – and something in him aches for you.

For the first time all day, he regrets sleeping with you. Because now he’s not sure he can ever recover.

“Uhm,” you start, voice shaky. “Maybe we should go back-”

“Akaashi! Y/n!” 

You gasp, and your hands find his chest. You shove hard, and he stumbles back toward the opposite wall with wide eyes. You both turn toward the stairs, watching Bokuto trip and fall up the last few steps. He looks down the hall with wide eyes, giggling loudly when he sees you.

“There you are!” And then he narrows his gaze at you dramatically, examining the situation as he stands. “Oh, no-” He pouts, crossing his arms. “Are you two fighting? This is a party! We’re with friends!”

Keiji sobers instantly, eyes flying to yours as the reality of the night hits him. As he realizes how close you’d come to getting caught, and on the very first day at that. You look just as alarmed as he feels. He doesn’t know how he could ever have explained what’s just happened to anyone else. How things had gotten that far.

He turns without a word and brushes past Bokuto. He barrels down the stairs, ignoring Bokuto’s cry of ‘eh?! where’s he going?!’ and heading straight for the door. It slams behind him, and he races out of the building and toward the street.

He swears loudly on the entire walk home.

–

It isn’t until noon on Sunday that you wake up, groggy and disoriented. You slap your hand around on your bed blindly for your phone, the sunlight that’s streaming through the window making the room feel hot and making you groan. You retrieve your phone from the depths of your bed, squinting at it with a growing headache and a serious case of dry-mouth.

There are some texts from Kuroo and Yachi, asking if you feel as positively terrible as they do, and an all-caps text from Bokuto to the massive group chat, thanking everyone for coming to the party. There’s even a text from Tsukishima, asking if you got home alright and if you know where Akaashi had gone.

Akaashi.

You roll over and bury your face in the pillow, groaning loudly. He’d left so abruptly, and you’d even texted him – multiple times – to drunkenly ask where he’d gone and if he was okay. You check those texts now, clicking into the thread.

[11:16 PM]

You: whewred yiu go>?!?!

You: are yoim okai???

[11:59 PM]

You: akaaaaaashiiiii

You: whyaw didn yoo leave so sunddnly?

[12:39 AM]

You: at lest tellme if tju got ahaome safew

[9:19 AM]

Akaashi: im fine thanks

Your lips twist into a scowl, and you throw your phone down, minorly annoyed by his response. He’d run out of the party without a single word, after teasing you all night and then pinning you up against the wall and fucking with your head. And now he’s going to act cold to you, like he hadn’t admitted to wanting you last night?

Whatever.

You kick your legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the throbbing pain in your head as you stumble down the hallway to shower and get ready for the day. You make a pot of coffee and rummage through your fridge for something that’ll fix your hangover, and then you settle down at your desk and check your personal email, just to see if the new video with Akaashi had been received well.

There’s a string of emails sitting right at the top of your inbox, the last received at 10am.

[10:00 AM] Account Updates (Oct. 22) – New Followers: 2,139; New Comments: 608; New Video View Count: 87,903

[9:36 AM] Congratulations! Your new video has made over $500.

[5:02 AM] Congratulations! Your new video has made over $400.

[3:47 AM] Congratulations! Your new video has made over $300.

[1:59 AM] Congratulations! Your new video has made over $200.

[10:29 PM] Congratulations! Your new video has made over $100.

You stare at the subject lines, your head swimming.

“Holy shit.”

You log into your account in a rush of adrenaline, unable to believe this is really happening. You click quickly into your profile and scroll down to the section for profit information.

$529 dollars, made off of the video of Akaashi fingering you.

That’s almost everything you have in your bank account – doubled in one night.

That’s rent.

That’s rent.

“Holy shit.” You sit back and stare at the number for ten minutes, watching in growing shock as it flicks to $535 and then to $541 in that span of time. You’ve got 137 message requests sitting in the top right corner – 137 more opportunities to make money, if you just dedicate an hour or two a day to sending off quick and flirty one-liners to the horny men flooding your inbox.

Your hand reaches for your phone, because you have to tell Akaashi the amazing news – but then you remember how odd his last text had been. You frown slightly and put your phone back down. You don’t have anyone else to talk to about this – and you want to talk about this, to marvel and wonder at how this could have happened – but you don’t want him to ruin your mood, either.

So you don’t. You don’t tell him – if he wants to know how the video did, he can look for himself. He’s a collaborator on the account now. 

You just roll your shoulders back and pull up your video editing software, getting to work.

You have money to make.

–

“Are you okay?” Yachi says the next morning, watching you with thin amusement as you yawn so wide that your jaw cracks. You nod sleepily, following her into the coffee shop.

“Just a long night. ‘m okay.” You scrub at your brow, suppressing another yawn while you wait in line. You’d spent most of yesterday editing the other two videos and responding to messages, and then you’d taken three hours to record solo content, staying up until nearly 3am editing those videos, too. You’d hoped that the solo content wouldn’t lose you followers, actually, since it had been clear just how well-received the partner content is.

But the work had been worth it, because you’d posted one of the solo videos last night and woken up to 500 more followers and another $300 in profit, both from the video with Akaashi and from the spillover of the new followers going back through your old videos and the new solo video. It turns out your solo content is good; it just hadn’t gotten enough traction to make any money. Now, there’s a lot of traffic to even your first couple videos, and every video is bringing in money.

So, even though you’re falling asleep while standing in a coffee shop at 9am, you feel that every moment of sleep lost was a moment of incoming financial peace.

“D’you know what you want yet?” Yachi asks, peering at the menu. “I’m not sure.”

“You get the same thing every time,” you state simply, only smiling when she shoots you a sideways glance. “But I can go first, if you’re totally not sold yet on your medium almond milk vanilla latte.”

“Yes, please,” she says brightly, and you cut past her to get to the counter. You order your drink and a breakfast sandwich, feeling for the first time in weeks that there’s no crippling guilt when you spend the money. It feels nice, being able to give yourself even this small treat.

“Y/n!” 

You flinch at the booming voice, already identifying its owner. You turn, stepping off to the side to let Yachi order while you smile at an excited Bokuto. The man bounds up to you, arms swinging, and you’re left wondering how he could possibly have any energy this early.

“Hi, Kou – How was your Sunday?”

“Oh, you know.” He shrugs. “Spent it cleaning vomit out of my rug. But I slept like a little baby, so I feel great today!” He glances past you. “Hitoka!”

The little blond woman flinches at the volume, much like you had, and turns after she pays, joining you with a grin. “Kou! Still on to talk about those recruitment flyers later?”

“Oh, God, yes! I need you!” Bokuto seems to almost vibrate in place, and you let them talk, keeping an ear out for your order while you shut your eyes to let out a deep yawn.

“Hi, Yachi.”

The yawn dissipates in your throat. You snap your head around, finding Akaashi hovering at Bokuto’s shoulder. He’s smiling politely down at Yachi, one hand tucked into his fall coat and the other gripping an extra-large coffee cup. The tired look in his eye tells you he’d lost sleep over something, even though neither Bokuto nor Yachi comment on it.

“Hi, Akaashi,” Yachi says. “We missed you at the party after you left.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he laughs quietly. “I started to feel pretty sick, so I left.”

“Aw, that’s unfortunate,” she commiserates. “Are you feeling better?”

“I am, thank you.” He nods, his body language and manners betraying that well-spoken, gentle demeanor that everyone speaks so highly about. You wonder how many people know that Akaashi’s a complete mess before he’s had coffee and anything but gentle in bed.

He turns to Bokuto now, speaking softly. “Ready? I have to teach.”

The silver-haired man nods happily, waving at you and Yachi. “Gotta go! See you lovely ladies at lunch!”

You wave him off, flicking your eyes to Akaashi. He’s got his gaze on you as he passes, emotionless and bordering on disinterest. He doesn’t say a word to you, and then he’s gone, leaving you in the wake of his silence and his annoyingly attractive cologne.

You frown slightly, only pulled away by the sound of your name at the counter. You collect your drink and breakfast, finding Yachi scowling deeply beside you as she stares out the door.

“What an asshole,” she grumbles, only shrugging when you bite out a surprised laugh. “He didn’t even say hi to you! That’s so rude.”

“That’s just how he is,” you mutter, staring down at the lid of your cup.

That’s just how he’s always been. So why does it feel so much worse now?

–

It happens again, only twenty minutes later.

You’d left Yachi at the crossroads separating the Linguistics building and the Marketing building, waving and wishing her good luck with her morning of teaching and dissertation work. You’d trekked up to your office, dropping your things off and heading back down to the first floor quickly in order to make some copies of the handout for your Syntax discussion. You stand in the administrative office while the copies print, and then – after a full minute of arguing with yourself – you make the copies for Akaashi’s section, too. Because the two of you had always had that system, and you wouldn’t allow him to see that he’s affected you enough to impact your professional relationship.

You leave them in both mailboxes and head to the elevator, your coffee sipped slowly as you make your way down the long hallway. There’s an open classroom door on your left, a quiet voice slipping out and echoing in the empty hall.

“...the exponence of morphological features will arise differently depending on the language and its family – take agglutinating languages, for example-”

You glance toward the room, knowing that soft, steady voice anywhere.

Akaashi’s turning his back to the classroom, lifting his right hand toward the chalkboard, when you see him. He’s shed his fall coat, folded over the back of his chair now, and you take him in properly as you pass, as though in slow motion. He’s wearing his standard black slacks and white button-down, but there’s no accompanying sweater vest on top today, completely changing his cozy, boy-next-door vibe into something much more flustering. 

He’s got the top two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled haphazardly up to his elbows, which you know is a public speaking habit of his. His left hand sits tucked into the pocket of his slacks, a few thin, silver bracelets stacked on that wrist and his tattoo easy to spot on his right forearm as he lifts it to the board. His hair falls into his eyes a bit, and his glasses sit neatly on his face, perfectly completing the dreadfully sexy professorial energy he’s exuding.

You’re hit with a wave of attraction, worsened when his gaze finds yours through the open doorway. He holds the eye contact as he turns, and you see it’s that same, detached look he’s giving you. But whatever he’s seeing on your face – likely mortifying, given the warmth flooding your face – has one of his eyebrows lifting, a scowl pulling on his lips. He tears his eyes from yours, finally pressing the chalk in his hand to the board in front of him.

“Languages like Korean, Japanese, and Turkish – although in different language families – bear their exponence in a transparent manner, with morphemes stacking in a particular way depending on how the morphological features are assigned and collected…”

You pause just past the door, out of sight, and feel entirely out of place with the strange gnawing sensation that’s beginning to form in your chest. 

–

You try your best not to let him get to you throughout the day, but you still find yourself sitting in your office half an hour before lunch, anyway, wondering if you should try talking to him. You know he’s across the hall, and you wonder if maybe you just need a few minutes alone with him to figure out why he’s acting so strange. Had the party really screwed things up that much between you?

You stand and head to the door, stepping into the hall and even making it as far as the single step to his door, your hand raised to knock, before you stop. You hesitate. Maybe he’s upset with you, for whatever reason. Had you done anything bad at the party? No, you don’t think so. It had mostly been his doing, even though he’d blamed you for it outside the bathroom. You don’t think you’d actually done anything except be there, and he can’t really be mad at you for that.

Still, you turn back to your office, suddenly uncertain about confronting him. You return to your desk, settling down with a conflicted sigh and opening your laptop to keep working until lunch.

Your phone buzzes on the desk.

[1:45 PM]

Akaashi: what is it?

Your heart jumps, and you type quickly.

You: nothing

Akaashi: you were going to knock

You: it’s fine

Akaashi: just tell me.

You groan, trying to figure out what to say. ‘I wanted to see if we’re okay’ is completely unhinged and a little bit crazy, and ‘Just checking on you after the party’ is entirely out of character for you. So you just sigh and type up the best excuse you can.

You: was just gonna tell you the first video made over 500

You: and my other stuff is making money now too

You: my rent for november is covered

You: so.. thanks ig

There’s a minute or two of silence before he answers, a minute or two that feel distinctly longer.

Akaashi: …

Akaashi: you were seriously coming to say that to me?

Akaashi: out loud? here?

Akaashi: really, y/n?

You bristle, filled with an irrational anger. Obviously, that’s not what you’d been going to his office to talk about, because obviously you know better. But you hadn’t been able to come up with anything better to tell him, and now you’re being scolded for it.

And how dare he say that to you, after he’d been all over you on Saturday night? In front of all your friends, no less?

You type an angry response.

You: well i didnt DO it, did i?

You: unlike you, i have decent judgment of what should and shouldnt be done in public.

Akaashi: excuse me?

Akaashi: wtf is that supposed to mean??????

You: use that brain of yours and figure it tf out.

Akaashi: you have decent judgment of what shouldnt be done in public?

Akaashi: yet you just LOVE to keep your windows open

Akaashi: dont you, y/n

There’s a piece of you, larger than you’d ever admit, that loves to be the person who makes Akaashi Keiji’s perfect little walls come crashing down.

You: at least thats done in the privacy of my own home

You: not the privacy of someone else’s 

You: especially not with all our friends right around the corner

Akaashi: oh go to hell

You: see you there, freak.

You throw your phone down and let out an irritated scream that echoes off the walls of your office. You’re certain Akaashi’d heard it, but you can’t bring yourself to care what he thinks or doesn’t think of you today.

You work until lunch, distracted and angry while you respond to emails and grade a few assignments. When Bokuto texts your small group chat asking about lunch, Kuroo’s expected response of ‘We meet every SINGLE day, Bokuto!’ coming in only seconds later, you slam your laptop shut and pack up.

Akaashi’s leaving his office at the same time as you. He frowns instantly when he sees you, and you scowl openly at him.

“Think you might have a banshee in your office,” he says tightly, pulling his door closed and walking off ahead of you. “There was a demonic scream echoing in the hall earlier.”

You roll your eyes, following him to the elevator. “Worry about your own office, Akaashi. There’s an icy bitch inhabiting your desk.”

He snorts, jamming his finger against the down button. “That’s real classy, Y/n. Can you afford lunch today, or do you need a loaner?”

You whip your head around, staring up at him in shock. His eyes slide shut right away, jaw clenched, and he lets out a deep sigh. When he looks at you again, his gaze is full of regret.

“Sorr-”

“I’ll take the stairs,” you snap, turning on your heel and marching toward the stairwell.

“Y/n-” You hear him follow behind you, even as the elevator dings with its arrival. You throw the door open, ignoring as it slams against the wall, and stomp down the five flights of stairs. He barely stops the door from shutting in his face, his voice echoing in the empty hallway as he flies down the steps after you. “Y/n, come on-”

“Fuck you,” you spit, refusing to look at him even as he’s catching up to you on the landing between the third and fourth floors.

He wraps his hand around your bicep, spinning you around to him. “I’m sorry, okay? That was fucked up-”

You snatch your arm back. “Why did you follow me, Akaashi? You want your 20% now or something? Sorry, I have to transfer it over to my bank first, if that’s fucking okay with you.”

His face scrunches up in irritation. “That’s not what I was saying-”

“You want me to cover your lunch? How’s that? You worried I’m not good for my word?” You spin back around, continuing your march. He sighs angrily behind you.

“You’re so fucking insufferable sometimes,” he snaps.

“Then cut your losses and get out while you can, asshole.”

He’s silent for a moment as he follows you, and then he’s bitter with his response. “You need me.”

You whirl around, cornering him against the wall by the fire exit on the first floor. Your voice drops to a hiss, rage seething in your veins as you lean up into his face. “I’d rather be homeless than fuck you again, Akaashi Keiji.”

He grits his teeth, and he takes your face in one hand, fingertips digging into your cheeks and squeezing tight. You let out a quiet noise of surprise, eyes widening marginally. His eyes are dead of emotion now, but you can see in the fluttering clench of his jaw that he’s angry with you.

“Don’t-” He squeezes your face and pulls you closer, breath fanning out over your lips. “-make threats you can’t follow through on, Y/n.” He lifts his brows knowingly. “You need me.”

You shudder in his grasp, eyes flicking between his and chest heaving with angry breaths. There’s a moment of panic in your chest, because you do need him. You do need him, but he doesn’t need you.

Then why is he so adamant about keeping you?

You scan him quickly, realizing that his chest is heaving, too. That he looks just as frustrated – that his eyebrow is twitching and that his eyes are searching yours. That he’s swallowing hard, waiting for your response.

He needs this, too. You don’t know why, but that much is clear to you. And it’s enough.

“What’s wrong, Akaashi?” you murmur, watching his eyes drop to your lips when you respond. “Worried I’ll find someone else to fuck and throw you away?” 

His fingers tighten on your face, but you see it – the panic that you feel, reflected in his eyes. It makes your chest swell with satisfaction, and something else you can’t place. Something like relief.

“Shut up,” he hisses. “Shut up, Y/n-”

His phone rings in his coat pocket, loud and jarring and ripping you right out of this moment with him. His eyes widen, and you raise a hand to smack his arm away, and then you stumble back as he fumbles for his phone.

It’s Bokuto, if the muffled screaming on the other end is enough to tell you anything.

“Hi, Bokuto,” Akaashi mutters, the heat in his voice gone – the polite, sweet, soft-spoken walls coming right back up, brick by brick. “Yeah. I’m on my way.” His eyes flick to you, empty. “Yeah. She’s with me.” He stares right into your eyes, that dead expression solidifying on his face. “Yes. I’ll tell her to check her many messages.”

You pat your pockets quickly, wondering how you could have been so caught up with Akaashi that you’d missed something. Your eyes go wide when you look at the screen – it’s been ten minutes since you’d said you’d meet them for lunch, and Bokuto’s spam-called you six times.

[2:36 PM]

Kou: Y/N!!!!!!! ARE YOU OKAYYYYYYY??????

You type back a quick response.

[2:41 PM]

You: yes omg sorry im omw now

Kou: PLEASE DONT BE FIGHTING WITH AKAASHIIIIII

You: we’re not i promise!!! be there soon

“We’re not gonna have time to eat,” you mumble to yourself – you both need to be in Syntax in twenty minutes. Akaashi brushes past you, heading out the fire exit door.

“Walk fast and eat faster, then.”

You follow behind, sighing heatedly. “I hate you,” you bite under your breath.

“Yeah, well-” His long strides don’t have any intention of accommodating you as he heads to the dining hall. “-I’m not so fucking fond of you, either.”

By the time lunch is over, even Kuroo’s texting you asking if something had happened.

–

Tuesday morning doesn’t go much better.

You’re still angry from the day before, short of patience as you get ready to bike to the LEM meeting and already itching for another fight by the time you settle into one of the chairs in the lab room. Other people file in slowly, and you manage to mask your anger long enough to smile at everyone and ask about their weekend. Your advisor pats you on the shoulder in a fatherly way when he enters, sighing deep as he settles in beside you.

“You’re not presenting today, right?” he asks, checking his phone for emails idly.

“No, I don’t have the pilot data yet,” you mumble regretfully. He just shrugs, shaking his head.

“You have a lot going on. No need to stress about it just yet.” And then he eyes you over his bifocals. “Have you figured something out, though?”

You warm, because Akaashi’s cologne is drifting into the room, just over your shoulder. You know that he’s heard it, because he lingers for just long enough before moving to the TV that you can tell he’d been caught off guard.

“Yes,” you say under your breath, your ears burning. “I figured something out, thank you. I should be good to start data collection next week.”

“Good to hear.” Your advisor nods, and you let out a steadying breath. “Okay,” he says, louder and to the group, clapping his hands. “We have Keiji for updates first, and then-” he points between two of your other cohort-mates. “-you two can fight over who goes next.”

You watch Akaashi go straight into his 20-minute run, explaining some updates he’d made to his theoretical framing and some more thoughts he has for his dissertation. You, as usual, are convinced of his logic, but there’s something about the way he refuses to look at you – cyan eyes passing over you like you’re a ghost – that makes your blood boil. Something about the way he nearly rolls his eyes when he accidentally does meet your gaze, because he can certainly see the burning anger all over your face.

Maybe that’s why – even though you don’t have a single piece of criticism to give him – you open your mouth when he asks ‘Any questions?’ in that gentle tone you hate so much.

“I have one.”

Everyone’s head whips around to you, because you never speak during Akaashi Keiji’s Q&A session. 

But it’s Akaashi’s reaction that spurs you on. His eyes fly to yours when he hears your voice, and you watch shock, confusion, irritation, and – finally – vague interest flit across his face in a matter of milliseconds.

“Okay?” he says, the confusion slipping through in the uptick of his voice.

“Your proposed analysis – what are the implications it has for research testing native Korean speakers?”

He lifts one eyebrow, and you feel the room shift. 

“You’re asking me-” The other brow joins in now. “-how my research applies to yours?”

You clench your jaw, searching his gaze. He’d said it like he was offended, but you can see he’s pushing you. “I’m asking how your analysis can be used by other linguists in the field – not just to study the grammar of native Korean speakers theoretically, but to study the grammar empirically. With real data-”

“I have data-”

“You have judgments,” you snap. “Native Korean speaker judgments from your consultants. Two consultants, yes?” He nods, and you nod back. “Right. And you expect your two consultants’ individual grammars to speak systematically for the whole of the Korean grammar?”

It’s a cheap shot, but a valid one – for someone else. Not for Akaashi. You know this well enough, that the primary job of theoretical syntacticians is to formulate analyses and proposals of a language’s grammar. You know well enough that it’s not his job to figure out if his analysis will make the cut if tested with a large sample of speakers.

That’s your job. And the job of experimentalists more broadly. It’s your job to take his theory and prove it right or wrong. It’s only his job to craft his logic and evidence in a way that makes the argument worth proving.

And Akaashi knows that, too.

“What would you like me to do, Y/n?” he asks tightly. “Would you like me to run the experiment myself and put you out of a job?”

“Okay-” your advisor starts to cut in, but you speak over him.

“What about all the previous research, Akaashi? The research that’s tested syntactic analyses which differ from yours but still find supporting results? Would you like the field to throw all that away and believe you instead? How do you account for those findings? What’s the bigger picture?”

His eyes light up, molten hot. “What I’d like is a unified syntax of Korean case marking, which the field has been missing for decades. It’s up to someone like you to test my theory; it’s up to someone like me to take your results and update my analysis, over and over and over again until we get it right. That’s what linguistics is about.”

You lean forward, elbows digging into the wooden table. It’s quiet enough in the room that you can hear him breathing across the room, ragged and rough and irritated.

“If you want someone like me to go through the trouble of testing your theory, you should do a better job of convincing me it’s worth my time.” You glare hard at him, your heart skipping when you watch that wall come down. He looks exactly the same, poised and perfect and well-mannered, but his eyes betray how badly he wants to tell you exactly what’s on his mind. 

So you smile at him, cold and mocking, and push him over the edge. “Or else linguistics will move on without you.”

“Okay!” you advisor says, looking between you and Akaashi with wide eyes. “I think we get it, you two. Let’s move on to someone else, please – I’m too old for this.”

You stand quickly, the chair scraping across the floor, and barge from the room. 

“Y/n!” your advisor calls just as the door is slamming behind you. A moment later, you hear his voice again, muffled. “Keiji!”

The door swings open, and the sound of the lab erupting in chaos echoes through the hall, your advisor’s ‘okay, okay, settle down everyone-’ muted by the door shutting again.

“What the hell is your problem?” Akaashi bites behind you, and you glance back while you walk, finding him stalking after you. You roll your eyes, heading for your office. 

“You heard my problem. Your research is isolated and inapplicable-”

“Inapplicable-”

“Goodbye, Akaashi,” you snap, unlocking the door and shouldering your way inside. You throw it shut behind you, but his hand slams down on the wood, startling you. You whirl around with wide eyes and watch him slam the door, the frosted glass window rattling from the force. The two of you are left in the silence of your office, both of your breaths audible in the space between you.

“Inapplicable?” he hisses again, eyes glinting.

“What do you want me to say, Akaashi?” you bark, letting him get in your face. “You want me to just ignore that you’re not thinking about the consequences of your own research?” You poke him hard in the chest. “If you don’t take responsibility for the work you’re putting out into the field, then don’t expect me to be okay with fumbling to use your grammar to explain my data.”

He pushes forward, cornering you against your desk. “That’s exactly what your job is, Y/n. It’s your responsibility to figure out what speakers are doing, just like it’s my responsibility to figure out how to explain that. And you’re not stupid enough to believe otherwise. We need each other-”

“No, what I need-” You stand tall, feeling his breath mingle with yours in the space between your lips. “-is to not be handed another ‘grammar of Korean’ that’s been decreed into a fucking void.”

He doesn’t say a word, just letting his eyes flit between yours angrily. He’s breathing hard, just as hard as you are, and his eyebrows are twitching as he glares down at you. You hold your ground, whispering an admission to him.

“You might be a genius, Akaashi, but you really need to be put in your place sometimes.”

You watch in real time as his demeanor changes.

The anger drains from his body language and his face, leaving him with shock and a lip that’s curling in amusement as he stares down at you with wide eyes.

“Oh, is that right?” he breathes. “And-what? You think you’re gonna do that for me?” You start to protest, but he just takes a step forward, sudden and forceful, and you take a surprised seat on the desk with a gasp. He towers over you, that smile dangerous. “You really think you can do that, Y/n? When you aren’t even confident enough in your own work?”

Your brows furrow, offended. “What-”

“With your shy little smile and your uncertain little laugh when you present to the lab-” he whispers, breath fanning over you as you stare up at him. “With that fucking look you get in your eye,” he growls under his breath. “Like you don’t know what to make of your own research. Of your own skills. Makes me fucking sick.”

You try to stand, but he just leans down, planting his hands on either side of you. His nose brushes yours, and his eyes fill with a heat that isn’t anger. It’s something else, and you can’t place it.

He lifts his eyebrows. “You think you can put me in my place? That would mean we’re on the same level, wouldn’t it? Is that what you’re saying?” When you don’t respond, he speaks slower, like he’s talking down to you. 

“Are you a genius, too, Y/n?”

You scowl at him. “I’m not beneath you, Akaashi. I never have been.”

He shifts, and you finally place it – that heat in his eyes, the one that burns through you and makes your heart race.

It’s excitement.

It excites him to fight with you like this.

And the smile that stretches across his face, tinged with what you can only describe as pride, is starting to excite you, too. Because fighting with him feels good. Because you can see that it makes him feel good, too. It feels good to be pushed like this, to show someone else who you really are and be accepted for that, good or bad. 

Especially the bad. 

This may be the first time you’ve ever been glad that Akaashi Keiji treats you differently.

He steps impossibly closer to you, and you find your thighs parting to let him into the space before you can realize it. His smile grows, and his breath hitches in time with the lurch of anticipation that fills you, because he’s leaning down over you, forcing you to collapse back onto your elbows.

“If you’re a genius, Y/n,” he whispers, carding his fingers ever so gently through your hair. You shudder, chest heaving with a gasp when he pulls taut, fisting your hair painfully in his hand. His eyes twinkle with that terrifying excitement that makes your veins sing for him, and you’re distantly aware that he’s hard against your inner thigh. “Then I want you to fucking act like it.”

The shaky breath you let out is laced with a moan, and his gaze flies down to your lips, his smile stretching into something wild and wicked. He meets your eyes again, that blue-green gaze piercing when he asks–

“Do you think you can do that?”

You shiver, the reaction visceral and entirely visible to him. He smiles and whispers ‘I thought so’, his breath forming goosebumps on your skin.

And then there’s a hard knock on your office door.

“Y/n?” your advisor calls, his blurry shadow visible through the window as he stands just on the other side of the door – on the other side of the terribly compromising position Akaashi has you in on your desk.

Your breath catches, and you struggle against him. “Akaashi-”

He pulls you up quickly with wide eyes, and you both frantically fix your appearances in silence for the half-second it takes you to call ‘It’s open!’ to the door. Akaashi latches onto your arm and drags you forward in a panic, stepping behind you to partially shield himself from view – you have to keep from snickering, because the door’s being pushed open cautiously. 

Your advisor stands in the doorway, examining the two of you with wary eyes. “Are you both alive and in one piece?”

You and Akaashi nod. “Sorry for storming out like that,” you say. “I was… a bit heated.”

The old man snorts. “Oh, really? I couldn’t tell. We had to end early because no one could focus.” He looks over your head at Akaashi. “And you left all your stuff in the lab. Were you heated, too?”

Akaashi clears his throat. “Uh… a bit?”

Your advisor sighs and shakes his head. “I’m gonna start putting you two through hell if you don’t cut it out. Force you to say nice things about each other, or look into each other’s eyes for a full minute, or something.” 

You laugh nervously. “We’re fine. Sorry.”

He rolls his eyes but moves on. “Did you both apply for Ling Expo? We talked about it in the meeting, but some members of the group went missing.”

You flush, shifting your weight. Akaashi’s fingers find the back of your shirt, tugging you back to where you were so he can remained covered. 

“Yes,” he says behind you. “I submitted the abstract last week.” 

You nod in agreement. “Me, too.”

The man sighs, nodding back. “We’re all going again this year, so make sure to block the weekend of November 15th off.” You both make noises of understanding, and he takes a moment to look between you. His eyes narrow as he examines you, and then Akaashi over your head, and then you again. He purses his lips and hums. “There’s something about this situation that makes me want to make you leave this door open, but I’m not your father, so…” 

A rush of heat washes over you, and Akaashi coughs awkwardly behind you. 

“Are you allowed to say that?” he mumbles, and your advisor throws his head back, giving a belly laugh as he shakes his head. 

“It’s none of my business what you two get up to in your free time.”

You chuckle nervously. “Are you allowed to say that?”

His laugh, loud and booming and satisfied, can be heard down the hall long after he’s gone.

–

Keiji collapses into his chair, slumping down over his desk and burying his face in his folded arms.

“Fuck,” he groans, muffled and inaudible outside of himself. He thumps a fist on the desk twice, overwhelming embarrassment flooding every cell in his body.

What the hell was he thinking, cornering you against your desk like that? Why is he entirely incapable of containing himself when he’s alone with you? What had you done to him – what witchcraft has taken hold over him?

When he’d woken up on Sunday, he’d spent several hours in a puddle of dread, unmoving from his bed as he’d stared at the ceiling and contemplated what to do. He’d chalked most of his behavior from the party up to the alcohol, but he also knows himself well enough to know that he’d only acted that way because those feelings – those desires that had been threaded under his skin – were lingering somewhere unreachable inside him.

He’d decided by the end of the day that he would need to overcompensate in order to keep your mutual friends from catching on to the fact that there’s a live wire inside him that sparks dangerously every time he even so much as thinks about you. He would need to be more detached than ever if he were to stand any chance of keeping this arrangement with you a secret.

And then he’d overdone it, in that cafe yesterday morning. He’d ignored you deliberately, and he could feel almost instantly when your energy had shifted. And when he’d seen you pass by his class, he’d been a mix of surprised – because seeing you had thrown his heart into his throat and had scattered his thoughts like loose paper – and desperate not to let his students see that he’d lost his train of thought. So he’d scowled at you like you were the last thing he’d ever want to see, and, in the midst of rattling off knowledge that’s been sitting idly in the back of his mind for years, he’d felt a twinge of regret that he’d reacted that way.

And he’d known that you were coming to check in on him. He’d known – by the way you’d lingered at his door, by the way your weight had shifted, by the way your steps had sounded so uncertain – that you were confused. That you wanted to know why he was acting this way. But he’d felt an overwhelming panic at the idea that you might be able to sense his real feelings for what they are – that you’d be able to see just by looking at him that he’s almost concerningly attracted to you. So he’d lashed out over text, and then he’d lashed out at the elevator bay, because even when you’d called him an ‘icy bitch’, all he could focus on was the snarky edge to your voice and how badly he’d wanted to smother it.

When you’d threatened – emptily, but anxiety-inducing nonetheless – to put this arrangement to bed and move on from him, he’d lost his mind in that stairwell. He’d lost his mind, and he’d let his nerves show. And you’d latched onto them instantly, because, as he’s coming to learn, you can read him a little too well.

And that’s terrifying.

It’s terrifying to wonder, in a room full of all of Keiji’s peers – in front of his own advisor, for fuck’s sake – if his attraction to you when you level him with that challenging glare is as palpable to everyone else as it is to him.

It’s terrifying to wonder if you can see what a confused, muddled mess of a man he’s become since sleeping with you. Ricocheting between wanting you and hating you and somewhere right in the middle, where he feels both.

He’s found himself in that middle ground often over the last 48 hours.

And then he’d cornered you against your desk, not even ten minutes ago, and bullied you to your limit – forcing the admission of your own capabilities from your lips like psychological torture, entirely unable to hide how much that had excited him. How much it had affected him, watching you fold like that for him. 

But you’d shown yourself to him, too. You’d shown him how excited you’d gotten when you’d realized how he was feeling. You’d shown him that this terrible, confusing knot of uncontainable want that twists in his gut when he meets your eyes– 

It’s mutual.

And that – that is more dangerous than anything before it.

Keiji sits up, hands shaking slightly as he presses circles into his temples and leans back in his chair. He slides his laptop in front of him and opens it, navigating to the site for Ling Expo in order to clear his thoughts.

A small part of a much larger conference event that hosts multiple different departments all engaging in their own specialized events for three days straight, Ling Expo is held every year in mid-November and boasts the largest gathering of linguistic scholars in the whole of Japan.

At least, that’s what it says on the home page when he scrolls through it.

In reality, the LEM members – all students of his advisor – are carted away for a weekend to Tokyo’s largest hotel and conference center, regardless of whether or not any of them are presenting. He gets out of a Friday of teaching and spends three days networking, and – luckily – hanging out with his friends, because every department at this university has a group that goes.

Thankfully, it’s all paid for by the university. And, hopefully, he might not find himself in any weird academic standoffs with you this year. The two of you had always been careful not to let your rivalry become clear externally, because that reeks of a lack of professionalism, but there was always something that would tip the weekend into a mess of underhanded comments and awkward encounters in the extensive buffet line.

Maybe this time, things would be different.

Well, things are already different, so he’s not really fooling himself with this positive thinking. Because different could be good or bad.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket, and he closes the tab for Ling Expo while he extracts it. It’s a text sent to the group chat of the larger friend group, only ever used when Bokuto’s too impatient to text both of his smaller groups.

[12:17 PM]

Bokuto: DID YOU GUYS SEE THERES A NEW CLUB OPENING TODAY???? 

Bokuto: WE H A V E TO GO!!!!

Keiji sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The last thing he needs is to get caught in another terrifying encounter with you, especially at some crowded club with all his friends there to witness it, but he knows how Bokuto can get when he’s told no. So he just opens his calendar, checking what else he would have had planned tonight.

There’s nothing, but there is something for tomorrow night that catches his eye and makes his heart lurch.

‘Research Updates’ is blocked off from 8pm to midnight, seemingly innocuous. Just as it had been on Saturday morning, from 8am to noon.

He sighs, staring down at the scheduled time. Is that still happening? Surely, it would be, right? 

But, things between you the last two days had been anything but cordial. And you had threatened to end the arrangement, even if it had been empty. 

You text the group chat back, an agreement to go, and he sighs quietly.

He supposes he can go, too.

–

The booming music pounds in Keiji’s head as he squints around in the dark. There’s a pair of hands on his shoulders, guiding him through a sea of people he would rather not be pressed into at the moment. He’s glad he’d decided to change into jeans and a t-shirt, because the slacks-button-down combo would have him soaked in sweat already.

And he’s especially glad you decided to change into a slinky black dress that he never would have guessed that you would own. You’re pushing through the crowd just in front of him now, and he’s sneaking glances down at you as the group fights to find an empty booth.

“There!” Bokuto eventually yells, stretching one of the hands on Keiji’s shoulder out over the distance, locating a singular empty booth. Keiji flinches at the noise, but he follows after you, anyway. You’ve got two hands on Yachi, who has two hands on Kuroo, who has two hands on Tsukishima, who’s complaining while he parts the crowd with his massive frame and leads the group to the table.

Keiji contemplates putting two hands on you, too, because it’s objectively most efficient for keeping the group together. But he doesn’t know how you’ll react – not after his total lapse in judgment in your office earlier. He doesn’t know if you even want him to touch you, now that your head’s probably a bit clearer than it’d been while you’d been trapped under him.

But then there’s a rush of people bumping into him, and he loses you for a moment, so he reaches out as soon as he finds you again – he justifies it as listening to instructions, because Bokuto’s screaming ‘Grab onto her, Akaashi!’ in his ear.

His hands slide across your waist, and a shiver runs down his spine at how you feel under his fingers. You jump at the contact and glance back in panic, probably thinking he’s some weird stranger trying to make a move. When you see it’s just him, you relax a little, but then your eyes fill with nerves, and you’re whipping your head back around to face away from him.

The crowd sways and shifts, forcing the line of you to bunch up in order to not be separated. Bokuto stumbles forward at some point, propelling Keiji right into you. You yelp, tripping, but he catches you, hauling you back against his chest. His breath catches and his heart rate picks up at the feeling of you pressed against him – your perfume wafts over him, and he finds himself leaning down close to your shoulder to breathe it in.

“What are you doing?” you hiss, tensing when his left hand subtly leaves the safety of your waist and slides around you, nestling you back against him more.

“Nothing,” he mumbles back, swallowing and retracting his hand back to your waist. “Just-nothing.”

You glance up at him, hearing his fumble, but it must be too dark to see the flush that spreads across his cheeks, because you only look forward again and focus on following Yachi. He examines you while the group nears the shockingly still-empty booth – he realizes your dress is riding up your thighs, likely from the stumbling and shoving that’s happening in this crowd right now. It rides up enough that he can see the lace edge of your pantyline, and he has to swallow hard, distracted by a memory of lace in other ways.

He reaches down, shielded by the dark, and tugs on the hem of your dress, pulling it back down over your ass. You yelp, looking up at him with alarm.

“Akaashi!” 

He shakes his head tightly, turning you back to the front and leaning down toward you. “Your ass was out – I was fixing it-”

You sigh loudly, turning your mouth to his ear. “You can’t just put your hands on me like that-”

“I can’t?” he bites, not an ounce of heat behind it. “You were fine with it earlier-” He grunts, because you’re driving an elbow into his gut.

“Dumbass,” you grumble, but he sees the warmth in your ears, and he smiles despite himself. 

Tsukishima reaches the table, and the six of you pile into the rounded booth that’s certainly not meant for six. Keiji’s chest presses against your shoulder, and you’re kind enough to angle your body with his so that you’re not digging into his chest painfully. Bokuto calls out across the table.

“I’ll get drinks!” He disappears back into the crowd, and Keiji wonders for a moment if Bokuto can carry enough drinks for six people. Kuroo seems to have the same thought, the man smacking Tsukishima on the arm and pointing out into the ocean of bodies.

“Go with him!”

The blond shakes his head forcefully. “No fucking way – you go!”

Kuroo groans but pushes Tsukishima out of the booth so he can stumble back into the crowd. Keiji relaxes with a sigh as the four of you left fill the booth more comfortably. Yachi starts rambling brightly to Tsukishima about the club, making comments about the music and the dancing. The blond just blinks back at her with empty, unseeing eyes, nodding occasionally. Keiji gets the feeling he can’t hear a word she’s saying.

You shift next to Keiji, your thigh bumping against his, and he finds himself tracing his gaze over your body while you look out at the dance floor. You feel him looking, and you glance up at him with a raised eyebrow. 

“Don’t tell me you’re about to ask me to dance,” you say, your voice barely audible to him. He just tilts his head and gives you a knowing look.

“I don’t dance, Y/n.”

“Oh, you’re so cool,” you mock, cooing at him. He narrows his eyes at you, excitement spilling into his body when he sees how you tense at the glare. It makes him feeler bold – bold, like he’d been in your office, even though he’d sworn to himself only moments after that he wouldn’t do that again.

He swears you’ve cast some sort of curse on him.

He brushes two fingers over your thigh, tugging at the hem of the dress before letting it snap back to your skin. “Where’d you get this?”

You warm, looking up at him with practiced disinterest, but he can feel when your breath changes. “I’ve had it forever.”

“I like it.”

You purse your lips, frowning up at him. “You’re being weird.”

“Am I?” he asks, letting those two fingers trace circles into your thigh and smiling when he feels the goosebumps on your skin. Your eyes flit around his face, and he can see that, under the confusion, there’s anticipation. You’re waiting for him to do something.

“Y/n, look!” Yachi yells next to you, and Keiji pulls his hand back into his lap. He watches as you try, still flustered by him, to follow your friend’s excited pointing into crowd. He tampers a satisfied smile, only pulling his gaze away from you.

It lands on Tsukishima, who’s watching Keiji blankly.

Keiji’s heart drops to his stomach.

The blond flicks his eyes between the two of suspiciously, and then his gaze drops to Keiji’s throat, because he’s swallowing nervously. Tsukishima lifts both eyebrows and then looks away, returning to Yachi’s excited monologue about the well-planned design of the club architecture and decor.

Keiji’s skin hums with adrenaline and anxiety. What is he supposed to do if Tsukishima questions him? Or worse – tells Kuroo?

As if summoned by the devil, Bokuto and Kuroo reappear – they’re holding two trays of shot glasses each, and Keiji stares in shock as Bokuto lines up five shots in front of Keiji.

“Those are for you!” his friend exclaims, doing the same for you. Keiji stares at the shots.

“This’ll put me in the hospital, Bokuto-”

“I have to teach tomorrow,” you add, giving a laugh of exasperation. Bokuto waves it off.

“A problem for tomorrow!” he yells, already picking up one of his own shot glasses. He holds it out toward the middle of the table. “To new experiences!”

Keiji sighs, lifting one of his up, too, to clink against Bokuto’s, and the rest of the table follows.

“To new experiences,” he mumbles, knocking the shot back.

–

Well, Bokuto hadn’t been lying about new experiences, Keiji thinks drunkenly.

His head swims as he stares down at the five empty shot glasses in front of him, wondering where his drinks had gone. You sway beside him, holding a cocktail in both hands as you sip at it – your shot glasses are equally empty, and Keiji’s not exactly sure where you’d pulled an extra drink from.

He watches through blurry vision as Yachi and Bokuto wriggle wildly on the dance floor together, far away enough that he can only tell it’s them by their ridiculous height difference. Kuroo and Tsukishima sit huddled on the other end of the booth, heads bent together as they whisper likely obscene things to each other.

Keiji had worried for about thirty minutes that Tsukishima would tell Kuroo what he’d seen, but the blond seems to have decided that it’s none of his business what happens in this club tonight. Keiji’s grateful for it, especially now that he can see Tsukishima slipping out of the booth, his hand tight in Kuroo’s and both their faces flushed from whatever they’d just talked about. They disappear in the direction of the bathroom, and Keiji snorts to himself.

“‘s one way to do it,” he mumbles, and you lean toward him heavily.

“Hah?” you say, your body pressed against his. “What’dya say?”

“Nothin’,” he slurs, shaking his head. And then he looks down at you, taking you in. Taking in the fact that the two of you have been left alone here in the dark, still visible but not noticeable. He shifts his body toward yours, pressing your sides together while he reaches to pluck your drink from your hands. “What’s this?”

“Hey,” you pout, reaching for it, but he just holds it behind him, forcing you to lean up into his face. Your eyes go wide when you realize how close his are, and he grins down at you, open and unfiltered.

“What is it, Y/n? Can I try?”

“No!” you complain, pressing your body against his as you stretch for the drink. Keiji slips his free arm around your waist, pulling you close.

“Just one sip?”

Your outstretched hand drops to his shoulder, and you say nothing about the arm he has around you. “You’re annoying,” you mumble, glaring hazily up at him. “Get yer own drink.”

He tilts his head toward you, the tequila in his breath mixing with the vodka in yours. “But I wanna taste yours,” he whispers, and your cheeks warm – he hadn’t meant anything sexual by it, but he’s not complaining if you’re taking it that way.

He lifts your drink to his lips, keeping his eyes on you and reveling in the way yours drop to his mouth, and takes a sip. It’s just a Vodka Cranberry, which he’d already guessed by the scent of your breath. He puts it back down on the table, letting you have it again. “Thank you,” he jokes.

“Whatever,” you mutter, cradling the drink again. “Why’ve you been so mean to me this week?”

“Aw,” he coos. “Did I hurt your feelings?”

“Yeah,” you say plainly, pouting. “You made me mad. Made me wanna do bad things.”

Desire spikes in Keiji’s body. “What kinda bad things?”

“Made me wanna be mean to you, too,” you say, oblivious to the way Keiji’s looking at you now. “Made me wanna hurt your feelings, too.”

“You did do that,” he says, laughing at you. “You were so mean.”

“Not mean enough!” you argue, leaning comfortably against him as he holds you. His hand gravitates from his lap to yours, the fingers he’d just had on your drink now cold and damp against your heated skin. You shiver at his touch, and he feels his jeans start to tighten. He draws small circles into your thigh with the pad of his middle finger, his intentions plausibly deniable even though his knuckles brush up against the hem of your dress every time.

“You don’t think calling my work ‘isolated and inapplicable’ is mean enough?” he coos down at you, watching with satisfaction as your lips part and you let out a shaky breath, because his middle finger is slipping once under the hem of your dress before completing the circle. He feels a shock of excitement fly down his spine and spread out across his skin, that live wire sparking in his chest.

He glances out briefly at the dance floor, confirming that Bokuto and Yachi are still jumping around and that Kuroo and Tsukishima have completely disappeared. He’s glad to know that he has more time with you. More time to slide his cold fingers across your flushed skin, more time to feel your body press tight to his. The thought of getting caught like this – with his arm wrapped around you and his fingers hidden under your dress – passes through his mind, and he can’t help that the live wire crackles dangerously, or that his jeans are uncomfortably tight on him now. But, still, he’s glad that no one’s seeing what’s going on over here.

He doesn’t want to share this with anyone else quite yet.

“Hey,” you grumble in his ear, low and whiny enough to make his cock twitch painfully. You grip his face with one hand, turning him back to you. Keiji stares down at you with wide eyes, his breath caught in his chest when you glare up at him and mumble, “You’re not payin’ attention t’me.”

He lets out a weak laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry – were you saying somethin’ important?”

Your pout deepens, and Keiji feels himself leaning toward you, his eyes fixated on your mouth.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding. “I was talkin’ about how you deserve to be bullied.”

He huffs in amused disbelief, just staring down at you. “Y/n.”

“Hm?”

“I have a question.”

“Mm?” You tilt your head, attention his. He starts running his fingers over your skin again, watching when you shiver.

“Are we still meeting tomorrow? Or was I too mean this week?” He swallows hard, hoping you’ll understand what he’s asking. If things are too tense between you – if the arrangement can’t be recovered, after all of his screw-ups this week. 

Your eyes widen, flitting between his, and he grows a little nervous. But then your face warms, and you shift under his fingers, and your eyes drop quickly to his mouth before lifting again.

“I thought we were…” you breathe. “Are we not?”

His skin hums with the need to feel you underneath him again, the possibility of having that tomorrow night no longer hanging in the balance. But still, he has to check. “Not gonna find someone else to fuck ‘n throw me away?”

You giggle at his quote of your own words, and you shake your head. “Unfortunately for me, there’s no one else who meets all my requirements.” You grin up at him, your eyes full of humor, as though what you say next is stupidly obvious.

“‘s gotta be you, 'Kaashi.”

Keiji really regrets sleeping with you.

–

On Wednesday at 7:30pm, you find yourself slapping your hand around on the bedside table for the alarm that’s going off. You find your phone, shutting it off and tossing it down on the bed next to you. 

You’d woken up at 7am this morning, dreadfully hungover, and dragged yourself to campus to teach. You’d stayed in the department until the very first moment that you were no longer needed, and then you’d Uber’d home, throwing your stuff on the floor in your foyer and climbing back into bed.

You repeat the process now, but you feel significantly better after the extra sleep. Instead of the hangover, however, your brain is burdened by the knowledge that Akaashi will be showing up at your door in thirty minutes. You groan, not for the first time today, at the memory of the humiliating things you’d said and done last night. At the way you’d draped yourself all over him and pouted up at him like an idiot, admitting that he’d gotten to you with his behavior this week.

At the way you’d admitted that there can be no one but him in this stupid arrangement.

You grumble the entire time you wait, stomping around the apartment until you hear his knock at your door.

When you wrench the door open, he looks mildly unsettled, and you know that means he’s as nervous as you.

“Hi.” He shifts his weight awkwardly, hoisting his duffel bag high on his shoulder. He flits his eyes around your face and then down to your pajamas, brows lifting. “Did you just wake up?”

“I took a five-hour nap,” you sigh, letting him in.

“Did you not eat dinner?” he asks, setting his bag down in the spot by the couch that’s slowly becoming his.

“No,” you mumble, wandering into the kitchen and digging through the pantry. “Not super hungry, anyway – just hungover.”

“Oh.” His voice sounds a bit tense, and you realize belatedly that he might have been asking if you wanted to eat dinner with him. You purse your lips, groaning to yourself. Things are still uncomfortable with him – how could they not be? You’ve spent the week bouncing back and forth between being insatiably furious with him and completely folding whenever he gets too close. Even if he seems to have reciprocated some of the confusing feelings wracking your brain lately, it can’t be easy to be dragged back and forth by your mood swings.

You emerge from the kitchen holding out a packet of smores pop-tarts to him, the strawberry flavor open in your other hand. He stares down at it and then takes it, eyes on yours. “Thanks.”

“Your leftovers from Saturday are still there,” you offer, nodding back to the kitchen. “If you want them.”

“Man, you really do hate kung pao chicken,” he jokes lamely, swallowing hard as he opens the silver packaging. You wander toward your room with an awkward sigh. 

“Uhm… how many videos should we film today?” You flick your lights on and move to the closet, leaving your pop-tarts on the dresser. There’s a creak in your doorway, and you glance back to find Akaashi leaning against the door frame, his fingers tapping on the crinkly wrapper while he chews slow and drags his eyes around your room.

“Dunno… Three? Four?” He flicks his eyes to you and then away again. “Same deal as last time? Foreplay first, then sex?”

You nod, digging through your drawer full of lingerie. You look him over briefly, ignoring when he tenses under your gaze. He’s wearing baggy, light blue jeans and a form-fitting black t-shirt, tucked into his belt. You hum, plucking a simple white set from the dresser and then reaching into your closet for a pair of shorts and a baby pink graphic tee, a cute strawberry drawn on the front. You brandish the clothes at him in question.

“Girl-next-door enough?”

He nods, eyes lingering on the white lace in your left hand. “Sweet and innocent.”

You shrug jokingly. “Just like me.”

“Yeah, okay,” he snorts, shaking his head. You don’t move, and he lifts his brows at you as he’s lifting the chocolate-filled pastry to his mouth. “What?”

“Uh…” You give him an expectant look. “I have to change.”

“Oh–” He lifts off the door frame and turns in place, staring out into your living room. “Is this good?”

You roll your eyes and strip from your pajamas, tossing your shirt at the back of his head. He chokes on his snack upon contact, and you laugh while you pull the lingerie on. He clears his throat quietly.

“So… you think my research is inapplicable-”

You groan, your shoulders tensing in preparation for a fight. “Please, not now, Akaashi-”

“I’m just wondering if you meant that, or…” His voice is joking, and you know he’s just talking shit in order to fill the silence, but you’re still a little rough when you brush past him, fully dressed now.

“You know I didn’t,” you admit quietly, padding over to the spare room and hearing when he follows. “You said it yourself  – I’m not stupid enough to believe that.”

“But you said it.”

“You say a lot of things, too.” You glance at him while you fluff the pillows on the bed. ��What is this? Why are you picking a fight right now?”

He shakes his head simply. “Just making conversation.”

“Well, can you make conversation about anything else-”

“Like what?” he argues. “We can talk about research, or we can talk about what positions you want me to fuck you in today-”

“Okay,” you say, flushing. And then you swallow. “What… positions are we doing?”

Any heat that had been in his eyes melts away, and he lets out a breathless laugh. “Seriously?” When you shrug, a smile crosses his lips briefly before he’s smothering it. “Which one’s your favorite?”

Your eyes go wide, and you start to fluff the pillows more aggressively now, your face burning. “They’re all fine.”

“No,” he jokes, stepping close. You’d left your phone on the dresser by the door, and he brings it with him when he approaches you. “You definitely have a favorite.” He slips the device into your awaiting hand. “Tell me.”

You square your shoulders, scrolling through your apps to dim the string lights and change the color, bathing the room in a soft, pink glow. “It’s doggy,” you say without looking at him. “But they’re all fine.”

“Doggy,” he breathes back, nodding. “Understood.”

“Whatever,” you bite, gesturing to the bed in embarrassment. “Can we–?” 

He lifts his brows with a grin, waving you toward it. “By all means.”

You sigh, climbing onto the bed and pointing toward the selfie stick you keep on the desk. “I’ll just hold the phone for this first part.” Akaashi goes to get it, and you slot the phone into it with ease. “Okay. Ready.”

He props himself up next to you, both of you leaning against the headboard. You click record and fix the zoom, centering yourself in the frame.

“Okay,” you breathe, settling for looking at him in the camera, because you don’t know if you’re brave enough to meet his eye right now. “We’re good. Uhm…” You think quickly about how this should go. “Just look at something on your phone, maybe, and then come in whenever you think you should.” He reaches for his phone on the bedside table, and you joke nervously. “Not your email, though. Nerd.”

He scoffs, shaking his head with a hint of a smile. “Dumbass.”

You smile, refocusing the camera until neither of your faces are visible. You mess with your hair, watching the ends of it flutter on the screen, and trail your hand down your chest, kneading your breasts slowly and letting out slightly performative sighs. Your fingers dance along your thighs and between your legs briefly, and you see in the frame that Akaashi’s thumb has stopped scrolling. You don’t turn to look at him, but you do smile to yourself, watching his wrist start to go limp as he watches you, distracted. 

When you slide your hands under your shirt, your fingers moving the fabric as you squeeze and touch, Akaashi slowly moves to put his phone on the table. He shifts closer, turning his body toward yours, and his hand slides across your thigh. The touch makes you shiver, his palm searing hot on your skin and his fingers kneading at the inside of your thigh appreciatively. You hear him breathe in sharply, and then he presses his chest to your shoulder and drops his head to your neck.

The feeling of his lips on your skin is more intense than it had been on Saturday. You have no idea how, but you’re impossibly more sensitive tonight, and even the breath that fans over your throat between kisses has you panting. He sets two fingers on the wrist that you have hidden under your shirt, tugging your arm away from your body and angling you so he can fill the space.

His hand disappears under your top, and a quiet moan falls past your lips – because he’s cupping your breast, his palm warmer and larger than yours. You start to tremble, your stomach flipping with anticipation and desire every time his fingers move against you. You don’t know why everything feels so different tonight than it had only four days ago, but it feels like Akaashi’s experiencing the same.

His breath is ragged in your ear, and his lips are shaking slightly on your skin, even though all he’s done is touch you. His hand moves over your body almost nervously, fingers exploring in a way that falsely reminds you of anxious inexperience.

You turn toward him. “What’s with you?” you whisper, looking him over with wide eyes. He lifts his head, and you see that his pupils are blown wide. His cheeks are flushed slightly, and his lips are parted and wet. 

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. And then he tugs on your shirt. “Take this off.”

You hand him the camera stick, and he makes sure to keep you in frame when you peel your shirt off and toss it to the end of the bed. You kick your shorts off, too, while you’re at it, leaving you in your matching lingerie. He hands the camera back and scoots ever closer to you, his hand sliding across your body impatiently while he presses himself to you. You let your head drop and lean your weight against the headboard, letting him explore as he pleases.

When his fingers start to dip curiously between your thighs, that nervous anticipation is firing up. You spread your legs, breathing hard as you struggle to keep everything in frame, and he wastes no time, his middle two fingers sliding over your clothed core.

“Oh-” you moan loudly, much louder than you’d expected, given that he’s barely touched you.

Akaashi notices it too, it seems, because he lifts his head to stare at you, wide-eyed. “What was that?” he breathes, and you shake your head, your lips pursed in embarrassment.

“I was faking it,” you try, despite knowing what he’d told you last time about that.

He lifts his brows, and you see that it doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t buy it. “Liar.” He touches you again, circling your clit roughly through your panties. Your eyes widen, and your lips tremble when your breath comes out. He stares down at you in wonder, watching with a growing smile as you react much more intensely than you had on Saturday. “You’re sensitive today,” he notes quietly, a little satisfied.

You don’t bother denying it, not when he can clearly see how your body is reacting to him. “So are you,” you just whisper, eyes dropping to the front of his jeans. He’s already hard. “I haven’t touched you at all.”

He shakes his head, his fingers massaging into the wet spot in your panties with purpose. “‘s not a prerequisite.”

You lift your brows at the admission. “Good to know.”

He rolls his eyes. “Not like you’re gonna do anything with that information.” He pushes your panties to the side and touches his fingers to your soaked core, and you both gasp at the feeling. He breathes hard, eyes heated as he stares down at you. “You’re not brave enough.”

“Don’t-” you hiss through gritted teeth, resisting the urge to moan when his fingers push experimentally against your entrance. “-tempt me.” You reach your free hand toward his jeans, fully intent on unzipping them and touching him, but his hand comes down on your wrist – a smack of admonishment, gentle but firm. He narrows his eyes at you when you look at him in shock.

“I’m not gonna make it that easy for you, princess.” He pulls your thigh open over his legs to free up more space for himself, and then he’s dropping his head back to your neck and nudging against your entrance more seriously.

You’re wet enough that it only takes one try for both fingers to push into you, pressed against your walls and stretching you out. 

You gasp, your head falling back and bumping against the wall. “Oh, my God-”

Akaashi’s no better, his mouth open against your throat and his breath sharp and jagged. “Oh, fuck,” he breathes, his voice distracted and stunned. “Fuck.” 

“I’m,” you start, swallowing hard when he starts to move. “I’m not gonna last long-”

He groans, curling his fingers inside you and pressing hard against that spongy spot that makes you nervous. “I want you to squirt for me,” he breathes into your ear.

Your heart jumps into your throat. “What?” you say, high-pitched and shaky. “It’s-That’s not easy-”

You’re lying. It is easy for you, scarily so. And with the length of Akaashi’s fingers – with the way he knows how to press up against that spot every single time – it’s going to be so embarrassingly easy that you’re worried you might never live it down.

“I want it,” he breathes, persistent. He sounds a little urgent, bordering on desperate. “I want you to make a mess on my fingers.”

You whine, squirming against him as he picks up speed. You feel it forming, that pressure that’s different from the normal coil in your navel. “Uhm-I-” Your breath picks up, and his palm slaps against your skin when he slams his fingers into you again. The sting of it, repeated twice more, shoves you closer and closer to that dangerous pressure. “Mm-I’m gonna-” you heave, your body trembling in his arms and your hands struggling to keep the camera straight.

“Give it to me,” he whispers, groaning when your walls start to tighten around his fingers. “Be good and give it to me.”

You black out.

You black out, and you have no idea what happens when you do. You can’t feel anything, your entire body numb and light, floating on nothing. You feel your muscles spasm sporadically with the aftershocks, but you have no idea what had happened to get you here. Your hands are limp on the bed, but you can’t bring yourself to care if the camera had captured the moment. You feel Akaashi’s fingers still inside you – still moving – but you can’t do much more than listen as he pants in your ear and whispers ‘fuck, fuck, fuck,’ against the side of your head.

When you finally come to, you realize that you’re lying in a puddle. And Akaashi is hovering over you, his face flushed and his eyes full of disbelief and a burning heat.

“‘zzat good?” you slur, your head slumping against his shoulder, and he laughs against you, shaking his head.

“Holy shit, Y/n,” he breathes, laughing harder. “That was-fuck.” He jostles you gently. “Are you… Let me get you some water,” he says, shifting you, but you groan in protest.

“Did you come?” you breathe, dazed, and peel your eyes open to look at him.

“No.” 

“Then take your pants off,” you say, plain and direct. He looks into your eyes for just another moment, gaze tracking you and analyzing your energy, but you just level a frown at him. “Do you want to come or not, Akaashi?”

His brows lift, and his eyes flick down to the soaked blanket under you. When his gaze finds yours again, that heat is back.

He stands quickly, leaving you to shake the numbness out of your bones as he strips and moves impatiently to get the tripod. He sets your phone up with practiced fingers, and you sit up, shaking your head to clear it and sliding your panties and bra off.

“God, that was intense,” you breathe with a laugh. He glances back at you, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“You sure you’re good?”

“Super good.” You nod once, and then you beckon him toward you. “Hurry up, before I start to care what you think again and get embarrassed that that just happened.”

His burst of laughter echoes off the walls, and you feel pride at having drawn it out of him.

And then he climbs over you, and everything that’s not him fades into the background.

His eyes are steady on yours, but he moves with a decided lack of control, and that – his urgency – makes you more nervous than anything else. You lie back against the pillow and spread your legs for him, watching with bated breath as he shoves his boxers off impatiently and slots himself between your thighs. He leans over you, and one of his hands clamps down over your mouth while he lines himself up at your entrance.

He takes a breath, eyes flicking to yours, and you see the anticipation in them. Like he’d been waiting for this all week.

You’d been waiting, too, you realize.

He sinks into you in one press of his hips, and your back bows off the mattress. You moan loud against his palm, your eyes rolling back, and the groan he lets out – unfiltered, desperate – embeds itself into your skin. You struggle to breathe, to find your lungs when all you can feel is Akaashi inside you.

Your eyes focus and unfocus, searching uselessly for him while he slams his other hand down on the headboard to steady himself before setting a pace that makes your vision flicker. Your hands fly up, too, pressing back against the headboard to keep you from crashing into it. 

Akaashi’s hand falls from your mouth when he realizes that you’re not making noise, and it becomes clear that you can’t. Your mouth just hangs open, breath ragged and short while you gasp. Your eyes meet his, and he grins down at you.

“How’s that, princess?” he teases, panting tightly. “Still wanna find someone else to fuck? Or am I really the only one?”

He’s taunting you, torturing you. It makes some part of you angry – the part that hates him, so distant right now – and you try to argue.

“You’re only bitching-” You gasp sharply when the head of his cock bumps against your g-spot, scarily accurate like last time. “-because you got what you wanted-”

His next breath comes in a low growl, and he angles his hips so that he can hit your weak spot more easily. Your body shakes with each slam of his hips against yours, but you hold onto a shred of your sanity.

“You talk a lot of shit for someone who’s so needy for me-”

“Look in the mirror, asshole,” you bite, using every ounce of your energy to keep this up. But he presses two fingers against the seam of your lips, shoving them into your mouth. You choke around them, and he moans, because your walls flutter tightly around his cock at the feeling of his fingertips hitting the back of your throat.

“How ‘bout you shut the fuck up and get me off,” he snaps, gritting his teeth when your tongue curls wantonly around his fingers. “Maybe if you’re good at it, I’ll let you come again.”

You whine, despite yourself, and feel that twinge of need – the one that had reared its ugly head on Saturday. The need to give him what he wants, to fold for him and do what he says.

And then it hits you–

That this is what you’d felt all week.

That the gnawing in your chest and the frustration in your bones and the disorienting need to get his attention – good or bad – is exactly this. This need to bend to Akaashi Keiji’s will, because he’s got you wrapped around his finger.

You’re filled with an overwhelming rage, and you nip your teeth against his fingers – not hard enough to hurt, but definitely enough to shock his system.

Akaashi’s eyes go wide, and he hisses and draws his fingers from your mouth, wet and dripping saliva on your skin. “What the fuck?”

“You’re doing this on purpose,” you snarl, one of your hands leaving the headboard to shove against his chest. He stops moving, sitting up on his knees and staring down at you in confusion.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

You shove him again, and he catches your wrist, his eyebrows furrowing.

“You’ve been messing with me all week on purpose,” you spit, and then you sit up, startling him. You use the moment to latch onto him and roll him onto his back, swinging your leg over his waist and straddling him. He stares up at you, wide-eyed, as you try to take control of this. “You’ve been hot and cold, and rude and flirty,” you snap, lifting your hips just enough to sink down onto him. Your breath catches in your throat, and you watch his eyes roll back briefly, a quiet moan slipping past his lips. You plant your hands on his chest, finding a rhythm in his lap that has him gripping your waist tight. You grit your teeth and talk through the waves of pleasure, the ones that start in the crown of your head and make it hard to focus.

“You teased me at the party. And then you acted like I didn’t exist at the coffee shop.” You struggle to keep your breath, your movements growing unstable. His eyes search yours, alarmed.

“What-”

“You acted like I was a burden all day on Monday, and then you fucked with my head in the stairwell.” You glare down at him, hating wide-eyed way he’s watching you. “You fought with me in my office – you liked fighting with me-” You thump your fist weakly down on his chest while you bounce in his lap, angry – but not angry enough. It’s starting to fade into something else. Frustration that he’d played you, and confusion that he looks so confused. “And then you treated me like I was the only thing you could see at that stupid fucking club last night.”

The humilation creeps in – the embarrassment that you’d let this happen. You’d let him humiliate you. It makes your eyes prickle, and you squeeze them shut angrily. Akaashi slides his fingers roughly into your hair, holding tight when you try to shove him away.

“I hate you,” you say, choked and upset and refusing to look at him.

“Listen to me-”

“I hate you-”

“Listen to me.” He fists your hair tighter, jostling your head with enough urgency that your eyes fly open to find his. He’s glaring up at you now. “I’m not doing any of this on purpose.” You’d stopped moving in his lap at some point, too overwhelmed, but he bends his knees now, angling you against his thighs. You gasp when he starts to move, thrusting his hips up and using his one-handed grip on your waist to keep you steady.

“You think I wanted this?” he barks, snapping his hips up and bouncing you roughly against him. “You think I wanted to lose face at that fucking meeting? You think I wanted to fight in the stairwell like that?” His face twists into an angry scowl, and it’s your turn to be confused. “You think I want to get drunk and be unable to keep my hands off you? Huh?”

What-

What?

Akaashi’s hand slides out of your hair, dropping to the base of your throat. His fingers wrap around your neck, and your stomach flips with desire when he squeezes tight. You sigh in relief, the feeling of his palm against your throat when you swallow heavenly. He uses his grip to pull you close, until your nose brushes his. He sets a brutal pace with his hips, fucking up into you while he stares you down angrily.

“You know better than that,” he hisses. 

You start to shake over him, your desire mounting. “I-”

“You do know better, don’t you?” he whispers, his voice dangerously even. His eyes burn with anger. “Why are you acting like that? You told me you were smart.” His voice shakes a little, and you can see him struggling to keep up – his cheeks flush and his ears burn red, and he’s starting to pant, broken in a way that makes your stomach flip.

“I am,” you whisper, a bit whiny now. “I am smart – you’re just too confusing.”

The anger in his eyes solidifies into something worse. Something cruel and wicked.

“Then stop trying so fucking hard,” he snarls, slamming his hips up into you. You dig your nails into his shoulders, his sharp inhale clear in your ears. “Stop trying to figure this out.”

You shake your head hard. “I won’t. I can’t-”

“Oh, you can’t?” He mocks, and the edge in his voice kicks and shoves you right to your orgasm. “You won’t, is that it? Even though I just told you I’m not doing this on purpose?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. The idea that Akaashi’s just as affected as you are – just as much a victim to whatever this is as you are – fills you with a terrifying feeling. A feeling close to freedom, close to something that makes you want to throw everything away and give in to him. Because it’s not his fault, either, then. Because – if he’s not doing this intentionally – then there’s no one to blame.

And if there’s no one to blame, then you’re going to stop fighting the way you feel around him.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes open without your permission. Cyan stares back.

“You think I’m doing this on purpose?” He’s breathless and frustrated, searching your face. “Look at me.” His eyes are filled with emotion – that same caution you feel, not wanting to give into this if you’re not going to give in with him. His grip tightens on your throat, and he pulls you close, whispering into the breath of space between your lips.

“You know me better than that.”

When he falls, he takes you with him. And, as much as you want to fight it – kicking and screaming – you don’t. 

You just wrap yourself around him and fall.

[eternaldecisions]

˙ . ꒷ introducing slytherin!matt . 𖦹˙—

slytherin ! matt has put you in a spiral about him.

His name was all around Hogwarts, for what reason? not even god knows, how does a person quickly appears in the magic school and gets everyone in a spiral about him?

was because he was a slytherin guy, the tough facade ready to be shown to everyone?

"I swear, I can't stand that guy anymore. What is it with him? Girls are practically falling at his feet," Sarah sighs, exasperated. She has a point—he's just another typical Slytherin, all charm and no substance. Everything about him screams ordinary, a textbook example of the same old story.

oh but as he came across as a pretty standard guy, there was something undeniably captivating about him. His charm was woven into the intricate tattoos that adorned his sleeve, and the vintage rings that graced his long, slender fingers that sat on his index and pinky fingers, their placement almost suggestive of a hidden secret, adding a touch of mystery to his persona.

just as you're about to respond to the blondie, the crunch of footsteps on dead leaves catches your attention. The sound grows closer, and you instinctively turn around, already knowing who it would be.

Matt.

his brown hair falls effortlessly over his eyes, lips slightly swollen and tinged with a rosy hue. Clearly, he’d already had his morning indulgence with a girl, and it was only 9:24 a.m.

"Who are you?" his question lingers in the air, but the words are barely a whisper, more a shiver of breath than a voice. You his presence behind you, heavy and silent, like the weight of a shadow cast by something unseen. The wooden bench beneath you creaks softly, protesting under the tension that has suddenly thickened the night.

Matt’s cold hand grazes the back of your neck, the touch icy and unnatural, as if the chill of a winter's night had come alive and reached out to you. It’s more than just a sensation. The shiver it sends down your spine is almost electric, each nerve ending tingling in alarm.

then, you feel it—cold, and metallic rings pressed against your skin. The object, smooth and unforgiving, clings to your neck like a phantom chain, tightening ever so slightly as if testing your pulse. You dare not move. The air around you thickens, as if the shadows itself is watching.

"Who are you?" you retort back, spinning around as you rise from the bench. Your voice cuts through the tension like a knife, defiant and sharp. His hand, once that was cold against your neck, is now tucked under his crossed arms as he steps closer, his posture exuding an arrogant confidence that only fuels your irritation.

"Sweetheart, I thought you knew me already," Matt chuckles, the sound laced with a smugness that grates on your nerves. Behind him, his group echoes his laughter, their loyalty to him as blind as puppies trailing around their master.

his hand finds its way to your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His touch is gentle, almost tender, but there's a control in it that makes your skin crawl. You resist the urge to pull away, holding his gaze with a defiance that you know he wasn’t expecting.

"What do you want?" you sigh, your gaze locked on his icy blue eyes. They're the kind of eyes that seem to pierce through you, cold and calculating, even as his lips part in a sly grin. You catch the faint scent of the mint of the bubblegum he’s chewing, the freshness oddly out of place in this tense moment.

"You’re new here, can’t I see you?” he laughs, the sound casual, almost playful, but there's an edge to it that keeps you on guard. His hand releases your chin, retreating back to his crossed arms as he continues to study you, his eyes flickering with something unreadable.

his gaze shifts, and he nods towards the bench where your best friend, Sarah, sits watching the exchange. "Is that your friend?" he asks, pointing her out. Sarah's blonde hair catches the sun light, her expression a mix of concern and curiosity. She’s sitting in the bench where you were a moment ago.

you nod, trying to avoid his gaze, but it’s harder than you expected. Your eyes drift to the leaves scattered on the ground, their rustling the only sound that fills the silence between you. He notices, of course. A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth as he leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper that sends a shiver down your spine.

"I don’t bite.” he coos softly in your ear, the warmth of his breath contrasting sharply with the chill he leaves behind. He pulls back, that smug grin still plastered on his face, before turning away. He leads his group away, their laughter echoing faintly as they disappear into the distance.

you’re left standing there, your mind a whirlwind of confusion and frustration, your heart pounding louder than you’d like to admit. They weren’t wrong when they said Matt was quite the charmer.

the lunch break passes in a blur, leaving you feeling like time slipped through your fingers too quickly. Now, you find yourself in Sybill Trelawney’s class, the room thick with the drowsy energy of students on the verge of sleep. The dim lighting and Trelawney’s droning voice only make it harder to keep your eyes open, each blink lasting a little longer than the last.

you fight to stay awake, forcing your gaze to wander around the room. It’s then that you spot Matt in the back of the class, his attention clearly not on the lesson. He’s chatting quietly with Colby, another Slytherin, while fidgeting with a pencil between his index and middle fingers. The movement is effortless, almost mesmerizing, and before you realize it, your thoughts start to drift. Imagination takes over, creating scenarios that you quickly push away, knowing they’re nothing more than fleeting fantasies.

but then you snap back to reality, realizing you’ve been staring for too long. Your gaze meets Matt’s, and he’s looking right back at you. There’s no smirk, no knowing grin—just a neutral expression, as if he’s caught you in a moment you wish you could take back. Your heart skips a beat, the awkwardness hanging in the air between you, and you quickly look away, pretending to be interested in the lesson. But the moment lingers, a silent connection that leaves you wondering what he’s really thinking.

Matt chuckles to himself, his eyes flicking toward you as he continues to study your face from the corner of his eye. He’s taking in every detail, memorizing your features, almost as if he’s trying to figure you out. But then, with a scoff, he looks away, as if dismissing whatever thoughts had crossed his mind.

the bell rings, a sharp sound that jolts you from your thoughts. You scramble to gather your things, hoping to make a quick exit and avoid another encounter with Matt. But fate, it seems, has other plans. As you hurry towards the door, you bump straight into him. The impact is sudden, and your heart sinks when you see that familiar smirk curling on his lips.

before you can even react, Matt’s hand reaches up, his thumb brushing against the corner of your mouth. You freeze as he wipes away a smudge of lip liner with a cold, deliberate touch that sends a shiver down your spine.

"You’re quite the starer," he murmurs, his grin widening as he pulls his hand back, leaving your skin tingling in the aftermath. You open your mouth to respond, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

"Don’t worry," he adds, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "I won’t embarrass you in front of everyone by telling that you stare at people more than you should." He lets out a brief laugh, the sound echoing in your ears as he turns and walks away, leaving you standing there with a mix of frustration and something else you can’t quite name.

and as you watch him go, you know that this is just the beginning.

taglist: @fawnchives @pearlzier @et6rnalsun @mattscoquette @mattsbrowser @carvedtits @sirenedeslily @mattslolita @flouvela @jetaimevous @archiebabiesworld @bella-loveschris @lovingregulusblack

[charnelhouse]

moments

pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 2k+ summary: Joel and you in a hotel phone booth. warnings: rough sex. ooc joel loving danger. pain/pleasure for real. biting. oral. A/N: same reader as the one in bad people, but no need to read. Joel Miller Masterlist

His hands on you are unforgiving as he presses your back against the wall. It’s an old telephone booth in a dead hotel. The lobby is a swamp and the standing water taints the air with its own specific rot. 

The booth is nearly dry, though. The space is unforgivably narrow so that your bodies are enfolded together, collapsing like dominoes. He’d pulled you in here with no explanation, but that isn’t new. Joel remains the enigma he’s always been. You trust him even when he’s told you not to. He is noncommittal. He is a constrictor knot. Teflon. If he was tossed into the sea, he’d find the bottom and drag himself ashore. Pissed, but alive.

It's possible that he’s perfectly readable and you're the problem. Maybe, he truly is what he says he is because he has always declared his intentions. 

What do you want, Joel?

What kind of question is that?

Just a question. 

Why don’t you focus on cleaning that gun, okay?

***

Today, he’s got something howling inside of him. His arms are bound around your waist, his nose grazing your jaw before he bites your throat. 

“Joel!” you cry, jerking from the sting of his teeth. 

He draws away, licks the branded skin. “Silent,” he orders. “We don’t want to bring them down on us, yeah?”

Your heart leaps, sliding and catching on your ribs as you dig your fingers into his shoulders. He’d removed his jacket and you can feel how flame-hot his muscles are under his thin black t-shirt. “You don’t think they’re–”

“Quiet,” he repeats as he grabs you under your ass, lifts, and drops you on the small table connected to the wall.

This is so dangerous. This is so dangerous.

Joel catches you by the knees, forces them against his sides. He’s fired up about something, full of vinegar as he begins to undress you. Your jeans are roughly dragged down your legs as he uses his other hand to fiddle with his belt.

You swear you catch the fluttering click outside the glass partition. You hear creaks. Wails. Monsters communicating in the black space, waiting to devour you and yours.

Joel only seems determined. Defiant. Let us almost get torn apart in the name of an orgasm.

You have never met someone so willing to not only flirt with dire situations, but thoroughly fuck them. Joel continuously acts like he wants to die, then turns around and lives.

With his thick fingers, he snags them around the crotch of your panties and yanks them upward so that they scrape and agitate the seam of your cunt. You inhale sharply, smack his chest with an audible thwack, but it only encourages him. He jerks the panties again and the fabric bunches against your clit, stimulates you to the point that you get slicker and release a high-pitched mewl.

“Thatta’ girl.” The corner of his mouth curls smugly and you don’t know what he’s supposed to have won when you’ve already submitted. He releases your underwear before removing them and tucking them into his pocket. They’re probably ruined, anyway. “Take a breath,” he urges as he begins to stroke himself. His cock is an angry thing-thick, pink and beading pre-cum. “You’re working yourself up.”

You listen, inhaling, exhaling, and then another round. You watch the way he’s holding himself as he waits for you to unwind. This is a common occurrence. You get all panicky and overheated because sometimes Joel makes your heart thud at the center of your cunt. It’s too good and it’s frightening.

“There you go,” he soothes as your thighs open of their own volition. You lift your hips, offering yourself plainly. He braces one hand on the table beside you, the other under your ass before guiding himself into you. You feel it make contact, the blunt head smearing the lips of your pussy. He presses forward before angling to the right and then he’s sinking to the hilt.

He groans quietly as his forehead meets yours. He’s wet with sweat, the salt drips. He smells like kerosene and blood. Inside you, there is the heat of him-molten and sharp. He eases back before snapping forward, claiming you in fragments. At one point, he crushes your lips together, stealing your breath just as he drives to the hilt. No give. No inch.

Very Joel.

***

Joel maintains a steady, deliberate rhythm. Each pump of his hips jostles your tits, makes your teeth click. You’re falling, losing sense and then he snatches the nape of your neck and drags you back to him, his tongue licking into your mouth. “You stay with me,” he rumbles as his cock burns a curved line through the channel of your sex. You swear you feel him in your belly. 

“It hurts,” you breathe against his teeth. “You’re too-”

“I know,” he sympathizes. “I know, baby. You’re taking it alright, though. You’re doing fuckin’ good.”

The pain is, of course, secondary. You play this game like all the others. Joel and his rough, frantic fucking. You and your willingness to offer up your body because to have Joel at all feels akin to owning a panther. He’s bad. Nothing like your dead boyfriend, Luke, who would hold your face to his as he made love to you. He’d kiss your breast, worship the place above your heart. He’d lick you between your legs until he managed to pull some tiny, subtle ounce of pleasure from your ugliness.

Joel eats you out like he’s dying. Joel inhales you as if he could devour your sex, consequently leaving you shaking and bruised from his mouth. It’s unnerving that you prefer Joel’s style. 

Am I terrible?

Am I sick?

You realize you want that now. It’s a startling feeling. He’s got the side of his face against your cheek, the constant hum of his gravelly uh uh uh’s blurring through your hair. He’s driving into you punishingly, stretching you into two separate halves. You grasp his shoulders and turn your head, lips sliding against his ear. “Joel…”

He takes a ragged breath before he pecks your jaw as if remembering you’re there. “Yeah?”

“I need you…” you trail off, slightly bulldozed by the pressure of him when he picks up the pace, a vicious snap snap snap of his hips. You’re sweat-slick and overwhelmed. You think you’d be happy being attached to him, growing out of him. Addicted to the way he feels in your cunt. 

You want him to infect you.

You think that’s what your sex is like. Joel and you infect each other until the other burns away.

“Need what, honey?” he rasps. The pet names are few and far between. They are only administered when he’s pussy-drunk or has his cock down your throat.

“I want you to taste me.”

You utter the sentence with some grit to frame it as an order rather than a request. You know it’s because Joel is so far gone right now, he needs a harsh hand. 

He nips your neck as he slows his thrusts. Interested. “You want me to eat your pussy?”

You nod, clenching at his bluntness. Joel rarely speaks like that. But today? He’s on one. You clamp down again, vibrating with a frantic desire for his mouth on you.

“Fuck-you liked that.” He chuckles before slowly dislodging himself from your embrace. “So,” He draws away so you can see him. His face flushed and damp with sweat. His pupils dilated and glinting several shades of brown. He steps back just enough that his cock slips out. He glances down, his hand sliding from your chest, down your belly and to your cunt. Without warning, he shoves two fingers inside you, forcing a yelp from your throat. He slams his other hand over your mouth. 

“I said silent,” he hums as he continues to stare at your entrance that’s plugged full of his fingers. You’re utterly vulnerable: pinned down, thighs open, and your pussy loose and raw from how aggressively he’d been using it. 

“You want me…” He curls his fingers, massaging the inner lining of your walls. Your hips buck. “...to lick your pussy after I’ve just fucked it open?”

He lifts an eyebrow suggestively. His expression is menacing- hungrier than you’ve ever seen it. You’re dazed, completely gone, but his face anchors you. You’ve counted the lines in it’s surface: the scars, the sunspots and the grays. You’d know it in a crowd of thousands.

“Yes-s,” you reply with conviction even though he’s begun scissoring his fingers, jamming to the knuckle with a squelch that would be embarrassing if he didn’t appear so turned on by it. “I want you anyway I can have you.”

He blinks for a moment, seemingly surprised before the look flickers away as quick as it had come. It had been a confession on your part. A damn truth. Joel was incapable of being cracked open or brought to heel. He was hard-obsidian and graphite and the hero in a Greek tragedy. 

From what you had gathered, he had done nothing of note pre-outbreak. He’d been a carpenter. He’d been a father though that revelation had only been mentioned once and by Tommy. He had lived a quiet life and now? He lived with something screaming in his head.

Your own desperation is painted ripe across your face and body. You’ve proven how far you’d go for him, allowing him to fuck you in a condemned hotel that could be crawling with clickers. He’d been so worked up, still shaking from the earlier fight with a couple raiders. 

Come with me.

Why?

Just do it. 

Wordlessly, Joel begins to lower himself to the ground. He allows your legs to fall over his shoulders as he stares openly at your cunt. “Scoot forward, then,” he directs. “Bring it to my face.”

You could die. You could burn up and die, but, instead, you follow instruction. He doesn’t tiptoe around it, doesn’t tease or taunt. No, Joel just shoves his head between your legs and begins to lap at your cunt. His calloused, broad hands engulf you. One latched to your hip and the other against your throat as he pins you to the wooden wall of the booth. The blunt nails of his fingers skate your skin as he wiggles his tongue through your folds before sucking your clit between his lips. His beard catches on your inner thighs, his mustache tickling your mound as his nose digs into tender flesh. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, the pleasure swelling inside your core, turning over and over until it threatens to bolt. You knock your head back against the wall and the pain is welcome, it sobers you enough that you can look down and watch Joel eat you out. His lashes long as pen strokes, his tongue bulldozing through your nerve endings as he hauls you to the edge. He works a little harder, latches to your cunt. He suckles and slurps, messy and indecent, but everything about Joel is messy. His hand clamps more firmly around your throat, his other holding your hip down. Come for me. It says. Come now. 

You do, legs trembling as your pelvis lurches against his chin. He eases away, wiping his mouth and you feel empty. Detached. It wasn’t enough. That scares you.

“Joel,” you whimper, pleading as you reach for him. He stands, cock stiff and red jutting against his belly. You can see the patch of olive skin beneath the hem of his t-shirt. He steps back, grabs you harshly by the ass and drags you to the edge of the table. 

Silently, he fists his cock before guiding it back into your pussy. You’re so wet, it’s obscene. Your sex is swollen and sensitive and he jams himself all the way until he can’t go further. You’re all loose and slack, a doll without its strings. But Joel maneuvers you until he can fit himself.

“Good girl.” You think he says. You don’t know-can barely hear shit, but the sound of him working his cock into you. He rocks his hips in short snaps until your body once more accommodates him. 

He touches your cheek. “Don’t fade out, honey. We’re not done.”

He shoves your knees against your chest, effectively bending you in half. Immediately, he tilts his pelvis, fucks up into you, which makes the head of his beautiful dick bump against your cervix. You wince, bite the inside of your mouth, before you open your eyes and find his - dark and bold as pitch black night. They pierce your face, demanding your attention. His lips curl before he lowers his gaze to where you’re joined. You follow, mesmerized by the silver of his belt buckle clacking against the table, the shiny hairs at his groin and how slick his shaft is as he repeatedly shoves it inside you before ripping it back. 

He lowers his mouth to your breast and proceeds to sink his teeth into your chest. He claims the place Luke used to kiss-to love. Joel bites the skin above your heart before soothing it with his tongue. You shiver, throwing your arms around his neck to keep him closer. 

“I love it,” you praise him, breath warm in his ear. “I love it.”

You’re on fire-thrumming like a thousand-volt plug, but you can’t move an inch. You can only allow him to take you, dragging you like a violent tide and hope he’ll bring you to shore. 

[soiwj]

hiii! i rlly love your arle/reader baker au,,,,it’s so cute ueueue & i had a thought, what if arle got jealous of someone that’s suddenly rlly close & flirts w reader while she’s visiting reader’s bakery or smtg? that’d be a sight to see >:)

but again, thank u for writing such a great fic!

Omg wtf? That is such an amazing prompt i love you literally kiss me?

Jealousy's Delight

jealous!arlecchino x baker!fem!reader

Synopsis: Someone's starting to get a little too fond of our lovely baker, and Arlecchino seems to have a problem with that.

You just woke up, and your hair's a mess as you saunter downstairs to your bakery. It's times like these where you really appreciate living right above it. As you finish prepping all the boxes for Arle to carry, you set up your kitchen like normal, preparing for another day of sitting idly behind your store counter waiting for clients to order.

Although your customer frequencies and ratings have increased since closing a contract with the house of the hearth, it's a blessing and a curse. Not many people want to get involved with the fatui, but some people get curious and actually end up liking the sweets.

Normally, Arle tends to be a bit early when picking up the boxes, leaving right when your bakery opens, but today, it seems she's a bit delayed. Nevertheless, you set the baby pink boxes aside as you flip the open hanging on your glass door towards the open world.

After half an hour, the bakery is scarcely filled with a few people. Margret, sitting in the corner enjoying her croissant with a cup of tea and a surprisingly hard crossword puzzle. Judonte, another local, sitting in one of the couches enjoying his coff-

"..hello?" You hear an energetic voice tear you out of your thoughts.

"O-oh hello! Sorry, it's still morning, haha. What can I get ya?" You quickly recover from your slacking. Wouldn't want the new customer to be on your ass for not working hard enough. Weirdly enough, you don't recognize this one. His dark blue hair falls slightly over his forhead as his bright green eyes stare straight into your soul. "Wait, I haven't seen you before. Are you new in town?"

He looks confused yet pleased at your question. "Yes actually, I just moved here from Liyue. It's quite a contrast between here and there." He grins at you before looking behind you at the menu.

"Hmm, let me see, you have quite a lot of options. Are you the only one working today?" You look at him, slightly confused. "Oh no, I'm the only one that works here. I'm the bakeries owner." His face is painted with a surprised look as he slips back into his ever-confident demeanor.

"Wow, you set this place up all by yourself? You must be quite the talented lady." He smirks as he takes a swift look at the show-pasteries before turning back to you. "I must say, this croissant looks really delicious, but that's not the only sweet treat in here." He winks as he delivers his line almost theatrically, straight out of romeo and juliette.

"Well yeah its a bakery, we have more than just a singular tasty snack, haha." That pick-up line flew right past your head straight into his ego, oh my.

"Haha, I guess you're right. Maybe we could get coffee sometime?-"

"I'm afraid she won't have the time." The white and black haired woman says while gripping the mans shoulder. Tightly.

"And who are you to decide that for her?" The man looks into her eyes, defiantly. Not knowing that he just signed his death sentence. Everyone present is looking at him now.

Yet you are as oblivious as ever.

"Oh good morning, Arle! Let me get the boxes. Hold on." You excuse yourself as you leave them for a couple of minutes. When you come back, however, the previously defiant young man has turned into a scared shell of himself with the social potency of a wet napkin. You don't know what Arle said to him. And maybe you don't want to find out.

He quickly fumbles out apologies to you and Arle as he runs off.

"Huh, why'd he leave? I thought he was gonna order?" She looks at you with a dangerous glint in her eyes. "Some people are just a bit eccentric."

Arle doesn't mind a little competition, but ones as pathetic as this one shouldn't even get the chance.

But Arlecchino is also a fair woman. So, for driving away a customer, she's given you a hefty tip for today's delivery. It's not like she wasn't planning on doing that already.

Its kind of short so im sorry about that but i really liked writing this one! Again thank you so much for the request!

[aprilcolours]

blackheart- part four

part one - part two - part three

A/N: warning: there is smut in this chapter!! A lot!! be warned!! s*x ahoy!! p*nsises and whatnot!! I’ve also started doing valyrian translations underneath the line bc there is a lot, and i'm taking liberties w black aly being witchy bc i wanna and its Cool

—

The night was young as they set out across the marshes, their horses galloping through mud and muck. 

Benjicot led the way on a black mare, their dark hair almost disappearing into the night. Just behind him rode Visenya, on a white-gray stallion. He had laughed when she picked it. 

She had changed into her favorite dress: a deep red gown with a scooping neckline, beaded and encrusted in rubies. It was odd to see her finery against the wild landscape. 

They rode North to his keep, their purpose known only to them. Vermithor remained behind, so none were the wiser as they secreted away. 

Raventree Hall was certainly not the largest castle she had ever seen, nowhere near as imposing as her home on Dragonstone. It had, however, a quiet grandeur, a dignity that spoke to ages long past and kings long dead. 

Entering into the central palisade, despite the late hour, servants immediately began rushing about, lighting braziers, making preparations for the liege-lord’s arrival.

“Maester Daris!” Benjicot called up into the hall. 

“So the rumors are true,” a woman’s voice rang out. In a doorway stood a tall thin woman with long dark curling waves of hair. She had a strange look about her, a bird-like turn to her features. 

The archer, Visenya thought, a witch they say. Black Aly, she is called. 

“The rumors of the Riverland’s witches?” Visenya replied, hair loose about her, but face impassive. The woman laughed with a nod, and bowed. Benjicot interceded to introduce, 

“My aunt, Alysanne Blackwood. And this is—”

“A princess who needs no introduction from you,” the strange woman interrupted, stepping into the foyer. “Go find the maester then,” she said, touching her nephew’s arm in reassurance. Benjicot glanced once between the women, before stepping up the stairs to wake the maester. 

“An honor, your highness,” Aly began, a cautious tilt to her words. “Would I be remiss in congratulating the joining of our houses?” 

“You would not, Lady Alysanne,” Visenya responded, her tone polite and unbothered. It was clear the other woman was sizing her up, assessing her, so she did not squirm. 

“The ceremony is to be held here? Now?”

“It is,” she replied simply, daring the elder to question her.

“You will honor our ways then I presume,” Black Aly stated, with a jut of her defiant chin. “A dragon’s maidenhead is a mighty sacrifice to the Old Ones, and I’m sure we will want all the divine favor we can manage for the war ahead.” 

The Riverlander witch spoke quietly, so their words were only theirs, but Visenya did not mistake the steel in her voice. 

My mother will rule these people, whoever their gods. And so she inclined her head in acquiesce. 

-

The ceremony was small, in the yard outdoors beneath the giant dead Weirwood tree: the maester to speak the words, Alysanne to provide a relative’s blessing, and them. 

He passed his family cloak over her shoulders, clasping it at her collarbone. The weight was comforting. 

When the Riverlanders finished their ritual however, Visenya asked for a cup of wine and a dagger. 

She raised the dagger to her lower lip and cut it, as she had seen her mother once do. She took a pull from the goblet of wine and then passed them both to Ben. He wore a slight smile as he mimicked her, slicing his own lower lip and drinking. The Valyrian ceremony was sealed with a kiss. 

Black Aly and the Maester wore twin bewildered expressions, but they witnessed the second ceremony all the same. Then they took their leave, walking back up the cobblestone path to the castle proper.

And they were suddenly, blisteringly, alone. 

Visenya’s eyes were wide in nerves, and something else stirring low and tumultuous in her gut, pupils blown open. She had always been able to maintain some small shred of composure around the subject of Bloody Benjicot Blackwood, but here and now she was stripped bare of all of it. She knew what came next and it frightened and excited her in equal measure. Here she could not be the princess, the commander, the dragon rider. 

Here, in this torchlight, beneath the grasping unknowable branches of the dead Weirwood, she was just a girl. 

She bit her lip nervously, and more blood from the slice beaded through. Benjicot lifted a hand to her face, thumb drawing across her full lower lip and smearing the blood across her chin. 

“What troubles you, wife?” he asked, voice so low it was barely a mutter. His eyes caught a flicker of the torchlight and flashed like a wild animal’s.

“Your gods are strange,” she breathed, trying like always to gain some control of the situation.

“Aye,” he chuckled. “So are yours.” Benjicot’s eyes softened then, the viscous gleam undercut by something else— something she did not dare name. He moved his hand to the back of her neck and palmed it gently. 

“We need not do this here, if you find it displeasing,” he offered, his other hand slipping to her lower back to toy with the laces of her dress. 

She considered it: a warm bed or the cool misty ground around her. 

And she kissed him. 

The cloak fell from her shoulders first. Then the tunic off his chest. Then his fingers tangled in the laces of her dress finally gave way. She may have heard some ripping and though it was her favorite dress, he was suddenly kissing at her neck, and she couldn’t be bothered to care. He licked along her jaw and down to the juncture of the shoulder and bit down, hard. She gasped loudly, breath misting in the night air. He passed over the bite with his tongue to soothe the ache and she shivered. 

Finally, the gown slid away, and Visenya stood nude before him. She wanted badly to cover her breasts but she dared not balk. I am a dragon for gods’ sake, she thought, and so she stood straight backed, silver hair loose and tumbling over one shoulder. 

He slid his hand down her neck and to her breast, peaked against the cold. He fell to his knees, hands sliding down her frame as he went. 

He kneeled for a moment before her, as if he worshiped at her altar. She ran a hand gently through his hair. 

Then he kissed at her navel, at her hip, and finally at her core. 

He licked into her, and this too, he did like a drowning man. She gasped, and breathed, and gasped again at the foreign sensations, so strong and new, as they rocked her body. While he sucked and tongued at her center, one hand crept up to her breasts again. He pinched one nipple, rolling it in his fingers, and it was all suddenly too much—overwhelming. She called out a gasping warning, hands gripped tight against his head, before her climax rang through her like lightning. 

Her spine shot straight, back arched up to the night sky, before she folded to the ground, her head and waist caught in his hands so he could lower her carefully. 

Safely laid against the ground, Visenya caught her breath. It seemed as if the world had shifted and she was now trying to find her way back to it. Blinking her eyes clear, she noticed the Blackwood above her, watching. His eyes were unfathomably dark. 

She glanced down quickly and noticed the straining bulge against his trousers. All feelings of trepidation gone, only bliss and quiet satiety left in their wake, she reached a hand down to pull at his belt. 

“Are you sure my lady,” he breathed, a grin slashing across his flushed cheeks. “More?” 

She aimed for her signature raised brow, though she felt so content she doubted she could manage it. He laughed all the same, kneeling back for a moment to undo his belt. 

He pulled his trousers down and his manhood sprung loose, arced with a curve that looked nigh painful. 

Visenya bit her lip again. Emboldened by the pleasure still quivering through her body, she reached a hand to it and ran a thumb across its beaded tip. It was then his turn to shiver. 

They kissed languidly, unhurried, as he situated himself above her, her legs parting naturally to bracket him. They fit together well, slotting into place with a long pull of tongue against tongue. She tasted herself on him. 

His manhood teased at her entrance, before slowly inching forward with a rock of his hips. She could hear a whining-moaning noise. Distantly, she was aware it was her. In tiny increments he sheathed himself fully, pushed to the hilt. The feeling was momentarily so intense that neither dared move, foreheads resting together. 

She was so full, every pleasured nerve drawn taught in the fullness. It was perfect and also agony. So she whined, kicking her heel at his back for him to move. 

He buried a moan into her neck, and obliged. 

They rocked together, slow at first but quickly building pace. The electricity began to arc up her spine once more and she clenched her thighs in warning. As she came, the reverberations of her body ripped his climax from him as well, in a stuttering, heaving, sort of groan. 

They lay together for a long while, and the blood and seed fed the earth beneath the tree. 

-

They returned to the war camp that night, nearly as the dawn broke, exhausted but happy. He lingered at her tent, hesitant to part. She gave a soft private smile. 

“You may stay. If you like,” she offered. He simply nodded his own small smile back, too content to be the biting grin he usually wore. 

-

After too few hours of rest, Visenya and Benjicot rose and dressed for the council. They traded lazy kisses in the golden light of morning. 

The morning, like always, brought news. 

Caraxes had landed nearby. 

-

Her father stood, posture as familiar and straight backed as her own, at the council table as she approached. His dragon helm was tucked beneath one arm. The other lords eyed him warily, speaking to each other in hushed tones. 

Visenya did not falter, striding into place next to him with her chin held high. Benjicot stood behind her a few paces, defensively guarding her rear flank. 

“Kepa,” she greeted. 

Father. 

Daemon flicked his eyes to hers, they were ringed with dark circles. 

“Olvie ēza arlinnon ziry vestragon,” he rumbled, voice rasping. 

Much has changed it seems. 

Something is different in him, she noticed. Her father carried a weariness he had not before his time at Harrenhal. She inclined her head in a gesture of respect. 

“Eman won ērinnon rȳ se Qelbria,” she proclaimed.

I have won victories across the Riverlands. 

She gestured at the pieces on the board and continued, “Eman gūrogon hāre sombāzmion sīr tolmiot.”

I have taken three castles so far. 

He nodded slightly, and she paused to take a slight breath before she continued, “Eman gūrogon iā valzȳrys hae sȳrī.”

I have taken a husband as well.

[hd-junglebook]

Its Always Been You

Part 4 / Word Count 5816

Masterlist

Summary: And so, the trip to Michigan begins with a little surprise guest.

In the dim glow of his bedroom, Jack's world felt like it was crumbling around him. The shadows danced across the walls, mirroring the chaos within his mind.  Jack's hands trembled as he held the phone to his ear, his breathing uneven and his heart racing.

"Luke, I don't know what to do with myself," Jack's voice trembled, a mix of anguish and vulnerability. His eyes were glassy with unshed tears, and his free hand clenched into a tight fist.  

"I've acted like a complete fool all week. Y/n hates me. I'm feeling… I'm feeling things I never felt before for y/n, and I think I've finally lost my mind."

Luke's harsh tone cut through the silence, his confusion evident. "Jack, what the hell are you talking about?" There was a rustling sound on the other end of the line, as if Luke was sitting up in bed, suddenly alert.

Jack's pacing resumed, his frustration palpable. He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, his footsteps heavy against the carpeted floor.

The room felt suffocating, the walls closing in on him as he struggled to contain his emotions.

"I told y/n I knew how she felt about me, and then I broke her heart. She left me all alone for three days. Jesus, I just saw her locking lips with some loser in the hallway. It's taking everything in me not to go out there and drag him outside."

"Jack…" Luke barely got out before he was interrupted again.

Before Luke could respond, Jack's voice rose again, defiant and emotional. "I'm not done." He halted his pacing, standing in front of his dresser where a picture of y/n and him sat.

It was from the night of his draft party, a snapshot of happier times. Jack's fingers traced the edges of the frame, his eyes fixated on y/n's smiling face. The photograph seemed to mock him, a cruel reminder of what he had thrown away.

He thought back to that night, his emotions, how he begged her to leave her life behind and move to New Jersey. The memory was vivid, the excitement and hope he felt then now replaced by a crushing sense of regret.

The scent of her perfume, the warmth of her hand in his, the sparkle in her eyes—it all came flooding back, intensifying the ache in his chest.

Rustling came through the speaker of Jack's phone. "I ruined us, Luke. I've ruined the best thing I've ever had." Jack's voice cracked, a single tear escaping and rolling down his cheek.

"Dude, it's almost 12am, and you're babbling about something everyone and their mom knew already. How long did you think you could fight your feelings?" Luke's tone softened, a mix of exasperation and concern.

"I don't know, Luke." Jack stayed still for a moment, his shoulders slumped in defeat. The door of their apartment closed, and he hung up on Luke when he heard footsteps approaching.

Jack perked up, holding his breath as he listened to them get closer. His heart raced, a glimmer of hope sparking in his chest.

Another door closed, leading Jack to swing open his door. Y/n had already closed her door, the click of her lock reverberating through the silent apartment.

Jack's hand hovered over her doorknob, his fingers trembling. He wanted to knock, to apologize, to pour his heart out, but fear and uncertainty held him back.

…

The sound of her alarm woke her from her restless sleep, the shrill beeping cutting through the stillness of the early morning. Her eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the darkness around her.

The room was bathed in a deep, melancholic blue, the shadows clinging to the corners and casting an air of despair. The curtains, a soft, sheer fabric, billowed gently in the breeze from the slightly open window, allowing a sliver of pale moonlight to penetrate the gloom.

"Here we go again," she mumbled groggily, her voice heavy with exhaustion and resignation. The words felt thick on her tongue.

She sat up in her bed, allowing the blanket to fall in a heap on her waist. The sheets, once a comforting embrace, now felt suffocating, tangled around her legs like the thoughts that consumed her mind.

y/n looked around the room with despair, her gaze lingering on the familiar objects that held countless memories—the framed photographs on the dresser, the stack of well-worn books on the nightstand, the discarded clothing strewn across the floor.

Y/n sighed again, the sound echoing in the emptiness of the room. She pushed the blanket off of herself fully, the cool air of the apartment sending a shiver down her spine.

Her steps were light as she dressed herself, opting for comfort over style for the plane ride back to Michigan. She pulled on a soft, oversized sweater, the fabric enveloping her like a comforting hug, and a pair of well-worn leggings that had seen better days.

As she moved about the room, gathering her belongings, the floorboards creaked beneath her feet, the sound amplified by the silence that hung heavy in the air. The scent of stale coffee and the lingering aroma of chocolate chip cookies wafted through the apartment.

Jack's door opened across from her room, his yawning loud against the stark silence of the world outside their little apartment. The sound made her flinch, her body tensing as she braced herself for the inevitable encounter.

She could hear his footsteps, the shuffling of his feet against the hardwood floor, and the rustling of his clothing as he moved about his room.

Y/n rolled her eyes, not ready to interact with Jack just yet. The thought of facing him, of seeing the guilt and regret in his eyes, made her stomach churn. She focused on the task at hand, pulling her suitcase up to the door, the wheels squeaking against the floor.

Her eyes landed on the corkboard that hung on the wall beside the door, the pictures of their innocent smiles and young faces causing her heart to break even more.

In one picture, they were grinning broadly, their arms wrapped around each other's waists as they posed in front of a sunset on the beach. In another, they were dressed in formal attire, attending a friend's wedding, their eyes sparkling with happiness and love.

Y/n's fingers traced the edges of the photographs, the glossy paper cool beneath her touch. A lump formed in her throat as she studied each image. She could feel the sting of tears behind her eyes, the emotions she had been trying so hard to suppress threatening to spill over.

She pulled the door open, rushing past the open bathroom where Jack stood in the mirror, his toothbrush dangling from his mouth and a look of surprise etched on his face.

Y/n moved with the speed of a cheetah, her feet pounding against the floor as she made a beeline for the safety of the kitchen.

Just as she thought she had escaped the awkwardness, the front door jingled, keys rattling against the metal knob like a mischievous poltergeist trying to gain entry.

Y/N stood frozen in place, her body rigid with shock as the door to the apartment swung open. The sudden intrusion had caught her completely off guard, and she felt as if she had been turned to stone, unable to move or speak.

As she watched, a tuft of blonde hair bounced into view, the golden locks reminding her of the fairy tale character Goldilocks. But this was no innocent child stumbling upon a bear's cottage; this was a full-grown woman barging into her home uninvited.

"Daphne? What the hell are you doing here?" Y/N managed to choke out, her voice rising in pitch with each word until it reached a near-shriek. The disbelief and anger dripped from her tongue like bitter honey, leaving a foul taste in her mouth.

Jack's girlfriend fully entered the apartment, dragging a garishly pink suitcase behind her. It was as if she had packed her entire life into that one piece of luggage, ready to move in and stake her claim.

The suitcase was so bright it hurt Y/N's eyes, a beacon of chaos signaling the impending doom that was about to unfold.

From the corner of her eye, Y/N saw Jack emerge from the bathroom, toothbrush still dangling from his mouth. White foam dripped down his chin, making him look like a rabid dog caught in the act.

His eyes widened as he took in the scene before him, darting back and forth between the two women as if trying to comprehend the gravity of the situation he had found himself in.

Daphne's gaze flicked between Jack and Y/N, her initial smile slowly fading as realization dawned on her face. "We planned this months ago, silly," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness.

"Non-refundable ticket. We talked about this, Jack. It's only been three months; you can't get rid of me that easily."

She let out a laugh that sounded more like a witch's cackle, her eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief and something darker, more possessive. It was clear that she had no intention of leaving, no matter how unwelcome her presence might be.

Y/N felt her heart sink into her stomach, a wave of nausea washing over her as the reality of the situation hit her like a ton of bricks. Daphne was here, in their home, and it seemed that Jack had been keeping even more secrets than she had realized.

The air in the apartment suddenly felt thick and suffocating, the tension so palpable you could cut it with a knife. Y/N's mind raced with a million questions, a million accusations, but she couldn't seem to form the words.

All she could do was stand there, frozen in place, as the world she had built with Jack came crashing down around her like a house of cards.

Jack let out a heavy sigh, his hand rubbing the front of his scalp as if trying to erase the memory of ever agreeing to this disastrous plan. His face scrunched up like he had just bitten into a particularly sour lemon, the bitterness of the situation leaving a foul taste in his mouth.

He glanced sheepishly at Y/N, his eyes darting between the two women like a puppy who had been caught chewing on his owner's favorite pair of shoes.

"Can you give us a sec? Please?" he pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he were afraid that speaking any louder would cause the fragile peace to shatter.

Y/N scoffed, her arms crossing over her chest as she fixed Jack with a withering stare. "No, we have to leave soon, and if I don't have my coffee, I just might jump off the plane dealing with you both," she retorted, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Her eyebrows rose so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline, the thought of being trapped on a plane with these two making her seriously consider grabbing a parachute and taking her chances with gravity.

Jack's face reddened, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "We need privacy though!" he said, his voice tinged with annoyance.

He threw his hands up in the air, as if he were trying to physically push away the awkwardness that had settled over the room like a thick fog. "Could you give us some time?"

Y/N let out a humorless laugh, the sound harsh and grating in the tense silence of the apartment. "Oh, you need privacy? That's rich, coming from the guy who couldn't even bother to tell his best friend that his girlfriend was coming to visit."

She shook her head, her eyes narrowing as she fixed Jack with a look that could have melted steel. "You know what? Fine. You two lovebirds enjoy your little reunion. I'll be in my room, packing my bags and booking a one-way ticket to anywhere but here."

With that, she spun on her heel and stalked off towards her bedroom, her footsteps echoing like gunshots in the stillness of the apartment. She could feel Daphne's eyes boring into her back, could sense the smug satisfaction radiating off the other woman in waves.

But Y/N refused to let it get to her, refused to let the hurt and betrayal show on her face. She had always prided herself on being strong, on being able to handle whatever life threw her way. And she sure as hell wasn't going to let Jack or his girlfriend see her crumble.

As she reached her bedroom door, Y/N paused, her hand resting on the knob. For a moment, she was tempted to turn back, to march right up to Jack and demand an explanation.

But she knew that it would be pointless, knew that whatever he had to say would only make the pain worse.

So instead, she took a deep breath and stepped inside, slamming the door behind her with a resounding thud. And as she sank down onto her bed, her head in her hands and her heart in pieces, Y/N couldn't help but wonder how everything had gone so wrong, so fast.

…

Y/N walked back out into the living room, Daphne turned to her with an expression of exaggerated surprise. Her eyes were wide, and a cute smile was plastered on her face, the kind of smile that made you want to pinch her cheeks but also question the sincerity behind it.

"This is your best friend, right? She's a lot shorter than I remember," Daphne said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. It was clear that she was trying to get under Y/N's skin, to establish her dominance in the situation.

Y/N couldn't help but scoff, her eyes rolling so far back in her head that she nearly caught a glimpse of her own brain. "And you're the EX-girlfriend, right?" she retorted, putting extra emphasis on the "ex" part. Two could play at this game, and Y/N wasn't about to let Daphne win.

Jack let out a groan, his head falling back in frustration. "God, just my luck," he grumbled, his eyes rolling so hard they nearly got stuck in the back of his head.

He knew that he was in for a long and uncomfortable conversation with Daphne, and the thought of it made him want to crawl into a hole and never come out.

Y/N took a deep breath grabbing her coffee, the warm liquid providing a momentary comfort before made her way back out to the kitchen. Y/N grasped the cold metal handle, the chill sending a shiver down her spine.

"Let's go before I change my mind," she said, her voice flat and emotionless. She didn't want to give Jack or Daphne the satisfaction of seeing how much this situation was affecting her, didn't want to let them see the cracks in her carefully constructed façade.

…

The journey to the airport had been a tense affair, with Y/N pointedly ignoring Jack's attempts at conversation and Daphne chattering away obliviously in the background.

Y/N could feel Jack's eyes on her, his gaze heavy with unspoken apologies and explanations, but she refused to meet his eye, focusing instead on the passing scenery outside the car window.

they made their way through the bustling terminal, Jack tried once more to pull Y/N aside, his hand gently grasping her elbow. "Y/N, please, can we just talk about this?" he pleaded, his voice low and urgent.

Y/N yanked her arm away, her eyes flashing with barely contained anger. "There's nothing to talk about, Jack," she hissed, her voice sharp as a knife. "You made your choice, and now we all have to live with the consequences."

Jack's face fell, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "It's not like that, Y/N. If you would just let me explain..."

But Y/N cut him off with a bitter laugh, her head shaking in disbelief. "Explain what, Jack? How you don’t like me? How you play this stupid hot and cold game with me? No, I think I've heard enough explanations to last a lifetime."

She turned to walk away, but Jack's hand shot out once more, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. "Please, Y/N," he whispered, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "I never meant to hurt you. You have to believe that."

For a moment, Y/N wavered, her resolve crumbling in the face of Jack's obvious distress. But then she caught sight of Daphne waiting impatiently by the gate, her foot tapping, and her arms crossed, and the anger came rushing back in full force.

"I don't have to believe anything, Jack," she said, her voice cold and distant. "You made your bed, and now you have to lie in it. I just want to forget about all of this and move on with my life. So please, just leave me alone."

With that, she wrenched her arm from his grasp and strode towards the gate, her head held high and her heart shattered into a million pieces.

The seating arrangement on the plane felt like a cruel joke, a twisted game of fate that had placed Y/N in the middle of the very chaos she had been trying to escape.

She found herself sandwiched between Jack and Daphne, her body pressed against the cool glass of the window as if she could somehow merge with the clouds and drift away from the awkwardness that permeated the air.

Jack sat rigidly in the middle seat, his body a tense barrier between Y/N and Daphne. Y/N could feel the heat of his skin, could smell the familiar scent of his cologne, and it made her heart ache with a longing she couldn't quite suppress.

On Jack's other side, Daphne slept peacefully, her head lolling against his shoulder and her soft snores filling the space between them. She seemed blissfully unaware of the silent war raging within Y/N's mind, the turmoil that threatened to consume her from the inside out.

Y/N's foot tapped incessantly against the floor, a nervous habit that betrayed the inner chaos she was desperately trying to conceal. Each tap was like a metronome, counting down the seconds until she could escape the confines of the plane and the suffocating proximity to Jack.

She could feel his eyes on her once more, could sense the weight of his gaze boring into the side of her head. But she refused to look at him. Instead, she focused on the clouds outside the window, on the endless expanse of blue sky that stretched out before her.

Y/N was lost in thought, her mind a whirlwind of emotions and memories, when Jack's hand suddenly shot out, startling her back to reality. Before she could react, he had shoved a headphone into her ear, ignoring the sputtered questions and the look of indignation that flashed across her face.

His fingers brushed against her skin, sending a jolt of electricity through her body. It was a reminder of the connection they once shared, the easy intimacy that had defined their friendship for so many years. Y/N's breath caught in her throat, her heart racing as she tried to process the unexpected gesture.

As the familiar opening credits of her favorite episode of Game of Thrones filled her ear, Y/N's eyes widened in surprise. She glanced at Jack, searching his face for an explanation, but he steadfastly refused to meet her gaze.

His eyes remained fixed on the screen in front of him, as if the answers to all of life's questions could be found in the flickering images.

Y/N couldn't help but steal glances at Jack, her eyes tracing the contours of his face, the curve of his jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks.

Each glance was a silent question, a plea for him to acknowledge the unspoken words that hung between them. But Jack remained stoic, his attention unwavering, as if he had erected an impenetrable wall around himself.

Even as she tried to immerse herself in the show, Y/N couldn't shake the awareness of Jack's presence beside her. The warmth of his body seemed to seep into her skin, igniting a longing that she had tried so hard to suppress.

She could feel the rise and fall of his chest, could hear the soft whisper of his breath, and it made her heart ache with a bittersweet mixture of love and loss.

Beside her, Jack remained a silent presence, his body so close and yet so far away. Y/N couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking, what he was feeling.

…

Y/N stepped out of the airport, the crisp Michigan air filling her lungs and invigorating her senses. She took a deep breath, savoring the familiar scent of pine and freshly cut grass that always seemed to linger in the air.

The sun peeked through the scattered clouds, casting a warm glow on her surroundings and making the world seem a little brighter, a little more hopeful.

She scanned the crowd of people waiting outside the terminal, her eyes searching for a familiar face. And then, like a beacon in the chaos, she spotted him.

There, leaning against a sleek black car, was Luke. A grin spread across his face as he caught sight of her, his eyes crinkling at the corners in the way that had always made her heart skip a beat. "Y/N!" he called out, pushing himself off the car and striding towards her with open arms.

Without hesitation, Y/N dropped her bags and ran to meet him halfway. She threw her arms around his neck, feeling the solid warmth of his body as he wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her off the ground in a spirited hug. For a moment, the world seemed to fall away, and all that mattered was the comfort and familiarity of Luke's embrace.

"I missed you so much," Y/N mumbled into his shoulder, her voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. She breathed in the scent of him, a mixture of cologne and something uniquely Luke, and felt a wave of nostalgia wash over her.

Luke chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest and vibrating against her own. "I missed you too, shorty. It's good to have you back."

He set her back down on the ground, but kept his arms around her, as if he was afraid she might disappear if he let go. Y/N couldn't help but smile up at him, feeling a sense of warmth and belonging that she hadn't felt in a long time.

Behind them, the sound of footsteps on the pavement broke the spell. Y/N turned to see Jack and Daphne approaching, their faces a mixture of exhaustion and something else, something harder to define. Jack's eyes met hers for a brief moment, a flash of emotion passing between them before he looked away, his jaw clenching.

Luke's arms tightened around Y/N, a silent show of support and protection. "Hey Jack, Daphne," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Glad you could make it."

Daphne smiled, the expression not quite reaching her eyes. "Thanks for picking us up, Luke. It's been a long flight."

Y/N could feel the tension crackling in the air, the unspoken words and unresolved issues hanging between them like a thick fog. But for now, she pushed them aside, focusing instead on the feeling of Luke's arms around her and the promise of a few days away from the chaos of her life in New Jersey.

Jack moved forward, his arms open wide and a grin plastered on his face, Y/N felt a flicker of hesitation. There was something about his expression that seemed forced, as if he was trying too hard to appear casual and unaffected by the tension that hung thick in the air.

But before Jack could reach them, Luke's hand shot out, smacking the side of his head with a resounding thwack. The sound echoed through the parking lot, drawing the attention of a few curious onlookers. Jack stumbled back, a bewildered look on his face as he rubbed the spot where Luke's hand had made contact.

"Ow, what was that for?" Jack asked, his voice a mix of surprise and mock indignation. His brows furrowed as he looked at Luke, trying to decipher the reason behind the sudden attack. Y/N could see the gears turning in his head, the confusion and hurt flickering behind his eyes.

Luke lowered his voice, his tone stern yet laced with underlying concern. He leaned in closer to Jack, his eyes locked on his brother's, as if he was trying to convey a message that went beyond words.

"For being an idiot and for bringing her here. Did you forget about what you said on the phone?"

Y/N felt her heart skip a beat, her mind racing with the implications of Luke's words. What had Jack said on the phone? What secrets had he been keeping from her, even as he tried to bridge the gap between them?

Jack's face flushed with guilt, the color rising in his cheeks like a crimson tide. His eyes darted to Y/N, then back to Luke, a silent plea for understanding.

For a moment, no one spoke. Y/N could feel Daphne's eyes on her, could sense the other woman's curiosity and suspicion. But she refused to meet her gaze.

Finally, Luke broke the silence, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "Come on," Luke said, releasing Y/N and grabbing her bags. "Mom's waiting at home with lunch. She's been cooking up a storm all morning."

Y/N grinned, the thought of Luke's mother's cooking making her mouth water. "Lead the way," she said, falling into step beside him as they made their way to the car.

As they walked, Y/N could feel Jack's eyes on her back, could sense the weight of his gaze boring into her. But she refused to look back, refused to acknowledge the part of her that still longed for his touch, his presence, his love.

Instead, she focused on the warmth of Luke's hand in hers, on the promise of a few days of respite and healing. And as they drove away from the airport, the skyline of Detroit rising up in the distance, Y/N couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope igniting in her chest.

Maybe, just maybe, this trip would be the start of something new, a chance to leave behind the pain and heartache of the past and find a way forward, one step at a time. And with Luke by her side, and the love of her family to guide her, Y/N knew that anything was possible.

…

Lukes’s car pulled up to the familiar two-story house, Y/N felt a wave of nostalgia wash over her. The red brick facade, the white wooden porch, the sprawling oak tree in the front yard - every detail was exactly as she remembered.

She stepped out of the car, the warm breeze caressing her face and tousling her hair. The scent of freshly cut grass filled the air, a sweet perfume that brought back memories of lazy afternoons spent lounging in the sun and late-night conversations under the stars.

Y/N took a deep breath, letting the peace and tranquility of the moment settle over her like a comforting blanket. For the first time in days, she felt the knots of tension in her shoulders begin to loosen, the weight of her worries and fears slowly melting away.

Beside her, Jack and Daphne were unloading their bags from the trunk, their voices a low murmur against the backdrop of chirping birds and rustling leaves. Y/N hesitated for a moment, her eyes lingering on Jack's face, taking in the lines of stress and fatigue that creased his brow.

In that moment, she made a decision. She was tired of being angry, tired of holding onto the hurt and betrayal that had consumed her for so long. Life was too short to waste on grudges and resentment, too precious to let slip away in a haze of bitterness and regret.

With a determined set to her jaw, Y/N strode over to Jack, her steps purposeful and sure. He looked up as she approached, his eyes widening in surprise and a flicker of hope.

"Hey," she said, her voice soft but steady. "I just wanted to say... I'm sorry for the way I've been acting. I know things have been tough lately, but I don't want to keep dwelling on the past. You're my best friend, Jack, and that's never going to change."

Jack's face softened, his eyes shining with a mix of relief and gratitude. "Y/N, I..." he started, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm sorry too. For everything. I never meant to hurt you, and I know I have a lot to make up for. But I'm willing to do whatever it takes to earn your trust again."

Y/N felt a lump form in her throat, the sincerity in Jack's words tugging at her heartstrings. She reached out and took his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"I know," she said, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "let's just focus on enjoying this trip and being there for each other, okay?"

Jack nodded, his own smile breaking through the clouds of tension that had hung over them for so long. "Okay," he said, his voice filled with a tentative hope. "That sounds perfect."

Together, they made their way up the porch steps, their hands still intertwined. Y/N could feel the warmth of Jack's skin against her own.

"Welcome back, sweetheart," Ellen said, her voice warm and rich like honey. "We've missed you so much."

Y/N felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. “I've missed you too," she said, her voice muffled against the older woman's shoulder. "It's so good to be home."

…

Luke led Daphne and Y/N up the stairs, their footsteps echoing on the hardwood, Jack seized the opportunity to pull his mother aside. His heart raced, palms sweaty as he glanced nervously between her and the staircase, his body practically vibrating with anxiety.

Ellen's brows furrowed, her maternal instincts kicking into high gear as she sensed her son's distress. She placed a gentle hand on his arm, her touch a silent invitation to share his troubles.

"Jack, honey, what's wrong?" she asked, her voice soft and filled with concern. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Jack swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape. But there was none to be found, and he knew that he owed his mother the truth.

With a heavy sigh, he guided her to the couch, his movements stiff and awkward. They sat down, the worn cushions sinking beneath their weight, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

Finally, Jack broke the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. "Mom, I... I messed up. Y/N and I, we had a fight. A big one. And I don't know how to fix it."

Ellen's eyes widened, a flicker of disappointment crossing her face. But she remained silent, allowing her son to continue.

"I didn't tell her about Daphne, and she found out in the worst way possible. And now... now she can barely look at me. I don't know what to do, Mom. I can't lose her."

Jack's voice cracked, the tears he had been holding back for so long finally spilling over. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs.

Ellen's heart ached for her son, for the pain and regret that radiated off him in waves. She reached out and pulled him into a hug, her arms wrapping around him like a protective cocoon.

"Oh, Jack," she murmured, her voice filled with a mix of sympathy and gentle chastisement. "I know it's hard, but you have to be honest with the people you love. Secrets have a way of coming out, and they always hurt more in the end."

Jack nodded, his face still buried in his mother's shoulder. "I know," he said, his voice muffled by the fabric of her shirt.

"I just... I didn't want to hurt her. But I ended up doing exactly that." Ellen pulled back, her hands coming up to cup Jack's face. She looked him in the eye, her gaze filled with a wisdom born of years of love and experience.

"Do you remember the time that boy was bothering Y/N in school?" she asked, her voice soft and reminiscent. "You came home with a black eye and a split lip, but you were so proud of yourself for defending her."

Jack's lips twitched, a hint of a smile breaking through the tears. "Yeah, I remember. She was so upset, but I just wanted to make her feel safe."

Ellen nodded, her own smile mirroring her son's. "You brought her back here, to this very house. And you let her lay her head on your lap, and you caressed her hair until she fell asleep. Do you remember what I told you then?"

Jack's brow furrowed, his mind stretching back to that distant memory. "You said... you said that love is the most pure thing you can feel."

Ellen nodded, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her lips. "And I see it in you, Jack. When you look at her. You love her, don't you?"

Jack took a deep breath, his shoulders straightening his heart skipping a beat at his mother's words. He had always known, deep down, that his feelings for Y/N went beyond friendship. But to hear it spoken aloud, to have his deepest secret laid bare... it was both terrifying and exhilarating.

"I... I don't know what to say, Mom," he stammered, his cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and longing. "Y/N and I, we're just friends. And besides, Daphne...” He trailed off, his eyes flickering towards the staircase where his ex-girlfriend had disappeared just moments before.

Ellen sighed "Jack, honey, the longer you wait, the harder it's going to be. Sooner or later, you're going to decide whether you want to be with her in that way or let her go and find love in someone else.”

Jack stood up, his heart lighter than it had been in days. He hugged his mother one last time, breathing in the comforting scent of her perfume. "You're right, Mom. I need to be honest with myself, and with Y/N. But... but I can't do it now. Not with Daphne here. It wouldn't be fair to anyone."

"Ellen patted his cheek, her touch a silent benediction. "I understand, sweetheart. But don't wait too long, okay?

…

Tag List <3

@favsrachz @jacktoria4ever @bunbunbl0gs @ivy-34 @rebelatbay @bxtchopolis

[saerins]

─── 𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐄

+ gojo x f!reader | wc 2.3k | content: modern au, fluff, slight angst, rich!gojo, rich!reader, arranged marriage but reversed(?), slightly suggestive

notes: haha i was exploring tropes and this just came to me :’) fairly nervous so feedbacks and reblogs appreciated muwah <3

summary: sometimes you think that you and gojo are not meant to be. and sometimes, he itches to prove you wrong.

there are many things you would call gojo satoru. partner in crime, friendship on fire, a twisted manifestation of the kind of romance that would consume you whole if you didn’t take precaution.

“ready to do this, baby?”

he’s as sweet-lipped as ever, the honeyed words overflowing from his tongue. how you’d miss it, those words you hear at night, the saccharine praises that send you into overdrive.

“only if you are, sweetie.”

you’re equally good at it, having learned from one of the best—gojo satoru himself. you smirk at him, straightening his suit and tie. he looks devilishly handsome in that tailored suit, the one you had made for him. if you recall correctly, he only saves it for a special occasion.

and it qualifies—today is definitely a special occasion.

“so happy to be getting rid of me?” satoru asks you, pouting and putting on his best puppy eyes. his white lashes house a sea of crystalline blue, the kind you’ve gotten addicted to, the same pair you’d gotten lost in many times over.

you’ll never forget it.

the way satoru’s lips ghost over your own. the way his index finger trails up the side of your arm. he likes the goosebumps that sear across your skin. satoru loves knowing the effect he has on you.

this marriage of convenience has taken its toll on both your families. in hindsight, they should’ve known that they can’t control either of you. the gojo family, for all they’re worth, thought that gojo satoru would never betray their money, their status. and your family—they’d always known you’d objected to these notions; convenience, business, romance—the way these three intertwine intentionally, a manufactured relationship borne out of familial ties.

it’s bullshit.

how lucky for you, that gojo satoru felt the same. he still feels the same, which is why he’s in front of you right now, getting ready to drop the bomb in the investors’ meeting.

his father is sure to kill him, but that’s provided he can get through you first.

sure, getting married to gojo satoru was not in your life plans. your mother had chosen a very apt timing to tempt you, quoting half a million dollars as the condition for getting and staying married to that gojo boy. and sure, she can do her best to try and haggle that money back from you once the both of you are done with today, but you’re guessing she’ll be facing much more important and pressing matters than simply getting money back from her defiant daughter.

“this is what we discussed, satoru,” you sigh, avoiding his question like he knew you would. “one year, that’s all we needed. and look where we are now.”

satoru smiles, pearly whites and bad boy charm. “i’d miss you in my bed at night though.”

you smack him playfully across his chest. he only chuckles lowly, fondly, his right hand on your head, brushing your hair. it almost makes you want to stay. but that wasn’t part of the deal, and you’re not sure that either you or satoru are ready for commitments.

“must’ve been some pretty good sex to make the gojo satoru miss me, huh?” you play along, pushing yourself away gently, your hand on his chest.

satoru tips your chin up with his finger, looking you in the eyes as he tells you, “babe, you’re the best pussy i’ve ever had.”

complete romantic, as you can tell. (you can’t stop his vulgar tongue even if you tried.)

“okay okay, stop stalling, satoru,” you chide him, holding your palm out, smiling as he takes it. “got the evidence?”

satoru holds a thick envelope out, grinning. “all here.”

the two of you stand outside the conference room for a minute, staring at each other. in another world, maybe you’d be in this hotel with gojo satoru where you’re actually married—for feelings rather than a transaction. in that other world, maybe you and gojo satoru were childhood sweethearts, the kind where you grew old without all the fucked up relationships that branded both of you too overwhelmed to be in a real one right now. hey, maybe in that world, maybe just maybe, that vow that gojo satoru had uttered on your wedding day (the same that you had uttered as well)—maybe he would’ve meant it.

you didn’t think you would come to like gojo satoru. it’s been a long time since you’d first met him. when you’d seen him stomping into the meeting room of your company’s office like he owned the place, like everyone there was beneath him. he’d gotten right under your skin then and there.

getting along was no easy feat. it took three months for the both of you to agree to live together. strangely it took just one night for you both to give in to temptation once you did start living together.

both of you are menaces—that’s what your mother would say.

somehow, somewhere, those feelings you thought you’d never feel before blossomed again. the kind of trust you didn’t think you’d ever give was given to satoru and you wonder if he even knows it. but satoru has never changed his stance on relationships since the first time you met him; they’re a waste of time.

“you know, if you wanna keep me, all you gotta do is say so.” satoru’s looking at you, that jester smile plastered on his face. you can’t see his beautiful eyes when it’s all crinkled up like that, but you thank god for that. you don’t know how you’d resist him if you could see them.

“dream on, satoru,” you deflect, and expertly. you’re great at hiding your real feelings like that. “our deal ends today.”

yeah, the deal the two of you made with each other, right when both families thought their children had made peace with their decision, or their fate, as they liked to call it. neither you nor gojo felt any affection for the family you grew up in, not when they’d never took interest in either of you as anything other than an heir. when both your childhoods were filled with extra readings and learning proper manners. when satoru grew up learning from his father that women were just a means to a child and you’d grown up learning from your mother that if a girl is not beautiful then she is not desirable. you remember how she almost disowned you for getting a scar on your face, even though it was only temporary.

she has a penchant for the overdramatics. you think today might be no different. you hope not. the entire aim of today is to bring about the crumble of two empires—gojo’s and your family’s.

to hell with their money and their dirty syndicates. it’s filthy money they have their hands full with, and frankly, you and satoru are done playing their pawns.

as satoru leads the way, you loop your arm around his elbow, watching as his father is taken completely off-guard when he watches his own son expose his schemes, watching as your own parents try to salvage the situation by saying how children these days would do anything to get out of their responsibilities.

they’re all walking ironies.

you both watch as the investors walk out one by one, outraged and disappointed. you watch as satoru’s own father vows to kill him, and you scoff as your own mother seconds his notion.

“not if the law gets you first,” you tell them, effectively shutting them up as they hear the police sirens in the air.

they spew about how the both of you are pieces of shit as they’re taken away, and you find you couldn’t care less. maybe it’s a little inhuman of you not to feel a thing when you watch your parents getting taken away in handcuffs. but then again, they’d never really treated you like a human either.

“here you go,” satoru chirps as the sirens drown into the background. he holds out another envelope, this one solely for you.

you smile, a melancholy washing over you as you take it from his hands and take the documents out, flipping to the last page where satoru has already signed.

“our divorce papers,” you coo, “how romantic.”

because gojo satoru is always a romantic.

he remembers your birthday and remembers your favourite cake. he remembers what you need when you’re upset, never makes you feel alone. he remembers how you like your eggs and purposely cooks them wrong all the time. he remembers how you take your coffee and always gives you tea. he remembers how you always nag at him for annoying you and then annoy you some more because for some reason you look very attractive when you’re angry.

it takes you a minute to sign your own name. it kind of feels lonely now, thinking how you’ll never go back to the same apartment as satoru. how you won’t see him sprawled out on the couch, pouting because you’re a little late for movie night. how you won’t catch him staring at your body as you get changed. how you won’t get to throw your pillows at him in the morning for tickling you in bed just to get you to wake up.

after all—you’d agreed; these affections were temporary like they were always meant to be.

you can’t help but find yourself wishing for more. but you were raised to be ruthless, not stupid. you won’t let satoru know of your feelings, because all your deductions say that nothing good will come of it.

“hmm,” satoru hums as he eyes your signature. “wouldn’t be opposed to a special arrange—”

“not gonna be your fuckbuddy, satoru,” you deadpan at him, flicking his forehead.

“why not?” he whines, and you nearly cave.

because you can’t risk falling further than you already have when there’s absolutely zero chance of satoru catching you.

“because there’s a long line of guys i wanna date and you should get in line first,” you lie, and satoru smirks like he’s caught on to something.

but if he has, he doesn’t say a thing, and that tells you everything you need to know.

“guess this is it then, l/n y/n?”

you don’t want it to be, but it has to.

“you made a great fake real husband, gojo satoru,” you tell him, shaking his hand.

kind of a lame goodbye for two people who had shared everyday together for the past year. but you think maybe this brief goodbye should suffice. you don’t want the flames to burn either of you blue.

gojo satoru doesn’t say another word when you turn to leave.

and you don’t turn to look back at him as you walk away.

some chapters of your life should come to a close. your chapter with gojo satoru should remain here, kept close in your heart, kept warm as memories should.

six months later.

“i just think you and i would be suited for other people.”

it’s funny, how everything never works out between you and other guys. you don’t recall it being so hard with satoru. perhaps he was truly made for you, like the heavens designed. but both of you were too similar, too afraid of commitment. nothing was going to come out of it anyway.

and maybe that’s why you miss it.

his fleeting glances, soft lips on tender skin and a pair of calm blue that never fails to mesmerise you.

satoru is the fleeting kind of romance that burns so bright in its prime and the kind you can never keep close. not when he isn’t willing to tone it down and when you don’t have the tolerance to match.

strangely, maybe that’s also why you’re still drawn to him. you’re still hoping that there will be a flaw in the design, that your seemingly parallel lines will intersect somehow. that maybe you won’t have to try and replace him with someone else.

“yeah, kento, i get it,” you tell nanami, sipping on your tea as you watch him get up and go.

you and nanami would not have worked out anyway. not when you’re way too fucked up and he’s comparibly normal. it would be too much for him. you would be too much for him. you stare at the tea in front of you. you kind of miss those dates satoru took you on; trespassing on private property and reliving youth in arcades.

satoru is everything—love, heartache, gambles, sins. both of you are spun from the same thread, and maybe you believe that if soulmates exist, you and him have the same red thread twirled around your pinkies.

though, the fact that he isn’t here simply proves you to be wrong.

last you’d heard, satoru was travelling the world, carefree and spreading his wings like you always knew he would.

you find yourself wishing that perhaps, somehow, you’d meet him again. but you sigh and get up, knowing you are far too old for this wishful thinking.

but where you’d thought that satoru was roaming, you forget that he’s much like a swallow. because now, when you turn around, you catch that same shade of ocean blue staring straight at you, the same white locks that obstructed your vision in the mornings.

the same satoru who’d learned of love through you and you alone. the same satoru who, even if he leaves, will always find his way back to you, no matter how much you try to deny and push him away.

satoru takes two steps forward before he pulls you towards him, his long arms coming around you and holding you tight.

this time, he’s not going to let you go.

“y/n,” he calls your name softly, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “wanna give this another shot?”

[pin-k-ink]

ghost hunt // shalnark (pt. 2)

tw ⇢ enemies to lovers, strong sexual tension, mentions of violence, rough sex, manhandling, dacryphilia, unprotected sex, edging, orgasm denial, asphyxiation, spanking, squirting, begging, hair pulling

wc ⇢ 6.1k

part one | part two

The room was bathed in the soft blue glow of the computer monitors. Shalnark lounged lazily on your bed, hands tucked behind his head as he watched you sitting at your computer station, fingers dancing across the keys.

These clandestine visits to your apartment had become almost routine over the past few weeks. On the pretense of trying to deter your cyber vendetta against the Phantom Troupe, Shalnark would show up unannounced. You always let him in with that same inscrutable smile, neither questioning his presence nor revealing the motives driving your actions.

The two of you would then lapse into strange, meandering conversations that veered between charged flirting and genuine philosophical probing about your opposing stances. Shalnark feigned indifference, firing off casual questions in hopes of getting you to reveal why you targeted the Troupe so persistently.

But you seemed to revel in deflecting his efforts, obfuscating with that same amused glint in your eyes. It was an odd game you two played - one that both frustrated and captivated Shalnark in equal measure.

"You really are determined to stay an enigma, aren't you?" Shalnark mused with a slight chuckle, watching the way the screen's glow danced across your features. "Keeping me in the dark must be part of some grand plan."

You flashed him a coy smile over your shoulder. "Now where would be the fun in making things easy for you, Shalnark?"

He laughed again, shaking his head. "Touché. Though I have to wonder how long you intend to carry on with these games before—"

Shalnark's words caught in his throat as his gaze focused on the code rapidly populating your computer screens. His brow furrowed ever so slightly as he recognized the signature strands, the telltale signs that you were hacking into the Troupe's secure networks again.

And you were doing it right in front of him without a shred of guilt or pretense.

Rather than fly into outrage as you seemed to expect, Shalnark merely watched with a sort of calm bemusement as your fingers flew across the keys. He noted the intense focus etched on your delicate features, the slight crease between your brows as you rapidly unspooled the infiltration algorithm.

Only when you sat back with a self-satisfied smirk did Shalnark finally speak up, his tone one of wry impression.

"My, my. Aren't we the overachiever?" He sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "Gutsy move, pulling a cyberstrike with me sitting right here, ghost."

You seemed utterly unbothered by Shalnark's presence as you breezed through the cyber infiltration. Each stroke of the keyboard was confident, almost taunting in its ease at circumventing the Troupe's security protocols right under his nose.

When you finally leaned back with a satisfied smirk, Shalnark rose from the bed slowly, his movements unhurried but carrying a coiled intensity. Before you realized what was happening, he was looming over you, one hand clamped like a vise around your upper arm.

In a single deft motion, Shalnark wrenched you bodily out of the chair and slammed you down over the desk, scattering keyboards and monitors with a reckless clatter. You gasped at the sudden aggression, but maintained your defiant glare even pinned beneath Shalnark's weight.

He hovered above you, chest heaving with scarcely restrained emotion. For a long moment, the only sound was your mingled breaths - harsh and staccato with friction. Shalnark's expression was unreadable, but his fingers dug almost cruelly into the soft flesh of your arm.

Then, so gradually you didn't register the motion until his shadow consumed your vision, Shalnark drew back his free hand into a white-knuckled fist. You tensed beneath him, awaiting the blow that never fell.

His arm went taut, the tendons and veins standing out in stark relief against the muscle as it trembled with the urge to strike. But something held Shalnark back at the last instant before violence could erupt. Perhaps it was the naked defiance blazing in your eyes, or some indefinable sliver of respect for your audacious spirit.

Slowly, the tension bled from Shalnark's frame as his fist uncurled. Instead, he leaned down until his face was a hair's breadth from yours, heated breaths intermingling in the charged void between you. His eyes bored into yours with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.

"Next time you pull a stunt like that," he ground out in a voice laced with menace, "I won't hesitate. Consider this your last warning...ghost."

The endearment twisted with undercurrents of threat and promise. You could only stare back, pinned beneath the full weight of Shalnark's presence. Then, just as abruptly as the confrontation began, he released you with a disdainful shove and stalked away.

You were left to gather your wits amid the wreckage of your workstation, ears still ringing with the phantom echoes of Shalnark's parting words.

a few days later

Word had reached Shalnark that once again, the Phantom Troupe's operations had been disrupted - their secure networks breached and an upcoming rendezvous point leaked. He didn't even need to confirm the culprit this time.

You had defied his final warning.

A muscle ticked in Shalnark's jaw as he paced the confines of his spartan living quarters. Rage warred with bitter frustration and that same nagging sense of respect for your abilities that he couldn't quite extinguish, no matter how much you tormented him.

Part of him had honestly thought that perhaps his show of force last time, that razor-edged glimpse of the consequences you were toying with, might have gotten through your stubbornly defiant exterior. But clearly, you were too entrenched in...whatever personal vendetta drove these endless cyber strikes against his Troupe brothers.

Shalnark came to a halt, nostrils flaring slightly as his internal deliberations reached a conclusion. You'd been warned more than fairly, given ample opportunity to save yourself from retaliation. If you insisted on continuing to impede and undermine the Troupe's enterprise, then you had chosen this path.

It was with a sense of grim finality that Shalnark finally grabbed his gear and headed out, already plotting out the most efficient route back to your apartment building. This time, no hemming or hawing, no staying of violence at the last moment out of some misplaced inkling of respect.

No, when he saw you again, there would be no merciful hesitation. You wanted to challenge the Phantom Troupe? You were about to receive their full, implacable wrath personified.

The trip across town passed in a blur of narrowed focus for the blond hacker. Before he could even properly steel himself, Shalnark was already ascending the dingy stairwell towards your secluded flat. His steps were silent but carried a sense of inevitable momentum.

At your door, he didn't even bother with picking the electronic lock this time. A solid kick from his boot was enough to splinter the aged wood inwards with a concussive bang.

Shalnark strode through the newly-formed entrance with propulsive intent, eyes rapidly sweeping the small living area for any sign of you. When his gaze finally settled on your figure, casually leaning against the kitchen counter in a graphic tee and a pair of lace panties like you'd been awaiting his arrival, the inferno banked behind his stare flared even hotter.

"Hoh..." You regarded him with that same inscrutable half-smirk, utterly unruffled by his intrusive entrance. "I figured you'd be stopping by again sooner rather than la--"

Whatever quipfaded shot you might have intended died on your lips as Shalnark crossed the scant distance separating you in a few purposeful strides. His calloused hand locked like a vice around your throat, the other seizing a fistful of your shirt as he bodily slammed you back against the counter.

Leaning in until his face was mere inches from yours, Shalnark searched your defiant gaze for any trace of fear or contrition. But he found only that same maddening glint of challenge and resolve reflecting back at him.

"Did you really think..." Each word was a softly spoken rasp of menace despite the innocent smile on his face. "That I wouldn't make good on my promise?"

You stared back at him, posture taut but expression unreadable even as his fingers tightened infinitesimally around your windpipe. A fragile silence stretched out, loaded with implications before Shalnark finally exhaled a bemused huff.

"I'm honestly not sure whether to be impressed or insulted by your sheer stupidity, ghost."

Abruptly, he released his crushing grip, allowing you to slump forward slightly as you dragged in a rasping breath. Not giving you a chance to regain your equilibrium, Shalnark clamped one large hand around your bicep in an unforgiving grasp and began propelling you backwards towards the bedroom area.

You tried to dig in your heels, but Shalnark was inexorable in his momentum as he practically frog-marched you through the cramped living room. At the bedroom threshold, he paused just long enough to level you with a look of such glacial intensity it stole the breath from your lungs.

"But one thing's for certain..." His tone had taken on a dangerous lilt of anticipation. "After tonight, you'll finally understand the consequences of your actions."

With that silken promise, Shalnark gave a casual shove, propelling you back onto the unmade bedding as he stalked through the doorway after you.

Shalnark advanced into the bedroom like a panther closing in on its prey. You scrambled back across the rumpled bedding, clutching a pillow defensively to your chest as he loomed over the edge of the mattress.

"Shal--" You tried to formulate a protest or defiant barb, but it withered on your lips as he reached out with agonizing slowness to pry the pillow from your grasp.

The battered cushion fell forgotten to the floor as Shalnark's weight settled over you, knees bracketing your thighs and hands planted on either side of your head. His eyes roamed your features with an impassive intensity that made you want to squirm.

"No more games," he murmured, so close now that his breath disturbed the fine tendrils of hair across your forehead. "No more smokescreens or deflections."

One of his hands drifted up to trail a maddening path along the line of your jaw and neck, thumb brushing your racing pulse point. Shalnark's gaze followed the motion, utterly focused and unwavering.

"Tell me why, ghost," he breathed, the weight of his stare pinning you as surely as his body. "After everything, every warning, every chance I gave you to walk away...why keep antagonizing me? What could possibly be worth this relentless obsession?"

His fingers continued their torturously light exploration, tracing the curve of your collarbone and dipping beneath the neckline of your shirt to toy with the heated skin below. You shivered in spite of yourself, the cradle of his hips pressing you into the mattress.

"What are you so desperate to achieve?" Shalnark's lips brushed the sensitive hollow beneath your ear as he murmured. "Because I can promise you, no endgame is worth the retaliation I'm prepared to unleash."

The words carried an undercurrent of dark promise that sent a shiver down your spine. But rather than incite fear or capitulation, the sense of looming danger only seemed to embolden the reckless fire flickering behind your stare.

Perhaps sensing this, perhaps reveling in it, Shalnark huffed a low chuckle against the fragile skin of your neck. "Even now, you continue to defy me with that fire in your eyes."

His nose traced a scorching path along the line of your throat until his lips were hovering a hairsbreadth from yours. You could feel the heat of his breaths mingling with your own, smell the amalgam of his sandalwood and metal scent.

"I'm a patient man, ghost," Shalnark purred, fingertips toying with the hem of your shirt. "But even my restraint has its...limits."

He punctuated the loaded statement by dipping lower, claiming your lips in a searing, demanding kiss that obliterated whatever trace of coherent resistance you might have clung to. You melted into the scorching velvet of his mouth moving with possessive intensity over yours.

Shalnark's tongue delved deep, stoking the first cinders of a wildfire rapidly raging out of control between your entwined bodies. His hands roamed with increasing insistence, pulling your shirt up to skate calloused palms across the bare skin of your breasts, thumbing at your nipples.

He was everywhere at once - his scent, his deliciously wicked mouth, the hard planes of his body pinning you to the disheveled sheets. You gasped, arching against the firm press of his thigh insinuating itself between your legs as Shalnark's kiss turned almost feral with banked intensity.

There was no more preamble, no banter or verbal feints to mask the undercurrent of primal need and challenge crackling between you. Only the unraveling of that exquisite knot of tension, the collision of two unyielding forces utterly unbridled from their restraints at last.

Shalnark drew back, panting softly as he surveyed you through heavy-lidded eyes. Then, without warning, he gripped the neckline of your shirt and yanked it down with enough force to send the fabric tearing straight down the center. You gasped, the sound melting into a moan as he leaned down to drag his teeth against the delicate skin of your neck, the swell of your breasts.

You writhed beneath him, hands scrabbling for purchase in the short strands of his hair. Shalnark smirked against the hollow of your throat, fingers trailing feather-light down your sides until they hooked into the waistband of your panties.

Without pretense, he shoved the skimpy garment down your legs, leaving you fully bared to his heated gaze. Your skin flushed under the weight of his stare as he sat back on his heels to admire you, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

"Gods, look at you." He breathed the reverential curse as his eyes drank in the sight of your naked, quivering form laid out for his taking.

A low hum of appreciation rumbled in his chest as his palms glided over the supple skin of your inner thighs, nudging them apart to expose the slick folds beneath. Shalnark's eyes took on a predatory gleam, pupils blown wide with unbridled desire.

"So pretty..." He dipped his head, the tip of his nose trailing a maddening path along the apex of your thigh. You whimpered, hips twitching as the first touch of his mouth scorched a path through the slick petals of your cunt.

Shalnark groaned in satisfaction at the flavor bursting on his tongue, his fingers tightening around the flesh of your thighs. Then, his mouth was on you with a ruthless, devouring intensity. He ate you out like a starving man, the wet sounds of his ministrations obscene in the charged silence.

Your back bowed off the sheets as a broken cry tumbled from your lips, hands fisting in the rumpled covers. The world narrowed to the sensation of Shalnark's mouth on you, the rough pads of his fingers digging bruises into the plush give of your flesh.

He lapped at your core like a man possessed, the wet sounds of his efforts punctuated by the occasional groan of pleasure as your taste coated his tongue. The way he ate you out was utterly unhinged, unrestrained and almost frenzied with need.

Your hips twitched beneath the press of his palms, grinding into his face shamelessly as your body chased the mounting pleasure. When the first electric pulses of an orgasm began to spark, you moaned aloud, the sound spurring Shalnark's efforts into an almost desperate cadence.

His tongue flicked against your clit, then swirled and sucked the delicate bundle of nerves with an expertise that had your vision blurring with sparks. It felt as though all the air was being stolen from your lungs, a roaring rush of sound in your ears drowning out the wrecked sounds that poured from your lips.

Then, just when the mounting pressure threatened to burst, the sensation of Shalnark's mouth abruptly withdrew. You were left teetering on the edge, so tantalizingly close to a climax, but denied.

Beneath the hazy sheen of lust, you registered the faint clink of metal and the rustle of fabric. The sound of a zipper coming undone, the creak of leather shifting, and then suddenly Shalnark was looming over you, his shadow consuming your vision.

His lips were glistening with the remnants of your slick, cheeks flushed and eyes burning with barely contained desire. "Not yet, ghost."

His tone held an undercurrent of command that was impossible to ignore. Even as the denial sent a bolt of frustrated lust lancing through you, you were helpless to resist.

You watched, chest heaving and skin tingling, as Shalnark shrugged off his jacket, the garment falling unceremoniously to the floor. A moment later, his shirt followed. Your gaze hungrily traced the chiseled lines of his bare torso, the tapering muscles that spoke to years of conditioning.

When Shalnark reached down, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, you bit your lip, eyes widening as he peeled the final layers away. Your eyes raked over the toned, tanned expanse of his body, lingering on the curly blond patch of hair above his cock, already jutting proudly between his legs.

He was fully erect, the tip of his cock flushed a dark crimson and already leaking precum. Your gaze traced the veins bulging beneath the surface, the impressive length and girth that sent a shiver of anticipation dancing down your spine.

Shalnark's fingers circled the base of his cock, stroking slowly up the shaft until a pearly drop formed at the tip. He hummed, eyes hooded and lips parted as he gazed down at you. "Look at what you've done to me, ghost."

Before you could register his movements, his hand shot out, catching you by the ankle. A startled yelp escaped your lips as he pulled you sharply down the bed, the pillows and sheets bunching around you as Shalnark loomed over you.

He didn’t give you a chance to breath before he flipped you over onto your stomach. Your fingers curled reflexively in the sheets as he nudged your legs apart, settling his hips flush against the curve of your ass.

His cock slotted against the slick folds of your pussy, the hot tip nudging at your entrance. Shalnark exhaled a ragged sigh, hands flexing around your waist. Then, his cock was sinking into you, spreading your cunt open with a delicious friction that had you arching against him.

Shalnark bottomed out, the tip of his cock brushing that spot so deep inside that it drew a ragged gasp from your lips. He groaned, his hold on you tightening. Then, he was withdrawing, only to snap his hips forward and bury himself balls deep in the clutching heat of your pussy.

Your eyes rolled back, a litany of moans pouring from your lips as he began to fuck you with slow, deep thrusts that shook the bedframe. His grip on you tightened, nails digging half-moon indents into the tender flesh.

With each thrust, Shalnark sank into your tight channel deeper and deeper. He filled you up so completely, the feeling of him stretching you out so perfectly that it had your vision blurring. You clutched at the sheets, arching into the press of his cock driving into you with a steady, merciless rhythm.

You were so utterly, perfectly full. Each thrust was calculated, the angle of his cock hitting just the right spot to drive the air from your lungs in a keening moan. You could feel the way his length pulsed inside of you, the twitch of his cock as your walls clenched down.

Sparks danced along your spine, your toes curling into the rumpled sheets as the first waves of another orgasm began to crest. Shalnark seemed to sense the mounting pressure, the way your thighs trembled and back arched, and he sped up his thrusts.

You could hear the soft, ragged sounds spilling from his lips, the wet squelch of his cock plunging into you again and again. The slap of his hips meeting the curves of your ass. His hands, one gripping a bruising handful of your flesh, the other fisting in your hair, wrenching your head back as he rode you harder.

Just as you were teetering on the edge of oblivion, he stopped. Once again, Shalnark drew out the sensation of his cock withdrawing from the tight clutch of your pussy. Once again, he left you teetering on the precipice.

You whined, the sound abruptly halting as Shalnark grabbed a fistful of your hair and forced you upright, his other hand clamping around the front of your throat. The change in angle sent a spike of pleasure arcing through your body, his cock sinking even deeper inside.

"That’s right, ghost. You still haven’t told me..." Shalnark murmured, the words a rasping breath against your ear. His hand tightened around the column of your neck, fingers digging in just enough to restrict your airflow.

You whimpered, the sound catching on a strangled inhale. Shalnark held you like that for a long moment, his cock twitching with the effort of keeping still, buried so deep inside you that the sensation was maddening.

When he spoke, his voice held a razor-edged edge of warning. "So let's try this one last time. Why are you doing this?"

His grip around your throat tightened imperceptibly. Your breath caught, pulse thrumming beneath the vice-like press of his fingers. The threat of suffocation coupled with the relentless sensation of his cock stretching you open had you delirious with want.

"Y-you seriously want to do this now?" You managed to choke out.

Shalnark's answer came in the form of his free hand descending across the fleshy globe of your ass. The sound cracked through the room, a stinging welt immediately blooming across your skin.

The unexpected pain had you gasping, the sound muffled as Shalnark squeezed tighter around your neck. "You want to be difficult?"

Another punishing strike, this one drawing a choked sob from your lips. Shalnark leaned in, pressing his chest against your back as his hips gave a slow, punishing thrust. "I'll beat it out of you, then."

Your eyes rolled back at the sensation of his cock dragging through your walls. He kept his pace excruciatingly slow, each thrust measured and deliberate as his hand came down again and again.

His palm painted a series of crisscrossing welts across the flesh of your ass, each fresh sting punctuated by a shallow gasp. Shalnark groaned, the sound vibrating against the side of your neck as his free hand came up to cup the swell of your breast.

He pinched at the sensitive peak, rolling the bud between his fingers as his other hand continued its relentless assault. Tears of pain and frustration gathered in the corners of your eyes, a thin trickle of drool leaking from the corner of your mouth.

When his palm finally halted, the skin of your ass was on fire. The heat seemed to radiate outwards, enveloping your entire body in a feverish haze. You were barely cognizant of the fact that Shalnark had loosened his hold around your neck.

The oxygen returning to your lungs sent a heady rush surging through your veins. You panted, swaying slightly on your knees as the sensation of his cock fucking you in shallow, infuriatingly slow strokes began to overwhelm you.

"Still not going to tell me, ghost?" Shalnark's voice was laced with a cruel amusement. He seemed to delight in torturing you like this, pushing you to the limits of your endurance.

His thumb dipped into the cleft of your ass, brushing the puckered rim of your hole. You jolted, the sensation sparking something white hot deep in the pit of your stomach. "Mmm, or is this turning you on even more?"

He punctuated the question by circling his thumb around the tight ring, not pressing in, but threatening. A whimper escaped your lips. Shalnark chuckled. "Maybe you'll respond to this better."

Without warning, his thumb breached the tight confines of your hole. The sudden invasion was almost too much, the sensation sending a wave of conflicting emotions crashing over you. Pain, pleasure, and a sense of helplessness that had you moaning.

Shalnark groaned at the way your ass clenched around his thumb, the feeling of his cock plunging deeper into your pussy. "Fuck...that's right, ghost. I've got you right where I want you. So tell me..."

He gave a pointed thrust, burying himself deep and drawing a cry from your lips. His thumb pushed further into the tight heat of your ass, stretching you open. "Why. Are. You. Doing. This?"

Each word was punctuated by a sharp snap of his hips, the motion rocking your entire body. You gasped, writhing on his cock and fingers. Your walls tightened reflexively, a telltale sign that you were dangerously close to another release.

Shalnark's breath was ragged against your ear. He could feel the way you clenched around his cock, the way your body began to tense. He was getting close, too, his balls drawn up tight and a pressure coiling deep inside.

But he wasn't done with you yet. Just as you felt the beginnings of an orgasm start to crash over you, Shalnark's touch vanished. His cock withdrew, leaving you gaping and empty, the sensation so sudden and disorienting that a broken sob tore from your lips.

The next thing you knew, Shalnark had flipped you over onto your back, manhandling you with an effortless strength that would have been surprising if you weren't already so utterly, desperately distracted.

Then, his body was once again settling between your spread legs, his cock nudging at your entrance. But rather than sheathe himself in one smooth stroke as you expected, Shalnark teased his cockhead along the glistening seam of your folds.

"One last chance," he ground out, his gaze searching yours. "Tell me."

You stared up at him through hazy, lust-drunk eyes, the world reduced to the feeling of his cock grinding against your dripping core. "I...I can't... Ohhh god, Shalnark!"

He had taken advantage of the brief moment of distraction to push forward, the thick length of his cock breaching your entrance. But instead of sinking home, Shalnark merely rocked his hips, the head of his cock teasing the sensitive flesh of your walls.

"Yes, you can," he gritted out, jaw clenched. His eyes bore into yours, his expression a mask of barely controlled restraint. "Tell me, and I'll make you cum."

He was so tantalizingly close, but never quite deep enough, his cock only sinking in a few tantalizing inches. The pressure building deep in the pit of your stomach was unbearable. You arched against him, your fingers clawing at his shoulders, the sheets, anything you could grab.

"Shalnark, please..." You weren't even sure what you were begging for, only that you couldn't take the excruciating tension anymore. "Please, fuck me... Please!"

A low growl rumbled in Shalnark's throat as he shifted, bracing his palms on either side of your head. His chest hovered mere inches from yours, his breaths coming in harsh pants.

"Tell. Me." Each word was ground out, the syllables punctuated by a shallow thrust. His cock slid in another agonizing inch, the friction sending a shudder through your entire body.

Your head tipped back against the pillows, lips parted on a soundless cry as Shalnark continued to grind against you, barely sheathing his cock. His fingers were gripping the sheets so tightly you could hear the fabric protesting, the muscles in his arms and neck standing out in sharp relief.

You could tell he was hanging on by a thread. But even through the fog of lust clouding your mind, something made you hesitate. A lingering defiance, the knowledge that to give him what he wanted was to capitulate.

"No," you choked out, the word tumbling from your lips before you could fully process the implication.

Shalnark's eyes flashed with something like triumph and irritation. Then, without pretense, his cock was pushing in all the way, the sensation so sudden and overwhelming that you cried out.

Your fingers scrabbled for purchase against his broad back, nails dragging angry red marks in their wake. Shalnark grunted, bottoming out and grinding his hips against yours. Then, he drew back, only to snap his hips forward and bury himself in the clutching heat of your cunt again.

You could only lie there, writhing beneath him as his cock split you open, his pubes grinding against your clit with each punishing thrust. Shalnark leaned back, grabbing your legs and hooking them over his shoulders, allowing him to sink in even deeper.

His pace was brutal, the slick slap of his hips meeting your ass echoing throughout the room. You could feel the coil tightening inside, the mounting pressure rapidly approaching critical mass.

"Oh fuck...oh gods, please..." You weren't even sure what was tumbling from your lips, your vision blurring with tears and pleasure. Shalnark's breaths were coming in harsh, ragged gasps. He was close, too.

The rhythmic motion of his cock sliding through your walls, the obscene squelch of his thrusts and the heady scent of sex filling the air, it was all too much. You were dizzy with the sensations, your body moving on pure instinct and need. The bed creaked beneath you, the wooden frame groaning as Shalnark's thrusts took on an increasingly frenzied tempo. His hands dug into the soft give of your flesh, fingertips branding bruises into the tender skin.

You could feel yourself cresting, the wave about to break. Just as the pressure was reaching a breaking point, Shalnark pulled out. Again.

You cried out, the sound edged with frustration and despair. Hot tears slipped down your cheeks, the denial so acute and sudden that it was physically painful.

"You're so selfish, ghost." Shalnark's voice was strained, the words punctuated by heavy breaths. His hand closed around the base of his cock, squeezing tightly as he stared down at you. "You won't even tell me the truth."

You blinked, the words registering dimly through the fog of denial. "I'm sorry...I'm sorry..."

Shalnark leaned forward, his body covering yours as he positioned his cock against your entrance. But this time, he didn't thrust in. He just pressed against the slippery folds, the tip of his cock catching on your rim.

"You know what?" he breathed, his voice ragged. "I'll stop. I'll walk out of here and leave you like this, so desperate and needy. You'll never get to cum again."

You shook your head, eyes wide with panic. "No, please! Please, Shalnark!"

His fingers found your chin, tipping your head up so that your gazes locked. His eyes were hard and impassive, the smile on his face utterly devoid of warmth. "I know, ghost. I don’t like it either. But I warned you, didn't I?"

You whimpered, shaking. His threat was an empty one, you could sense it. But the prospect of being left like this, the idea that you might never experience the mind-blowing pleasure of his cock was enough to shatter whatever lingering barriers of pride or defiance you might have clung to.

"Please... I'll tell you...please just let me cum..." You were sobbing openly now, your cheeks streaked with tears.

Shalnark gazed down at you, his expression softening. Without warning, he plunged his cock deep inside, the sensation so intense and unexpected that you nearly screamed.

"I don't need you to tell me, ghost." He was breathing hard, his face inches from yours. His hand found your hip, guiding your motions as you rocked against him, impaling yourself on his cock.

"I already know," Shalnark said, his gaze searing into yours. "I've known for a long time, actually."

"Then why--"

"Because I wanted you to admit it to me." He silenced the question with a punishing thrust, the action driving the air from your lungs.

His words were punctuated by another snap of his hips, the motion shaking the entire bed. You clutched at his shoulders, the room spinning around you. "And I wanted to punish you for keeping secrets. Especially such a stupid one."

"Shalnark...oh gods, yes! Right there, please, please..." You were babbling, the words pouring out unbidden as he continued to fuck you. His thrusts were measured, calculated, each one striking just the right spot to drive the air from your lungs.

Shalnark huffed a breathless laugh. "Do you think you deserve to cum after all the trouble you've caused me, ghost?"

You shook your head, eyes screwed shut against the overwhelming onslaught of sensation. His fingers found your chin, forcing your gaze up to meet his.

"Look at me."

His tone was so authoritative, the words brooking no argument. You did as you were told, blinking up at him through tear-stained lashes. Shalnark's eyes were glazed with a feverish intensity, his pupils blown wide with desire.

"God, you’re so beautiful when you cry," he murmured, the words a ragged whisper against your lips. Then, his mouth was claiming yours, his tongue sliding against your own.

The kiss was bruising, all consuming. You were drowning in the taste of him, the feeling of his body on yours. Your hands roamed over his broad back, raking across the muscles as he continued to fuck you.

He swallowed down the cries tumbling from your lips, drinking in the broken, desperate sounds like a man parched. His cock sank into the clutching heat of your pussy, each stroke drawing a fresh wave of pleasure from your aching body.

Shalnark's teeth dragged across the soft skin of your lower lip, his tongue laving the sting away. His palm pressed into the mattress, bracing his weight as he picked up the pace. He fucked you with a singular purpose, his entire being focused on drawing out your pleasure and his own.

You clung to him, the room spinning around you as your impending release coiled tighter and tighter, the pressure threatening to burst at any moment. Then, with a final punishing thrust, the dam finally broke.

Your eyes rolled back, a keening wail escaping your lips as your orgasm crashed over you. A powerful gush of hot, fragrant liquid sprayed from your cunt, coating the sheets, Shalnark's thighs, and the base of his cock.

Shalnark groaned, his hips stuttering as your walls clenched around him, the feeling of your cum slicking the way as he fucked you through the peak of your release. His fingers dug into your hip, dragging you against him as he drove into you again and again.

"Gods, that's it. Squirt for me, ghost." He grunted, his words punctuated by heavy breaths. His entire body was trembling, the tension straining at the breaking point. "Fuck, I'm gonna cum...cum so hard..."

Your walls tightened reflexively around him, milking the last of his self-control. With a ragged cry, Shalnark buried his cock as deep as he could, his balls drawing up tight as the first pulse of his release shot through him.

You moaned, the sound muffled against the sweat-slick skin of his neck as Shalnark emptied himself into you, the feeling of his cum coating your walls sparking another wave of pleasure.

His hips gave a series of shallow thrusts, each motion punctuated by a soft grunt and another twitch of his cock as he pumped you full. His face was buried against the hollow of your throat, lips moving against the skin.

"...fuck, that's good..." he murmured, the words little more than a rumble against your chest.

When the last dregs of his orgasm faded, Shalnark lifted his head, his gaze searching yours. He exhaled a soft laugh, his hand coming up to trace the curve of your jaw.

"You crazy, sexy girl. You did all this...for fun, didn’t you?"

A lazy, sated smile spread across your lips. You hummed softly in affirmation, nuzzling against the gentle press of his palm.

"You're a menace," Shalnark chided. There was no heat behind the words, however. If anything, he seemed almost...impressed. "Fucking insane. What am I going to do with you?"

"Well, for starters..." You stretched languidly against him, arching your back and savoring the way his softening cock shifted inside of you.

Shalnark's expression went momentarily blank, his gaze unfocused. Then, his eyes slid shut, a groan rumbling in his chest.

"Ohhh fuck... You're insatiable." He rolled his hips slowly against yours, drawing a gasp from your lips. "I don't think you're capable of behaving yourself, are you, ghost?"

You could feel his cock twitch inside of you, stirring to life once more. Your grin widened, eyes glittering with a challenge. "Not really, no."

"Hmm, I guess I’ll have to fuck that bratty attitude out of you," Shalnark murmured, his voice a low purr against the shell of your ear.

He pulled back, his eyes finding yours. They held a heated intensity, the promise of pleasure and punishment. A wicked smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and you felt a delicious shiver dance down your spine.

"I warned you, didn't I?"

[novaursa]

The Blackwood Flame

- Summary: You saved his life and won his heart.

- Paring: velaryon!reader/Davos Blackwood

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The crackle of flames and the heavy scent of burning timber fill the air as you descend on the battlefield, Sheepstealer’s mighty wings blotting out the sky above. Below, the chaos of the Battle of the Burning Mill plays out, iron and steel clashing against the smoldering earth. But even amidst the din of war, a strange, tense silence falls as your dragon's shadow sweeps across the soldiers, both Blackwood and Bracken alike, turning their gaze upwards in a mixture of awe and terror.

With a signal, you command Sheepstealer lower, his form casting an intimidating silhouette as he glides down with an almost predatory grace. As you prepare to strike, you catch sight of the Blackwood forces struggling against Bracken forces along the tree line, each side locked in fierce combat. Sheepstealer releases a roar that splits the heavens, and the men below freeze, eyes widening as they realize the sheer destructive force looming above them.

"Dracarys," you whisper, the word slipping from your lips like a prayer. Fire pours from Sheepstealer's maw, engulfing the enemy lines in blazing flame. The Bracken men scatter in terror, leaving behind smoldering ash and broken steel, their will shattered by the fury of dragonfire. Those who don’t fall immediately are cut down by the reinvigorated Blackwood forces, who rally around the sight of you, their silent ally from above.

The battle is won, and as Sheepstealer circles the battlefield, his flight low and slow, you survey the scorched ground below. The once fertile valley has become a field of death, bodies strewn across the smoldering remnants of what was once a mill and its surrounding woods. A grim sight, yet necessary.

But it’s then that your eyes land on a familiar figure sprawled amidst the dead. A streak of raven hair, dark armor, and the unmistakable sigil of House Blackwood upon his breastplate: Davos.

Your heart seizes in your chest. No, it couldn’t be… But the pang of fear pushes you to guide Sheepstealer down to the earth, sliding off his rough hide before running across the bloody terrain, weaving between fallen men and discarded weapons. You find him lying on his back, eyes half-lidded, face pale beneath streaks of grime and blood. His breaths are shallow but steady, a faint tremor in his body as you kneel beside him.

His eyes flicker open, a small, pained smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he meets your gaze. "Am I dead, then?" he murmurs, his voice weak but laced with a soft wonder. "Because I see a Stranger… or maybe just a ghost."

You let out a shaky laugh, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. "A ghost wouldn’t bother risking her life to bring you back to Raventree Hall."

He chuckles, though it quickly turns into a wince as he attempts to move. "Careful there, princess. I might just believe you."

“Stay still,” you murmur, inspecting his wounds. Blood seeps from a nasty gash along his side, and several bruises bloom across his skin, yet none appear fatal. Relief washes over you, mingling with a bitter anger at the state he’s in.

“Why did you do something so foolish, Davos?” you ask, your voice quiet but charged. “Riding to the front lines as if you were invincible…”

"Couldn’t let my men fight alone," he replies, managing a smile that’s both proud and defiant, even as the pain etches deeper into his features. “We all play our parts in war, don't we?”

You don’t answer, only lift him gently, securing an arm around his shoulders. "Come, let’s get you out of here."

He blinks, startled, as you half-carry, half-drag him toward Sheepstealer, whose immense form waits patiently. Davos’s gaze remains fixed on you, a bewildered look in his eyes as if he’s seeing you anew.

“Still lookin’ at me as if I were some apparition?” you tease, though there’s a softness in your voice that betrays your own worry.

His hand finds yours, grasping it weakly but with surprising warmth. “It’s hard to believe you’re real, here with me. You look like something out of a song, Y/N.”

Despite the grim setting, his words stir a warmth within you, one you suppress with effort. “Hold tight,” you say as you help him onto Sheepstealer, securing him behind you. He gasps, though whether from pain or awe, you can’t tell. He clutches you as the dragon lifts into the air, his grip growing tighter as the ground falls away below.

The flight is short, yet every moment feels stretched as the wind carries you swiftly to Raventree Hall. The sun begins to set, casting the land in hues of gold and amber, and as you feel Davos’s head rest against your shoulder, a strange, aching tenderness blooms within you. He’s quiet, barely moving, and you worry he’s slipped into unconsciousness until his voice murmurs in your ear, barely above a whisper.

"Thank you, Y/N… I thought I was lost… until I saw you."

His words linger, carried away on the wind as you hold him close, focusing only on the steady rhythm of his breaths as Sheepstealer descends toward the courtyard of Raventree Hall.

The smoky light of early dawn spills across the training yard of Raventree Hall. Davos swings his sword in practiced arcs, letting the rhythm and heft of the blade chase away lingering aches. It’s been weeks since that fateful battle, but a faint stiffness still lingers in his side, a constant reminder of how close he’d come to joining his ancestors.

A deep, booming laugh pulls him from his thoughts, and Davos glances over to see his friends, Gawen Rivers, Orwen Blackwood, and young Tomm Casker, approaching with wide grins and a glint of mischief in their eyes. Davos sighs, already suspecting where this is heading. Gawen, the bastard cousin of the Blackwoods and an incorrigible tease, leads the pack, his bulk casting a shadow over Davos as he claps a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Look at him, lads,” Gawen says, his voice thick with amusement. “Our own brave Blackwood knight, nearly taken by the Stranger himself—only to be saved by a Velaryon princess on a dragon. Doesn’t it sound like a tale for the bards?”

Orwen, the quiet but sharp-eyed archer of their group, smirks, shaking his head. “I don’t think the bards would be telling it right. They’d have to add in how he looked at her after, like some lovesick calf.”

Tomm snorts, barely able to keep a straight face. "He was probably half-dead, thought she was the Maiden come to sweep him off. Ain't that right, Davos?"

Davos feels the heat rising in his cheeks, and he scowls, pushing Gawen’s hand off with a grunt. “I thought she was a ghost or worse, if you must know. And I didn’t look at her like a lovesick anything,” he adds, though the denial feels weak even to his own ears.

“Oh, but you did!” Gawen presses, grinning like a wolf. “Orwen’s right, you were gazing at her like she was a fine Dornish wine on a cold night.”

Davos sighs, rolling his eyes but unable to stop the small smile creeping at the edges of his mouth. “I’ll have you know, my first thought was that I’d finally gone to the afterlife, because no living woman should look like that.”

Orwen chuckles, shaking his head. “You might be the only man who’d say he’d prefer death over looking at a woman like her.”

Davos shrugs, sheathing his sword. “I was half-conscious, in case you lot have forgotten. But you should have seen her…a dragon behind her, flames and smoke around her. It felt more like something out of a nightmare than a dream.”

“A nightmare you wouldn’t mind falling back into, though,” Gawen jests, winking as he leans in closer. “Unless I’m mistaken, you’ve been wandering around in your own mind ever since that day. Sighing at the moon, staring off into the distance—never seen you so quiet.”

Davos’s face grows hotter under their laughter. “It’s not like that,” he protests, though the words sound feeble. “She’s… She’s unlike anyone I’ve ever known. Strong, fearless. And she saved my life when she had no reason to.”

Tomm snorts, giving Davos a knowing smirk. “I think you’d like to give her a reason, though, eh?”

Orwen arches an eyebrow, his expression one of playful seriousness. “Davos, mate, be honest with us. Are you planning to write a love song about the dragon-riding princess who swept you off the battlefield? Because if you are, we’ll help you rhyme it up right.”

Davos groans, running a hand over his face. “Enough of this,” he says, though there’s no bite to his tone. "The lady’s got her own path to walk, and it's a thousand leagues above us. You think someone like her would give any thought to the likes of me?"

The three men exchange looks, Gawen shaking his head with a grin. “Oh, I don’t know about that. From what I heard, she risked quite a bit to drag you back here. Seems to me she might just have noticed you.”

“Aye, seems to me she noticed,” Orwen agrees, his voice softer now. “But even if she hadn’t, it wouldn’t change how she’s got her hooks in you. I don’t think you’d stop thinking about her even if she never came back here.”

Davos lets the words settle in, staring out over the training yard, watching as the first of the sun’s light crests the rooftops of Raventree Hall. It’s true, he hasn’t been able to get her out of his mind—the sight of her standing amidst the battlefield, like some fierce warrior queen from the old tales, her hair wild, her armor stained with ash, and her dragon looming over them all.

There was something in that moment, something that went beyond the blood and smoke. It was a feeling he couldn’t quite name, but it had taken root in him, stubborn as any Blackwood loyalty. He hadn’t admitted it to himself fully, but he couldn’t shake the memory of her or the way his heart had raced when she looked at him.

“Aye,” he says at last, voice barely above a murmur. “Maybe she has her hooks in me. But whatever she may be to me, I’m nothing to her. And that’s enough, lads.”

“Is it, though?” Gawen challenges, crossing his arms with a knowing smirk. “Is it really enough?”

Davos chuckles, his face softening. “Maybe not. But it’ll have to be.” He pauses, a smile tugging at his lips. “For now.”

The others let out a collective groan of disappointment, but he only laughs, feeling, perhaps for the first time since the battle, that he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

The winding corridors of Harrenhal cast long shadows that seem to cling to every corner, giving the ancient fortress an almost ghostly air. Davos Blackwood feels each step echoing in the vast, hollow halls, his nerves a raw and pulsing thing within him. Lord Samwell Blackwood had been unable to come to the meeting, so the task fell upon him, a chance to prove himself to Prince Daemon and House Targaryen. A chance he knew he couldn’t afford to waste.

The doors to the hall creak open, and Davos enters, straightening his shoulders, trying to summon every bit of confidence he can muster. Prince Daemon sits at the head of the table, clad in dark leathers and fine cloth, his silver hair catching what little light seeps through the high windows. And beside him, with an almost ethereal glow, sit you, Y/N Velaryon, your gaze falling on him with a quiet intensity that steals his breath.

Swallowing hard, he tries to focus, feeling the weight of your stare, aware of every inch of distance—and the faintest, foolish hope that it might someday be closed.

“Lord Davos,” Daemon greets him, his voice a smooth rumble, almost amused. “I trust the journey here was not too troublesome?”

Davos bows, hoping his words come out steady. “A bit long, Your Grace, but… well, I mean, not that long, of course, just… a journey.” He falters, feeling his cheeks redden as he realizes how utterly inane he sounds.

Daemon’s mouth twitches with the faintest hint of a smile, his gaze flicking briefly to you before returning to Davos. “A journey, yes. Much like the one we are on today,” Daemon replies, a glint in his eyes as if finding this moment far more entertaining than he should.

“Yes… precisely, Your Grace. We—uh, I mean, House Blackwood… we look forward to working with you. I mean, your family,” Davos stammers, mentally cursing himself with every garbled word. He tries desperately not to look at you, who sit beside Daemon with your hands folded, a serene expression on your face, though he catches a faint glimmer of amusement in your eyes as well.

“Good to hear,” Daemon says, leaning back, his gaze sharp. “Lord Blackwood has long been a staunch ally to House Targaryen. We have need of such loyalty—something… binding.”

Davos nods vigorously, hardly trusting himself to speak but feeling compelled to respond. “We’d be honored, Your Grace. To bind our houses, in… well, in whatever way you see fit.”

At that, Daemon exchanges a glance with you, and a smirk edges across his lips. “Very good, Lord Davos. I think you and my companion here would… complement each other well.”

Davos’s mind blanks momentarily, his cheeks reddening again as he tries to decipher the meaning behind Daemon’s words. “Yes… well, yes, indeed. Complement… Yes, Your Grace.”

Daemon inclines his head, his gaze piercing. “Then it’s settled. House Targaryen and House Blackwood will be bound, and I’m certain you’ll both find your paths much improved.” He rises, nodding to you, and you stand beside him gracefully. You send Davos a lingering look, and he feels his pulse quicken, though he dares not meet your gaze too fully.

“Until next time, Lord Davos,” Daemon says, voice almost lilting. He and you make your way out of the hall, leaving Davos standing there, his thoughts a chaotic whirl of half-formed ideas and inexplicable emotions.

Lord Simon Strong, a shrewd man with a knowing glint in his eye, approaches him, clapping Davos on the shoulder. “Congratulations, Lord Davos,” he says with a broad smile. “I can only imagine the festivities your family will prepare for such an occasion.”

Davos blinks, still a bit dazed. “Festivities? I don’t… I don’t follow, Lord Simon.”

Simon chuckles, shaking his head. “For the union, of course! You’ve just accepted the alliance with House Targaryen. I’d say a marriage to a Velaryon princess is something well worth celebrating, wouldn’t you?”

The words crash over him like a tidal wave, and Davos stares at Simon, his mouth slightly open as realization dawns. “Wait… A marriage?”

Simon only laughs, giving him a hearty slap on the back. “Yes, a marriage, my lord. I suggest you start rehearsing how to speak to her without turning as red as a beetroot.”

Davos’s face burns as the truth settles in. He had just—unknowingly—agreed to marry you, the woman who’d haunted his thoughts since that fateful day on the battlefield. He felt both mortified and strangely exhilarated, his heart racing as he replayed the scene in his mind, Daemon’s knowing smile and your quiet amusement.

All he could manage was a faint, “Seven hells…” as Simon roared with laughter beside him.

[beenbaanbuun]

Love im addicted to you Matz and darling work!!✨pls make masterlist

Soooo I was thinking are they into role playing?? Like what scenario matz and darling choose??

I have one unholy one in my mind, what if mommy hwa ties hong to chair and make him watch as he takes darling ?? This would be soo🤌🏻🤌🏻

hello!!!! the masterlist is here!! she needs updating with the last few works but that’s a job for later im afraid 😭😭

——

they definitely like to add a little spice into the bedroom, and i was actually thinking about that very thing just the other day. hongjoong had been a little too bratty after waking up alone and had decided to take it out not just on darling, but also on seonghwa. now, darling knows better than anyone in that house that being a brat gets you nowhere, except in hongjoong’s case, where it gets you tied to a chair.

“comfy?” seonghwa purrs into his husbands ear as he tightens the last nod. hongjoong tries to wriggle a little, but to no avail. it doesn’t surprise him; seonghwa’s rigging skills are unmatched. hongjoong gives a little shake of his head in response to the question, a defiant look in his eyes as he glares up at his partner. “good; you’re not supposed to be.”

he hears a little giggle from across the room and his gaze shoots over to where you sit on the bed, completely bare and ready for the taking. his eyes narrow, determined to convey a message to you; he may be tied up, but he’s still your dom at the end of the day. you seem to understand it, but you never once wipe the smile from your face… fucking brat.

“you did this to yourself, mi amor,” seonghwa says, stalking his way over to where you sit. a pretty hand lands atop your head, tugging at you until you sit leaning against your mommy’s hipbone. you close your eyes in bliss as he brushes your hair from your face and hongjoong can’t help but feel annoyance bubble up within him at the sight. “hasn’t our little darling proved enough times that being a little shit gets you nowhere? haven’t you yourself dragged her over your lap enough for that little lesson to sink in?”

hongjoong, of course, has learnt that lesson. not only has he taught it to you plenty of times, but he’s also been on the receiving end a few more times than he’d like to admit. it doesn’t always end up with him tied to a chair, but it is always torture for him.

his eyes narrow as he watches seonghwa’s hand dip to your chin, gently caressing your soft skin before lifting your gaze from hongjoong to your mommy. the whimper you let out when a thumb slowly pushes its way between your lips is sinful. pair it with the wide eyes look you offer to his husband and its enough to make the devil himself let out a little prayer. only you could make innocence look so slutty…

“you know, you’re lucky my precious lamb is as understanding as she is,” the thumb is pulled from your mouth with a pop, a single string of saliva connecting the digit to the still parted lips. seonghwa swipes at them, smearing your own saliva against them. hongjoong almost cums in his pants when he sees you chase after the thumb, yearning to have something rested against your tongue once more. “she didn’t even snitch on you when you were being such a troublesome brat. seriously mi amor, refusing to let her sit with you simply because she grew too hungry to stay in bed with you this morning? it’s childish, isn’t it lamb?”

and although it really shouldn’t have, the question makes hongjoong smile. clearly seonghwa was in some sort of tyrannical headspace tonight; to punish hongjoong and then continue on to ask you such a leading question? he really is out for blood.

and it seems as though you can see it too. you blink up at seonghwa’s expression of faux-innocence, your lust addled brain taking just a moment longer to compute than usual. if you answer how seonghwa wishes for you to, hongjoong will no doubt pounce the moment he gets free of the restraints. if you don’t, seonghwa will no doubt take joy in punishing you too. you swallow down your worries as your mind races to decide which lover you’d rather have on your side.

“yes, mommy,” you whisper, your voice unsure and trembling. a proud smile forms on seonghwa’s face as you fall right into the trap he lay for you. he turns his head to face his husband, giving hongjoong a single look that tells all; take this punishment like a good boy, and taking care of you will be his reward…

[daisymbin]

https://www.tumblr.com/daisymbin/767035170329149440/2104-kim-mingyu-warnings-fwb-angst can you make a part 2? 🥺

a/n: thank you for requesting a part2 🥹 I was debating between keeping it the way it is at angst or happy ending but....here we are with both. whichever fits your cup of tea, I hope you enjoy it!! (I'll admit my heart hurt a little when writing the angst one)

check out my masterlist! // read part1 here

v.1_angst ending

warnings: angst!!!

it’s been a month since mingyu walked out of your life and everything feels like its crumbling. food tastes like ash, laughter sounds like echoes of something you used to know, and the world continues to spin while you feel like you’re standing still, trapped in the wreckage of a person that used to feel so safe, like they'd never hurt you.

you find yourself wandering the streets today, hoping that moving through the city might make you feel alive again. but your heart sinks when you see him, mingyu, standing outside a small bar, the neon lights painting his silhouette with colors too bright for the pain you feel. he’s there, a girl tucked under his arm, her laughter ringing out clear, sweet, & god, she’s beautiful, she's so beautiful that it twists the knife deeper.

you should look away. you should. but you don’t. you can’t. instead, your feet root to the spot as your heart crumbles, the wound you thought was starting to scab over splitting wide open again. you watch mingyu’s eyes flicker over to you, and time slows.

he sees you. he sees you, and for a heartbeat, you think you catch a glimpse of something—regret? sorrow? but then his lips curl into a smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes, and whatever hope you clung to evaporates. because he just looks so cold.

the girl beside him tilts her head up, oblivious, and mingyu’s hands starts to roam, sliding slowly down her back, to her waist, lingering in a way that makes your insides churn. & then, he pulls her impossibly closer by her waist as he presses slow kisses along her neck. you watch as he darts his tongue out and lightly drags it across her skin, deliberate and intimate, and the worst part? he does it while looking straight at you. his eyes never leaving yours, holding you in place, they burn into yours, dark and defiant, and it feels like he’s taunting you, as if daring you to do something about it, but really, its almost as if he's challenging himself to break you apart; like how fast he can do it? how many times he can break you? just how many times?

it’s sick. cruel. a sinister, sadistic challenge, and you don’t know if this version of mingyu is someone he’s always been, hidden beneath the boy who used to hold you so tenderly, or if he’s became this monster just to twist the knife a little deeper. either way, it doesn’t matter. the pain is real, and it’s yours.

you clench your fists, your nails digging into your palms threatening to draw blood as you try to steady your breathing. every cell in your body screams at you to do something, to scream, to demand answers, to yell that this isn’t fair. but you can’t. you won’t give him the satisfaction. instead, you force yourself to stand there, swallowing the anguish that rises like bile in your throat.

the girl giggles again, tilting her head to give mingyu more access, and your vision blurs as your tears threaten to spill. he’s touching her the way he used to touch you, and it feels like he’s shattering your memories one by one, tainting all of them, taking everything beautiful you once shared and warping it into something twisted and unrecognizable.

mingyu keeps his eyes on you, and for a moment, you think he might smirk. there’s something almost victorious in his gaze, and you wonder if this has been his plan all along—to break you until there’s nothing left.

you tear your gaze away and force yourself to move, each step feeling heavier than the last. your chest aches, and your breath comes out in short, jagged bursts, but you refuse to let him see you break down. not here. not in front of him.

the tears spill over as you walk away, hot and unrelenting. your whole world feels fractured, like a puzzle missing its most important piece, and the realization hits you like a freight train: mingyu has moved on, and he did it in a way that leaves no room for doubt. he’s not coming back, and even if he did, the person he used to be is gone.

you turn a corner, wiping at your eyes with trembling hands, and wonder if you’ll ever be whole again. life continues to pass you by, indifferent to the destruction left in mingyu’s wake, and all you’re left with is the hope that, maybe one day, this pain will dull. that one day, you’ll find a way to start living again instead of merely surviving.

but today is not that day. and mingyu’s laughter echoes behind you, a sound that will haunt you for as long as you let it.

you don’t look back no matter how much it feels like the echo of his laughter is calling you back because you can’t bear to see how easily he’s replaced you. and maybe that’s the final, bitter lesson: some people don’t just break you—they ruin the way you see love, the way you see yourself. and mingyu? he’s done both.

v.2_happy ending

warnings: slight angst with happy ending?

here’s how it feels to be without mingyu: like the world has lost its color. every day bleeds into the next, a monotonous blend of grays and shadows that never seem to lift. it’s like the sun has stopped trying, its warmth gone with the person who used to bring light to even your darkest moments.

you sit at the small table by the window of the coffee shop, the one you and mingyu used to claim as your own. it’s where you’d both spend hours talking, laughing, and holding hands over cups of lukewarm coffee. now, the memories feel like ghosts, haunting every corner of this place.

your fingers trace the rim of your mug, cold and forgotten. your mind is elsewhere, trapped in the past, replaying the way mingyu used to smile at you like you were his whole world. the tears you thought had dried a long time ago threaten to return, but you push them down, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“mind if i sit here?” a unwelcomed voice asks, and it startles you. you barely register the question, lost in the echo of mingyu’s last words to you.

you give a distracted nod, not even looking up. your gaze stays fixed on the steam rising from your mug, your thoughts heavy.

you don’t realize who it is until you feel a warm hand cover yours, gently but firmly. the touch shocks you, the heat of it burning into your skin and making you jolt slightly. you almost pull away, but then you hear it.

“it’s me,” the voice says, soft, familiar, and full of something that sounds like regret. “it’s mingyu.”

your head snaps up, and for a moment, you don’t believe it. it can’t be. but it is. he’s sitting there, eyes wide and filled with emotion, holding your cold hands between his.

“mingyu?” you breathe out, the name coming out cracked and broken, like a plea.

his grip tightens, desperation in the way he clings to you. “i'm here,” he says, voice trembling, “i'm sorry I took so long."

your chest tightens, and you try to pull your hands away, but he doesn’t let you, his hold on your wrist tighter than ever. “what are you doing here?” you manage, your voice barely steady.

“i couldn’t stay away,” he admits, and there’s so much pain in his eyes that it makes your own heart ache. “i missed you. i tried to let go, but i can’t. i’m so sorry.”

you swallow hard, shaking your head. “you left,” you whisper, the words heavy with all the hurt you’ve been carrying. “you said you couldn’t love me the way i wanted you to.”

his face crumples, and he looks at you like he’s been shattered, like every piece of him is breaking right in front of you. “i was wrong,” he says, his voice cracking. “i thought… i thought it was the right thing to do, to protect you from me, from all the things i thought i wasn’t good enough for. but god, i was so wrong. i hurt you, i-i made you cry and i hate myself for it.”

you bite your lip, tears welling up in your eyes. “you don’t get to come back and say that,” you choke out. “you don’t get to just… show up and expect everything to be okay.”

“i know,” he says quickly, his eyes pleading. “i know, and i don’t expect anything. but please, let me explain. let me make it right.”

you stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest. it feels too much, too sudden, like the wound he left behind is being ripped open all over again. “what’s there to explain?” you ask, your voice thick with tears. “you made your choice.”

“i thought it was for the best,” he says, his voice breaking. “i thought you’d be happier without me holding you back. but I.. I can't stop thinking about you and how I hurt you and it’s killing me.”

the confession doesn’t bring relief. it only makes the pain sharper, deeper. “well, congratulations,” you say, your voice shaking. “because it did kill me, mingyu. it broke me. and now you’re here, expecting what? me to run back into your arms as if nothing happened?"

his hands squeeze yours, and you feel the tremble in his grip. “i was scared,” he confesses. “scared of not being enough for you, of ruining what we had. but being without you—” his voice breaks, and he takes a shaky breath. “being without you is the worst thing i’ve ever done. i can’t breathe without you.”

you can’t hold back the tears anymore. they spill over, and you look down, not wanting him to see you break. “you hurt me,” you whisper, "you hurt me so bad, gyu." and the pain in those words makes him flinch.

“i know,” he says, his own voice thick with emotion. “and i’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it if you let me. please.”

you finally look at him, and he’s staring at you with so much desperation, so much fondness & adoration, that it almost makes you believe him. almost.

“how am i supposed to trust you again?” you ask, your voice small.

he lets out a shaky exhale, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “i’ll prove it,” he says, his eyes locked onto yours. “however long it takes, whatever it takes. whatever you want. just… give me a chance..teach me how to love you the way you want to be loved, the way you need to be loved."

you close your eyes, the weight of his words pressing down on you, suffocating. you don’t know if you can trust him, if you can ever let him back in. but the way he’s looking at you, the way his hands hold yours like he’s terrified if he lets go, you will really be gone for good, makes your heart falter.

but for now, all you can do is breathe. breathe and try to make sense of the chaos he’s brought back into your life. because love isn’t simple, and heartbreak never truly heals. and mingyu — mingyu is both the hurt and the cure.

[mechanicalpiper]

Hi yes sorry for the wait, procrastination hit hard, but here's another snippet

First prompt done! "The Hero had just come back from an absolutely brutal training session and was exhausted and jelly limbed, only for the Villain to stumble onto them! We all know Villan couldn't help themselves with such a treat!"

I wasn't too proud of this one at first but it looped around to being one of my favorites so far :3

cw, as usual: suggestive and (sorta) kidnapping

Snippet #5

Hero was panting from exhaustion as they walked home in the dead of night.

They'd finally finished up one of their most rigorous training sessions yet- it was well past midnight by now, and they'd started before noon- and were absolutely, utterly exhausted from the ordeal, especially now that the adrenaline had worn off. Their face was still red, their throat sore and their breathing heavy; they were tired to the point that even walking all the way home was a bit of a challenge...

"...Awww~"

The Hero's heartbeat spiked.

They whipped around with a squeak of surprise, throwing a panicked punch at the general area behind them in a brief panic.

Hero's arm stopped midway, their forearm grabbed to stop it before the punch could follow through.

Hero froze. As their conscious thought came back into play, they slowly looked up to see the figure still holding their arm in place. It was impossible to make out many details in the dark, but as their gaze trailed up to fully see the face of the figure, an intense, warm shiver went down their spine.

They saw the eyes staring back down at them. Bright red, with the signature, precise, terrifying glow that made them cleanly cut through the darkness like a spider looking down on its prey. A gaze Hero was all too familiar with.

Villain's.

"Now, what do we have here~?" Villain teased, gaze piercing the exhausted Hero. They tried to pull away in defiance but were caught off guard by Villain's other hand slipping under their chin, gently tilting their head to look back up at them.

"You look exhausted, sweetie~"

Hero felt their cheeks warm up. They were already pretty warm, sure, but this wasn't exhaustion making them flare up again.

...Fuck.

They knew full well what the fuzzy feeling in their chest was. It wasn't exactly a new experience, either; really, almost anything relating to the Villain got that reaction out of Hero. It wasn't news by now.

...But here, it was coming in full force, and they were in the prime position for Villain to notice it. They were panicking.

It somehow never really occurred to them that Villain's teasing wasn't for the sake of intimidation.

"I've never seen you put up so little of a fight~! Finally learning your place?" Villain taunted further, their expression satisfied as they looked down at the defenseless Hero.

"Wh- th- I, uh, well- NO, absolutely not!" snapped Hero, finally managing to get out something coherent.

"Awww, always so feisty~" Villain hummed in response, moving their face a closer to the defiant Hero. They were so precious like this! It was so rare to see them at their mercy, and they looked so damn cute...

Hero's blush was running full force. Being under Villain's gaze at all was flustering, but the teasing, the warmth of their touch, the fact they couldn't fight back right now...

Before either of them knew it, they had fallen into a mutual kiss.

Neither really knew how it happened- they both simultaneously found themself in the same position of locking lips with their nemesis.

They simultaneously flinched back in a startle, breaking the kiss rather abruptly and awkwardly. Neither said anything, but they remained looking at one another, mildly bewildered expressions on both of their faces as they tried to process what exactly just happened.

They just kissed.

It took them both a while to process this. They weren't in disbelief at the concept- they were both in shock that it actually just happened.

Now that it had, neither had any doubts in their mind.

Villain looked back over the flustered Hero, delighting in the way their pretty face showed both satisfaction and embarrassment, adoring the way they squirmed seeing their rival tower over them no longer in a perceived aggressive way, but rather a... possessive one.

"...Well, there's no way in hell I'm passing up such an easy little captive~"

Hero had never felt so excited.