#Plastic Roll Cutting Machine | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

honeekyuu · 4 months ago

Text

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.

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.

“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.

#haikyuu #haikyuu smut #akaashi keiji #akaashi smut #akaashi x reader

495 notes · View notes

bitterrfruit · 2 months ago

Text

[he's in a meeting]

A quick horny ramble about your boss failing to control himself. here's [part 2] for you horny, horny freaks (affectionate) Executive John Price x EA f!Reader 18+ mdni - ~1k words

Does that pen taste good?

It’s the sixth time you’ve stuck it in your mouth in the last minute.

John watches you through the shimmering glass of the conference room, his spinning leather seat perfectly situated; he can see you where you sit at your desk through the gap in the corridor, just the right angle to see you cross one of your nylon-sheathed legs over the other. Watches the sling-back of your kitten heel slip loose as you buck your foot, wiggling it in boredom, kicking the leg of your desk with the pointed toe.

You lavish that pen. He’s almost jealous of it. Your gentle teeth bite down on the clicker, he sees you run it back and forth in strokes over your bottom lip. Glossy with balm and spit, the soft pink flesh of your lip pillows out around where you push the plastic in.

He adjusts himself in his seat, leaning back to stretch out the tension knotting in his abdominals. Turns his head back towards the conference table at regular intervals to ensure he appears appropriately attentive, avoiding comment from his fellow executives that he looks distracted.

They drone on about the merger, about surplus, about transition plans and communication bottlenecks. They’ll ask him for his input as their senior, he’ll make a noncommittal comment and defer to somebody else to elaborate.

And he’ll look back at you.

You lean over your desk and the waistband of your pencil skirt cuts into the arch of your spine, the grey pinstripe material strains over the mouthwatering swell of your ass. The seams look weak. Wouldn’t take much to tear it apart.

Fuck, he wants to tear it to shreds.

He’d have to, the fabric is too firm, too tight to be rucked up to your hips; no, he’d grab it by the hem and rip it apart by the stitches. He’d roll down your stockings, peel them from your legs, and use them to bind together your winsome hands. He’d hold your little head against the wood veneer of your desk, he’d knock over the jar that holds all of your pens with the force in his thrusts as he stuffs you full.

He can hear you mewling in your sweetly surprised voice; Please, Mr Price. That hurts, Mr Price. Harder, Mr Price.

Gritting teeth, he hopes his colleagues pay no mind to the bulging veins that throb in his temples. To the tendons in the back of his hands wrenching under his skin as they clench into fists. He bounces his knee, some effort at somatic distraction, to keep the blood flowing anywhere else but his cock.

He knew hiring you was a terrible idea. He saw you waiting outside his office before your interview, and immediately knew it would be cruel of him to subject you to being his subordinate. You were impish and clever during that interview, took everything he threw at you and sucked on it thoughtfully, presented it back to him as hard candy.

When you left with that saunter, so confident you had gotten the job - he decided then and there that he couldn’t have you as his executive assistant. Because in that short thirty minutes you had invaded every crevice of his mind, you lingered on his tongue long after you left. It took every synapse of his brain to forcibly prevent his body from enacting what it so ravenously wanted to, from tearing you out of your seat and breaking you in half over his desk.

But, to his dismay, the decision had been taken from his grip. He offered one positive statement about you, and that was that - human resources declared your resume the strongest, your attitude the keenest, and you were hired without much fanfare.

He insisted your desk be far from his, out of sight and mind; but even still, every morning, he could smell your perfume where it lingered by the coffee machine, could hear your cloying giggles from across the expansive office.

He had scolded you, once, dragged you into his office in sight of all of your murmuring colleagues. He told you that you were too distractible, too easily turned away from your tasks by things more interesting. He said that if you didn’t like doing what you were told, then this wasn’t the place for you.

But, no, you simply gave him a sweet and eager smile. This is the place for me, Mr Price. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.

His cock turned to steel at your desperate apology, at your sycophantic enthusiasm - and that was the last time he scolded you.

If he were a better man, he would have fucked his fist in a cubicle to the image of you, shot ropes of his pent-up come into some single ply toilet paper and flushed it away, over and done with.

But he has let it build, has let the pressure mount within his welded seams such that he threatens to erupt like a steam boiler.

Your tongue juts out only slightly, you lick the tip of your painted finger to help you turn the page of the folder you sift through, and your lip catches in your teeth.

“‘Scuse me for a minute,” is all he says, it comes out of his throat ragged and strained, and he pushes himself up from the conference table.

Follow a few murmurs of either dispute or acceptance - they fall on deaf ears, as he shoves open the swinging glass door and marches down the short corridor.

The footsteps of his leather oxfords are loud despite being muted by the dense, flat carpet - they alert you to his approach, and you tug the wet pen from your lips when you swivel around to look at him.

You squeak, already fearing admonishment, “Mr-”

“A word,” he grunts, a succinct order, gesturing with a hand for you to follow him.

Letting out his tie just a bit, he bites down hard on nothing.

“Oh - yes, of course,” you oblige with a stammer, pushing yourself to stand and smoothing out the creases in your little skirt with flat palms. “Am I in trouble?”

Huffing impatiently, eyes dark, he gives you a single and rigid nod.

“You might be.”

#oh no mr price please don't write me up for insubordination #john price x reader #john price #captain price x reader #captain john price #call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #cod smut #bitterfruit fics #bitten-fruit

290 notes · View notes

calitears · 14 days ago

Text

Guitar Hero

“well my boyfriend’s in a band…

…he plays guitar while i sing lou reed”

Guitarist!Megumi Fushiguro x FEM!Reader

9.32 k words (oopsies)

Summary: Megumi Fushiguro finds himself at the local arcade a few hours before his band's show. However what was supposed to be just a one time game of guitar hero with a stranger might develop into something more.

warnings/notes ~ alcohol consumption/implied sexual themes/fluff/cursing/no directly written smut but implied/might be corny in sum parts but i promise it’s cutesy!

optional playlist: 🎧 (listen in any order you’d like, it just has the songs refrenced and a few extra!!)

{non-curse au}

masterlist

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

His hands were gradually getting colder as the soft thumping of his fingers against his chilled phone screen slowed, looking over the latest message sent in his band’s group chat. He could only find himself able to sigh at yet another schedule change, having their set pushed back another hour.

He could have chosen to head back to meet with his bandmates, they were all just piled up near the backstage entrance anyway, and it’s not like he didn't enjoy watching other bands play. Yet as he shut off his phone, the tinted blue light that illuminated his face faded, only leaving the vibrant colors of the arcade in front to cast different shades of neon lights over him. He looked up, the three fourths of his face showing that was left uncovered by his scarf the most vibrant under the iridescent lights. With a sigh he stood up, and walked the few feet of distance between the previous bench he sat on and the glass doors of the front arcade entrance.

Megumi would never admit it, but it was in fact the nerves that pushed him to avoid heading directly to the concert area. It was far from his first time performing in front of a public, however this was the largest crowd they’d gathered, and he’d be trying something new tonight. He wasn't doubtful of his skills, he had been playing guitar since elementary, it would be stupid of him to feel unprepared. But insecurity came at strange times for him, at least that’s what he thought to himself. It wasn't necessarily rare for people to feel nervous before performing, and still the world would have to end first before Megumi would ever admit out loud that he was growing anxious.

He wandered around the arcade for a bit, taking a glance at the variety of games. He’d concluded it was always a hit or miss with arcades nowadays, they’d either be packed with an assortment of machines, or have a few lonely boring games, whose only purpose would be to continue making whoever was behind the establishment a quick buck. In this case, he would consider himself lucky. As he looked around he was met with a few arcade classics, like the variations of ball rolling games, mock “gambling” machines (as he’d refer to them in his head, he found it funny), air hockey, and whatever versions of racing games were available. The place itself wasn’t packed, but did seem to have a decent clientele. What really made him come to the conclusion that this place was on the higher end of his arcade spectrum would be the games such as DDR, an actual vintage pacman game, Street fighter, Tetris, and the one that really caught his eye, Guitar Hero.

It brought back memories of his earlier elementary days and early middle school, when instead of going home he’d wander into some corner store establishment with Tsumiki that existed right before reaching their street. They’d grab some snacks, Tsumiki would glance around at the magazines, and he’d walk over to what looked to be an old large storage closet, turned into a makeshift ‘arcade’ (if you could call it that). When Gojo finally took them in a year later, he’d join them in their afterschool stop. When he saw a pattern of Megumi always picking up that plastic guitar to entertain himself, he made sure to make a mental note of that.

That year, Megumi found his first ever birthday present from Gojo to be an acoustic guitar, poorly wrapped in some shiny candy cane pattern wrapping paper. After that, the stop on the way home became shorter.

Could be a good form of practice, he excused, and with one more second of contemplation, he gave in and went over to some machine to buy himself tokens. Classic. Mindlessly walking over and reaching for the plastic guitar, he was getting ready to play solo, that is until he saw the ‘player 2’ control guitar be picked up out of the corner of his eye.

“Would you mind if I played?”

Would he mind? He processed the words, as if they were waking him up from a nap. In truth he hadn’t really been all there anyway.

“That’s fine…”

He observed the person next to him, watching as she flashed him a small smile then turned her attention to the screen. She was pretty, he could say that much.

“What song?”

He blinked, he knew what song he wanted after he had seen the machine had already had some customes added. So why was he just staring at her? He’d seen pretty girls, boys, people before, so why was he staring like some dumb dog right now? Well truth be told, it had nothing to do with her looks, just the fact that she was wearing one of his band’s cheap shirts. He thought they sold thrown away them at their last show. Unless she had been there. Was she a fan-

“Hey?”

Oh god he was really out of it tonight.

“Today… the Smashing Pumpkins.” he mumbled. She just smiled and looked back at the game, ready whenever he was. He needed to get it together. Turning back to the screen himself, he pressed a few buttons on the controller, and after getting through the start menu, he heard music play through the, surprisingly, decent quality speakers.

The sound of clacking from pressing down on the plastic keys kept going the longer the song went on, and it was the last vibrant memory he had that night, before they slowly quieted down in his mind and transitioned to the sound of sheets shuffling next to him. Megumi glanced over, and saw the same girl from before, except this time instead of being slightly exhausted after a game of Guitar Hero, it had been a much more intense activity.

How the hell did he get here?

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

“You’re… really good…” you had said while placing the guitar back in its holder. You never thought an arcade game would ever work you out. Then again, it had been a few rounds with this handsome stranger. Megumi copied your actions, not looking at you again yet, but nodded. “Thanks… lots of practice.”

“Yeah no, I can tell. You play right? Like… real guitar?”

Oh he played, but were you just acting dumb, or did you actually not recognize him?

“Yeah, in a band.” To that you just hummed in response, before continuing, wanting to keep the conversation flowing. “Same one Nobara used to be in, right?”

Nobara? You know Nobara? That makes sense, and the shirt… Megumi ran through his thoughts, searching in his collection of memories if he had ever heard the girl mention anything about you.

“Yeah, that band… is that why you’re wearing the shirt?”

“Oh- oh yeah… I went with her to go watch your guys’ last show, said she still wanted to cheer you guys on.” Megumi listened, glancing over to meet your eyes again. “Yeah, glad she could put that much effort in after ditching us.”

It was supposed to be sarcastic, an attempt at humor. Yet you still had to examine his face, trying to figure out if he was serious or not. There was a few seconds of awkward silence, before you choose to try and just go along with him, sharing a slight polite smile. Megumi noticed, yet he knew it wasn’t in response to his comment. You were just being nice. He really needed to work on his execution of things.

“...So you recognized me?” he questioned, hoping to brush over his last failed attempt at a joke.

“Well yeah, I mean not at first, but you seemed familiar... Originally I just assumed you were someone I had met at a show before or something.” He studied your way of talking, the expression you made, looking at you almost fascinated.

Don’t take it the wrong way though, that glimpse in his eye he gives to anyone he’s curious about, it’s just his nature. He focuses on the details of your words, committing any piece of conversation you shared with him to his memory, again, not something unique to you, just part of having a good memory. Or at least he told himself that when he realized he had been almost captivated by you.

And yet he found himself walking backstage with you.

After your encounter in the arcade, Megumi found out you were heading to the same show. He figured out you had basically been there all day, watching any band that caught your interest. That is, until you needed a break from the constant energetic and emotional atmosphere rock concerts brought. You had ended up leaving and getting something to eat, going to the arcade after to waste more time.

He got that out of you while sharing nothing about himself in return, other than the fact he played guitar and used to do back up vocals. Now he was stuck basically being the new frontman, contrary to his own belief that he was not marketable as one.

He had the looks, he knew he wasn't ugly. His singing and playing were more than fine, he would end up as one of the best if he continued playing with this much emotion (the same emotion he seemed to lack in literally anything else), and yet he wasn’t social off or on stage. He wasn’t a performer, he told himself. He could write, he could create art, but the last thing he ever thought himself possible of would be executing it in the way that would capture a crowd. His voice had emotion, his actions filled with meaning and an actual want to be there, but he couldn’t get himself to be anything even close to extravagant. Not like Nobara used to anyway.

“She was… definitely something, it’s like she was made to perform, which is why I totally understand why she chose to take up this acting gig… but I think you’re being too hard on yourself too.”

What. What were you saying? You were responding to his thoughts? No. Megumi blinked, realizing he actually had been talking to you. He had ended up sharing his own insecurities with you. The reason he had been so anxious for this show. He should shut himself up now before he slips up even more, but the truth is, he couldn’t find himself to care.

“You actually think I could take on being the frontman?” He continued walking by your side. At this point you both were back in the venue area, now just wandering around before the next set of shows started, the one including his band.

“Yeah, just loosen up a bit… but if you really don’t wanna be the face of it, why not let Itadori or Maki takeover?”

“Neither of them sing, god especially not Itadori.” You laughed at that, and it made him feel redemption from his earlier failed try at humor. “Why not get a new member then?” He thought about it, letting out a quiet hum in response. “I don’t wanna scout around for one… energetic people like that don’t usually stick to me, if anything I got the chance to even be in this band because Maki dragged me in…”

“You’re really crushing on yourself dude, have some faith in yourself!”

Megumi watched you smile, and you in return watched his dark blue eyes travel over your face.

“You’ve seen me play then, be honest and sincerely tell me you think I could pull through.”

You only blinked at him in response, racking your brain for memory of his previous performance. Maybe he wasn’t nearly as bold as Nobara, but oh he was talented. More than any other guitar player you’d seen that night. His vocals were nothing short of impressive either, you wanted him to know that-

“And I’m not a girl.” You were caught off guard by his statement. He’s worried about… not being a girl? But you couldn’t see the relation between those two at all. Before you could scavenge your mind for another explanation, Megumi went ahead and answered your confusion. “People were excited to see Nobara’s image. She was a girl leading a noisy rock band, she was spontaneous and out there, if I was the band’s image it wouldn’t have the same effect, we’d just be like almost every other semi-popular band…”

He took a breath, before adding on, “It was her voice and character that distinguished us. Anyone could name at least ten different bands with guys like me leading them, but barely any with the same vibe she brought.”

You lingered over his explanation. He was an artist, he wanted to make something new, and besides his rather stoic outside you’d notice so far, he was more than happy to be part of something different.

If only he had enough confidence to make himself into the character he wanted to be, because he definitely wasn’t shy either.

“...Just get up there and do it, at least for tonight. Try it.”

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

You could only watch in awe from the crowd. Megumi was majestic. His voice was hypnotizing, the way his bangs fell over his face, the light causing small reflections in his eyes, his hands moved gracefully over his black, beaten up guitar.

The instrument was something that could easily be overlooked, like a spare tossed back stage for an emergency. Yet in Megumi’s arms, he made it seem like the thing was a precious relic, capable of much more than it led on. The colored stage lights caused a halo glow around his silhouette, almost as if he was a saint.

It could be an in the moment thing, the emotion of the crowd, the fact you were so close to him. Maybe it was the whiplash you got from seeing him just half an hour before as a quiet, mostly reserved guy, to a model worthy shot currently in front of you. But oh, he was the most handsome rockstar you’d ever seen.

And still, you sadly understood what he meant earlier about the band. Megumi was special to you right now because you knew he was different on stage then off it. He was nowhere near bad, but also such a contrast from the atmosphere the band previously brought. His vocals ringing through your ears produced by the speakers was enough proof he was an insanely talented person, but it wasn’t as heavenly as it had been paired with a raspier, yet higher and emotion filled tone Nobara had brought.

Megumi still stood out in other ways though. Instead of the ‘basic’ look most guys wore around this scene, which consisted of baggy jeans or japanese denim paired with an ironic graphic tee or vintage band one, Megumi took on more of a V-kei style inspiration. You could guess he probably put more effort into it when he had shows, but if someone showed you a picture of him and told you he was a member of a band like Luna Sea or X Japan before you had properly met him, you wouldn’t have doubted it.

He couldn’t be overlooked on stage, not in appearance at least, but besides that, what really made them stand out more than the other band that had previously gone up before? Even bands with other female leads lacked what they used to have. Loud, bold, mean lead singer, even if it was just a stage personality. A true diva you could say.

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

“That was ass…” Megumi mumbled, tossing his guitar case into the back of Maki’s black SUV. “What are you saying man? For a three person band we played great live!” Itadori announced, wrapping his arm around his friend’s shoulders. Maki was already sitting in the driver's seat, clearly just wanting to go home at this point, considering Nobara wasn’t the only one that recently left the band. Their old fifth member had left a week ago for some exchange program. And now she was stuck around her strangely close to her age nephew and his chattery best friend. Megumi just scoffed and shut the trunk, dragging Itadori along to the car’s side door. “I missed a shit ton of notes because I focused too much on singing, my voice cracked like a hundred times-”

“Shut up! You were great, we were great!” Yuji cheered, just happy he had fun honestly. But he didn’t get it. As emo as it sounded, Megumi knew he was being a prick and just nitpicking, nonetheless, he couldn’t let go of the closest thing to perfect he had had. Music was more than just a stress reliever for him, he’d give up anything to be able to make this his career instead of working whatever lame corporate job he could settle for. Since he was little, even through his motivation loss of anything (and almost everything), he never let go of playing music, he never once left the house without his worn down red headphones, and he never planned on quitting his art. He never considered himself as a perfect person, that role belonged to his sister and his overly cheery best friend.

Megumi knew he could be a selfish man, and meeting you again that night proved it in more ways than one.

He and Maki let Yuji drag them to a bar to meet up with Nobara as a celebration. Apparently it had karaoke, a detail he picked up when he walked through the front entrance. When they entered he wasn’t surprised to see Nobara up there already singing, she probably got bored of waiting even if it was just for a few minutes and wanted to have fun. What did catch him off guard however, was you.

There you were, next to your friend on the bar’s makeshift stage, both of you performing some improvised cover of Celebrity Skin by Hole. The way you moved, your expressions, your voice. It was like he was starstruck.

He never would have guessed he’d really run into you again after tonight, but he suddenly remembered what you had said earlier about finding another member to become the frontman of his band. He knew he needed to make sure he stayed in contact with you, convince you his band needed you. Feeling the waves of his insecurity still lingering, the desperation to achieve his band’s perfect form again, it drove him to stick by you the rest of the night after that. You took a shot, he followed. You chatted with a group and he’d stand silently by your side. Ask him a question and he’d answer. He kept the conversation rolling with you, easier now in comparison to earlier (most likely because of the alcohol) until he finally ‘popped’ the question. Would you be in his band? And he couldn’t swallow the slight irritation that rose in him when you just laughed.

“You’re not serious right? You want me- not just in your band… but as the front of it?” He huffed almost silently, a hurt to his ego that you weren’t taking him seriously. “What’s so hard to believe? I saw you up there with Nobara earlier-“

“Fushiguro, listen I haven’t been in a band since highschool. Even then it was some crappy thing a guy I was dating had created, it was never serious…” He leaned more towards you, shifting slightly in the booth you had both cornered yourselves in. “So why’d you quit playing then? You clearly still love the scene, you watch all these bands play, but you don’t get involved?”

You sighed before taking a sip of whatever tropical drink you had spontaneously let his other bandmate, Itadori, pick out before he wandered off. “Just other stuff… i’m going to college now, part time job to help pay for it and stuff, there’s no time, even if I wanted-”

“I’ll pay you for it- just be in the band”

What?

“How much does your current job pay you? It’s not a… a real commitment right? I’ll pay you to be in the band- and don’t worry, I can afford it.”

Was this guy you just barely met seriously telling you he’d pay you to be in his band? You considered ditching him and leaving to go find Nobara, but before you could excuse yourself, he continued.

“You’re talented- really talented… I don’t wanna sound desperate, but you really seem like you could be great at this… tell me what your current job pays you, i’ll give you more than that, alright?”

You just stared at him shocked, you didn’t know if you just fell in love or grew more scared of him.

“You’re insane.”

Megumi just huffed and slightly squinted his eyes at you, while you came to the conclusion he must be more drunk than you. “You said the last time you were in a band was because of your boyfriend right? Was that really it? Didn’t you enjoy it or even… want to do it?” You thought over his words, searching your brain for an answer that you already knew.

“He taught me guitar and… well I was in choir at the time, but I've always loved being in this scene, when he started a band… I was actually the one that offered to sing for it, I just wanted to be part of something different than what I was used to, like boring choir performances and getting yelled at by our teacher for wearing the wrong uniform, as if we were some professionals instead of just a shitty highschool choir. Honestly it’s probably why he ended up being my longest relationship, why I stayed with him even though he was lowkey one of those wanna be indie guys who are actually hidden misogynists. He gave me something I needed at the time.”

Megumi listened to you ramble on about how your highschool ex and his bandmates were kind of terrible guys to be around, all while reaching his own messy conclusion in his head. He sat there next to you, letting you get it all out while he worked through his own thoughts about what you had shared. If he was able to make you feel the same way your boyfriend had back then, by showing you something you wanted to be a part of, something to make your life more interesting, if he presented himself to you like something you needed then maybe you’d join in. He needed to convince you, prove why you wanted to be a part of his band.

Megumi was about to speak up again, when suddenly a tray of shots was practically thrown onto the table. Megumi looked up, only to find a cheeky and halfway drunk Nobara looking down at them. She narrowed her eyes at him, before she slid the tray a bit closer to the two of you before she spoke up.

“Watch these- I bought them but we can’t finish them… I'll be back, just don’t let some drunk steal them.”

With that she walked off, most likely heading towards Maki to cling to her.

He just sighed as his eyes followed after her, knowing she wasn’t going to come back for the drinks, and instead just picked one up for himself, downing it in just a few seconds. You copied his action, then set the glass down before speaking up again.

“Listen… I just… don’t think it’s for me, thanks for the offer though.”

Megumi could only observe you, he watched you mess with the shot glass you had placed down, taking in how the club’s lighting made certain aspects of your makeup stick out. The highlighter on your nose hadn’t really been noticeable before to him, but now he saw the small sparkles show in the lighting. Your eyeshadow seemed to grow faded under the tinted colored lights, although he couldn’t figure out if it was due to it being this late into the night or just some color theory gimmick.

“...Just try it out with us at least, I won’t force you into this, if you really don’t want to… but seriously, think about it.” You exhaled, and let the exhaustion and alcohol take over you for a moment, just laying your head down on his shoulder. It was almost cute how he immediately tensed up, seeming to grow stiff at the unexpected physical contact. If he had pushed you off you wouldn’t be offended, but it surprised you when instead he hesitantly wrapped his arm around your shoulders, letting his hand hold onto your upper arm.

You reached for another shot glass in front of you, sitting up slightly but still being in his embrace. You drank the alcohol, before turning your head to face him again.

“Why do you even want me in your band so badly?” you questioned him. Megumi held eye contact with you, tilting his head only slightly. “You’ve just... you have talent, it’s not hard to understand why. I want this band to go far, I wanna make something of my music... that includes trying to do what’s best for the band.”

“Does doing ‘what’s best for the band’ include cuddling up with some girl to try and persuade her to join your band?”

To that, he just gave you a pointed look, seeming almost offended you’d accuse him of that. You let out a small laugh at his reaction, taking one of the few remaining shot glasses on the table, and in a state of tipsy braveness, putting it up to his lips. He understood the gesture, softening his expression and parting his lips, letting you tilt the drink into his mouth. You watched almost hypnotized as neither of you ever broke away from the other’s gaze.

Megumi didn’t understand why he was letting you be so close to him, why he wasn’t pulling away. He chose to believe it was because he was desperate to have some sort of approval from you, the kind that would help you agree to his proposal, but another part of him couldn’t deny that he was attracted to you beyond that. So as the night played on, he let himself loosen up for the first time in a while. You were easy to get along with, at least in his eyes. You tried to understand his weird sarcastic jokes, even making him laugh with your own when you started to match his humor. And maybe it was the fact that he had been severely lacking any intimate form of affection that led him to so easily make such an out there decision.

He soon found himself exhausted, laying next to you in his own bed, between his black silk sheets and cotton navy blue bed covers. Yet he didn’t regret any of it as he slowly let his memory catch up to his thoughts. Megumi turned on his side, glancing over your shoulder to watch what you were doing, the light on your phone illuminating your face, letting him clearly see your screen as well in the almost pitch black room. He almost let out a laugh when he saw you feeding and caring for some sort of digital pet you had on your phone.

When Megumi felt comfortable enough with someone, he stopped overthinking his actions and just went with whatever his brain told him too in the moment. For him, what you had just done was not something meaningless and superficial, but if it happened with someone he wasn’t official with, he still believed there was an emotional connection there. And so he didn’t hesitate to drape an arm over your body, and tuck you in close, kissing the side of your neck. You didn’t dare push him away, even if it had only been less than half a day you’d spent with him, you could understand so far that he wasn’t the type to do something without any feeling behind it. You let him cuddle with you, let him hold you, because at the end of the day, you didn’t mind it at all either.

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

Megumi sat with you in his apartment’s living room. His taste for decor was definitely more vintage, most of the furniture seeming antique, most likely thrifted or bought from garage sales. Through lazy morning conversations he had convinced you to try playing at their next show with the band, he said he’d bring you to the practices if you needed a ride, and give you copies of their songs along with any videos of live performances he had saved. Now you just sat next to him on the couch, reading over lyrics of his band’s songs while he mindlessly tuned his guitar, trying to get it to his preferences after wearing it out last night. Some random cheesy drama playing on his TV on low volume became background noise after the movie you had both been previously watching on the channel ended.

Taking a break from reading lyrics, you turned your attention to watch his movements, seeing as he fidgeted with the strings in his guitar.

“…How long have you been playing?”

Megumi took his attention off the strings as he replied to you, “…Since I was still in grade school… my… guardian… gave me my first years ago, and I just kept playing from there.”

You noticed his slight hesitation when he mentioned who he had received his first instrument from, and so you chose to not focus on that. You figured he probably didn’t want to talk about that right now, and so you chose to ask a different question.

“When did you know you wanted to go into music, as a career I mean?”

He strung the E string on his guitar one more time, before he sighed and just moved to gently lay it down on the empty spot next to him.

“Since I saw the college application requirements sophomore year of Highschool.”

You smiled at his comment, just slightly shaking your head.

“Seriously?”

“No, well kind of�� community college was always a choice, not a bad option either… but I never liked the idea of working on someone else’s schedule… I wanted to do something I actually enjoyed… not just because everyone else was doing it.” He took a pause and picked up his black coffee he had made earlier that morning with you.

“Truth is, I wasn’t even bad at school, but nothing really gave me a calling… and then one day Maki asked me to join the band she was in… well that seemed interesting enough, then we needed a drummer, so I hesitantly got Yuji involved… and it just went from there.” He took a sip out of his drink, before placing it back down. You just hummed in response to his explanation, while Megumi directed his look towards you. “What are you in college for anyway?”

“Like why did I go to college?”

He blinked, before shaking his head slightly. “No… I mean your major.”

“Oh, well I’m actually double majoring… in English and Visual Arts.” He gave you a short nod in reply.

“Cool…”

“Yeah cool…”

There was a brief moment of silence while you returned back to reading the lyrics, however you both noticed how Megumi hadn’t taken his eyes off you. You were about to look back up, before being surprised when he moved to try and cuddle you into his side. He was an awkward guy, you could tell he wasn’t quite used to this type of ‘relationship’, but you didn’t pull away, maybe if you let him unwind in his own way he’d get the hang of it.

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

“He looks like a dead dog that had been thrown overboard, oh god, get him out of the pit now.”

You laughed at Maki’s insults of Nobara’s latest talking stage, having already had a fit after just seeing the picture of some scrawny guy with thick eyebrows trying to crawl his way out of a crowd at a show apparently. Megumi who was sitting next to you just cocked an eyebrow at the picture, observing how this guy had apparently gotten his limbs tangled with the people around him.

“Have you ever seen a rat king?” And his statement only caused you more laughter. Nobara just sighed and put her head in her hands, having given up on defending this guy.

“Okay whatever, how about you guys just focus on training y/n again!”

Maki let out a scoff, while Megumi just rolled his eyes. Nobara sighed and looked at you, “How are you feeling by the way? One week before the next show… you think you’re ready?” You blinked, before letting a small smile form on your expression. “Yeah… I think so, I’ve got the setlist memorized, you and Maki helped me pick the cutest outfit yesterday… that’s everything right?”

She smirked and leaned back a bit, clapping her hands together. “It’s perf, just remember to be extra, people wanna see a performance, get them in the mood.” You nodded, feeling excitement bubbling at the thought of Friday night this week.

Just then you all turned your attention to the front door of Maki’s house opening, seeing Yuji happily walk in with boba and smoothies in a drink carrier along with bags full of carryout hanging from both his arms.

“Food’s here!”

Nobara was the first to jump up, helping him carry it all quicker to the kitchen table, not out of courtesy, but actual hunger. Maki let out a quiet laugh at her reaction, before moving with you and Megumi towards the kitchen.

Soon enough practice had come to a break as you all ate the food you’d ordered from the nearby Tawainese place. And while you busied yourself finishing up your side, you saw Nobara lean in from her seat next to you, a suspicious smile on her face. You could already guess what she was going to say.

“So… you and Fushiguro?” You sighed and rolled your eyes, but couldn’t hold back the smile spreading on your face. “What about it?” She still looked at you with that same teasing smile, “Was he that good, it converted you into a prototype of Nana Osaki?” You just slapped her shoulder and shook your head. “Shut up… don’t even manifest that life on me, and he also had nothing to do with my decision… it seemed fun, and I wanted to try it.” She just giggled and stole a bite of your food, before sighing. “He’s too quiet to be attractive in my eyes… oh and he can definitely come off as pretentious at times, but… I guess he’s good enough for you.”

“Good enough?” You looked up at her statement. After finishing his food, he and Yuji wandered back into the living room, and based off his current flushed and annoyed expression, you figured they were having their version of you and Nobara’s conversation.

“Well, we’ll just see where it goes…”

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

Oh, this was exciting. You had forgotten how freeing it felt to be up here, to be performing on stage.

You weren’t going to lie, just an hour earlier you had been basically clinging to Megumi from nerves. What if you blanked and forgot all the lyrics? What if you sounded terrible? What if you were boring to watch? What if-

But your thoughts were soon cut off, when Megumi chose to gently kiss you, distracting you from the doubts plaguing your head. He pulled away only less than a centimeter, mumbling against your lips, “You’ll be great… you practiced enough for this, don’t stress.” You hummed in understanding, before giving him a chaste peck again, and then fully pulling away this time. “Thanks Megs…”

And you swore to always believe Megumi after that. It was so freeing. When you had been in a band back in highschool, it was exciting, made you feel like you could be this daring persona, even if you only played at packed basement and underground shows. This was like that, except multiplied by ten.

Between the music, the movement and personality of the crowd, you had forgotten how much you enjoyed singing, until now.

You felt as if you owed Megumi half of your soul, after all, he was the reason you were up here right now. So as a sign of thank you, during the outro of the last song on your guys’ set, you ran over to him, slamming your lips against his, the action motivated by a wave of confidence the crowd's atmosphere had brought you. To say this was definitely the right move to finish would be an understatement.

When the sounds around you faded, you found yourself backstage with Megumi after. Sheepishly apologizing to him for catching him so off guard. It was quite the contrast to how you carried yourself not even twenty minutes earlier, but all he did was shake his head and smile.

“It’s fine… not like it was bad… actually, I had something to ask you.” You met his eyes, feeling your face cool down from the slight embarrassment you just faced.

“Yeah?”

Megumi let there be another second of silence between you two, before finally asking it.

“We’ve been… hanging around each other a lot… and done some… stuff… together, so… I know this might not be the most romantic or correct setting to do this in but, would you wanna go on an actual date? Not just band practice or me taking you home… like… actually go out?”

Your eyes widened slightly, the flush that had previously left your face now returned, but you couldn’t deny the excitement that had risen up in you.

“...Yes- I mean really… that’d be great Megs…” He let out a small breath of relief, and gave you a shy smile.

“Cool… thank you.”

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

You sat at your vanity, checking your makeup one more time before sighing and moving back, satisfied with the look. Currently wearing one of your favorite more ‘fancier’ outfits, your choice of music playing in the background. You mentally went over the list in your head, making sure you had everything done while grabbing your purse and throwing the last few extra items in. Letting out a sigh, you glanced at the time and sat down in the living room of your apartment, reading over Megumi’s last text, letting you know he was on his way.

Maybe it was a bad idea to start dating the guitarist of the band you were now a part of, most stories don’t end well when they go like this, but that was just the cliche way things went. Screw the movies, they all lied about highschool, they’re probably lying about this.

And besides, it wasn’t like Megumi was anything like the romance interests in the movies. He was an awkward, silent guy, and the more you thought about his way of being, the more you felt honored he had actually taken his focus onto trying to pursue you and off his music, which seemed to be his decided on life’s purpose.

Lost in thought, you almost missed the knock on your door, you guessed signaling your date’s arrival. You made your way over, smiling when you had seen him standing awkwardly on the other side of your door through the peephole. He looked handsome, wearing a black button up and black denim, which just looked expensive on him. You could see the small bouquet of your favorite flowers in his hand.

“Hey… you look great.”

You saw the smile form on Megumi’s face at the small compliment. “Thanks… I like.. The color of your dress, you look very pretty.” He looked over to the side, before stepping back from the door a bit, and finally handing you the flowers. “Nobara said these were your favorites… so if she got them wrong blame her, but i’ll get you the right ones next time.”

You felt a sense of fondness as you watched him there, knowing he had made an effort to find and bring them to you, this was definitely earning him some sort of brownie points.

“Thank you Megs, really… don’t worry, these are my favorites,” you said as you took them from him, observing the petals and color for another second before moving to find a place to set them down, making a note to put them in a vase when you came back.

After making sure to properly lock your door, you took his hand on the way out. Leading him to the elevator, letting him press the button to the lobby.

“You’re still okay trying the place I told you about? It’s a new teppanyaki style place, and after that there's still that Jazz bar we can go to.” A ding of the elevator interrupts, and you hear the doors open at the second floor of the building. A girl walked in and you saw her look over you and Megumi, her gaze lingering on him for an extra moment before she just silently fits herself into the other corner of the elevator when she sees the lobby button had already been pressed. You just return to your conversation with Megumi, choosing not to ponder on her presence.

“I would’ve just taken you straight to the bar, but besides their music, their food’s not that good…” he scrunched his nose a bit just at the reminder of it, and you just let out a short giggle. “Sounds perfect. I’m excited.” He seemed happy with your reassurance, and just tightened his hold on your hand, lightly rubbing his thumb in a circle on your skin.

Soon enough you were both making your way outside of your apartment building and to where his car had been parked. With how alternative his image had been, you weren’t surprised to see him driving an older car. In fact you kind of predicted his personal car would’ve been more on the vintage side, but to find the gorgeous 1960’s impala almost made you go into shock. You knew he took good care of it just based on its exterior condition, and as he led you to the passenger seat’s door and opened it for you, you came to the conclusion this man was not real, and in fact a figment of your imagination. You gave his hand a tight squeeze as if to confirm his existence, before moving completely into the seat, and he only gave you a small questioning look, before shrugging it off and moving to get into his driver’s seat.

Based on the lyrics he wrote and ideals he discussed in his songs, you could tell he didn’t really care for tradition, but even then he was a gentleman.

Megumi started the car and moved out of his previous parking spot, glancing over to make sure you seemed comfortable still, before speaking up, “I’ve got an aux cord… and some CD’s put away in front of you… whatever you're into.” Nodding in response you moved to turn on the radio, scared to leave even the smallest scratch or insignificant imprint anywhere. When you pressed the button, his previous CD that he had left in there started playing, and you decided not to remove it, liking the sound of whatever he had been playing before. He of course noticed, and took the opportunity to ask. “You're not gonna change it?” You looked over to him softly smiling, before returning your gaze back to the front of the road, watching the streetlights pass you by. “I like it, think I've heard it before…”

He hummed in response, keeping his eyes on the road, “It’s Depeche Mode.”

“They’re… Goth?”

There was a slight tug at his lips, before nodding, yet still not removing his eyes from the road.

“Something like that…”

The rest of the way went by with the radio on, and Megumi occasionally breaking the silence by asking you small talk questions. Spending time with Megumi had made you realize he was more of a ‘silent type’. He would ask you questions and answer you whenever you spoke to him, but he never said more than he had too. It’s like he ‘enjoyed the silence’, and preferred to show his emotions through actions rather than words. Physical touch and quality time were definitely more of his love language, and you didn’t mind that at all, because one way or another, he showed he cared, and showed he had genuine interest in you. You’d rather have evidence of that than empty words afterall.

Finally arriving at the restaurant, Megumi parked and got out of the car, and you didn’t miss the fast paced walk he did to get over to your side of the door to open it for you before you beat him to it.

He took your hand again after you had gotten out of the car, leading you inside the restaurant, and all the way to your table. Megumi, besides his stoic and sort of intimidating exterior, was gentle when he wanted to be. When you both sat at the large table with a few other separate parties, he didn’t let go of your hand, not until the drinks had been set at the table. And even then he chose to push his chair in closer to yours than the stranger that set to the left of him.

There were small signs he gave, actions of attraction, but it did catch you off guard when he suddenly became more protective of you the minute your table’s chef seemed to take a liking towards you. You could assume that part of his job was to be charismatic, complimenting the women that sat at their table and picking fun or joking with the men, but a specific compliment thrown towards you made Megumi tense up. Then when he ‘jokingly’ made a small heart with the cooking oil and fire and dedicated it to you, no one missed the glare Megumi threw at him. You didn’t ponder too much on it, but it oh so amused you how your previously quiet date suddenly became more interested in verbal interaction with you. When the chef made another glance towards you, Megumi quickly acted to suddenly have something to tell you. You became even more surprised when he seemed to run out of quick comments to spout out and started telling you short stories of his life.

Soon his distraction had worked, and the two of you fell into your own conversations, not missing the few tricks the chef did while preparing the rice and your other choice of food, but definitely more submerged in your own world than whatever the rest of the table was up to.

Even after Megumi’s… passive aggressiveness, the chef still smiled at the two of you, and you gave him a thank you, while Megumi only gave him a quick nod. The food having been served in front of the two of you still hot from just recently coming off the grill, you turned to Megumi when he started talking again.

“Have you ever eaten at places like this before?”

Thinking for a moment, before you responded to him, “Once or twice, with some friends… but this one’s different, the aesthetic of the place looks fancier…”

“Really?”

“Yeah… think it’s the lighting honestly… it’s more… I don’t know, romantic almost.”

“Well… that would be the point.”

You huffed and nudged him, before finally trying the food in front of you. You savored the taste, before making your opinion on it. “Oh… it’s really good, honestly, the cook did a good job.”

Megumi just hummed in response, looking over your plate after taking a bite of his own meal. “It’s alright… nothing special…” You heard him mutter that last part, and almost giggled at his lingering jealousy.

“Could you cook like this?”

He continued eating, before pausing for a moment.

“Definitely… Gojo couldn’t cook growing up, and no offense to Tsumiki, she could definitely cook, but I think I was the best chef to come out of that household.”

“Oh, cocky are we?”

Megumi gave you a look at your sentence, he saw the teasing smile on your face, and it couldn’t help but be contagious.

“...It’s the truth, her food wasn’t bad, but it was always sweet in some way…”

“Not a fan of sweets?”

He shook his head a bit, finishing the food in his mouth before speaking. “Not really… it over-stimulates my mouth, I don’t know how anyone handles overly sweet stuff, like cotton candy or those giant cookies… it’s just unhealthy too, and expensive. It’s a waste of money.”

“Well yeah… but when you're in the mood, some money spent on a little sweet treat never hurts anyone…”

“A gambling addict has said some variation of that sentence before too, and look at those guys…”

You scoffed and shook your head, yet your smile still hadn’t disappeared. “Those are nowhere near the same thing…”

“If you like them, I won’t judge you, but I’m letting you know now.” You watched as he then took another bite of his food, clearly enjoying it despite his earlier one sided beef with the chef.

“If I got one after this would you share it with me?”

He thought about it for a moment, before sighing. “Well… I guess it’d be rude to deny my date’s request…”

And he almost regretted his decision the moment he took his third bite of the overly sweet cake you had decided to order after your dinner. You laughed at his expression, as he let the spoon fall a little too dramatically on the plate, while he turned his face away. He knew he wouldn’t like it on the first bite, he pushed down the second bite, and just gave up on the last one.

“Didn’t like it ‘gumi?”

“...You can finish it.”

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

The atmosphere of the romantically lit, elegant Jazz bar offered a much warmer ambience than what the chilly sidewalk you and Megumi had previously been walking down had. You loosely held onto his arm while Megumi led you to a small table with only two seats. A simple but darling candlelit centerpiece decorated your table, along with a cotton tablecloth.

Once you had situated yourself at the table, Megumi hesitated for a second before moving to sit down, you looked up at him, wondering what he was doing.

“...Do you want a drink?”

You glanced at the bar along one side of the room, before nodding and telling him your drink order. He then made his way over to the bar, and you observed his familiarity with the place, the way he spoke more casually to the bartender as if he knew him, which he probably did. However you noticed the way the bartender seemed surprised when he looked over and saw you at a table. He turned his attention back to Megumi and it looked like he made a teasing comment, to which your date just rolled his eyes at.

After a few more minutes, he made his way back to you holding both your drinks. Placing them down in front of you, he settled into the chair next to you.

“Do you often come watch people play here?”

Megumi trailed his gaze to the front of the room, the small and stylish stage lit up with a warm toned spotlight, along with its polished wood floor.

“I’m not just a rockstar… what’s the point of liking music if you only limit yourself to one genre?”

“That’s true… I mean, there's something good from every type of music…”

Megumi hummed in agreement, his eyes focused on one of the instruments propped on the back wall of the stage. “Exactly…”

You’d guess around ten minutes passed by, before you saw a beautifully dressed woman make herself on stage, she carried herself with an atmosphere of elegance yet friendliness, and introduced the first performer of the night. A few seconds after she walked off and you saw a man behind her start to play.

You were immediately mesmerized, and the enchantment only intensified as he continued playing. His music was beautiful, you could say he had a bit of modern influence, but still much respect for the classics. There were a few other people in the background helping create background instrumentals, but the saxophone the main performer played really stole the show.

You and Megumi continued watching the whole performance, and at the end when the man said his goodbye’s to the crowd, Megumi turned to you.

“...What would you think of adding any sort of Jazz influence to rock music?”

You blinked in response, trailing your eyes over his face, noticing a glimmer in his eyes that seemed to contain inspiration.

“Like.. a rock-jazz band?”

He shook his head slightly, before answering, “No… not really but, a few musical influences from it, there’s a possibility there for a few great songs…”

You hummed in response, “Well, I think there’s definitely a way to turn it into something, switch some guitar harmonics…”

He tilted his head slightly, picking up his drink and sipping from it, “Definitely…”

You smiled and shook your head. “You’re such a music nerd…”

He only gave you a playful glare at your comment.

It amused you how he seemed to relate everything back to the band if you let him. but you knew better than anyone you admired his dedication and passion.

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

After the performances had ended at the bar, Megumi had offered you to come over, and the last thing you’d consider was to turn him down. You walked into his place, already being familiar with the atmosphere of his apartment. A movie had originally been put on, but after the main plot had wandered off so far from the original story, you both concluded it wasn’t worth watching anymore. But instead of turning it off, the two of you had ended up getting distracted with short kisses, which had now escalated into a full on makeout session.

Megumi held you close to him, letting you lean onto him, as he tilted his back on the couch to some degree, letting you slowly slip more and more onto his lap. He had run one of his hands up your collarbone, and was now teasingly tugging on your bra strap under the clothes. Just when he was about to make another move, you were both interrupted by a sudden weight pouncing on him, and startled, you pulled away from feeling fur suddenly rub against you, only to laugh when realizing what had happened.

Megumi groaned when he was caught off guard by his dog, the large white husky lapping at his face excitedly. Unbeknowningly just having ‘cockblocked’ his owner.

“You just chose to wake up now huh?” he grumbled out, and although his expression was annoyed, the way he petted and ruffled the dog's fur gave away his true feelings. About to express your surprise, it was just added onto when you saw and felt another black husky wander past your legs.

“You didn’t tell me you had dogs!” you announced, excited by the revelation of his pets. The white dog which had previously nudged himself between the two of you, now excitedly turned to you, smelling your face before starting to happily try to lick at your face, only to be pulled back by Megumi.

“Why didn’t I see them last time I was over?”

Successfully getting his white dog to stay back, he sighed and looked at you again. “They were asleep… like they should be right now.” Besides his obviously pointed look at the pair, they only seemed to joyfully watch their owner, clearly just happy to see him.

“There’s not a thought behind those eyes…” He muttered out, watching as the black dog now attempted to jump up on the couch and make space for himself too.

You didn’t mind the dogs at all really, running your hands over their furs, and at the first hint of affection from you, they both focused on your presence.

“Don’t do that… they won’t leave you alone after.” You ignored his warning and just laughed at the dogs’ clear playfulness with you. “That doesn’t sound bad at all…”

“...Yeah, until they're suffocating you in your sleep.”

Megumi watched you interact with his pets, and although he was trying to act annoyed, he couldn’t hold back the soft smile that eventually formed on his face.

“Y’know… it’s cruel if you let them get attached if you don’t come over often…”

You glanced up at Megumi, looking at him with an intrigued look. “...Are you… bribing me Megumi?” He just shrugged in response.

“I mean… if you’re not actually gonna… make anything official… it’s cruel to lead them on no?”

You scoffed playfully, “...Are we still just talking about the dogs?” He pretended to ponder for a second, before shrugging again. “...I know we’ve only been on one official date but… we’ve spent enough time together… for me to not be considered a weirdo if I asked you out... right?

“Like… to officially be your girlfriend?”

“Yeah, officially…”

You thought it over for a moment, watching the hopeful yet nervous look in his eyes. Megumi wanted you, more than he had thought he’d end up so. Your mind tracked back over the past month and a half since you had met him, and besides his original motive for approaching you, you couldn’t deny his clear genuine romantic interest in you.

“That’s fine… I'd… really love that.”

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

author’s notes

HIII GUYS!!! this is my first ever fan fic im sorry it’s like humongous, but i really hoped you enjoyed!!!

tysm so much if you read the whole thing it means so muchhhh

i’m thinking about turning this one into a series and just writing more story as the band continues to grow, so if you guys are interested pls pls pls let me know!!

did u guys catch the depche mode pun 😇

lowkey was inspired by nana just a bit 🤏

anyways, again tysm for reading, and please like & reblog if you enjoyed it!!

besos mwah 😽

233 notes · View notes

heich0e · 5 months ago

Note

Inquiring minds would like to know the circumstances behind Endo meeting his son twice 🎤

the first time, you begged yamato to meet kosuke.

part of you hoped—foolishly, naively—that maybe this would be the opportunity to change things. that maybe seeing that sweet little baby—who looks so much like him, with the same mop of curly hair, the same nose, and the same dark, wispy eyelashes—might be the thing that convinced him that this (that you, and kosuke, and your life together) was all worth it.

endo shows up to the coffee shop you'd asked him to meet you at more than half an hour late. kosuke has fallen asleep in his pram after fussing for a bit since you'd gotten dangerously close to his usual nap time. the ice in the drink you'd ordered when you first arrived has mostly melted in the afternoon sun, though the beverage is still largely untouched.

yamato doesn't apologize. doesn't offer any excuse for his tardiness either. he asks if you're going to finish your drink, and when you say no he starts slurping it back.

he seems hungover—you've seen it enough times to tell. his hair is tousled in a way that tells you he only just rolled out of bed even though it's past midday, and you don't doubt he's dressed in the same clothes he'd been wearing the night before. you try not to focus on the lovebite you can see at the base of his throat.

he barely casts a glance at the infant dozing peacefully in the stroller next to you—his eyes focusing primarily on the neckline of your shirt and the post-partum swell of your chest. he slumps back in his seat as he chews idly on the straw of your drink, the quintessential image of a man who finds all of this a chore rather than an opportunity.

the two of you don't say much in the brief meeting, but it's enough to tell you everything you need to know.

he doesn't once hold his son. never so much as touches him.

the second time yamato meets him is an unfortunate accident.

kosuke spent the afternoon at your parents house since you had to work late. your mother picked him up from preschool, and you went to your childhood home to collect him once you were finally done your work for the day.

your parents had already taken care of feeding kosuke dinner, all you'd need to do once you arrive home is get him into his pyjamas and tuck him into bed, but you hadn't had the chance to eat all day and figured a quick trip to the convenience store wouldn't be too off course on your way home with your son.

you pick up a few simple, easy things for dinner from the refrigerated section and a carton of milk for kosuke's breakfast the next morning. at your side in the checkout line, kosuke holds your hand that's not toting the plastic shopping basket, telling you little bits of his day at school—while occasionally glancing longingly at the capsule toy machine by the door in a way that you're sure he thinks you don't notice.

"ume-sensei said that the sunfowlers will be opened up next week," kosuke says, his little fingers squeezing yours excitedly. the way he mispronounces flowers makes your heart flutter fondly. "he even said i can bring one home for you, mama, but that i gotta keep it secret."

you trap a giggle in your throat and squeeze your little boy's hand twice.

"i can't wait to see it."

"they're reallllly tall too! not as tall as ume-sensei though..." kosuke trails off thoughtfully as he reflects upon the garden and the young man who tends to it so diligently.

"well, umemiya sensei is pretty tall himself," you note, and from the corner of your eye you see the customer in front of you take their shopping bag of purchases and move towards the exit. you take a step towards the register. "it's no surprise that—"

before you can place your shopping basket on the counter, a figure cuts in front of you in line. at your side, kosuke bumps face-first into your leg, not expecting your sudden stop—you glance down immediately, checking to make sure he's all right. he seems fine, though a little stunned, and you immediately look towards the back of the man who cut in front of you so rudely.

"add a pack of mevius super lights, too."

the sound of the man in front of you's voice makes your stomach plummet and your grip on kosuke's little hand tighten.

the cashier behind the counter is clearly shocked by how rudely the man had stepped in front of you, and hesitates even after hearing the customer's abrasive request. the boy in the polyester uniform vest is young, probably no older than 20, and he looks at you apologetically from the other side of the till. irritated by the cashier's delay, the customer standing between you turns around to follow his gaze.

yamato's eyes meet yours for the first time in three years, and for a moment it's like everything stops.

"oh," he says after a moment, an uncharacteristic look of surprise on his (still infuriatingly handsome) face. that momentary expression melts into something more familiar, more befittingly smug. "long time no see."

your lips, teeth and tongue are suddenly mutinous—refusing to give shape to any words. your brain isn't offering any particular defence to this uprising, anyway: words are utterly beyond you as you stare at him blankly.

kosuke crowds closer to your legs, shifting slightly behind you in the way he tends to around people he doesn't recognize, and the familiar weight and warmth of his little body clinging to you grounds you in that moment. you're suddenly snapped out of your stupor.

you turn away from endo, crouching down to your son's level.

"kosuke," you say softly, brushing some of his dark curls back from his eyes. you fish a couple of 100 yen coins out from your coat pocket and press them into your son's little palm. "why don't you go see if you can get that toy you've been trying for from the capsule machine while mama checks out?"

kosuke's eyes go wide as he stares down at the money and he nods, hesitating only for a moment before he skitters over to the vending machine near the doors—his rain boots pitter-pattering against the convenience store's tiled floors as he goes.

"shit, he got big," yamato remarks casually as kosuke walks away, and your eyes snap back to the man standing above you. he's got his hands stuffed into the pockets of his oversized jacket, slouchy and hanging off one shoulder. his eyes are on kosuke as your little boy surveys the various capsule options carefully, but soon his gaze slides back to you.

you stand, returning to your full height. "he's small for his age, actually."

"how old is he now?" the comment slices at your fraying tolerance.

"four."

the least he could do is have the decency to remember when his own son was born, but you've long given up on any hopes of yamato being decent.

the cashier behind the counter seems to sense the tension between the two of you and busies himself retrieving the pack of cigarettes endo had requested. he still smokes the same brand, but that doesn't surprise you—endo yamato is unchanging in all the worst ways.

the cashier scans the the blue cigarette packet and adds it to his other purchase on the counter.

a box of condoms.

your eyes meet yamato's again.

"learned my lesson," he says to you with a blithe smile before tossing a couple of bills towards the cashier to pay for his spoils.

your teeth set on edge, anger boiling over in your core. it's not just the indignity of any implication that his benefit came at your expense that bothers you; it's the fact that your son doesn't deserve be reduced to something like a lesson for someone like him to learn from.

"charming," you hiss derisively.

yamato pockets his change and turns to you with an eyebrow quirked curiously at your tone. you can't remember ever speaking to him like that—the person he knew didn't have the nerve to. but you're not that girl anymore.

you expect him to leave now that his purchases are paid for, but that would be too easy. too kind. he lingers instead as you pay for your purchases, fishing his packet of cigarettes out from his plastic bag as you exchange brief, polite smalltalk with the cashier—who you can't help but think looks concerned for you as he looks furtively at yamato every so often. you smile at him when he hands you your shopping bag and receipt in an attempt to assuage the poor kid's apprehension, but it's as strained as the smalltalk had been.

kosuke is still mulling over his options at the capsule machines, blissfully unaware of your turmoil.

yamato uses his teeth to bite into the plastic packaging wrapped around his cigarette, peeling off the easy-tear strip once he's broken through the casing with his canine. he tears away the rest of the plastic, and it crinkles as he balls it up in his fist. you watch as he tosses it in the direction of the trashcan nearby—no more than a step or two away from where he stands—but it falls short and lands on the floor. he makes no move to pick it up, and you fight the urge to do it for him.

you were always left cleaning up yamato's messes.

but not anymore.

that's a lesson you've learned, now.

"kosuke, it's time to go," you call to your son, holding out the hand not gripping your shopping bag for dear life. your little boy looks at you with wide eyes, and then back towards the capsule machine in front of him. you watch as he hastily sticks his two shiny 100 yen coins in the machine and turns the dial, a brightly coloured plastic ball popping out of the dispenser at the bottom as you approach him.

he plucks it out from the bottom and holds it up to his face excitedly.

"is it the one you wanted?" you ask him with a smile.

kosuke peeks up at you through his lashes, and though he endeavours not to let it show you can tell he's disappointed. glancing down at the capsule in his hand you recognize a little character figurine he already has at home.

"no, but that's okay," he says, holding the plastic sphere in both his hands. "i'll bring this one to school tomorrow for ume-sensei."

"i think that's a great idea," you tell him quietly, pressing a kiss to his temple. "you two can match."

kosuke brightens up noticeably at that suggestion and he nods, more to himself than anything, with a newfound assurance.

"that not the one the kid wanted or something?"

you freeze when you feel yamato's presence behind you, peering down to where you and kosuke are crouched in front of the capsule toy machines. kosuke shrinks into you, tucked up against your side with his toy cradled to his chest. he looks up at the man he doesn't recognize nervously.

"lemme see it." yamato holds out his hand towards kosuke, and your son buries his face into your shoulder shyly.

you sigh, a sudden ache throbbing between your ears. you scoop kosuke up into your arm, balancing him on your hip as you return to your feet. kosuke is still sticking close to you, but you can see him peeking at endo from the corner of his eye.

"doesn't he know how to talk yet?" yamato asks you, his brow furrowed slightly.

"of course he does," you say, your tone sharp even as you endeavour to keep it civil in front of your son. "kosuke's just a little... shy. especially around strangers."

"so your name's kosuke, huh?" yamato muses, another slash of that dull blade against the final threads of your patience. he didn't even remember the name of his own son. he softens his tone, his expression, his gaze—everything about him suddenly a bit gentler than it had been before, in a way that makes you feel nauseated. "can i see what toy you got there, kosuke?"

your son thinks about it for a moment, but then his little hand pops out from underneath his chest where he'd been hiding the plastic capsule against your shoulder. he offers it hesitantly to yamato, who you can tell is fighting back a self-satisfied grin. he plucks the toy from kosuke's grip, appraising the toy inside for a moment.

"hey, this is pretty cool," yamato remarks as he examines the cheap figure. "you don't want this one?"

"i've already got that one at home," kosuke replies, still notably (and rightfully) wary of the man before him.

"can i have it then?" yamato asks.

your lips part in surprise, mortified by the suggestion, but before you can argue, yamato sticks his hand into the pocket of his coat. he roots around for a moment, whatever he has in his pocket jingling noisily, before pulling out a 2,000 yen note.

"don't have any change to trade you, but you can buy yourself a couple more of these with this if you want." he holds the money out towards kosuke who seems a bit confused by the offer.

your son peeks up at you.

"can i, mama?"

you're not sure whether he's asking if what this strange man is saying is true (having little, if any, grasp on the values of goods, services, and the exchange of monetary denominations considering he's only four) or if he's asking for permission to accept the offer. you look at yamato with your eyes narrowed mistrustfully, and then back to the boy in your arms.

"weren't you gonna give what one to umemiya sensei?" you try to reason with him, inexplicably off-put by the idea of yamato giving anything to your son.

"can't i buy more with that?"

unfortunately, he has a point.

"you can buy lots more with this," yamato answers before you get the chance to—wiggling the note in his hand enticingly. "and even candy too."

kosuke's eyes widen in amazement. he hesitates for another moment, looking at you again once more, and then he reaches his little hand out for the money.

yamato can't hide his grin now. or he makes no effort to, at least.

kosuke stares at the 2,000 yen in amazement.

"thank you, mister," he says, quietly awestruck. he smiles at the man in front of him.

yamato laughs—loud and uncannily genuine in a way that makes you squirm. he reaches out and ruffles kosuke's hair in a too-familiar way, but your son is still so giddy with his riches that he doesn't even flinch.

"no problem, kid," yamato says flippantly, stuffing the cheap capsule toy into his pocket. you watch as he fishes out his cigarette pack and plucks one out, tucking it behind his ear as he pivots on his heel towards the exit. the doors slide open to let him out, and he looks over his shoulder at you just before he leaves.

you hold kosuke a bit closer to your side instinctively.

yamato smirks, his eyes crinkling up into crescents.

"see ya around!"

and the worst part is, you can tell he means it.

#liv got mail #endo yamato x reader #endo x reader #wb drabble #wb writing #writing #UmeSen

187 notes · View notes

anonymous-dentist · 6 days ago

Text

A Little (bit of) Love

My piece for @tryzine !!

It starts deceptively simple: Cellbit and Roier are taking a walk together through the Favela at sunset, fresh coffees in their hands from Starbobby. Cellbit can’t stop staring at Roier. Roier can’t stop staring at Cellbit. Bobby is watching from above, probably rolling his eyes at how goofy Roier looks when he’s in love.

There are two creatures walking a step behind Cellbit and Roier that Cellbit is purposefully ignoring.

Roier’s shoe comes untied next to a recently-added flowerbed. Cellbit offers to tie it, Roier laughs and teases Cellbit, Cellbit hands Roier his coffee to hold as he crouches and takes Roier’s shoelaces in his hands.

Just barely visible through the gap between Roier’s legs, Pulgoier looks blankly up at the flowers. They’re taller than it is, but just barely.

?, the disgusting little thing, follows Pulgoier’s gaze. And then, horrifyingly, and entirely of its own accord, it reaches up and snaps a flower off at the base of its stem. It holds the flower out to Pulgoier, head ducked just slightly, almost bashfully; Pulgoier doesn’t smile, because it can’t, because it isn’t real, but it does take the flower.

Frozen in abject horror, Cellbit doesn’t react as Roier annoyedly taps at his head and asks what’s taking so long. Why is he just sitting there, what’s wrong?

And then Roier turns around and sees his Mini-Me holding the flower close to its chest and pressing a plastic kiss to ?’s cheek, and Roier gasps.

“Aww, look!” he coos, fingers tangling in Cellbit’s hair excitedly. “They’re in love!”

And Cellbit feels nothing.

Cellbit’s son is gone. So is a significant part of Cellbit’s heart, and yet he knows that he is still capable of feeling love. He’s alive, after all: he isn’t a religious man, but he likes to think that everything with a heart can feel love. Dogs love their owners. Lions love their mates. Crocodiles love the hunt. Parrots love to show off.

The Mini-Mes? Notably not alive. They aren’t real. They’re plastic and felt and yarn and whatever-the-fuck electronics the Federation shoved into their fake little bodies. Their nerves are made out of copper. Their veins are filled with self-recycling machine oil. Their hearts are combustion engines that run off of the items that their islander counterparts provide them daily.

Cellbit knows this. He’s cut his Mini-Me apart so many times that ? knows not to squirm on the dissection table. Every time he’s sewn ? back together, he’s made ? hold the roll of string so it doesn't roll away. He’s made ? bleed oil to the point that he once caught ? drinking gasoline when Cellbit’s back was turned.

The Mini-Mes don’t feel emotions. They can’t. They aren’t real. They’re creatures, if one could call an inhuman amalgamation of wires and eco-friendly microplastics a creature. It’s more apt to call them robots.

Monsters.

Cellbit knows that the MIni-Mes were created for war. He watched the video at that conference, he knows exactly what the little assholes were made for. Now that they’re stolen, their purpose has probably been shifted by the Federation from fighting to spying.

They can’t feel love. This much, Cellbit knows. They were created for battle, and now they’re just biding their time. Waiting.

The fact that ? seems to be in love with Pulgoier is an outlier that should not be considered. They’re both just mimicking their owners, that’s all. Which begs the question of exactly how adaptive the Mini-Mes are; they can change appearance at the drop of a hat, but behavior? They’ve been robotic up to this point, what changed?

Cellbit asks this to ? as ? sits in its cage staring at the oil-stained wall.

?, of course, doesn’t respond. That’s good, Cellbit doesn’t know what he’d do if the little bastard learned how to talk.

But, at the lack of a response, Cellbit inexplicably feels a sense of… God, is this bravery he’s feeling coming off of ?? Is that it? An attitude?

Cellbit’s eyes narrow, and he leans in closer to the cage with a sneer.

“Whatever you’re doing, I’m onto it,” he growls.

? just adjusts its goggles in response. Its hand briefly dips into the Fear Room’s light, exposing a thin black line drawn around ?’s left hand ring finger. A ring.

Cellbit is so surprised that he doesn’t even feel angry for a good moment.

But then ? looks up at him as if asking, “And what about it?”, and Cellbit finds himself standing and kicking the cage so hard that it falls over, sending ? toppling.

A ring. A goddamn ring.

A goddamn mockery, more like. It’s mocking him. The Federation is mocking him, he knows it. He fucking knows it.

(But… why?)

Pulgoier starts holding ?’s hand. ? keeps picking things off of the side of the road to give to Pulgoier, and Cellbit hates it.

Roier makes a little shoebox bed for them that he puts under his and Cellbit’s own bed. Instead of powering off for the day in a corner of the room, ? and Pulgoier go there at night, and Cellbit hates it.

? and Pulgoier sit across from each other on the floor when their owners have their meals. Sometimes they pretend to eat, usually pretending to feed each other, and Cellbit hates it.

Richarlyson would have killed them by now. Cellbit wishes he was here to do so, but.

But.

But it’s well past midnight, and Cellbit can’t sleep. This isn’t anything too unusual; he learned how to live off minimal sleep back during the War, for better or for worse.

But Roier can’t sleep, which means that he’s somewhere in the castle, which means that Cellbit is somewhere in the castle because there’s no way in Hell he’s letting his depressed and sleep-deprived husband wander around mourning.

Tonight’s ‘somewhere’ is the garden, and Cellbit has Roier in his arms as they sway back and forth to the music playing softly on Roier’s communicator. (The Federation is shitty for so many reasons, but at least it’s providing the island with Spotify Premium free-of-charge.)

The song is unimportant. So are the two little freaks of nature watching from beneath a rosebush. So are the Federation’s hidden cameras, and Bad somewhere downstairs trying to carry Cellbit’s dining table out the door, and the itching bloodlust in the back of Cellbit’s brain.

What is important is Roier, and so Cellbit focuses all his attention on him.

He’s tired, clearly so: his hair is more of a mess than usual, his clothes are rumpled and wrinkled, his shoes are untied, his bandana is lost somewhere in the bedroom, his lips are chapped, and the circles under his eyes are dark enough to rival Cellbit’s.

Cellbit doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more beautiful man in his life.

He says as much, words ghosting across Roier’s pale lips.

Roier smiles weakly, and he murmurs a quiet, “No, you.”

The song changes to something a bit quicker. They both ignore the change in tempo and decide to follow each other’s, instead.

Cellbit’s arms tighten around Roier. He pulls him closer, nose burying itself in the side of Roier’s neck and breathing in his scent and internalizing it, filing it away in the little cabinet in his brain labeled ‘Roier’.

“You stink,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, because you’re all over me,” Roier responds. He lightly pinches Cellbit’s side. “I know what we’re doing when we get back inside.”

Cellbit whines, sagging in Roier’s arms. He loves his husband, but he does not love showering with him; Roier takes so long under the water that it’s running cold by the time it’s Cellbit’s turn, and his shampoo smells so strongly that it makes Cellbit have an asthma attack.

Cellbit doesn’t even have asthma!

What Cellbit does have is an unfortunately-acute sense of hearing. It’s a blessing at times, and it’s a curse.

His eyebrow twitches in annoyance as he hears the absolute faintest of sounds: the crunching of grass beneath clumsy feet, and the overworking of machinery as it tries to figure out how to laugh.

At the same time, Roier gasps, “Mira, mira!”

But Cellbit doesn’t look. Why should he? He’s having a good time. He doesn’t need some… some… some things ruining it.

“Ay,” Roier insists, poking Cellbit between his ribs once. “Gatinho, mira.”

Another poke. “Mira.”

Another poke. “Cellbit.”

(Poke.) “Cellbo.”

Cellbit’s eyes squeeze shut. He presses a kiss to the crook of Roier’s neck to try and appease him, but Roier just pokes him again. With determination.

“Stop ignoring me!” he huffs. “Unless… you hate me? You want a divorce?”

At that, Cellbit’s head snaps up in a panic.

“Não!” he shouts. Why would Roier ever…

Lips twitching into a semblance of a smile, Roier grabs Cellbit’s face with one hand- squeezing his cheeks together and making him feel a bit like a fish- and turns it to the side.

…right. If there’s one thing Roier is, it’s a fucking asshole. (And a handsome one at that.)

Cellbit’s shoulders sag in relief, but said relief quickly melts back into annoyance as he’s forced to look at the Mini-Mes and their… well. It isn’t dancing, that’s for certain.

Pulgoier has taken the lead, just like Roier has. It’s holding ?’s little hands and rocking from side-to-side: left, right. Left, right. Left, right. It doesn’t move from its spot other than a small amount of shuffling as it tries pulling at ?’s hands in an attempt to get it to actually move.

? is still. It’s staring directly into Pulgoier’s beady little eyes, absolutely frozen. If it could blush, Cellbit is sure that it would be doing so.

Cellbit inadvertently copies it, stiffening against Roier’s body and stopping any and all movements. He doesn’t mean to- he wants to keep dancing, to keep ignoring the Mini-Mes and their bastardized attempt at “romance”, but…

“Look,” Roier quietly says, sounding almost awed.

He lets go of Cellbit’s face so he can press his cheek against Cellbit’s.

Cellbit feels Roier’s jaw work against his as he concludes, “It’s us.”

Because… it is. It is, somehow, in such a fundamental way that Cellbit can’t really identify it as anything but Cellbit-And-Roier.

“Oh,” says Cellbit, voice hardly above a whisper.

He watches as Pulgoier tugs on ?’s arms, and as ?’s legs start to shake under it.

Cellbit doesn’t actually remember a lot of his wedding reception; between the explosions and the alcohol, it’s all just a lot of blurry faces and the feeling of Roier-Roier-Roier-Roier-Roier.

What he does remember is being ushered into the center of the dance floor along with Roier and freezing. The world faded from around him, and all he could think about was Roier’s smile as he took Cellbit into his arms; Roier’s warm hands on his body; Roier’s alcohol-laced breath across his face. His body was a stranger.

He remembers thinking, ‘Shit. I don’t know how to dance.’ Because he didn’t, and he still doesn’t, because he never had a chance to learn how. It just never came up in his life, and then, suddenly, he was supposed to dance. At his wedding. In front of the entire island. And everyone he knew.

And he remembers the way Roier’s face softened as he picked up on Cellbit’s anxiety. His hands slid from Cellbit’s back, up to his shoulders, down the lengths of his arms, and to his hands. He tangled their fingers together, took a step back, and winked.

Pulgoier physically can’t wink, but it otherwise does exactly what Roier did all those months ago: it takes a step back, and it just starts spinning.

? can’t shout like Cellbit did back then, but it otherwise does what he did all those months ago: it gets pulled along, forced to spin along with its partner, stumbling over its own feet and flailing about like a doll caught in the wind.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” Cellbit mutters.

“I can,” Roier replies. “He’s your Mini-Me, of course he can’t dance for shit.”

He yelps out a laugh as Cellbit indignantly steps on his foot.

Roier’s right, though; Cellbit can’t dance for shit. And neither can ?, being Cellbit’s shitty little clone.

The night of the wedding, it took Cellbit a good solid minute to get his feet back under him. He felt himself smiling, and, maybe it was the wine in his system, but he found himself tugging Roier in a spin in the opposite direction. He was dizzy as Hell, but it made Roier laugh when he did it, so he just… kept doing it. Eventually, the spin led into a proper attempt at a slow dance that failed so miserably that the two of them gave up and jumped onto the stage for another round of karaoke.

Tonight, ? picks up on things a bit quicker than Cellbit had. It stabilizes, nods to itself, and starts pulling Pulgoier into its own spin. Almost immediately, they’re attempting a proper waltz, and Cellbit…

Cellbit doesn’t get it.

At first, Cellbit wasn’t sure what the end goal of the Mini-Mes was. Then, he realized that they’re little soldiers. Robotic supersoldiers capable of self-multiplication and growth, literal war machines.

But then… why do they look like the islanders? Why does Pulgoier have the same dark circles as Roier? Why does ? have the same scar across its chest that Cellbit does? What’s the point? The Federation doesn’t do anything without a purpose, so why do the Mini-Mes have to look like their owners if they’re meant to grow up and kill them?

Why can they dance?

“What’s the point?” he murmurs. Roier hums in acknowledgement, and Cellbit takes that as a sign to continue: “Of copying us?”

“Because we’re sexy,” Roier responds.

Cellbit rolls his eyes. “True. But, think about it, what purpose does any of…” (He waves his hand in the MIni-Mes’ general direction.) “...this serve?”

“I don’t know, but… look at them.”

Cellbit looks. He doesn’t understand. Something uncomfortable rises in his throat.

? twirls Pulgoier, leading it into a dip. Pulgoier raises its head and presses its painted mouth against ?’s.

Chest clenching, Cellbit tries to tear his eyes away, but he just… can’t. He can’t. Not when they’re right there, not when they’re-

“You think they’re learning from us, right?” Roier asks. “So… maybe they aren’t learning how to kill us. Maybe they’re learning to be us.”

Cellbit gives him a flat look. “Isn’t that just as bad?”

Roier shrugs, still watching the little monsters.

“Maybe,” he replies. “I’m not a scientist. But… isn’t it kinda crazy that we taught robots how to love?”

But robots can’t love. They can’t. But.

Roier’s arms tighten around Cellbit’s body. His smile is just as forced as it has been since the eggs all vanished, but his eyes are surprisingly soft as he watches the Mini-Mes tumble into the grass from the force of their silent, impossible laughter.

“They’re just copying us,” Cellbit weakly says. “It isn’t actually real.”

“Maybe,” Roier hums. One hand travels up to cup the back of Cellbit’s head, gently pulling it against his chest. Cellbit listens to Roier’s heartbeat and wills his own heart to match its pace.

“Or,” he continues, “maybe it is. We found our reasons. Maybe they found theirs.”

They watch the Mini-Mes, and the Mini-Mes don’t notice.

The song changes, and Roier starts leading Cellbit into another dance.

Cellbit’s eyes slip shut, and he lets himself get swept away by Roier’s movements.

(Bagi would call Cellbit a monster, but Cellbit found love in the end. So maybe, just maybe, ? could have done the same.)

#spiderbit #guapoduo #qsmp #a.d.'s fics i suppose #a.d.'s fics i suppose.#i'm actually really proud of this one #i never write canon but. come on. it's them!#and the other them!

73 notes · View notes

medusapelagia · 3 months ago

Text

28 Tomorrow

written for @steddieangstyaugust (prompt:Tomorrow ) and @augustwritingchallenge (Prompt: Caretaker) Rating: Mature Relationship: Steve/Eddie TW: open ending, description of injuries Words: 852

Every single cell of Eddie’s body hurt so badly. His joints are in flame, his skin was pulled so harshly to try to stop the bleeding of his bats’ bites that he’s sure it would rip off if he breathe in the wrong way, he has had a headache since he opened his fucking eyes, and still, the stupid doctors are going to lowering his pain meds, because they don’t want him to become an addict. Like… are you fucking kidding, right?

But no.

They were fucking serious, and now all Eddie can do not scream in pain is biting the inside of his cheeks and trying very hard to sleep, but the pain is so devastating that he can’t sleep. Fuck those stupid doctors. Eddie’s no killer, that's what the TV said, but he would kill for a joint. Or maybe he should just murder the stupid doctors who decided to lower his meds.

“You ok?”

Steve.

Dear, kind, smiling, Steve, who’s always there, reading to him some articles from the Rolling Stones and telling him what’s going on out there.

“Do I look ok?” Eddie hisses, his eyes bloodshot from the lack of sleep.

“Do you need another pillow? I can ask Mary if-”

“I don’t need a fucking pillow! Harrington! I need my fucking meds!” Eddie yells, and the machine at his side starts to beat out loudly while Eddie grits his teeth, forcing himself to stay still and ride out the pain, counting in his mind.

One. Two. Three.

When finally his jaw relaxes, Steve’s still there, looking at him with fondness, “How far?”

“Huh?”

“How far did you get?”

“Seventy-four.”

“That’s great. A few days ago it was more than ninety.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, the only part of his body he can move without experiencing any pain, “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not. Things are getting better. And tomorrow they’ll get even better.”

Eddie doesn’t punch him in the face because he’s really hurting, but the feeling is there.

When the nurse knocks on the door with a tray, Steve immediately jumps on his feet and grabs it, thanking her profusely.

“Look, Eddie. Plain rice and boiled chicken. Your favorite.” Steve jokes, cutting the chicken into small little pieces, ready to feed Eddie.

“You don’t have to feed me. There are nurses here, they are paid for it.”

“I like to take care of you. We’re friends, right?”

Eddie lifts an eyebrow, “Are we? I remember that you didn’t do anything when Tommy closed me in the janitor’s closet. Am I wrong?”

“Well, that’s what before-”

“So let me get this straight: we risked our life together so we’re friends now and you like to take care of me while you wouldn’t even talk to me at school for four fucking years? Thank you, Harrington, but I don’t need anyone’s pity. Especially yours.”

Steve opens and closes his mouth a few times as if he is trying to find the words to reply to Eddie’s accusation, but in the end, he stabs a piece of chicken way too harshly and moves it to Eddie’s lips without a word.

Eddie eats his plate in complete silence, missing the gentle bantering with Steve but still taking refuge in the silence. Once the plate is empty, Steve takes the tray and moves toward the door.

“I’m sorry,” he says before opening the door, “I’m sorry for how I acted. I’m sorry for Tommy’s behavior and I’m sorry if we weren’t friends in high school. And I’m even more sorry if I misunderstood and thought we were friends now. I won’t bother you anymore.”

When the door clicks close Eddie realized that he fucked up. He fucked up badly.

Steve is kind and gentle, he loves to take care of the people he loves and the fact that Eddie is in pain isn’t enough of an excuse to treat him like that.

When Wayne comes to visit after his shift at the plant he’s surprised not to find Steve sitting on the uncomfortable plastic chair.

“Did Steve have a shift?” Wayne asks, grunting while he sits on the chair.

“He’s not coming back.”

“Eddie…” Wayne grumbles.

“What?”

“What have you done?”

“Nothing. Just told him nurses are paid to feed me, he isn’t.”

“That boy dragged your sorry ass back home. He saved your fucking life and spent almost every free moment here with you to keep you company, and you treated him like that?”

“I’m not a fucking charity project, Wayne!” Eddie hisses while Wayne gives him a stern look but doesn’t comment anymore. He just grabs his crosswords and starts reading the definitions out loud, trying to solve the puzzle with Eddie, but Eddie’s mind is too far away to be really helpful, so when the nurse comes back to tell them that visiting hours are over, half of the crossword is still blank.

“Eddie. Call him. Tell him you’re sorry.” Wayne tells him before leaving and Eddie maybe would, if he wasn’t too proud and the only phone wasn’t at the nurses’ desk.

But tomorrow he will.

Tomorrow he definitely will.

#au gust #steddieangstyaugust #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #writing prompt #prompt challenge #fandom event #au gust 2024 #alternate universe #writing challenge #steddie event #stranger things #angst #angsty august

70 notes · View notes

ladybelladonna76 · 9 months ago

Text

Rachel didn't know what her stepdad saw in that stupid girl he was dating

She was obviously hot, but she was also bitchy, vain, and materialistic

Unsurprisingly he'd met this goldigger shortly after the medical negligence payout from her mother's accidental death, at the hands of a drunk quack doctor, when Daddy had been looking for some comfort at the bottom of a whiskey glass in questionable bars

"We're going to have so much fun, Daddy says we can spend whatever we want today, I have permission to spoil us both rotten"

Rachel rolled her eyes

"Let's just get this over and done with"

"Okay Rachey, I promise you're going to love it, this salon works miracles, then we go shopping!", Rosie squealed as she said shopping like some over excited middle school girl on a carnival ride

"Whatever, I'm doing this because DAD asked me too that's all, after the salon you can drop me off home before going out shopping"

"Okay meanie" Rosie pouted

Inside the salon it was as bad as Rachel had feared. This was just a grooming kennel for over primped high maintenance bitches, she couldn't think of one treatment she wanted to try.

"Please try the New U facial treatment Rachey" Rosie whined in her bimbo voice for the hundredth time

"Fine if you'll shut up, at least I get to lay down and relax"

She laid back and the beautician put the mask over her face

The mask started to emit a pulsing wave of light

It feels wrong, invasive, it hurts

She tried to sit up but couldn't move

Her brain felt like it was aflame as the light seemed to penetrate her skull

Suddenly words and concepts started to run through Rachel's head.

Bitch, cuckold, homewrecker, conniving, golddigger, manipulative

Every word brought a flood of images and memories of Rachel as the living embodiment of these words

Rachel knew she wasn't, there was no way she could be, she had never, would never do any of those things, her mom and dad raised her with a strong sense of right and wrong and everything she saw herself doing was wrong.

Rachel could sense new color behind her eyelids even though her eyes were closed tight

More information washed over her, new feelings and ideas.

She had secretly coveted her Step Daddy for years after her mom had married him. No he was always her Daddy, no my Dad, wasn't he?

I'd fucked that gold digging bitch's plastic surgeon behind her back, mommy dearest was fucking him to get a discount so he was fair game.

That's how I got him addicted to drugs and me, I got him drunk, high, and fucked him all night before the day of the surgery. I'd made him botch the surgery

Rachel screamed inside the mask, that's not me I wouldn't, I couldn't, I love my Mommy

Rachel felt her body starting to alter as the new light worked it's magic

She started to groan inside the mask as she felt her body staring to firm and tone, her breasts grew as implants formed inside them, her lips plumped, her nails lengthened into beautiful manicured claws.

Daddy loved her body so much better than her mom's pathetic..

"Oh my God, mom I'm sorry this isn't me, this isn't what I wanted!!"

Rachel removed the mask and looked around for her stepmom

Where was she?

"There's only us Raquel", she thought

This didn't make any sense

"We were always jealous of Mommy since middle school, all her boy toys, her clothes, cars, vacations, we just had to bide our time until we were all grown up and then he could be ours"

He?

Daddy?

Was Daddy hers now alone?

Ever nerve in her body fired in unison at this realization as an orgasm swept through her body

Of course New U Salon's machines didn't really work miracles they only used a cutting edge application of Quantum Mechanics.

They did however merge Rachel and her stepmom's quantum realities

A little tweak here and there, so the Quantum realm remained while and all was perfect with the world again

Another happy customer with guaranteed repeat business and referrals to boot

Rachel was very satisfied

Raquel skipped shopping that day and rushed home to her Daddy

She'd wanted him since he'd first walked into her life with her bitch mother

She spent years preparing for when they could be together. Years studying her mother's manipulation techniques, daily exercise at the gym to sculpt her body into a temple to be worshiped, style to dress in a manner befitting a goddess, oh and sex, how she'd perfected the art of love making and giving, she'd become such a slut.

All to be ready for her Daddy and now he was hers, she'd never give him up

New U Salon really was miraculous

#f2f #bitchification #transformation #corruption

160 notes · View notes

allurilove · 5 months ago

Note

What if a yandere husband's daughter was a real daddy's girl? She loves her father unconditionally, feeling possessive jealousy of him and considering his lap as her throne. She cries if anyone tries to catch her except her father. She would definitely fight with Henry to defend her father tooth and nail. Her father would certainly be heartbroken when she found a boyfriend.

I’ve been packing and moving for eight hours. oml 😭 I guess this is a little time skip to when Henry is a bit older, and the daughter is like around 4

Yandere husband volunteered to make all the food for the end of the year preschool party, and he brought his two close buddies, you, and Henry to help him hand it out. The arms of his white shirt is pulled back to his elbows, he took his watch off, and he puts on the plastic gloves.

The party is outside by the playground, and of course your husband bought all of the decorations and activities too. There was balloons, streamers, bubble machines, speakers playing kid friendly music, a face painting station, he even got a couple impersonators from their fave shows, and more.

He watches as the little kids run out of the school, a small toddler stampede, and he sees his daughter waving her tiny arms around.

“Dad dad dad dad!” she beamed and she ran around the table to hug him first. “You’re here!” his daughter nuzzled her face on his thigh. He dressed her up in a floral dress, white flats, and he even styled her hair up.

“Why don’t you sit down? I’ll give you food in a second.” he said, adjusting his hands in the gloves and he started to plate up the food for the other students. He made a wide variety of things: chicken, honey butter rolls, roasted veggies, salads, pasta, fish, and a lot of vegetarian options. When him and his friends handed out those, you cut the fruit into tiny pieces, and managed the chocolate fountain station.

Your daughter munched on the snacks while she stood by her father’s side. “Do you want anything else baby? Why don’t you get your face painted into a tiger? I know you like cats.” he looked down at her briefly before he smiled brightly at the little kid who wanted one of every food.

The girl pouted and she crossed her arms. “Can you come with me then?”

“Why don’t you go with Henry?”

“I wanna go with you!” she whined and tugged on her fathers shirt.

Yandere husband sighed and he took off his gloves. “Alllright. Let’s go.” he picked her up off the ground and he holds her tight as they approach the artist.

He sits down onto the chair and he places his daughter on his lap. He looked around the area to make sure that none of the kids were hurt, and that they were all having the best time of their lives. Your husband watched you intently, and his mouth salivated at the thought of—

“Look!” his daughter turned to him and she gently slapped his cheek when she noticed that he was distracted.

“Hmm?” yandere husband sheepishly smiled as he saw his daughter had a bunch of colors and stripes on her face. “Oh, wow! You look amazing!”

“You should get one too!” the girl on his lap pleaded.

“I don’t know-“

“Pleaseeeeee?”

—-

At the end of the day your husband was knocked out on the bed. A huge tiger face imprint on the pristine white pillow case, and his daughter is by his side.

You gently try to pull her away from your husband, but her arms are tightly wrapped around his waist. When yandere husabnd felt her presence disappear, his eyes immediately shot open, and he grabbed her back from you. “Just let us be for a moment.” he sleepily said and he cuddled the girl tight.

#Allurilove asks #trying to go through my asks #male yandere #yandere oc #yandere husband x daughter #yandere imagines #sfw little post

80 notes · View notes

someforeignband · 3 months ago

Text

🪱Wiggly Worm Wednesday!🪱

more of a wip wednesday, but! heres a snippet from Tie Em In A Knot, which i've been working on for the past couple weeks! CW: implied parental abuse; steve's dad is a piece of work and this (when i eventually post it,,,) will be DD so heed this warning now i suppose

Steve stares at his mother’s lifeless form, the bandages around the front of her head, the various tubes and machines hooked up to her body.

Eddie doesn’t answer, but Steve can hear the squeaking of his boots’ soles on the tile floor, approaching his chair.

“Visiting hours are over,” Steve states, crossing his arms and leaning back in the chair. “So, you’d better get out of here.”

The boy behind him reaches out a ringed finger to flick at the dead flowers. “Those need a drink.”

“How’d you even get up here, anyway?” Steve asks, beginning to get irritated by Eddie’s seeming lack of ability to respond to his statements.

“Who gets flowers and doesn’t even get a plastic cup to put them in?” Eddie asks, still completely ignoring Steve, finger running along the emaciated stem of the carnation nearest to where he stood. Steve’s father hadn’t even bothered to cut them out of their ugly plastic wrapping.

“Munson,” Steve huffs, finally turning away from his mother to look at the guy. “Seriously?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, all theatrics, and that smirk is back. He bounces a couple of times on the balls of his feet, shrugging.

“Look, man,” Steve runs a hand over his face.

“Not that I don’t appreciate you coming to… do whatever you’re here to do,” He motions over all of Eddie before continuing. “But, my dad’ll be back any second and he doesn’t want any vis—”

“Well, lucky for you…” Eddie’s tongue darts out and licks at his bottom lip. He’s looking at Steve with this glint in his eye that makes the hairs on the back of Steve’s neck stand up.

But then, he’s popping his hip out, grinning and whispering, “I don’t care.”

The side of Eddie’s mouth twitches, dimple in his cheek threatening to make itself visible, and Steve’s stomach goes warm.

Oh shit.

In the quiet of the hallway, Steve can hear his father’s footfalls, his over-confident gait, and suddenly damn near every hair on his body was standing on end, shoulders pulling upward, spine going stiff. He sits up, taking a quick peek over his shoulder, trying to gauge how much time he and Eddie would have before—

“What the hell, Steve? Who is this—”

“Mr. Harrington, hi,” Eddie holds out a hand for his dad to shake. “I’m Eddie.”

His dad, naturally, completely ignores it, fiery gaze fixed on Steve.

“Visiting hours are over.” He says, and Steve’s eyes flick down to where his dad’s hands rest comfortably on his hips, thumbs in the belt loops, right forefinger pressed against the gold belt buckle. “You know you’re not allowed to have friends up here.”

“Steve and I were supposed to meet up, and he didn’t show up, so I figured maybe time got away from him.” Eddie supplies easily, coolly even.

Steve watches in horror as Eddie mirrors his dad’s stance, spreading his feet, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. He stretches his neck a couple of times before flashing Steve’s father a cocky grin.

Steve closes his eyes for a moment, trying to get ahold of his breathing. He felt like he was going to be sick.

“He knows he isn’t supposed to have people up here,” His father repeats, and Steve can feel his pulse in his toes.

“My mistake,” Eddie concedes. “I just came up here looking for him.”

Steve swallows, trying to will himself not to die right there.

“Steve,” His father snaps. He immediately looks up at the man, uncrossing his arms, placing hands against the front of his jeans.

“You know this boy?”

“Yes, sir,” Steve nods. “He’s my friend. From school.”

His dad makes a dissatisfied noise, then breaks eye contact with Steve, focusing in on Eddie, studying him.

Steve, panicked, glances in Eddie’s direction, and he’s got this sick smile on his face. Like this is exactly what he wanted, like he couldn’t wait to get up here and do whatever he was doing right now.

“Like I said earlier,” Eddie licks his lips again. “My name’s Eddie. You went to Hawkins High with my old man, I think.”

That seems to catch Steve’s dad off guard, and something akin to hope that Steve might get out of this better than alive flickers in the center of his chest. If there’s one thing Steve’s dad likes to talk about, it’s those Hawkins High Glory Days.

“Is that so?” He throws Eddie a tentative smile, studying him, trying to figure out just who Eddie could look like.

Eddie maintains his easy demeanor, that blinding smile painted on his face like he’s none the wiser, like he doesn’t know he’s toe-to-fucking-toe with a Copperhead.

But, Steve watches something behind his eyes flicker, like he’s taking some kind of pleasure in this, like there’s a sick sense of satisfaction building there.

“It’s so,” Eddie nods, smile pulled tight.

“I always thought Al and Maria only had a daughter,” His dad finally decides, before following up, “But, I guess I must be mistaken. You got that Munson nose, don’t ya?”

God, does his dad look proud of himself.

And for the first time since he’d set foot in that room, there’s a flash of something akin to fear across Eddie’s face. But, it’s gone in a split-second, and the shit-eating grin returns.

“You’re good, Mr. Harrington.” Eddie laughs, and god he’s a good actor. "You're scary good."

All those years in drama class must’ve done him some kind of good. Steve supposes there are rare plusses to flunking senior year.

“Well, that was fun, wasn’t it?” Eddie breathes out a small sigh, looking down at where Steve still sits, stock-still, in a chair at his mother’s bedside. “C’mon, Steve.”

Steve scrambles to his feet, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. Eddie starts a leisurely stroll toward the door.

“Give your old man my regards, won’t you?” His dad asks, and it feels oddly genuine for the man, like he really cared about that kind of thing.

Eddie bleats out a surprised laugh, then his smile gets impossibly wider, and that look is back. Steve’s knees feel like jelly.

“Oh, sure,” Eddie nods, licking that bottom lip again. “But, uh, you might see him before I do… that is, if you’re planning on sticking around town for a few more days.”

“Well,” His dad nods towards his mother, who lays slumped against the rails of the hospital bed.

“My mistake,” Eddie quickly offers, giving a sympathetic nod. “My sympathies.”

And for some reason, his dad laughs.

“Accidents,” His dad shrugs. “They’re a bitch.”

Eddie hums, eyes on Steve’s mother. “So sorry to hear about something so unfortunate.”

Steve’s heart is in his throat, but he’s breathing shallowly through his nose, attention rapidly alternating between his father and Eddie.

“Let’s go, Eddie, come on,” Steve places a tentative, sweaty hand against Eddie’s arm.

“So nice chatting,” Eddie practically sneers, turning over his shoulder and walking into the hallway.

Tagging: @yours-etc and @pearynice and @sageclipse and @kaspurrcat because i allllllwayyyysss love to see what you guys are up to ! <3 <3 <3

anyways see u guys never bc this burst of inspiration will inevitably not last long

#wiggly worm wednesday #ej writes !!#steddie ficlet #steddie #steddie fic #trans eddie munson #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie wip #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction

61 notes · View notes

ichorai · 2 years ago

Text

i was just a kid ; marc spector.

track one of BROKEN MACHINE.

pairing ; marc spector x vigilante!gn!reader

synopsis ; khonshu wanted you dead. marc just wanted you.

words ; 6.6k

themes ; action, mild angst/fluff, vigilante au, thief au

warnings / includes ; blood/injury, cursing, mentions of human trafficking/sexual assault but not at all graphic, marc is basically chasing after reader for half the fic, we're traveling the world in this fic baby !!! khonshu being Annoying, reader doesn't know marc has DID and thinks he's crazy, a steven cameo !! and one (1) mention of spider-man and daredevil <3

main masterlist.

NEW DELHI, INDIA.

The street market was crowded, bustling with chatty tourists, loud salesmen, and traveling vendors. The air was heavy with the sweet, saccharine smell of fresh mangoes, intertwined with the faintest trace of turmeric, ginger and garam masala from other stalls you hurriedly passed by. You would’ve given anything to stop and try some of the food, if not for the terrifying white-suited fucker hunting you down.

The bleeding cut on your cheek he’d given you from when he threw his crescent-shaped boomerang in your direction throbbed. You’d barely been able to duck away in time. At least here, in the busy street, he couldn’t risk hurting anyone else by striking you long-range.

At least, you hoped so. You weren’t entirely sure how far this bastard was willing to go to get you. Sure, you’d made a lot of enemies in the past, but, to your recollection, you’d never met any moon-caped supers keen on taking your life before.

You were quick to duck through the tight-knit throng, panic setting in when you realized the market was thinning away—you were near the end of the street, and you no longer had the advantage of cover on your side.

With agile steps, you sprinted into an alleyway, glancing up the side of an apartment.

Then, you began to climb. You scaled the small grooves in the bricks, expertly balancing your weight just right so you wouldn’t fall. You’d done this a million times before, with much smoother surfaces to climb—after all, that was the bare minimum required of a thief.

You hauled yourself onto the rooftop, laying low so he wouldn’t be able to spot you from ground level.

Only—he wasn’t on ground level.

A shadow loomed over you just as you crouched by the rusted air conditioning unit, and you had but a millisecond to roll out of the way before his foot came crashing clean through the metal.

Well, fuck me, he can fly, you wryly thought.

“Glide!” the man behind the mask gruffed as he grabbed your arm and shoved you against the crumpled AC unit, the searing hot metal digging painfully into your skin. “I glide, I don’t fly!”

“I said that out loud?” you panted with a hoarse chuckle, before quickly twisting and kicking his knee, brandishing a sharp dagger from the utility belt loosely secured around your hips. Up close, his suit appeared to be fashioned from a multitude of bandages, not unlike the cheap mummies from old nineties halloween movies. “Sorry, would it be weird for me to ask why a toilet paper cosplayer is trying to murder me?”

The man offered you no response, only diving forward and landing a good punch to one side of your jaw, which made your vision go blurry with disorientation for a moment.

There was no way you could best him with strength—you needed to get away from him.

With quick, nimble fingers, you pulled two smoke bombs from your belt and threw them onto the ground. Large plumes of ashen white immediately ate up the space between you, and he was left blinded for a couple of seconds. You tugged a grenade out a moment later, pulling out the pin with your teeth before tossing it in his general direction and throwing yourself off the opposite side of the building, where you’d spotted a plastic-woven tarp over one of the stalls by the edge of the market.

You’d crashed straight through their booth, fruits and drinks spilling all over the street’s asphalt. The vendors started cussing at you in a language that was foreign to your ears, but you knew they were saying foul things nonetheless. With a groan, you pushed yourself up, ignoring the searing pain that ran down your leg and began running back into the crowd.

The explosion on the building had blown Marc back several meters, and he cursed beneath his breath as he pushed himself back up. Just as he was about to set back off to track you down, Khonshu’s bellowing voice made him halt in his motions.

“Let them go,” the God rumbled. There was an undertone of mild disappointment that laid stagnant beneath his voice, as if he’d just lost a game rather than a target. “We have more pressing matters at hand. Ammit’s followers are stealing more souls in Cuba.”

Marc’s brow furrowed. “Let them go? You want me to go to Cuba? That’s halfway across the world! I can finish the job, they can’t have gotten too far—”

“We have more pressing matters,” he repeated himself, this time with an edge to his voice. A headache pulsed angrily through Marc’s temple.

“Why’d you want them dead so bad? This target—that person, were they a follower of Ammit? Huh?”

Much to his frustration, Khonshu ignored him completely, merely brushing past his avatar. “Go to Havana,” the bird-skull rumbled over his shoulder. “I’ll meet you there.”

And with that, he disappeared.

ASTANA, KAZAKHSTAN.

A final stream of smoke fell from Elena’s lips as she pulled the cigarette away, dropping it into the floor to stub with her boot. She fixed you with a neutral expression as you made your way to her, though the unmistakable affection in her molten brown eyes gave her away.

“Took you long enough,” she said, glancing at the large black cloak you were wearing. Her demeanor gradually shifted into one of a more somber variety. “Verdict’s been decided. The court decided not to charge—all those police that beat my friends to death… they’re walking away free of consequence. The government’s gone to shit. Everything is more expensive now—riots are breaking out over fuel prices, which means more people are getting killed. Nobody is willing to help anymore.”

You nodded grimly. “What can I do?”

There was a dark glimmer to her eyes as she squared her jaw. “You’re going to help me burn down government buildings. I don’t know how many, but… as many as it takes for them to change.”

A hint of a grin graced your lips as you regarded your past-lover with a nostalgic kind of fondness. “It’s the first time I see you in years and you’re already throwing me headfirst into war.”

She offered you a shrug and a wry smile. “Don’t kid yourself. You live for this kind of shit.”

“Yeah, I guess I do,” you hummed distantly. “Where do we start?”

It was pandemonium.

Everybody was yelling—the protestors, the police, the civilians watching from the sides, the sparse firemen as they tried to put out the massive, roaring flames that were greedily swallowing the government building in its entirety. You had to admit, you were rather proud of your handiwork—absentmindedly wondering if Elena would be happy with it, as well.

Before you could dwell on it any longer, a foreign hand tightly seized around your wrist and began to drag you back away from the crowd. Your gaze wildly swiveled around in confusion to the man yanking you along, noting his heavy-set furrowed brows and his frustrated scowl. With as much strength as you could muster, you dug your heels into the ground and halted his motion, pulling against him with all your might. He didn’t relent, only staring you down with dark eyes that held the warbling reflections of the fire you set behind you.

“Who the fuck are you?!” you barked, starting to get more frantic as you fruitlessly attempted to get him to let go of you.

And when he spoke, it finally dawned on you.

Well, fuck me. It’s that bitch that chased me down in New Delhi. Wonder why he isn’t wearing his super suit… probably not to attract attention like last time. The news was all over him.

“You’re just getting more people killed,” he husked, clearly talking about the fire you’d caused, before brandishing a dark karambit knife, one that you swore gave you a cut just by looking at it. “No wonder he wants you dead.”

Fear wove down your spinal column when the blade poked your lower stomach in warning. “I’m sending a message,” you growled in reply, lips curled over your teeth in a snarl as you bristled. “And what about you? You’re gonna fix the problem by killing me? I don’t even know you! Some hero you are—those people protesting out there? They’re better than you will ever be.”

For a moment, his pupils darted back to the rioting crowd, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features, and you used the short-lived distraction to your advantage. You expertly kicked the knife out of his hand and landed a quick blow square in the center of his face, feeling his nose break beneath your knuckles.

Not wanting to push your luck—you remembered how fast he was during your last encounter—you gave him one final shove, sending him sprawling into a trash can with a groan and a muffled curse.

By the time he forced himself back onto his feet a second later, you’d already disappeared into the shadows.

Fuck. Khonshu was gonna kill him.

PODGORICA, MONTENEGRO.

Marc still wasn’t sure why Khonshu wanted you dead so badly. Then again, he wasn’t sure about anything when it came to Khonshu.

But he knew one thing for certain—if Marc truly wanted you dead, then you would’ve been six feet under weeks ago. Which meant… he wasn’t actively trying to kill you because he didn’t actually want you dead. All the others that he’d killed for Khonshu felt like they’d deserved it—rapists, abusers, pedophiles… and though Marc didn’t know you very well, he knew you weren’t anything like the people he’d killed before.

Marc didn’t know what he was doing.

Jaw clenched, he pulled the cap lower down his face, shoving his fists into the pockets of his jeans. He followed not too far behind you, silent as a wraith, watching as you merrily strode down the streets of Podgorica.

Finally, when you stopped by a little coffee truck to order an iced latte, Marc stepped forward to stand beside you.

For the first minute, you idly tapped away on your phone, smiling down at the screen briefly before pocketing the device. You glanced at him, thinking nothing of the person beside you, assuming they were just another civilian—

Then you froze.

You knew that face.

After all, you’d broken that very same nose less than a week ago. Strange, it looked just fine now.

Immediately, you hunkered down into a defensive position, backing away from him with quick steps. Then, you ran, sprinting away so quickly that Marc could’ve sworn a trail of dust kicked up beneath your feet.

The man in the coffee truck incredulously yelled out after you, followed by a string of what Marc could only assume was a creative litany of Montenegrin profanity.

Dropping a few shillings onto the truck’s counter, Marc grabbed your coffee and ran after you, shocked at how far you’d managed to get in such a short amount of time.

There was no denying that you were a fast runner—but as the old tale went, the quick hare would always get overly confident. You slowed down to a moderate jog when you glanced behind you, Marc nowhere in sight. With a relieved sigh, you turned the corner and slumped against a building, wiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand.

Damn, you’d kill for that iced coffee right about now.

As if on cue, Marc rounded the corner, catching you by surprise. You were just ready to turn tail and run away again, but his hand shot out and held onto your wrist, not unlike he did in Astana.

You spewed out a myriad of curses, ranging from calling him an ‘insufferable cucumber-dicked motherfucker’ to ‘smooth-brained, butt-faced swine’, wildly trying to get him to let go of you. If you weren’t violently bucking against him with all the grace of a panicked mare, he would’ve laughed at the creativity of your insults.

“Stop, I just want to talk!” exclaimed Marc, dodging when you pushed yourself forward to try and wrap your hands around his throat.

“Last two times I saw you, you tried to kill me!” you breathlessly spat. “Sorry if I don’t quite trust you now!”

“I’m unarmed,” he gritted out, stepping back slightly to allow you to scan your gaze over him. Though you didn’t want to admit it, you knew that if Marc really wanted to kill you, you would’ve been dead long ago. “I just want to ask you a couple things. And look—I brought your coffee!”

A low hiss fell from your lips. “I’m not answering jack shit.”

With that, you lunged forward and shoved him hard—so hard that he stumbled into the jagged brick wall behind him with an oomf. The iced latte sloshed right out of its cup and spilled all over his chest. His head struck painfully against the stone and his vision went blurry for a moment, expression faltering.

You stepped away, watching him with cautious, narrowed eyes.

After a long, pregnant pause, the man blinked in a dazed fashion, seeming confused.

“What? Where am I? What’s going on?” he said, accent suddenly… British. He fixed you with a genuinely miffed gaze, appearing slightly frightened at your withering glower.

You didn’t stay to answer his question.

As you were turning on your heel to run away, you faintly heard him mutter to himself, “Where the bloody hell am I?”

Crazy bastard.

VALENCIA, SPAIN.

Your knuckles were split. Blood dribbled down your fist, a mixture of yours and the man whose face you were caving in.

One of your hands was bunched into the collar of his shirt, holding him down as you rained punches on him. The sickening sound of his bones giving way with your strikes didn’t deter you, and you only snarled and hit him again as he blubbered out prayers in Spanish. Blood-flecked spittle dripped from his busted lips.

“Who are you praying to?” you hissed, releasing his collar in favor of wrapping your hand over his throat, squeezing tight. The dull green of his eyes flashed with panic, legs flailing weakly. “The gods will not listen to the likes of you—I’ll make sure of it.”

A strangled wail erupted from him.

And just as you were about to land another punch, you found yourself being shoved away from the man, and promptly lifted off the floor with the scruff of your shirt collar, shoving you against a wall. You began kicking and twisting blindly, cursing furiously when you saw the man you were beating up scurry onto his feet and haggardly sprint away.

Your struggling was of no avail, and you weren’t at all surprised to see the same person that’s been trying to track you down for months now.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snarled, brows heavily furrowed and dark eyes stormy with anger. “You were about to kill that guy!”

“He deserves it,” you bit out, glaring back at him with just as much intensity. “The fucker’s been stalking a friend of mine and sexually assaulted her daughter.”

There was a beat of silence. Marc’s cross expression seemed to drain away, but he still bore a stern face as he slowly let you go. You slid down the wall and got back onto your feet with a wince.

“Why have you been following me?” you huffed, dusting off your pants. “You think I don’t know that if you really wanted to kill me, I would be dead by now?”

Marc squared his jaw and leveled his gaze on you. “Someone… close to me wants you dead. I want to know why first—he won’t tell me.”

“Sounds like you shouldn't be all that close to him, then,” you snorted derisively.

“Not for a lack of trying,” the man dryly replied.

With a scoff, you stepped forward and wiped your bloody knuckles onto his shirt, leaving a damp trail of darkening crimson. “There’s way too many reasons a person would want me dead,” you whispered, one hand patting his chest. The other trailed down, down, down…

To the high-rise potted plant beside you. You grabbed a fistful of dirt.

“See, he’s not exactly what you’d call a person—”

Before Marc could finish his sentence, you chucked the dirt straight into his face. He inhaled some of the soil and doubled over, pounding on his chest as he coughed it out. With a growl, he frustratedly swiped the remaining flecks of dirt out of his eyes, blearily looking back up. And, to none of his surprise but much of his dismay, you were already gone.

OSLO, NORWAY.

“Why aren’t they dead yet, Marc?” grumbled Khonshu in that grating, gravely tone of his. Even though the God had no eyes, Marc could still feel his stare burning straight through him.

With a frown, Marc was quick to respond, “Because you haven’t told me why yet.”

“You’ve never needed a reason before—always blindly following my orders,” the bird-skull crooned. “What makes them so different?”

There was a bitter taste to the back of Marc’s throat. What made you so different?

“Because I don’t know if they deserve it, alright?” he retorted, crossing his arms to glare up at the tall figure. “You can’t just expect me to kill everyone who mildly inconveniences you.”

Harrumphing, Khonshu snapped back, “They are naught but an inconvenience—they are a disruption to the very balance of nature. Y/N has taken justice into their own hands, and that is a very dangerous thing for a simple mortal to do.”

Marc cast his gaze away in frustration, pacing back and forth. “But that’s exactly what you make me do.”

“Yes, because you are my avatar,” deadpanned the God. “And Y/N is not. Though, they might as well be because you are being a fool.”

He could feel one of his eyes twitch. There wasn’t ever a conversation Marc could remember where Khonshu didn’t insult him.

“They’re doing what they think is right,” defended Marc. “They’re not hurting people just for the sake of it.”

“That is not for them to decide!” bellowed the God, which made him step back just a bit. “They have done terrible, unimaginable things in the past—though mistakes some may be—and they will continue to make them. Take a look for yourself.” With that, Khonshu swept his arm out, gesturing to the large bank across the street, large windows giving him a clear view of what was going on inside.

His heart dropped down to his stomach when he saw you.

You were wearing a mask that covered the entirety of your features, except for your eyes and your mouth. The rest of your body was shrouded with simple, dark clothing, suitable for running.

And, most notably, you had a gun in your hand, pointing straight at the trembling woman working behind the counter. Your mouth was moving and you gestured with lax, calm movements, despite the explicit terror written across the woman’s face.

Marc’s brow furrowed. Damn it.

He watched as you snatched the bag of money the woman slowly slid over, and hightailed out of the bank with the gun still gripped tightly in your hand. You ran the opposite way, before disappearing down another block. Glancing over at Khonshu, only to see that he was nowhere in sight, Marc huffed out a sigh and began sprinting after you.

One downside of Oslo was that their buildings weren’t exactly the easiest to climb—which meant that you had to stick to the ground and trust your speed.

Marc wasn’t as fast as you without his suit, that was for certain. But with his suit—he could glide.

And so that’s how the white-caped figure dropped straight down in front of you out of seemingly nowhere, which elicited a shriek of surprise from you, nearly dropping the bag out of shock. You had pulled your mask off long ago, shoving it into the knapsack shrugged over your shoulders, along with the gun.

This clearly wasn’t your first time doing this.

“You,” was what you incredulously breathed out, eyes wide. “You must be obsessed with me or something.”

Not in the mood to play around, Marc growled out, “Why are you doing this? Give the money back. It’s not yours.”

“Who said it was for me?” you countered, upper lip curled in contempt. You tilted your head at him, eyeing his suit with interest, before returning back to your scathing disposition. “Not that it’s any of your business, but this money’s for the small orphanage a couple miles from here. They’re barely getting by with the money the government gives them. I have a kid there I know.”

With bated breath, Marc willed the suit away, leaving him in a dark sweatshirt and a pair of woolen pants. He eyed you suspiciously, still not too sure if he should trust you.

Sensing this, you rolled your eyes and unzipped your bag. “If you don’t believe me—check my gun. It’s blank.” You fished out the small weapon and handed it over to him with the end pointed towards you so he wouldn’t think you were going to shoot him. “No bullets.”

Marc didn’t need to check it—by now he knew you were telling the truth. But he looked into the chamber anyway, finding it void of any ammunition.

“Can I go now? We both know you’re not going to kill me. The cops will be looking,” you said, voice a bit more gentle than before. He noticed that the anger on your face had melted away, leaving only urgency and another tumultuous emotion that he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

When he offered you no response, finally relenting, you nodded once to him, a glimmer of gratitude behind your irises. And with that, you began running again, effortlessly disappearing into the shadows.

“Fool,” thundered a rumbling growl from somewhere above him. Marc looked up, but the bird-skulled God was nowhere to be found.

COLUMBUS, OHIO.

Damn. Nothing hit harder than classic, greasy, American cheeseburgers with a side of curly fries and a milkshake. You shifted eagerly on the sticky red leather of the booths, shooting the waitress who’d handed you your food a flirtatious smirk and a ten dollar bill, which she took with an equally salacious wink.

You grinned down at your food before taking the first bite into the burger, a muffled noise of content falling from your throat.

“Am I interrupting something?” said a frustratingly familiar voice, the man sliding into the seat across from you. “It sounds like you were just about to have the greatest sex of your life—with a cheeseburger.”

You pointedly glared at him, though it lacked any true heat. After about a dozen deliberately slow chews, you finally swallowed down the food. Marc looked like he wanted to say something else, but you merely held up a finger, slurping on the paper straw of your milkshake. He pursed his lips with a mildly aggrieved look.

Finally, you tilted your head at him.

“Is there something you want from me?” you asked him casually, reaching to the end of the table to grab a napkin and wipe at the corner of your lips. “Because I’m not in the drug business anymore, if that’s what you’re looking for. Or is it something else, hm?”

It seemed that Marc hadn’t completely thought this through. Sure, he’d planned out what he roughly wanted to say to you, but now that you were right in front of him, he found his tongue running dry. He fumbled for words, fists clenching and unclenching by his knees.

“I don’t want to kill you. Or hurt you at all, for that matter.”

You scoffed, remembering the instances in which he’d hurt you plenty.

“I just… I want to know your side of the story. I want to know why you do what you do,” he said, a bit quieter.

For a moment, Marc thought you’d just tell him to piss off. But there was a gradual shift to your features, going from obvious irritation to gentle curiosity.

“Alright. I’ll cut you a deal,” you said, popping a curly fry into your mouth. “I tell you about my tragic backstory, and you tell me all about this… thing that’s been wanting to kill me. And before I start—I’m gonna need your name. I can’t keep mentally cataloging you as the toilet paper man.”

And for the first time since you met him all those months ago—Marc laughed. It was deep and gratingly genuine, coming from the very bottom of his chest.

“Well, first of all, it’s not toilet paper. It’s the ceremonial armor of Khonshu’s temple. And second, it’s Marc. Marc Spector.”

“Ceremonial armor of whose what now?” you balked.

A hint of a smile graced the corner of Marc’s lips. “Khonshu—Egyptian God of the moon. I’m his avatar. He’s the one that wanted me to kill you. He called you a disruption to nature—said that you were wrongfully taking justice into your own hands.” As he spoke, the smile began to wane away, and he regarded you in a more serious light. “I want to know why he thinks that.”

You stared down at your plate of fries, stunned. An Egyptian God wanted you dead? You knew you pissed people off, but Gods too?

“And if you don’t like what you hear?” you quietly asked, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Will you drag me out of the diner and strangle me to death?”

Though you could tell he didn’t like saying it, Marc’s face was set in stone when he leveled with you. “I’ll give you a head’s start.”

Another beat of silence. You picked up another fry and popped it into your mouth. The plate slid across the table as you nudged it towards him.

“Alright, Marc. Settle in, have some fries, order a milkshake—it’s a long story.”

And you told him everything. You told him about your childhood—rumbling stomachs, nimble thieving hands, falling off of buildings when running away from cops. You told him about your teenage years—pulling off heists, brokering deals with gangs, breaking nearly every bone in your body being reckless. You told him about your early adult years—falling in love with Elena, getting more comfortable as a vigilante, as you liked to call yourself, meeting other superheroes and helping out on occasion. Marc seemed to recognize Spider-Man and Daredevil’s names when you mentioned them in passing, his eyebrows arching up closer to his hairline.

You told him that you now spend your days traveling around the globe helping people.

By the time you were done spilling your entire life story, your fries and burger were cleanly polished off.

Marc was silent for a long time, as if unsure what to say.

“I was in love once, too,” he said in a tentative manner, gaze trained on the table. “Her name was Layla.”

“Oh, yeah?” you curiously said, sipping on the last frothy remnants of your milkshake at the bottom of the glass. “And how’d that work out for you?”

There was a sad glint to his eyes. “Not so good. We’re divorced now.” He cleared his throat before you could press him about it. “What happened with you and Elena?”

It was now your turn to stare out the window in a despondent manner. “Same as you. Except we were never married. My lifestyle was… too much for her.”

Marc nodded in understanding. “Yeah, me too.”

The two of you stared at the glossy table in silence.

“You still in love with her?”

You lifted your gaze to meet his. “I love her, yeah—I always will. I’m just not in love with her anymore.”

The man across from you hummed. There was a newfound understanding between you two—unspoken, but the both of you could feel it.

“Do you still love Layla?”

A ghost of a smile graced his features, but it was gone just as quickly as it came. “Not in the same way I used to. But I do.”

With a final slurp of your straw, your drink glass was emptied. “Seems like we’re a lot more similar than first meets the eye, huh?”

Marc fixed you with a loose, awkward smile. Without another word, he pulled the bill of his cap lower down his face, and slid out of the booth. It seemed that he wasn’t going to be strangling you tonight.

You didn’t look back when he walked out of the diner, the bell hooked by the doortop tolling with his departure.

YEKATERINBURG, RUSSIA.

The bird skull was saying something. His bony beak was moving. You could feel the vibrations of his thundering voice beneath your feet. And yet—you had no fucking clue what he was talking about.

You blinked up at the God with wide eyes.

“Could you repeat that?” you winced out, having not picked up a single word Khonshu had said in the past three minutes. The God grumbled, and somehow glared at you despite having no eyes within his bony skull. Beside you, Marc let out a muffled snort.

“You insolent buffoon,” the bony figure snarled. “Have you not been listening?”

Despite the bristling God in front of you, you found the entire situation to be amusing. “Sorry, it’s just… your head’s really big. It’s kinda distracting. Just paraphrase yourself—I don’t need all the terms and conditions.”

Marc’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, but he immediately sobered up when Khonshu rounded his pointed beak to him, back straightening.

“This is a gravely serious matter—!”

“You know what else is serious?” you snapped, pulling your thick woolen coat closer to your quivering body. “Catching hypothermia! Did you really have to pick Russia of all places? We couldn’t have met on a warm beach in the Caribbeans, or something?”

If Khonshu had eyelids, you were sure they would’ve been twitching with repressed agitation by now.

A deep baritone of a sigh fell from the lanky God. He leaned his weight against his crescent-tipped staff, as if willing his own patience to hold steadfast.

“I said—” he started again, watching you cautiously, “—that I will be letting go of your past sins. But only because my avatar is so keen on you, and because you show a consistent effort to rid the world of evil. However, if you slip up so much as once, I will personally see that to an unkind descent into the afterlife. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal!” you harrumphed, tucking your frigid nose into the collar of your fur coat. “And I did those things to people who deserved it—which is exactly the same as what you do, you bony hypocrite! Can we go inside now?”

The God grumbled something unintelligible, though you suspected it had something to do with your impertinence, and disappeared in the blink of an eye.

“You’ll get used to him,” assured Marc, placing a hand on your back to lead you back inside. “He doesn’t get any better but—you’ll get used to it.”

“That’s reassuring,” you dryly responded, teeth beginning to chatter. As soon as the two of you started to walk back to the small little city hotel, you elbowed his side with a playful grin. “So… you’re keen on me, huh?”

Marc gave you an unimpressed look. Snowflakes danced with the wind and landed in his neatly-combed curls. “Khonshu had to believe that I liked you—the last thing he’d want is a sloppy, grieving avatar.”

“Mmh, I don’t know…” you said, tapping your finger against your chin in thought. “He’d probably like that, considering he’s one manipulative son of a bitch. Maybe he just secretly likes me and wants to keep me around.”

“Yeah,” snorted Marc. He halted in his tracks, forcing down a smile. “That, or I blackmailed him.”

Your eyes widened, frost clinging to your lashes and brows. “You blackmailed an Egyptian God?”

“Let’s just say that he’s had a sticky romance with the Egyptian Goddess of love—ironically, she’s one of the few beings that he’s genuinely terrified of. I threatened to get in contact with her avatar if he didn’t absolve you.”

You kicked at a small build-up of snow by the sidewalk, an excited gleam to your irises. “Crazy how even the Gods have petty dating drama to gossip about,” you commented, turning to him. His nose was tinted a faint shade of red from the cold, bits of white frost freckling his hair and his clothes. “Thanks for not killing me, by the way,” you added as an afterthought, fixing him with a warm smile.

“Just keep out of trouble,” he gently reminded, mirroring your soft grin. The two of you were now standing in front of your dingy little motel—and Marc apparently had something to attend to halfway across the world in Cuba.

So this was goodbye.

For now, at least.

Without thinking, you leaned forward to press your cold lips against the warmth of his cheek, the tip of your nose grazing his cheekbone as you laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Thanks,” you whispered when you pulled away slightly, breath misting into an opaque fog. Marc was regarding you with an expression that bordered on fondness, which was certainly a new look that you found yourself craving for more. “I haven’t really properly talked to anybody in ages so… this was nice. Goodbye, Marc.”

With that, you turned on your heel and headed into the hotel, grateful for the blast of warmth from the overhead heater, though you could still feel Marc’s burning stare bore holes into your back, even as you turned the corner and disappeared from his sight.

ADDIS ABABA, ETHIOPIA.

Blood, everywhere.

Gunshots in the distance.

Snarling men rounding the corner—human traffickers.

Your dagger glinting beneath the hot Ethiopian sun.

A man screaming as you sliced his throat.

Gurgling.

Red on your hands. On your clothes. On your shoes.

Two successive punches—one to your stomach, and the other to your face.

Pain blooming beneath your skin.

A fist around your throat.

Squeezing.

Choking.

Dark spots dancing about your vision.

Your nails clawing into their eyes.

Air.

Gasping for breath.

Wheezing.

You desperately parried away another assailant’s knife.

A song of steel against steel.

More gunshots flying every which way.

You dove behind large metal crates.

Sand in your shoes.

Copper on your tongue.

Crashing. Yelling. Cursing.

Your fingers flexing around the hilt of your dagger.

Bated breath.

You looked around the crate.

Marc fucking Spector.

A ghost of a smile on your lips.

Your name being called out—surprise in his tone.

“Fancy seeing you here!” you shouted.

Marc’s fist curled into one of the traffickers’ collars.

“It’s been a while!” came his mildly amused reply.

A grunt. A punch. A groan of pain.

His white cape fluttered with the wind.

“You down for a burger or something later?”

You spoke calmly, as if you weren’t currently strangling someone with a long power cord.

The man fell limp in your hold.

“Sure—I could go for a burger,” he called out,

Blood trickled down your nose and grazed your lip.

You wiped it away with the back of your hand.

The last of the traffickers was struck down with Marc’s crescent boomerang.

A breath of relief.

Drenched in blood (most of which was not yours), you made your way to Marc.

“You clean up nice,” he joked.

A roll of your eyes.

“Oh, shucks, Marc,” you simpered with a mischievous grin, dragging a bloody hand down his face once he retracted his mask.

He grimaced in disgust, but didn’t push you away.

A laugh fell from your throat, hoarse and echoing.

You looped your aching, bleeding arms with his.

“Let’s go get that burger.”

LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND.

“Ow—ugh, Marc, could you go any faster?” you barked through the dirty cloth wedged between your teeth, glaring up at him with watering eyes. You’d endured pain far worse than this, sure, but Marc was taking twice as long stitching you up than when you’d do it yourself. Though, admittedly, whenever you had to patch yourself up, it was a rather shoddy job and often left a much larger, gnarled scar than it would’ve, had you properly taken care of it.

The man above you shook his head, dark curls hanging loosely over his forehead. “Stop moving and maybe it’ll hurt less,” he replied, the tip of his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth as he worked on your stitches. “You know, just because we work together now and I heal quickly doesn’t mean you do, too.”

With a grimace, you tore the cloth from your mouth, chucking it somewhere across the small motel room to freely speak to him. “It was just a mistake,” you replied, nearly doubling over with a strained groan when he punctured the skin of your abdomen with a small needle, where the deep gash resided, one last time. “I timed myself wrong. Happens sometimes.”

Marc let his eyes roam over your exposed skin, brows divoting ever so slightly upon seeing the multiple other scars littering your body. They were memories of your past, and you weren’t ashamed of them.

“Doesn’t look like it only happens sometimes,” he murmured, tying off his sutures and cleaning off the last bits of flaking, dried blood on your stomach before binding the open wound with thin bandages.

“You worried about me?”

Marc didn’t spare you a response. He busied himself by putting away the medkit and tossing the discarded, bloodied clothes into the bathroom sink. When he came back to sit on the bed beside you, you had gingerly moved positions so that you were propped up against the creaking bed’s headboard.

“How are you feeling?”

“Shitty,” you whispered. “England fucking stinks.”

Marc chuckled, a small smile curling his lips upwards, though you noticed that it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The two of you sat in silence for a while.

“Thanks for stitching me up,” you told him.

“Thanks for not dying on me,” he replied. His hand sought yours and your fingers laced with his. “I know we’ve only been working together for a month by now, but I’m starting to really like you.”

With one last painful shift, you moved so that your faces were only inches away. You paused when your lips were just a hairsbreadth from his, giving him time to yank you away if need be.

But he didn’t.

His lips met yours with a tender sort of sadness, pouring months of frustration and anger into the embrace. A warm hand came up to cradle the back of your head, angling you closer, wary of your newly-stitched wound.

Forehead resting against his, you gently pulled away, finding solace in the fact that he chased after your lips just a bit, before cracking his dark eyes open.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he mumbled, gaze darting back down to your parted mouth.

“Okay,” came your broken reply.

And despite it all, he threw all caution to the wind and kissed you again. Again, and again, and again—far into the night, until the two of you passed out on the stained sheets of the motel bed, limbs intertwined and your nose pressed against his throat, where you could hear the soft thrumming of his heartbeat.

Unbeknownst to the two of you, Khonshu was hovering on the rooftop, finding himself rather glad that his avatar had finally found someone he could trust—even if that someone was the very bane of his existence.

“I need a new avatar,” the God harrumphed to nobody but himself, knowing full and well that he wasn’t letting go of Marc Spector and his… counterparts any time soon.

#marc spector x reader #marc spector fanfiction #moon knight x reader #moon knight fanfiction #marc spector angst #marc spector fluff #marc spector imagines #marc spector drabbles #marc spector fanfic #marc spector x you #moon knight fluff #moon knight angst #moon knight fanfic #moon knight x you #moon knight drabbles #moon knight imagines #moon knight oneshot #steven grant x reader #steven grant fanfiction

772 notes · View notes