#The Faceless Guest

[thebettyguest]

The Faceless Guest!

Creepypasta From 2009

[sturmvcgel]

Plotting Call!

I am off to a hopefully chill day at work, so give this post a small heart and I shall come to you for some plots! Or reply and I will throw a tiny starter at you tonight.

[fragmented-deity]

Umbra gives a disgruntled chuffing sound that had his cheeks flush a gold and green color, tinting his muzzle with color.

"Erm. Uh. Well..." Umbra squeaked out, ears flattening in embarrassment. The gold and green color clashing a little and standing out against his muzzle and ebony fur with the red stripes.

Innerste chuckled, "We're just friends, little one. No pups. Unless you'd like to consider yourself as our pup?"

"Yeah... yeah. Just friends. No pups." Umbra echoed quietly. Awkward and stilted even as he watched the jackal continue to feel all the soft objects in his arms.

"How about we go and get all these things set up, little one?" Innerste coaxed, giving Umbra some time to get himself all collected and composed.

The jackal, luckily, didnt start freaking out when he saw umbras face in full effect. Sure he may have lookedmore timid with how his tail tucked inward, but he didnt freak out, it probably helped that innerste looked exactly like u,bra, but the colors were diffrent. So if they looked alike, the jackal was more inclined to trust umbra if innerste liked him. Slowly, he tests the waters as he leans his hesd from innerste twords umbra, sniffing the assortment of comfortable things and slowly reached his paws out to feel them. And in an instant, the two could probably watch his pupils grow ten times larger than before as his timid-tucked tail starts wagging and hitting his own legs. Safe to say it seemed he liked the feel.

“Ooouh.. comfy..” the jackal yips softly. A thought crosses his ‘young’ mind and he looks between the hedgehogs before speaking rather bluntly. “If innerste likes you so much, are you like my mama and papa? Wheres your pups then-?” Zero inquires, rather bluntly. Ofcourse being as regressed and young as he is right now— he doesn’t understand the context behind what hes asking. He just knows when two adults like eachother a whooole lot, they have pups. Thats what his mother told him. Despite the blunt question he’s still feeling the soft objects with happy tail wagging.

[buckiverse]

Surrender to You

☆--- paring: sylus x reader

☆--- summary: You suggested a reluctant marriage of convenience due to your struggles in the N109 Zone. Now Sylus, will show you what it truly means to surrender both body and heart to him.

☆--- word count: 6.2k

☆--- warnings: mdni, oral sex, mating press, missionary, bit of background story (not really lore accurate), reader is a virgin, soft!dom sylus, size kink if you squint, sylus is in love fr, no protection is used (wrap it before you tap it)

☆--- a/n: the amount of time it took me to edit this was a bit ridiculous

The N109 Zone has danger lurking throughout it. From the darkest alleys to the stores, they all had one thing in common: The prioritization of information. That is your current motivation. You need more information and quick. Since the death of your beloved family members, you could no longer be complacent. It’s been hard being left in the dark. You thought you could trust the hunter’s association to be honest with you, but that was a lie.

You asked around a lot… from your hunting partner, Xavier, to your colleague Tara and even your boss, Jenna. No one could answer you honestly. Most of them barely “knew” what the N109 Zone was besides the fact that it was perilous. But that much was obvious. 

You took to your own devices, relying on your resourcefulness. You looked online and did intensive research. All you could find out was that a significant catastrophe had transpired... Wander's took over, something to do with the state of protocores, resulting in a significant division between city areas. As a result, the sub-city known as the N109 Zone was established. You could not explain why, but you were sure it was due to the deaths of your parents, as well as your grandmother and childhood friend. 

Initially, the plan was to invade the area, get information, meet some people, and decipher everything while remaining incognito. Unfortunately, it didn’t go that way. You were kidnapped by the most prominent organization in the N109 Zone, Onyichinus. Run by… Sylus? “Yeah, who the hell was that?” you thought aloud. You had never heard of this dude; I mean Onyichinus... Yes. But, even the Hunter’s Association defined the organization as faceless. It was an arduous task to uncover the head of the unit. 

So that is how you ended up here, making a bargain with the devil. The other factions in the area had been restless since discovering your Protocore Syndrome. It was considered a hot commodity. Everywhere you turned, there was danger. This made your job to find the truth more difficult. As a result, you only partially appreciated Sylus's presence.

 “Look, all I want is some information,” you said. Your eyes narrowed as you took in Sylus’s figure. 

“Ah, is that so? And what exactly do you want to know? Everything comes with a price.” he replied. His head tilted slightly, a slight smirk forming on his lips. 

You thought carefully, considering your following response. “It’s not your business; just know that intelligence on Protocore Syndrome has spread, and it’s impossible to handle business. So I’d like to make a deal.”

“And what would that be?” Sylus reacted with amusement.

You replied swiftly, not missing a beat. “We should marry,” you responded confidently. 

Sylus arched an eyebrow, his eyes flashing with something, almost a mix of interest and amusement– that smug bastard, you thought. You attempted to hide your scour; you needed this more than you needed to get one over on the gray-haired man. 

“And how does this deal benefit me?”

“That’s for you to decide and for us to discuss,” you acknowledged. A great silence overcame the room of Sylus's office. You stared at him, holding your resolve, waiting for a reply. 

“Deal”, he replied suddenly. You disguised your surprise, sticking out your right hand to shake his. “Good then.” You said, recovering swiftly. 

“I will handle the guests; you handle the small planning details. Utilize Luke, Kieran, and my card.” Your thoughts were threatened by disbelief. The ease with which he was complying with this was astounding. You wondered, honestly, what Sylus gets out of the arrangement. You told yourself it's nothing to do with you. Finding the truth is what matters; this is only one more step to complete your goal. 

☆---

The venue you chose was stunning. The ceiling mirrored the most beautiful mosaics. The depictions of gods and angels were magnificent. You had never seen something so gorgeous. You reflected on the story presented in the ceiling. What would your life be like under this 'arrangement'? This was serious. It was real and binding. You were having second thoughts, wondering if the information was worth it all. But you encouraged yourself, "Of course, it’s worth it, y/n! How can you live the rest of your life without knowing the truth?” you affirmed aloud, looking around the venue. Everything felt real now. It's only been a few weeks at the Onyichinus base, but it has been productive intel-wise. 

Moving on through your tour, you looked straight ahead at the expansive hall where the ceremony would occur. It was covered in intricate detail. The mosaic patterns worked down the walls, creating various shapes of circles and rectangles in its stead. In front of the walls was a white display of roses. The flowers were delicately spread throughout the venue, covering the reflected pattern on the marble floors. You moved your feet, looking to where the audience would be. Your heart plummeted when you realized you would only know Sylus, Luke, and Kieran. "It is just business, y/n," you said to yourself, adjusting your expression.  

You truly outdid yourself; aside from the grandeur of the ceiling and walls, the remainder of the venue echoed the luxurious color schemes of white and black, with gold touches throughout. It was beautiful, but it was purely professional. Despite the vibrancy around you, you could not help but feel the sterility of the place. You kept your guard up, even to yourself. This is a warzone, and you have allowed Sylus to invite danger. 

As you walked to the reception area, you could not help but admire the luxurious atmosphere. The black marble floors mirrored the massive tree in the center of the room. Chandeliers dangled from the strong branches, illuminating the space. You wandered around the white gold seats and tables, admiring the centerpieces. A glass foundation supported large bouquets of white roses in the center of the table. Each table had the right tableware and a black tablecloth folded into black swans. Reminding you of the rationale for your decision, you must persevere to achieve actual change. 

You looked up as you approached the grand double doors at the end of the hall and noticed Sylus watching you silently. "I trust you managed the guest list," you remarked, jerking out of your thoughts. “Of course, sweetie. Only the most important people. Though I did include a few surprises—what is a wedding without some fun?" he quipped. You rolled your eyes at that. Why is he always insisting on pet names? This is not meant to be authentic.

“This is supposed to be a business arrangement, Sylus. ‘Fun’ wasn't exactly part of the plan.”  You sighed harder than you wanted to, and Sylus simply responded with a slight smirk and laughter.

“Whatever you say… sweetie.” He then turned and made his way out of the wedding venue, leaving you standing there in shock. “Well–are you coming? Assuming you’re hungry, should I let you continue standing there looking lost?” You felt your face flush.

“Fine,” you said, quickly moving through the grand double doors. You slipped outside, watching as Sylus opened the car door for you.

☆---

A few days later, you found yourself in the venue's dressing room, staring yourself down. “This is fucking crazy,” you exclaimed. The realization struck once more: this is happening. 

You were wearing the most stunning gown. It was covered in thousands of tiny diamonds, sewn individually into the dress. The neckline reminded you of a wide v-neck as it rested between the valley of your breasts. Pushing them out just enough–you looked amazing. The dress was perfectly fitted to your curves, and you turned to admire your backside, noticing the cutout of the dress. The fabric rested just above the crack of your ass, but you could not help but admire your good looks.

‘One thing Sylus definitely can provide is unlimited money,’ you laughed out loud. Turning back to face yourself, you admired the mermaid bottom of the dress accentuating your curvy body. You felt like a whole new person.

Your swirling thoughts were cut short by the knocking on the door. “Yes?” you replied, swiftly turning towards the sound. Luke and Kieran opened the door and made their entrance. "Wow," they said in unison. "You look so beautiful, y/n!" Luke said. "The boss will undoubtedly love this dress on you," Kieran remarked. "And off," Luke added, getting pushed in the arm by Kieran. Your cheeks warmed at the statement; you had not considered consummating the marriage. 

Because once again, this is business, you convinced yourself. Even though Sylus is beautiful, his eyes, nose, and plump lips… “Anyway, this note is from the boss. We’ll see you out there, y/n,” said Kieran. You took the note from him and watched as they both walked out. 

A shudder ran down your spine as you held the note in your palm. You looked up to see Mephisto, who "cawed" at you as he flew through the open door. 

“He’s probably running to tell Sylus I got his note,” you commented, side-eyeing the door. The note had a red wax seal on the front of the black envelope. You opened it, and a little pop revealed the white note. You pulled it out with shaking hands.

“I promised you forever, and I don't break my promises.”

You felt your face flushing by the second. This note was so sudden, so why did it feel like he was talking about something deeper than these words reflected? You ran your hands over the words on the page, interrupting your thoughts, and you heard your song start. 

“You can do this, y/n,” you said, leaving the dressing room. Now is where the real work begins.

You stood at the end of the aisle and looked around. You recognized some of the biggest names in the N109 Zone. At least Sylus kept that promise, you thought. The piano rang the most angelic symphony, bringing emotion forth in you. 

You began your walk, stride confident, keeping your head high. Sylus stared at you, his smile widening as you worked your way before the steps. He reached down, grabbed your hand, helping you up the steps to the altar. The officiant began to address the crowd, but it felt like it was just you and Sylus. Why was he looking at you like that? You pondered.

“I’ve waited for this moment longer than you know,” Sylus whispered for only your ears to hear. You cocked your head slightly, you were going to ask what he meant by that, but the officiant addressed Sylus, stating the vows, “Do you take y/n to be your wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward.” Sylus’s red eyes flickered as he looked down at you. “For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health, to love and to cherish, ‘til death do you apart?” 

"I do," Sylus responded, his big hands attempting to secure the large rock to your finger. Your eyes watered slightly at the sight. Why is this so intense, you wondered, as the officiant recited the vows to you. Of course, you responded with an "I do." 

“You may kiss the bride.”

Your heart skipped a beat. Sylus didn't hesitate. He stepped closer to you, his hand reaching out to cup the side of your face, his thumb grazing your cheek. His touch was gentle but possessive, almost telling you that now you’re his. 

He kissed you firmly but slowly and deliberately. Sylus doesn't rush his kiss with you, almost like he is savoring the moment. The way his lips moved against yours sent warmth coursing through you, pulling you deeper just for a moment. 

For a second, you hesitated, thinking you should pull away and make distance. But then Sylus slid his hand around your neck, pulling you closer and deepening your kiss. And you went with it, kissing him back, slowly at first and then increasing the intensity. 

The world around you faded. It felt like it was just the two of you. Allowing the kiss to linger on longer than it should have. When Sylus pulled away, his lips parted slightly, and you felt his warm breath against your skin. He whispered just for you to hear:

“If you wanted more, sweetie, all you had to do was ask.”

You felt your chest tighten, and you swallowed hard at his statement. You hated that he could make you feel like this. You forced yourself to look away. “Don’t get used to it,” you muttered quickly, knowing your heart raced at the kiss you shared.

Sylus smirked while looking into your eyes. “We’ll see about that.”

☆---

The reception truly went off without a hitch. Some people you’ve never met made elegant speeches, wishing for happiness and prosperity. This was so fake you fought the urge to roll your eyes at the theatrics displayed before you. You glanced at Sylus, admiring his features as the current speaker discussed alliances and protections.

When Sylus leaned into your ear, “Is my face more interesting than the speech, sweetie?” 

You rolled your eyes at him and returned your attention to the speaker. “He’s so cheeky,” you thought. Despite your harsh admissions, you secretly enjoyed his playfulness. It made this whole ordeal feel lighter.

After serving food and drinks, Sylus walked you around the room. The reception hall buzzed with conversation. The guests mingled about discussing business deals disguised as casual conversation. Sylus worked the room effortlessly. His hand rested on the small of your back, sending tingles up your spine as he made contact with your bare skin.

“Ah, there you are,” Sylus said smoothly, flashing a charming smile. “I want you to meet Mr. Blackthorne. He’s one of the key players in the project we’ve been discussing.”

Mr. Blackthorne turned to face you, offering a firm handshake. His gaze lingered over you, measuring you up. You returned the handshake, nodding politely. “It’s a pleasure,” you said.  

Truthfully, your mind was already wandering. The prospects of the evening had been exhausting. The smiling and pretending were weighing on you, and Sylus’s insistence on blurring the lines between you wasn't helping. Focusing was so hard your mind constantly drifted back to the kiss you shared just hours before.

Mr. Blackthorne spoke about contacts, future meetings, and something else—but you couldn't tell what. Your eyes continued to drift around the room, searching for a distraction. You tried your hardest to avoid looking at the white-haired man beside you.

After a few moments, Mr. Blackthore excused himself. “I hope you both enjoy the rest of your evening. We'll be in contact soon, " he said, nodding and walking away.

A smile became present on Sylus’s face. “Sweetie, I think you missed that entire conversation,” He teased, his voice amused. “I could see it on your face—completely checked out. What were you thinking about, hmm?”

Your face heated instantly, and you shot him a sharp look. “I was listening.”

“Really?��� Sylus raised an eyebrow, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a hushed murmur. “It looked to me like your mind was somewhere else entirely. Let me guess… still thinking about that kiss at the altar?”

Your eyes widened at his assertion. “It was just a kiss, Sylus,” you said curtly.

He chucked at your discomfort, “Sure if you say so. But next time, you might want to pay more attention when I introduce you to someone important. We wouldn’t want them thinking you’re too distracted by your new husband to focus on business, now would we?”

Your pulse quickened the way he said, “Husband.” “I’ll try to keep that in mind,” you shot back. You felt like a firecracker inside. 

Sylus grinned at you. “Good. Because I have a feeling I’m going to be keeping your attention quite a bit from now on, " he said, grabbing your hand as another guest approached the two of you. The conversation was a perfect invitation to shift your mind from his teasing. 

The wedding ended quickly after that. When you looked up, you felt that the wedding had ended, and you were in the backseat of an old luxury car, staring directly at Sylus. The mood was slightly lighter than at the wedding, yet it felt heated. And he could not take his gaze away from you; he was blatantly checking you out, making the ride seem shorter. 

“You planned the perfect wedding, but tonight is where the real deal begins, sweetie,” Sylus suggested. The driver maneuvered the luxury car to the massive private gateway of the Onyichinus base. The base itself was vast and Gothic. You had never really stopped to appreciate the building's grandeur before. You reminded yourself that this was only temporary. 

Entering the gate revealed a primarily gray and black building spanning at least a few hundred acres. The arches rested so high in the sky that they broke through the beautiful tranquility of sunset. Large windows, elegant arches, detailed carvings, and the crow resting at the highest peak of the building. How had you not realized the beauty of this place amidst the chaos of the N109 Zone? 

Distracting you from your realizations, Sylus reached for your hand, pulling you out of your thoughts and the car. This felt different now. Sylus led you into the great corridors, walking for what seemed like miles. You walked through the two doors into Sylus's bedroom.

The room was dimly lit, and soft candlelight cast shadows across it. The wedding had been a blur, but now the evening had ended. It was just the two of you.

His room smelled so fucking good. A simple vanilla musk? But it was so amazing that you wanted to bury your face in his sheets. You heard the doors click behind you, bringing you to the present. Sylus leaned his upper back against the oak doors, his giant chest moving up and down, the only sound in the room being your breathing. 

“You’re safe with me, no matter what,” he said, moving off the door and towards you, standing by his bed. Your heart pounded in your chest; it felt so loud that it drowned out the silence. You knew this moment might come, but now you stood before Sylus.

“You’re nervous,” he said softly, his voice lower now, less playful than it had been all evening.

You swallowed, and your throat felt tight. You didn’t know what to say. The air had a thick, unspoken tension. This was supposed to be part of the deal—another step in this arrangement. But now you feel vulnerable in front of him.

Sylus stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, giving you time to feel every bit of space he closed between you two. His hand came up, gently brushing your hair out of your face. The touch was tender, and it made your breath hitch.

“You don’t have to be,” he murmured, his thumb lightly grazing your jawline, tipping your chin upwards so your eyes met his. “I’m not in a rush.”

Your chest tightened. You knew Sylus for his confidence, his teasing—proficiency at getting under your skin—but now, there was something different in his eyes. A softness you didn't know he possessed.

“I—I don’t know what to expect,” you admitted, your voice almost a whisper. You felt so exposed; your inexperience was so evident. It was increasingly hard to maintain your usual composure.

His smile was slow, warm, knowing. “You think too much, sweetie.”

He leaned down, brushing his lips against yours—not demanding, not forceful, just soft and testing. The kiss was meant to calm you and reassure you, yet you found yourself responding. He slid his hand to the back of your neck, slightly deepening the kiss.

When he pulled back, Sylus’s red eyes searched for yours. “Tell me if you want to stop,” he said, his voice quieter, more serious now.

You bit your lip, your heart still racing. You were nervous, but some of you also wanted to trust him. How he looked at you, and his touch sent sparks through your skin… you wanted him.

“I don’t want to stop,” you admitted, barely loud enough for him to hear.

He kissed you again, but this time with more intensity, his lips moving against yours with a deliberate, intoxicating rhythm. Each brush of his mouth sent a warm shiver through you, and instinctively, you rose onto the tips of your toes, your hands pressing against his chest as if to steady yourself. His heart beat strong and steady beneath your fingertips, grounding you as your pulse raced.

The kiss deepened, his tongue softly parting your lips in a request for more. You hesitated only momentarily, then parted them, inviting him in. His tongue brushed against yours, teasing and coaxing, his every movement confident and controlled. It was overwhelming and perfect, a mix of dominance and tenderness that left you breathless.

Sylus pulled back slightly, his breath warm against your swollen lips. He was grinning now, his eyes dark with desire and amusement. “Why don’t you let me help you with this?” His voice was a low murmur, and before you could respond, his hands slid to your waist, his fingers curling possessively around your hips.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he turned you, his body pressing against yours from behind. Your back pressed to his chest, and your breath hitched as you realized what he was doing. He had positioned you in front of a mirror. Your wide eyes met your reflection, and you could see Sylus’s smirk in the glass, his gaze fixed on you with a heat that made your skin tingle.

“Look at yourself,” he whispered in your ear, his lips brushing against your neck as his hands moved to the fabric of your dress. “So beautiful when you’re nervous.” His fingers began to undo the delicate fastening at the back, his movements slow, deliberate, as if he was savoring every second.

The sight of him undressing you in the mirror, the way he watched your every reaction, sent a thrill through you that you couldn’t entirely suppress. You felt vulnerable and exposed, but there was something undeniably magnetic about the way he controlled the moment, making it impossible for you to look away from the reflection of your shared desire.

Sylus leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your bare shoulder as your dress began to loosen under his touch. “Let me show you how good this can be,” he murmured, his voice a silken promise that sent heat pooling low in your stomach.

And as his hands continued their slow, teasing exploration, you realized you were already too far gone to resist. His movements caused the straps of your dress to loosen, but you held the fabric against your chest, not letting it fall.

He pressed soft kisses against your earlobe. “Let it fall,” he commanded tenderly. Your breath hitched at his command, but you complied, allowing the dress to fall forward, revealing your nipples.

“Beautiful,” he said. Reaching his large hands to cup your breasts. Sylus pulled your body back till you were flush against his broad chest. He was moving his hands to play with your nipples. He rubbed them softly, allowing them to harden between his fingers and tugging them forward firmly. He watched your reaction in the mirror as your face contorted slightly to tug your bottom lip between your teeth. 

He grinned, removing his hands from your nipples to the back of your neck. He dragged his middle finger down to just above your ass, where the fabric of the dress ended. You tilted your head slightly at the movement of his hands. You missed the warmth of his hands on your nipples, but you didn't dare ask for them back as you wanted to see what he was doing next. 

Suddenly, you heard the hidden zipper opening the rest of your dress. You stepped forward out of the dress just in panties, turning around to fully face Sylus. “You’re so beautiful,” Sylus murmured, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he gazed down into your eyes. He pulled you in for a soft, lingering kiss—just enough to make your heart race. You flushed under his gaze, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks but not daring to look away.

“Let me help you, Sylus,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “I can’t be the only one left like this.” You reached up, gripping his tie and giving it a playful tug, your eyes gleaming with mischief.

His smirk deepened, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Take it off then,” he challenged, his voice low and teasing, daring you with his trademark confidence.

Your hands moved to unwork his tie, pulling him closer to you, causing him to chuckle slightly and grab your bare waist. You shuddered slightly under his touch, continuing your steady exploration. You discarded his tie to the floor and began unbuttoning his perfectly fitting shirt. It was a red button-up. You slowly unbuttoned his shirt, revealing Sylus’s beautifully sculpted body. You innocently peered up at his intense stare. He watched your every movement so close that the only sound in the room was your shared breaths. You drew your finger from his collarbone down to his navel, where you watched him flex slightly at your touch.

You slid his shirt off, letting the fabric fall to the floor before lowering yourself to your knees in front of him. Sylus raised an eyebrow, a smirk curving his lips as he looked down at you.

“And what exactly do you plan on doing down there?” His voice was rich with amusement and teasing but edged with something darker and more intense.

You glanced up at him, a slight pout forming on your flushed face. “Helping you undress,” you replied softly but with playful defiance.

Your hands moved to the front of his pants, your fingers steady as you unbuckled his belt. The sound of the leather sliding through the loops was the only thing breaking the tension in the room.

You looked up at Sylus, licking your lips. You pressed your hand against the bulge in his briefs. Your eyes widened a bit, realizing his size. It’s so big.

Sylus’s hand reached down, his fingers threading through your hair gently but firmly. He tugged you up to your feet with one swift motion, pulling you close until your chest pressed against his. His eyes, dark and heated, locked with yours as his other hand slid around your waist, securing you against him.

“That’s enough of you on your knees, sweetie,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous with a hint of a smile on his lips.

Without another word, he tilted your chin up, capturing your lips in a heated kiss, leaving no doubt who was in control of the moment. His touch was possessive, but there was a gentleness in how his fingers trailed over your skin, as if he was savoring every inch of the contact.

He laid you back gently on the bed. You looked up at him, patient and waiting, propping yourself up on your forearms.

The noise in your mind was silenced as all you could focus on was Sylus. He dragged his large hands languidly down your body, stopping at the waistband of your underwear. It was a lacy white piece that beautifully complimented your skin. He hooked his fingers underneath it, tugging the fabric down the length of your legs before discarding them behind him.

You held your legs together, not daring to let them fall apart. Sylus’s hands worked between your knees “Kitten, relax for me”, he said softly, looking longingly into your eyes. You allowed yourself to relax a bit as he pulled your legs apart. “That’s my girl,” he drawled. 

“Fuck, you’re drenched” He knelt before you, his hands coming to rest on your thighs as he leaned in, his hot breath fanning over your cunt. His fingers traced slow circles teasing you, his eyes locked on yours.

“Do you want me to taste you, sweetie?” The question tested your resolve, and he waited for your response. 

“Y-yes,” you whispered. Your hands moved up to cover your face. 

Sylus’s lips curved into a smile, his eyes gleaming at your permission. He leaned in, his fingers parting your folds before pressing a single, languid, wet kiss against your core. The sensation of his kiss caused you to arch your back, “Oh god, Sylus.”

“mhm, you taste so sweet,” he murmured. His voice was thick with desire as he continued to tease you. The sound of his voice, the noises from his mouth as he made out with your cunt, made you wetter. 

You felt his rough hands hold under your knees, pushing your legs further apart, splaying you open for him.

“Tell me how it feels, Kitten. Tell me how much you want me to make you cum for me.” Your back arched off the bed, your hands moving to grip his hair. You felt heat moving through you.

Sylus took his time, drawing out your pleasure. He was focused on bringing you to the edge. He spent time learning you, tasting you.

“Please… p-please, Sylus, I want to come.” This was the first time you've ever been touched like this, and you loved it. You had never felt anything like this before. Touching yourself could never compare to what Sylus was doing to you. 

Sylus’s tongue flicked faster, and his fingers moved, pressing that sensitive spot inside you. His eyes opened and locked onto yours, his gaze fierce. He was testing your reaction and pressing the little spot inside you firmer.  

You squirmed against his face, and your moans escaped you. You gripped his hair harder, pulling his mouth closer to you.

“Say it again, sweetie. Beg me to let you cum.” 

Fuck, his mouth is filthy. 

His tongue swirled around your clit, drawing your orgasm nearer.

He wanted to hear it, wanted you to surrender completely to him, to trust him. His lips closed around your clit, sucking down on your nub hard, driving you closer and closer to the edge. His fingers joined in, working your insides as he stroked your slick cunt with his mouth.

“Say it, kitten. Say you want to cum for me.”

“I want to come for you, please!” you shouted. Tears threatening to fall off your eyelashes.

Sylus’s lips curved into a satisfied smirk, his eyes glinting with triumph as he felt your body tremble beneath his touch. Your orgasm crashed over you, and pleasure flooded your senses. Your legs spasmed as you came on his tongue. 

He held you down while you came, allowing you to ride out your pleasure. His tongue lingered until the very last moment, leaving you quivering and desperate for more.

You lay against the bed, your body slowly coming down from the high. You couldn't find the words for a moment, your mind still swimming from what he’d just done.

Finally, you managed a shaky breath, your voice soft but laced with disbelief. “I… didn’t know it could feel like that.” Your cheeks flushed at the admission.

Sylus hovered above you, and you could feel the heat radiating from him. His eyes lit up with satisfaction as he looked down at you, watching you try to catch your breath, your flushed cheeks, and parted lips.

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as his hand slid up your thigh, sending another shiver through you. “I’m just getting started. Trust me, it can feel even better.” His tone was both a promise and a challenge, daring you to let him take you further.

A shaky breath left your lips, and a wave of heat ran through you from his words. A small smile fell on your lips. “I guess I’ll have to trust you, won’t I?” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you turned your head to meet his eyes. Your tone was still nervous, but your body’s response to him showed how you felt. 

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his, your heartbeat thundering in your chest. “Be careful with me… just for now,” you said, smiling slightly, allowing yourself to be a bit vulnerable with him.

His hand slid to your waist, fingers curling around your hip as he pulled you toward him again.

“Oh, sweetie,” he murmured, his voice a smooth, velvety purr, “you don’t just ‘have to’ trust me… you’re going to want to.”

His fingers traced slow circles on your skin, sending shivers through you. “Trust me,” he whispered, “I’m very good at making you want more.”

At that, you turned him towards the bed, pushing him down on his back. You straddled him, and you felt his clothed bulge pressing against your naked pussy, leaving a wet spot on him. You laid your hands on his chest, rubbing your hands down his hard body. Your heart was pounding through your chest. You moved your hands to push down his briefs, feeling his cock in your hands. 

Sylus flexed his abs at your touch. His lips parted slightly, his breath catching in his throat. You wrapped your fingers around him; he felt heavy in your palm. 

Sylus watched you through half-lidded eyes. Waiting for your next move until he switched your positions. You were now underneath him, his cock hard and ready, resting against your thigh. 

He sat up and positioned himself at your entrance. His eyes trained on where you’d be connected. The head of his cock rubbed against your arousal, catching on your sensitive clit. Your breath caught as he moved to press his erection inside.

Fuck. You felt your walls stretching to accommodate his thick cock. You saw the flush forming on his cheeks through your teary eyes. 

He bottomed out in you, finally looking into your eyes. “Breathe for me, kitten.” And you did. His hands came down by your head, caging you in. His hips moved backward, pushing back into you slowly. 

His mouth parted slightly as he looked down at you, “You feel so good.” he grits out. 

His thrusts were slow and deliberate, his eyes locked onto yours. You stayed there, not daring to look away. Your breath hitched, and your heart pounded out of your chest. You could feel him throbbing inside you, causing your walls to clench around him. 

Sylus moves by repositioning your legs on his shoulders, allowing him to move deeper within you. Your tits bounced up and down at the power of his thrusts. He moved his hands to pinch your nipples. The pinch of his fingers shot heat to your core, making you squeeze around him again. 

“Fuck” he purred out, his eyes closed at the feeling of you wrapping around him. He moved his hands in between your legs, settling on your clit. He rubbed it steadily, flicking it between his thumb.

Your mind was empty from Sylus fucking you. He was hitting that sensitive spot inside your pussy over and over. You felt your body tensing up again, the wave of pleasure starting to work through your body.

 “Come for me one more time, kitten. Let me hear you.” Sylus whispered into your ear, pressing your legs back by your head. You felt him kiss the shell of your ear. You could feel your sensitive nipples rubbing against his chest, his thumb playing with your clit. 

“Come for me, Wife.”

You gasped, body trembling as the tension in your core built until it snapped. “Sylus…!” you cried out, your voice breaking as your body twitched uncontrollably in his arms. He held you firm, grounding you as his thrusts remained slow and deliberate, each one pushing you further into bliss.

“Look at me,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. You forced your eyes open, locking onto his. His beautiful, red gaze never wavered, even now. The look in his eyes was more than lust—it was a connection, raw intimacy that seemed to transcend the physical. It made your heart skip a beat, just as much as the sensation of him inside you.

His pace faltered then, his movements growing erratic as he drove into you deeper, harder. “Fuck,” he growled, his lips parting in a low, primal sound that sent shivers through you. His body tensed, muscles tight as he pushed as far into you as he could, his release crashing through him.

With a final groan, Sylus collapsed forward, his weight settling over you as you both came down from your highs. His breath was warm against your skin, his heartbeat slowing in time with yours.

He lifted his head, eyes softening as they met yours again, a tenderness replacing the intensity from moments before. “Thank you for trusting me, y/n,” he whispered, brushing a thumb gently across your cheek.

“You’ve given me every reason to,” you said, smiling at him gently.

☆---

yall this idea was stuck in my head for a solid two weeks. i blame twitter l&ds stans for this. I SWORE i did not fuck with sylus like that up until a couple weeks ago...

[vunblr]

The Memory Remains

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Fluff. Smut. Unprotected sex.

Summary: An unexpected encounter brings Bucky face-to-face with someone from his past, stirring memories he thought were long buried.

Word Count: About 13k.

note: Let’s pretend the incident with Renata in CATWS never happened. Bucky's presence at Pierce’s house is a bit more lenient for the sake of this story.

The Winter Soldier moved through his assignments like a shadow. So, when he was stationed at Pierce's home for a week, he was given explicit instructions: remain masked, both arms concealed under a layer of clothing and stay out of sight as much as possible, but if seen, remain silent, a faceless piece of security.

On his first day, he heard voices down the hall before he saw them, a child’s laughter, paired with a softer, patient tone. The child -a boy around five or six- bounded into view, dragging a toy truck and blissfully oblivious to the stranger cloaked in shadows. But the woman with him was different; she immediately caught sight of him. She looked surprised but quickly cast her eyes down as she guided the boy past.

Pierce’s strict warning echoed in her mind. He explained to her that his guest was part of a high-security detail, trained to avoid all unnecessary contact, just another eccentric demand of his government work.

New to America, she had recently left her home country after a severe burnout as a lawyer and the lingering shadow of an abusive relationship. She managed to pay a year’s rent in advance with her savings, but reality quickly slapped her in the face when she began looking for a job. Now in her late twenties, she had no experience outside a desk or a courtroom with foreign laws.

This job as a nanny was the first real opportunity she’d found, and she took it. The pay was excellent, and the boy’s parents were kind. With an arrangement between Pierce and his son, she spent part of each day with the child at Pierce’s apartment after kindergarten until his parents picked him up after work, which was conveniently close by. In the two months she’d worked for the Pierces, she hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary in the house, so the appearance of a security guard was an unexpected twist.

She understood the "no interaction" rule well enough; her brother had worked in federal law enforcement before he passed, so she knew about the necessity of concealing the asset's identity and the formality of the job. Yet, habit got the best of her. She’d nod or offer a polite “good afternoon” when she arrived and a quiet “see you” when she left. Sometimes she’d even throw out a casual comment about the weather or crack a joke, knowing she wouldn’t get a response. His silence was a constant, and his blue gaze kept drilled into an inexistent point in the horizon. By the third day, she found herself relaxing into the new routine, no longer unnerved by the silent figure lurking in the house. She resumed her usual activities while the child napped: baking small snacks for when he woke up, or sitting at the kitchen table with her crochet project in hand. She even started putting on a playlist mostly with songs from her home country, the soft, lively tunes filling the quiet rooms.

Sometimes, when she baked treats for the boy, she’d make a few extras, placing them on a surface near the man in the shadows. Her brother had told her enough stories about hours on guard, the hunger and thirst that crept in with the silence. This was her small way of saying I know the circumstances -Though she didn’t. Oh, she didn’t even scratch the surface of his circumstances.- “You can take it later when you are alone.” She had offered quietly.

The first time, the food sat untouched for hours, and she thought he’d rejected the gesture entirely. But, just minutes before she had to leave, she found the plate empty, and she could swear the right pocket of his tactical pants looked slightly stuffed. Taking it as a sign, she continued doing it, sometimes offering a simple piece of fruit, or a chocolate if she hadn’t bake. Each time, the plate ended up empty, and his pocket a little bulkier.

Unbeknownst to her, one song in her playlist seemed to provoke a reaction in the stoic custody. Its melody -a blend of mid-1900s music with a modern twist- stirred something faint and unreachable within him, persistent enough to catch his attention. Each time the tune played on shuffle, his gaze would flicker in her direction, his brows knitting slightly as if he were straining to recall a memory just out of reach. And yet, she remained blissfully unaware, humming along.

After a week, he was gone. The masked figure had simply vanished from Pierce’s house as if he’d never been there at all.

-----

Nearly nine years had passed since that afternoon when Bucky threw himself from the helicarrier into the water to rescue Steve, somehow re-emerging as a fugitive from Hydra’s grasp. Since then, there had been one chaotic chapter after another, ending in a shaky kind of freedom and a conditional pardon. He’d been granted the basics of a civilian life -even if he wasn’t sure what to do with it-, a place to live, and the requirement to attend therapy sessions. 

One night, after a familiar nightmare left him panting and staring hollow-eyed into the bathroom mirror, his gaze landed on his hair. It hung long and unkempt, framing his face with shadows from another life, a reminder of missions in the dead of night, of orders he’d had no choice but to follow. His reflection stared back, haunted, tethered to the past.

A voice urged inside him, low and insistent. Cut it. Shedding the hair felt like severing the ties that still bind him to memories. His hand moved instinctively, reaching for the familiar weight of his knife, the same one he’d carried for years, an extension of who he’d once been. But he hesitated, hovering his fingers over the blade. If he was serious about moving forward, this had to be more than just an impulsive cut in the dead of night. It had to be his choice, deliberate and clear, reclaiming himself one small step at a time. He’d find a hairdresser, endure the closeness, the touching, the vulnerability of someone holding sharp scissors near him, and let it be a test. A small, tangible proof that he could start anew, piece by piece.

The next morning, he stood outside a shop near his apartment, with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, and wrestling with the urge to turn and walk away.

He lingered on the sidewalk, eyeing the parlor's weathered sign and chipped paint. Its old, familiar look was oddly reassuring as if the place had been untouched by time. That decided it for him. He scratched his beard and stepped forward, and as the door chimed overhead, he knew there was no going back now. Behind the chair, an old man was trimming the hair of a customer nearly as old, both with the unmistakable air of a veteran. The barber gave him a polite nod, but Bucky didn’t miss the shared look between the two: a quick, appraising glance that seemed to mutter, hippie motherfucker.

“Y/n!” the old barber called, his voice rising as he looked toward the back room. “You have a customer.”

The moment Bucky heard a woman’s name, he froze. An image of an elderly lady popped into his mind: chatty, distracted, and maybe with a knack for giving creative haircuts. He could already hear Sam’s laughter echoing in his head if he came out of this with some uneven cut or something worse.

“Well, actually…” he began, trying to backpedal, but his retreat stalled when she appeared in the doorway. She wasn’t old, far from it. And attractive. Very attractive. His mind blanked as he stood there, frozen, just staring.

The old man caught his hesitation and cast a pointed look his way, a touch more disapproving than before. The customer in the chair joined in, nodding in silent agreement.

“Well, young man?” the barber asked, his voice gruffer now. “You gonna stand there or sit?”

Bucky cleared his throat, murmuring, “I… thought you were the barber.” His voice was low, almost defensive, as he looked between the old man and the woman.

Her eyebrow quirked high, clearly amused, while the old barber scoffed. “What? because she’s a woman?” he huffed, crossing his arms. “Kid, I’m pretty sure she can handle that hippie mane of yours better than I ever could.”

The man in the chair gave a quiet chuckle, nodding in agreement, and Bucky’s mouth went dry. This was not the quick, anonymous cut he’d imagined. But there was no turning back now; he could feel three sets of eyes on him, each waiting for his move.

So, with a quick breath, he took off his jacket, walked over, and sank into the chair, stealing a glance at her reflection in the mirror.

She got closer from behind, amused by the fact that he already sat on the chair. “So, what are we doing today?” her tone was professional, though her eyes sparkled with a hint of curiosity.

He cleared his throat, shifting slightly on the seat. “Just… cut it short. Something easy to manage.” He answered gruffly.

She nodded, assessing the length of his hair. “Alright, but I must wash it first since it's this long. Sprinkling it with water won’t be enough.”

He blinked, a hint of tension flashing across his face. The thought of sitting there with his head tilted back, felt almost unbearably vulnerable. He nearly reconsidered, but the not-so-subtly narrowed gazes of the two older men lingering on him kept him in place.

With a quiet sigh, he managed to make a nod. “Fine.” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

She gestured for him to follow, and he found himself standing and trailing behind her to the hair-washing station in the back. Every instinct screamed to keep his guard up, but his need to change this physical marker of his past kept him moving.

As they reached the back, Bucky’s eyes landed on her phone, resting near a small speaker that hummed with soft, melodic tunes. At first, he barely noticed the music since he was too focused on the discomfort of the situation and strengthening his resolve to not get up and leave. His shoulders stayed tense as he sat there, hovering on the edge of the chair, every part of his body coiled with instinctive caution.

Then, the warmth of the water broke over his scalp, and against his will, he felt the tension start to dissolve, just a little. Her touch was gentle, she made no sudden movements, just a calm rhythm as she applied the shampoo, working it through his hair. She didn’t say a word, either; it was as though she understood something of the guarded edge to him, or maybe she sensed that he wouldn’t welcome small talk.

A few beats into the quiet, the song changed. It was still low and unassuming, just background noise. But then the melody drifted in, a tune with an old rhythm and a foreign lyric, hauntingly familiar, and his attention flickered, drawn in by the music without him fully understanding why. His eyes closed briefly, and fragments of memory teased at the edges of his mind: a dim hallway, shadows, the scent of baking, and the quiet hum of a woman’s voice.

Before he could grasp it, the memory slipped away, leaving only the echo of familiarity, a ghost of something he almost remembered.

As she massaged his scalp, the tension that had gripped Bucky’s shoulders melted away. The gentle pressure lulled him into a rare calm, his body betraying him with a warmth that crept over him like a slow wave. For the first time in a long time, he felt close to letting his guard down entirely, since the comfort of her touch drew him into an almost sleepy haze.

Then she reached for the conditioner, moving her hands with the same unhurried rhythm, but this time, she couldn’t quite keep from humming along to the song that played softly from the speaker nearby. Her voice was low, almost shy, as though she hadn’t meant for anyone to hear. But as she sang, each note seemed to tighten a thread in his chest, snapping him out of the drowsy trance.

Then it hit him.

The music and her voice brought him back to Pierce’s household, to those days he spent stationed in the shadows, monitoring everything in silence before the events of his escape. The faint aroma of something sweet drifting through the house, cookies, or bread, something good, something he hadn’t expected to find. He could still feel the strange weight of those illicit traits in his pocket, things she’d left out in silent offering, her small, unspoken kindness filling a gap he hadn’t known was there.

This woman... could it be?

His breathing grew shallow, each breath catching in his chest as a faint tremor ran through his body. His gloved hands twitched against the armrests, fingers curling and uncurling as he fought the urge to reach up, to pull himself upright and turn to look at her. He needed to see her face, study her features and search for that glimpse of familiarity, confirm that this wasn’t just some blurred, mismatched memory dredged up by the lull of her voice and the warmth of her hands. Worse yet, he needed to know this wasn’t some fragment of imagination, a scene conjured by his mind to taunt him with memories he couldn’t piece together. But before he could move, she stopped singing, her hands paused in his hair and he felt her hesitate, as if sensing his restlessness even though he hadn’t said a word.

“The wash is almost done,” she murmured, as if offering reassurance.

She inwardly groaned, mortified. Why on earth did she start singing? Way to scare off a customer, she scolded herself when she sensed his body tense beneath her hands. And of course, it happened with a handsome customer. She could feel the rush of embarrassment creeping up her neck, flooding her cheeks. Taking a breath, she forced herself to refocus, working to rinse the last of the conditioner as quickly as she could, moving her hands just a bit more briskly than before. Okay, finish up and keep it professional, she coached herself, feeling the sting of humiliation all over again.

As she finished rinsing the conditioner from his hair, she reached for a nearby towel. Without a second thought, still reliving the horror of exposing herself like that, she wrapped it around his head, pressing gently to soak up the excess water. “Alright,” she said softly, stepping back. “We’re done here. Just head back to the front, and I’ll set you up for the cut.”

He rose from the chair a bit unsteadily, as though waking from a daze, and started toward the front of the shop, acutely aware of every step. He glanced sideways at her once, catching a hint of embarrassment lingering on her face. As he reached the main area, he caught his reflection in the mirror opposite the chair and froze. Wrapped around his head, neatly turbaned and unmistakably bright, was a fluffy pink towel.

The old barber glanced up from the new customer he was tending to, settling his gaze on Bucky’s reflection with poorly concealed bemusement. "Good lord, Cecil, look how things have changed," he muttered dryly only for the other old man to hear, unaware of Bucky’s enhanced hearing.

The other old man, Cecil, leaned back, shaking his head with a smirk. “Used to be, folks would at least keep that kind of thing under wraps,” he muttered, his voice low but pointed. “Remember Karen’s brother? Now there was a guy who kept things to himself, blended right in,” he muttered with a knowing glance at Bucky.

Bucky gritted his teeth, faintly aware of the heat climbing up his neck, but he forced himself to keep a straight face. He was determined to get through this without snapping. His reflection caught his attention again, and he let out an almost inaudible sigh.

Behind him, she approached, unaware of the old men ranting. She held a bunch of hairpins in one hand and a comb in the other, gesturing toward the chair in front of the mirror. “Whenever you’re ready”.

As he settled into the chair, his gaze drifted to the handful of hairpins she was holding, and cleared his throat, struggling to keep his tone steady. “Uh, I thought I asked for it short,” he murmured, nodding toward the pins and comb with a faint frown.

She didn’t miss a beat, propping a hand on her hip with a half-smile. “And I thought you might like it to look decent,” she quipped, raising a brow in the mirror. “To get it even, I’ve got to section it out first, or you’ll end up with a patchy disaster.”

She worked focused, weaving her fingers through his hair and clipping sections with colorful pins until his head was dotted with bright little half-buns. Bucky’s jaw clenched as his gaze drifted somewhere distant, the rhythmic tug of the comb stirring faint, elusive memories. He barely registered the chime of the door until the soft shuffle of footsteps and murmured greetings filled the air.

Two more elderly men ambled in, one of them clutching a checkers game under his arm. They greeted Frank the old barber, then his client casually, and lastly waved affectionately toward her, who acknowledged them with a smile. As their eyes landed on Bucky, they paused, taking in his partially pinned-up hair and the bright clips dotting his head. They shared a wordless look of faint, unspoken disapproval, the kind only those with a few extra decades under their belts could master.

Bucky tightened his jaw again, pressing his tongue against his inner cheek, as he caught the old men’s exchanged looks. What, was this some kind of veteran association headquarters or something? He’d endured enough stares over the years, but the situation's absurdity hit a new level. If only they knew he was older than all of them. The irony almost made him laugh -or maybe just get up and walk out.- But he forced himself to stay put, keeping his gaze fixed on his reflection as if nothing at all were out of the ordinary, while she worked oblivious to the silent standoff between him and the retirement brigade.

As she started to cut with the scissors, couldn't resist trying to break the tension that clung to him like a second skin. “So, how long did it take you to grow this out?” she ventured, with her eyes focused on his hair.

Bucky made a vague grunt, somewhere between polite acknowledgment and indifference. “Couple years,” he muttered, the words barely escaping his mouth as his gaze flicked to her face again.

Trying not to stare, he let his eyes drift down, but they always found their way back to her. As she carefully moved around him, he observed the cadence of her movements, and the subtle kindness in her tone, and all completed the picture in his mind. The woman from Pierce’s household, he was certain of it now.

She tilted her head thoughtfully as she continued cutting, briefly meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Going short can feel like a fresh start,” she remarked, casual yet reassuring. “Sometimes, it’s about more than just hair, it’s like letting go of whatever it held onto. It happens a lot.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked up, catching her gaze in the mirror before he could stop himself. There was a beat of silence as her words hit a little closer than he’d expected.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice low, almost as if speaking to himself. “That’s… kind of the point.”

She met his gaze again with a glimmer of understanding in her eyes, but she didn’t press him. She just nodded, lifting the corners of her mouth into a gentle smile. “Well,” she said softly, resuming the rhythm of the scissors, “then let’s make sure we do it right.”

Eventually, she paused the trimming, assessing the hair’s new length with a critical eye. “Alright,” she said, lifting the electric clipper with a raised brow. “Any specific style you want, or…?”

Bucky met her gaze in the mirror again, hesitating just for a moment. If he knew anything about styles, he might’ve had an opinion, but all he cared about was the fresh start he’d come here for. “Just… short,” he replied, with a hint of uncertainty.

She nodded with a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Got it,” she said, setting to work. The clippers buzzed to life, and as she deftly worked them through the remaining length, Bucky let himself drift, trusting her to handle the rest. By the time she stepped back to survey her work, he barely recognized his own reflection; shorter, cleaner, a stark shift from the man he’d tried so hard to leave behind.

As she brushed his shoulders for stray hairs, the old men ambled back to the front, their voices rising in a familiar, lively argument about the weapons used in the Vietnam War.

“I’m telling you, the M16 was practically useless in those conditions,” one of them grumbled, shaking his head as if reliving the frustration.

“Oh, don’t start with that again,” the other scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “The M14 was a good rifle but couldn’t match the firepower.”

Bucky couldn’t help himself. “There were issues with both models,” he interjected. The men turned, eyebrows raised as he continued, “M16’s jamming problems, and the M14’s recoil, that didn’t make it any easier in the jungle.”

One of them raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms with a slight smirk. “So, you a collector or something, son? Not many people remember those details.”

Bucky paused, weighing his words. He shot them a sideways glance, with a hint of something unreadable in his expression.

“Nah,” he murmured. “Just... good memory.”

It was all he said, but the weight behind his words was enough to hold their gaze for a moment longer than either man expected.

She watched them leave with a smile tugging at the corner of her lips before she turned back to Bucky, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Well, would you look at that,” she said, amused yet curious. “Didn’t think I’d get to see you join in the shop banters so soon. Well, there you go,” she said, stepping back. “Sharp as ever.” She reached over to grab his jacket from the hook, handing it to him with a small, encouraging smile that held a warmth he hadn’t felt in ages.

Bucky gave her a faint nod and took his jacket, slipping it on. “Thanks,” he muttered, feeling her eyes on him as he reached for the door.

As Bucky left the parlor after his haircut, the chill in the evening air prickled against his skin, grounding him in the present but doing little to quiet the memories that kept surfacing in his mind. Each step felt like shaking off a shadow of something long gone, something buried. He told himself, firmly, that she was just another person from his past, just a woman who once showed him kindness in a place that had none. It shouldn’t mean anything after all these years.

But over the next few days, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d left something unresolved. Her image haunted him not in the sharp, painful fragments of his past but in small, lingering echoes. He remembered the sound of her humming when she thought no one was listening, the soft click of plates, and the surprising warmth of the treats she’d left for him, knowing he might never touch them. She had looked at him, masked and silent, like he was a person, not just a thing covered in shadows.

A few days later, in session, his therapist caught on to his distracted state. She didn’t exactly push, but she revisited the topic they’d been circling for weeks: reconnecting with people, finding his place outside the shadows of his past. Her advice nagged at him as much as it reassured him. Connection. Yeah, right.

Then, one afternoon, his phone buzzed. It was Sam. He was doing outreach work in the neighborhood, trying to connect local veterans with PTSD resources. “Look, I could use a hand with some pamphlets,” Sam said, in a way that didn’t leave much room for negotiation. “Some old-timers hang around that parlor you mentioned. I think they’d be more open to it if you dropped these off.”

Despite his reluctance, Bucky ended up agreeing. Maybe he needed to see her again to put the memories finally to rest.

When Bucky stepped back into the parlor with the pamphlets clutched in his hand, Frank was busy with a client, and she was at the counter, writing something down in a small notebook. She looked up when the door chimed, and her gaze settled on him with a flicker of recognition.

Bucky cleared his throat and handed some pamphlets to Frank, who glanced at them with a barely concealed frown. “What is this, some new-age help group thing?” the old man muttered, though he took them anyway.

Before Bucky could respond, Sam walked in behind him, a wide grin plastered on his face. He slapped Bucky on the shoulder. “Hey, pal, didn’t know you’d actually do it,” he said, casting a friendly nod to the old-timers who regarded him with wary interest.

The veterans, having heard the conversation, perk up. “What’s this?” one of them asked, and Sam jumped in, explaining with his usual charm about the outreach work for veterans, PTSD resources, and community support. Bucky stood back, feeling the walls around him starting to rise, the familiar urge to retreat coming over him. But then he caught her watching him. He returned her gaze, and suddenly it was as if no time had passed. She was the same woman who used to hum softly in a house that held no warmth.

Before he knew it, Frank was muttering about “newfangled therapy and pamphlets” while the veterans grumbled, though one of them eventually accepted a flyer with a shrug. The moment felt absurd, but then, with a quiet laugh, she came to Bucky’s side. “Welcome back,” she said, with a soft voice and a suspicious biting on her bottom lip.

He cleared his throat, barely meeting her gaze. "Hi. Just, uh, helping Sam here with these pamphlets." He gestured awkwardly at the handful still clutched in his grip as if that alone explained his return. But before he could slide into silence, she tilted her head, curious.

"So… were you in the service, too?"

The question caught him off guard. His body stiffened, and for a moment, he considered deflecting. But then he took a short breath, composing himself before speaking.

"Yeah. Sergeant… a long time ago.” The words came out almost hollow like he was not even talking about himself. “Feels like it, anyway.”

Her eyes roamed his face as if she was noticing the wear and ache behind his expression for the first time, but she didn’t press him for more.

Behind them, Frank’s sharp gaze flicked over Bucky, his usual squint softening just a touch. He straightened, nodding with something closer to respect, and his gruffness was replaced by a rare moment of understanding. Bucky felt it, too, the unspoken acknowledgment from one who’s seen their kind wear the years like scars. “Well,” Frank said, his voice a little less brusque, “good on you for helpin’ out.” He didn’t look directly at Bucky as he said it, but the words were meant for him all the same.

He nodded, unsure of what to say.

Her smile grew softer as she met his gaze again “Guess we’ll be seeing you around, then, visiting the boys?”

Bucky shifted, glancing down with a faint nod. “Yeah. Maybe,” he muttered. Then he glanced back at Sam, who was deep in conversation with the veterans, seemingly in no rush to leave. He noticed the way Sam’s gaze occasionally flickered their way and caught the subtle grin playing at the corner of his mouth. To anyone else, it’d seem so, so casual, but he knew better, Sam was doing it on purpose.

Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam kept his focus on the other vets, though his eyes flickered with barely concealed amusement when he glanced back.

The silence stretched a little too long, and she cleared her throat, slipping behind the counter. “You know,” she said lightly, “if you’re waiting on your friend, might as well have a coffee. It’s on the house.”

Bucky’s eyes fell to the floor, and he hesitated just a second before nodding. “Sure. Thanks.”

As she moved to make the coffee, he leaned on the counter, resting his gloved hands awkwardly on its surface as she prepared a mug for him. Then, without warning, she reached under the counter and pulled out a green tupperware, popping the lid to reveal neatly cut slices of pasta frola. The sight caught him off guard, furrowing his brows as a faint but vivid memory flickered to life, the faint smell of jam in the kitchen, the delicate pastry offered to him wrapped in a paper napkin, so his pocket wouldn’t get stained.

She noticed his look and chuckled lightly, misreading his reaction. “Don’t worry, it’s just a family recipe. I swear it’s not poisoned.” She gave him a half-smile, nudging the container closer. “It’s filled with quince jam, it’s tangy but sweet. Hard to come by here in the States, I know. But... it’s worth a try.”

Bucky blinked, as the memory lingered in his mind. “I’ve had it before,” he said quietly, more to himself than her, before reaching over and picking up a slice. The taste was startlingly similar, he didn’t realize how vividly he remembered it. “Pretty good,” he murmured, almost begrudgingly. But before he could stop himself, a flicker of raw emotion tightened in his chest, and he felt the familiar sting of tears prickling at his eyes.

He turned away quickly, bracing himself against the counter, willing for the feeling to pass. He couldn’t explain it if he tried, not to her, not even to himself. A stray laugh reached him from across the room, and he forced himself to breathe, focusing on the sound of Sam’s voice, the distant grunting of the men, anything to distract him.

Her voice broke through his lapsus, warm and light as she cleaned up the counter beside him. “Well, if you like it, there’s plenty more where that came from,” she commented with a playful smile. “The ‘boys’ practically fight over the last slice every time. You should see them, it’s like watching kids in a schoolyard,” she laughed softly, wiping down the counter. “I swear, I’ve had to start hiding an extra plate in the back just to keep up the peace.”

She glanced over at him, still unaware of his reaction, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. “So, no pressure, but if you plan on sticking around here, you’ll have to stake your claim early.” Her voice was so light and easy, almost teasing as if sharing a small, harmless secret.

Bucky managed to make a nod, keeping his face averted until he was sure he was composed. Only then did he turn back, giving her a quick, curt nod. “Thanks. It… brings back memories,” he said, with his voice a little steadier now, though the weight of those memories lingered in his mind.

“Oh?” She tilted her head, eyes bright with curiosity. “I hope good memories?” Her smile was warm, perhaps imagining a grandmother’s kitchen or a friendly neighbor’s table, after all, it was rare for an American to have tried this kind of tart.

Bucky’s mouth curved into a faint, thin smile as he met her gaze for a fleeting moment before looking away again. “Something like that,” he replied, with a carefully neutral tone, edged with something unreadable. He lifted the coffee mug, taking a slow sip, hoping the gesture would gently close the conversation.

Before she could respond, the door chime sounded, and a man in his late thirties strolled into the shop with an air of familiarity. His gaze landed on her, and his expression shifted into something smug and self-assured as he greeted her by name. His eyes lingered a little too long, sliding over her outfit in a way that barely bothered to conceal his interest.

Her posture stiffened, but she managed to smile, nodding his way. “Hey, Brian. Frank will be back in a few if you’d rather wait.”

Brian chuckled dismissively as he made his way to the chair. “Nah, it’s just a maintenance cut. I don’t need Frank for that.” He settled in, leaning back with a casual grin. “Besides, I’d much rather have you take care of me. Your hands are way more skilled.”

“Right…” She gave him a thin smile. Glancing at Bucky, she excused herself from his side and headed over to tend to Brian.

As she set up her tools, Brian leaned back in the chair, angling himself to keep her in his line of sight. “Looking good today,” he praised, dropping his tone slightly as he studied her reflection in the mirror. “Gotta say, it makes my day to come in and see you here.”

She responded with a brief laugh, brushing off his comment as she began trimming his hair. “Just here to make sure you’re looking sharp.”

Bucky stayed a little longer by the counter, pretending to be absorbed in his coffee. But his eyes flicked up occasionally, catching the exchange in the mirror’s reflection.

Watching him quietly eating the last bite of tart at the counter, Brian smirked, leaning back in the chair with a lazy grin. “You know,” he drawled, gazing at her intently, “One of these days, I’ll have to get my mouth on that pie of yours.” The words were laced with an unmistakable undertone, his gaze lingering on her as if testing the waters.

Her hand stopped just for a fraction of a second before she responded, a quick, professional smile in place. “Well, I’ll let you know if I ever start taking special orders.” Her words were smooth and dismissive, sidestepping his implication.

Bucky’s fingers tightened around his mug. Was this modern flirting? He found himself suppressing the urge to remind Brian of a little respect. But with what right exactly? Some possessive urge rooted over a long-ago act of kindness? They’d barely exchanged a handful of words, words that, by the way, he could hardly string. Still, he couldn’t shake a barely contained irritation that crept inside him, a feeling both unfamiliar and too familiar all at once.

Brian’s flirting continued, tone growing bolder as he lounged in the chair with his eyes fixed on her as she tried to maintain her professional composure. Eventually, Bucky’s patience snapped.

He placed his mug down with a soft clink, rising to his full height and striding over, casting a long shadow across the two of them.

With a calm, steely edge to his voice, he focused his gaze on her. “Well, sweetheart, I’ve got some things to take care of with Sam. But I can’t wait to see you in that dress later.”

She blinked, pausing her scissors mid-snip as she processed what he’d just said. Then, catching on to the improvisation, she broke into a warm smile, tilting her head with a look of mock apology toward Brian before turning fully to Bucky.

“Oh, of course! Can’t wait to see you too, handsome,” she replied, adding a playful lilt to her voice. And without missing a beat, she tiptoed up, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s cheek, resting her hand on his shoulder for a bit of extra effect.

Brian’s smile faltered, and his expression shifted to discomfort as he glanced away, and the bravado vanished from his eyes.

Bucky turned smoothly, not sparing Brian a single glance as he made his way over to Sam, calm and unhurried. The entire shop seemed to hold its breath, caught in the aftermath of the exchange. Sam looked at him with a quirked brow, and Frank… just narrowed his gaze. Has something been going on under his nose with this redeemed hippie and he didn’t know about it?

Meanwhile, she could barely keep her thoughts straight. Her heart pounded wildly, and a thousand questions assaulted her mind as she mentally replayed what had just happened. First, the shock that Bucky had stepped in at all, with that calm authority that had left Brian squirming. Then, there was how effortlessly he’d delivered his line, so convincingly she almost believed it herself. And finally... God, the way he smelled when she leaned up to kiss him. Cedar, leather, and masculinity. She could still feel the trace warmth of his lean, muscular shoulder beneath her hand.

Had she overdone it? The kissing, the touching… she wasn’t sure, though part of her almost wished it had been real. She bit her lip, determined to focus on the task at hand as Brian shifted uncomfortably in the chair, with his earlier smugness replaced by an awkward silence.

Bucky reached Sam, who glanced up with a grin as he passed over the stack of pamphlets. “So… all this time you had a girlfriend and didn’t say a word, Tinman? That is low, even for you” he teased under his breath, low enough that only Bucky could hear.

“No, I didn’t,” Bucky muttered with a tight jaw, but the faintest hint of a smirk broke his factions. He didn’t meet Sam’s gaze, keeping his eyes on the pamphlets.

-----

One day, after a month since that unusual afternoon in the shop, she got out in her free time and settled on a park bench, skillfully crocheting yarn into neat, colorful granny squares, fully absorbed in her work.

Life wanted Bucky to pass through the park on his way home, hands stuffed in his pockets, with his troubled mind preoccupied with dark thoughts, a product of a grueling therapy session. But then he saw her, sitting just across the path and he halted. There she was, peaceful and intent on her project, just as she’d been all those years ago. Back then, he’d only dared to steal quick, curious glances, being a silent observer bound by his handler’s whims. But today, seeing her absorbed in those same small stitches, he felt an undeniable urge to bridge the distance between them. It took him a moment to remind himself that he was free to walk over, to break the silence himself. He took a breath, then walked toward her.

When his shadow fell over her work, she looked up, and her eyes widened with recognition. “Oh!” she said, surprised, but quickly smiled, recovering from the initial shock. “Hey, stranger.”

He felt a small, tentative smile come through despite himself. “Hey,” he murmured. His gaze flickered down to the granny squares arranged on her lap. “I’m interrupting? You just looked focused.”

She chuckled, lifting the half-formed square to show him. “Not at all; it’s my therapy, I guess. Helps me unwind.” Then, after a beat, she patted the space beside her. “Want to join me for a bit?”

He hesitated briefly before nodding. “Yeah… yeah, I’d like that.” Then he sat down.

Neither spoke for a while, just content to share the moment under the sun. Then, she glanced over at him. “You know, I never got the chance to thank you properly… for that day at the parlor, it meant a lot.”

He looked up, with a hint of surprise in his expression, then shrugged slightly, as a modest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t need thanking. But… you’re welcome.”

She smiled back, and that gesture eased something tense in his chest. He swallowed, gathering his thoughts, as his fingers traced the line of his glove. The moment felt right, and finally, he broke the silence. “There’s, uh… something I’ve been wanting to tell you.” He glanced down at his hands, stilling his thumb over his gloved palm. “If… if you’ve got some time.”

She paused, looking at him with a hint of curiosity, resting her hands on her project. “Of course.”

He sighed heavily as if exhaling years of hesitation. Slowly, deliberately, he began tugging at the glove on his left hand, peeling it off to reveal the metallic gleam beneath the fabric. The sun's soft light caught on the intricate panels and joints, giving the hand an almost otherworldly sheen.

Her hands stilled, and the yarn was left forgotten in her lap. Her eyes widened briefly as she took it in. At first, she assumed it was just a particularly advanced prosthesis. But then he flexed his fingers, and the subtle, fluid movement was far too precise, too seamless for any ordinary piece of tech. And then everything clicked. She’d seen that hand -arm- before, on news reports and grainy footage, the infamous name whispered in fear, The Winter Soldier. But alongside that news had been another truth: the revelation that he’d been a victim, conditioned to act against his will. A mere puppet of Hydra’s schemes. A human pet trained to secure their darkest ambitions.

Her gaze softened, with a mix of understanding and sorrow replacing her initial shock. She didn’t flinch or retreat. Instead, she studied his face, the way his jaw tensed, and how his shoulders braced as if he expected her to pull away. She hesitated, hovering her hand over his for a moment before gently resting it on his vibranium fingers. “Why are you showing me this?”

He stared at her hand, as if the touch was foreign to him, something he didn’t know how to accept. Finally, he sighed, the weight of the confession was evident in the way his shoulders slumped. “Because,” he began “almost nine years ago, you worked as a nanny for a family that went by Pierce.”

Her brow furrowed, surprised that he’d brought up something from so long ago, also puzzled by how he could possibly know. Only a handful of people had ever been in that apartment, and none of them had been a man with a metal arm.

“How… how do you know that?” she asked, trying to keep her tone neutral, though a thousand questions began to swirl in her mind.

“They told you I was security detail,” he said, watching her closely. “Some faceless bodyguard lurking in the shadows. Except it wasn’t exactly… just that.” His voice softened, with a hint of remorse lacing each word.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she tried to connect the dots. She then remembered the quiet figure who’d kept to the periphery, masked, rigid and composed, an entire presence veiled in secrecy. His silence had unnerved her at first, but soon, it had become as much a part of the background as the furniture in the apartment. “You’re- that was- you were-” The realization dawned slowly, and her hand covered involuntarily her mouth as the pieces slid into place.

He nodded, not breaking eye contact. “I couldn’t say anything back then. Couldn’t even… react on my own accord. But I remember you. I remember the little things you did. The treats you left, the music… your hobby.” His gaze fell briefly to her hands, where her current project lay forgotten. “It was… one of the only kindnesses I knew, back then.”

She stared, absorbing the weight of his confession, piecing together the faint memories of that silent figure in the shadows, the one she’d tried to reach in small, gentle ways. The realization that the man in front of her, the Winter Soldier, was him left her feeling so sad, revealing a hidden, tragic depth.

“So… you were there, but you weren’t allowed to… be you,” she said softly, the words tumbling out as she tried to grasp it all.

“Yeah,” he murmured, almost a sigh. “There’s a lot of shit I’m still sorting through, but… I couldn’t shake the thought of telling you. What you did back then,” he paused, his voice dipping to a whisper, “it meant more to me than you ever know.”

She looked down, and her heart caught at the tone of his words. Before she could respond, he cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck with a bit of hesitation.

“Look,” he started, and she noticed his ears had turned a faint shade of red. “I, uh… don’t want to scare you off here. I get it if you think I’m coming on too strong, or if this seems… creepy.” He shifted, holding her gaze. “But I wanted to ask if maybe you’d like to… if you’d want to get a coffee sometime… or, I don’t know, maybe dinner?” A hint of nervousness flickered in his blue eyes, and he broke into a self-conscious grin. “Unless that sounds like a terrible idea, in which case, we could also just… feed some ducks in the park or something,” he said, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. ‘Feeding ducks? Do people still even do that?’

Seeing him tripping over his words made her heart skip. Smiling, she let the silence linger for just a moment before nodding. “I’d like that, whatever you’d prefer, coffee, dinner… or even feeding the ducks.”

A noticing relief flooded his face, and his shoulders relaxed. He chuckled, and for the first time, she saw a glimpse of someone who had spent far too long hidden behind walls, someone who was finally allowing himself a chance to live.

-----

Saturday’s sunset hadn’t even fully settled in when Bucky found himself pacing toward the parlor, with the nerves buzzing under his skin. This was his first proper date since 1943, and he felt like a high school boy. An awkward, brooding, traumatized, and scarred high school boy. Great, he thought, glancing up at the swirling clouds that promised rain, thunder echoing faintly from afar. He checked his reflection in a nearby window, adjusting his collar, brushing a hand through his hair. The frown he caught staring back only made him feel more ridiculous.

He stepped into the shop and spotted her immediately, busying herself around the place, her brows knit in concentration. She didn’t notice him at first, but when she finally looked up, her eyes lit up in surprise.

“Oh, hey,” she said, smiling wide as she took him in.

“Hey,” he replied a little awkwardly, realizing he’d arrived early. Clearing his throat, he lifted the small bouquet, feeling hopeful and self-conscious as he handed them over. “Uh… these are for you.”

She blinked, clearly touched. “Bucky… thank you. They’re beautiful.” She inhaled the scent, and he could have sworn he saw a soft glow in her cheeks. Frank, was sitting behind the counter and watched the whole exchange, and Bucky saw how his usual skeptical gaze softened just a little at the sight of the flowers. For a moment, he felt like he’d earned a point of approval from the old man.

Just then, another roll of thunder echoed in the distance, making her glance up at him with a teasing smile. “You think we’ll beat the storm?”

He held out his arm, “Guess we’ll find out,” he said with a lopsided grin, trying to keep his cool despite the nerves.

And with that, they headed out, stepping into the evening together, the storm chasing them as they walked to the nearby bistro.

The rain came down fast and thick, a relentless curtain that left them drenched within seconds. They huddled under a small awning, Bucky grimacing as he realized he hadn’t even thought of bringing an umbrella -not that he owned one, anyway-. He glanced over at her, taking in the way her damp dress clung to her body. He raked a hand through his dripping hair, sighing.

“Didn’t see this coming,” he muttered, half to himself, half to her. “I’m… sorry.”

She blinked up at him, surprised. “Why are you apologizing for the weather?”

He shrugged, as a sheepish look crossed his face. “Guess I feel like I should’ve been prepared.” He shifted uncomfortably, feeling a little foolish for not planning better. “I could… call you a cab? We can try for another night.”

She gave him a tentative smile. “Or… if you want, my place is just upstairs from the parlor. You’re already here, and it’s warm. We could dry off and… watch a movie? Order some dinner?”

Bucky blinked, a bit taken aback. The invitation tugged at something deep and old-fashioned inside him. A woman who lived alone, inviting her date to her house at night... But then again, times had changed and so had he. He could feel the pull, that magnetic urge to spend a little more time in her company, and really, wasn’t that the whole point of tonight?

With a flicker of a smile, he nodded. “Yeah, that sounds nice.” He followed her through the rain-drenched streets, his boots splashing lightly in the shallow puddles until they reached the stairwell beside the parlor that led up to her apartment. She fumbled with her keys, glancing over her shoulder to flash him a quick, almost conspiratorial grin.

As they stepped inside, she chuckled, eyeing his soaked clothes. “I can get you some of Frank’s stuff to change into,” she offered, giving his drenched jacket a sympathetic look. “I do his laundry, so I’m sure we’ll find something that fits you. Just… don’t tell him.” She winked, with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Despite the cold clothes sticking to his skin, Bucky felt a warm chuckle bubble up. “I think I can keep a secret,” he said, playing along, as his gaze lingered on her smile a second longer than he meant to. There, surrounded by warm, mismatched furniture and soft, inviting blankets, he felt welcomed into a place that felt… real, lived on, totally opposite of his apartment.

"Sorry about the mess," she murmured, disappearing toward a small laundry room tucked around the corner.

Bucky gave a noncommittal grunt, following her with his gaze despite himself. He tried to focus on anything else, but the soaked dress clung to every inch of her body, tracing her silhouette in a way that made it impossible to look away. He found himself rooted to the spot, too aware of his heartbeat drumming harder than it should. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair. Get a grip, he told himself. Standing there in a small puddle, he felt more out of place than ever, and yet, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be anywhere else.

She returned a moment later with a bundle of clothes in her hands: a pair of worn pants that looked like they’d sit loose and just shy of his ankles, along with a white tank top and a blue flannel. “It’ll do for now, though, fair warning, he’s got about half your shoulders, so don’t blame me if the fit’s a bit... weird.”

Bucky accepted the clothes, glancing at the pants with a wry smile. “Weird’s fine,” he mumbled, grateful for anything dry but wondering if he’d end up looking like he’d raided a teenager’s closet.

Her laughter was light as she stepped back. “I’ll give you a minute to get changed,” she said, nodding toward a corner of the room. Then, she grabbed a set of fresh clothes for herself, giving him a quick nod before slipping off to the bathroom.

Once alone, Bucky looked down at the makeshift outfit. It was strange how easy she made things feel, and stranger still how much he found himself wanting to fit, if only for this evening.

Eventually, she emerged from the bathroom with a casual skirt and a matching blouse, feeling more comfortable, until her gaze landed on Bucky. He was leaning against the window, looking out at the rain-soaked street, lost in thought. The borrowed pants hung low on his hips, but it was the white tank top that made her brain stutter. It clung to him in a way that left little to the imagination, stretched taut across his broad chest, outlining every defined line of muscle. She could even make out the slight press of his nipples through the fabric, proof of the strain his frame put on the shirt that was clearly never made for him. She noticed the blue shirt he’d left folded on the table, and before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “Couldn’t make the flannel work?”

Bucky glanced over, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a self-conscious smirk. “Yeah… tried it,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “Didn’t quite fit.”

She quickly averted her gaze, trying to mask the impure thoughts racing through her mind as she gestured toward the bulky cabinet under the TV. “So… movie or board game?”

Bucky’s gaze lingered on her for a beat, soaking in the warmth of her place, and the coziness of being alone here with her. He felt a soft pull again, something that made him want to take another step closer, to reach out and-

“Let’s play,” he murmured, a bit roughly. Then, he gave her a slight smile. “Show me what you’ve got.”

They fell into the games as if nothing else existed. The hours slipped by unnoticed, each turn they took erased a little more of the self-consciousness they’d started with. Laughter broke through the usual stillness of her living room, paired with playful jabs and shameless victory dances as they bickered over the rules and accused each other of cheating.

At some point, she stopped worrying about how much she was watching him. It didn’t matter if her gaze lingered on the way his broad shoulders hunched with focus, or if she found herself distracted by a rare, soft chuckle he let slip when she pulled a fast one on him. And Bucky, for his part, began to let go of his usual reservations. Here, in her warm, cluttered living room with mismatched furniture, and board game boxes stacked by the couch, he felt no need to carry the weight of conversation or second-guess every gesture. He didn’t need to measure himself against the usual question of what was “normal” or “appropriate.”

As the night wore on, they were sitting on the floor, engrossed in another game, the coffee table cluttered with pieces and cards. The mood had shifted from playful to fiercely competitive. Both of them were leaning forward, so focused on the game that they barely noticed how close they’d become.

Amid a particularly tense round, she reached forward quickly to snatch one of his pieces. Bucky, acting on pure instinct, grabbed her wrist to stop her. But when doing so, his grip was a little too forceful, and before either of them could react, she lost her balance. She lurched forward, crashing into the coffee table as her hands scrambled for purchase and toppled over, knocking the game pieces everywhere.

Bucky froze, and his eyes went wide with shock as he realized what had happened. His heart raced against his ribs as guilt and embarrassment washed over his body.

“I’m so sorry,” he blurted with panic. His hand hovered near her, unsure whether to touch her or give her space. “I didn’t mean to- I didn’t think- are you okay?”

She sat up, a little dazed but unharmed. She managed to smile softly, trying to ease the tension. “I’m fine, really. Just… caught off guard.”

Bucky didn’t move from his spot, his entire body taut with self-reproach. He ran a hand through his hair, avoiding her gaze as he muttered more apologies. “I shouldn’t have- I didn’t mean to grab you like that.” His words tumbled over each other in a hurried mess.

Her eyes softened, and she quickly tried to reassure him, though she could see the increasing discomfort in his posture. “It’s fine,” she said calmly. “I’m alright, seriously. You didn’t hurt me.”

But Bucky wasn’t listening. The self-reproach was already spiraling in his mind, the usual inner monologue of guilt and doubt taking over. “I’m a fucking mess,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “I can’t even-”

She reached out slowly, touching his arm lightly to calm him. “It’s okay,” she said again, but she saw it happening, his retreat, and it made her heart sink. He was going to pull away. She could see it in his posture, the way his gaze avoided hers, the tension in his shoulders as if he was already preparing to leave.

Without thinking, without any plan, she blurted out the only thing that had been swirling around in her head since the moment they started this strange, unpredictable connection. "I like you."

The words hung in the air, louder than anything she’d ever said before, a sudden bomb dropped in the middle of their awkward standoff. Her breath caught in her throat as soon as they left her mouth, and her heart skipped a beat, the rush of adrenaline almost as strong as the surge of fear. She could already feel her cheeks heating, but she couldn’t take it back now.

Bucky’s head snapped up at her words, and the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly as he looked at her, stunned. For a moment, all he could do was stare at her, as if he were trying to make sense of what she’d just said.

“You- you like me.” he finally managed, his voice barely more than a whisper, slightly skeptical.

She smiled in a way that was both reassuring and a bit teasing. “Well, that was the whole point of accepting going on a date with you, right?” His gaze flickered up, surprised, as she continued, “Why do you think I’d say yes to your invitation in the first place? I was even down to feed ducks with you.” Her smile widened, trying to lighten the mood, and a bit of that earlier sparkle returned to his eyes.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he shook his head, with a mix of relief and amusement in his expression. “I thought maybe- I don’t know. Maybe you’d just be nice, humor me a little.”

She straightened up, putting on her best impression of an old-fashioned debutante. “Excuse you, but I don’t feed ducks with just any man, what kind of woman do you think I am?” The statement had him laughing, a deep, hearty laugh that made his eyes crinkle and his nose wrinkle in an adorable way, making her knees feel like jelly.

He held up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t realize I was asking for such an honor. Guess I’ll have to work my way up to that level of duck-feeding trust.”

Her heart pounded as she met his gaze, and managed to find her voice. “So… if you’re serious about making up for that offense,” she teased, “I might be open to… one little act of apology.”

He paused, and his eyes widened just a fraction as he took in her words. A small, amused smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and his gaze softened as he reached up, almost on instinct, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear with a featherlight touch.

“I… think I can manage that,” he murmured, in a warm, low tone. His thumb skimmed her cheek, brushing his fingers along her jaw as he leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to stop him. Then, finally, his lips touched hers, in a gentle and chaste gesture. When they broke apart, they stayed close, foreheads nearly touching, neither quite ready to pull away. His hand lingered on her face, grazing his thumb on her cheek as he whispered, “Is that enough to earn back your trust, or do I still have some work to do?”

She laughed softly, “I think… that was a pretty good start.” Then she bit her lip, leaning further into his touch, “Though, maybe…” she whispered, her voice dropping to a daring, playful note, “you might have to put in a bit more effort to repair the affront on my reputation.”

He didn’t need any further invitation. His hand slipped around the back of her head, as he pulled her close, capturing her mouth with a force that made her knees feel weak. This wasn’t the gentle, tentative kiss from before; this was raw, heated, as though he was pouring all the things he couldn’t say into the way his lips moved against hers.

His mouth parted, and his tongue slid against hers, drawing a soft, involuntary moan from her lips. She melted against him, her hands finding his shoulders and gripping tight. He angled his head then, deepening the kiss, brushing the back of her neck with his thumb as he sensually assaulted her mouth.

When he finally broke away, his burning gaze met hers, and he managed a rough, breathless murmur, “Was that… enough effort?”

Her cheeks heated, her voice barely a whisper. “Yeah, that’ll… do.” But the playful smile on her lips told him she wasn’t entirely ready to let go either.

Bucky’s hand slid around her waist, pulling her closer, whispering her name, low and reverent, as he trailed kisses along her jaw and down her neck, each warm breath sending shivers over her skin. Her fingers wove into his hair, her other hand tracing the rough line of stubble along his jaw. Slowly, she tugged him up, and their lips met again in another heated kiss.

The world around them seemed to fade entirely, the patter of rain on the window was the only sound other than their breathless murmurs. His lips were hot and demanding against hers, his hand firm on her waist as he eased them both down to the plush carpet. The scattered board game pieces were forgotten, pressing into their knees and elbows as they moved together, desperate and unrestrained.

Bucky’s vibranium fingers brushed up her side, cool and deliberate, as his other hand still cupped the back of her head to angle her closer. His lips left hers, trailing down her throat, nipping at the sensitive skin just above her collarbone as his hand slid beneath her blouse, fingertips tracing patterns along her skin.

Her hands roamed over his shoulders and his back, as she tugged him closer, her nails grazing just enough to make him hiss. His breathing was uneven “Tell me-,” He rasped, voice thick with need, “Tell me you want this.”

She reached for his face, tracing her fingers along the rough line of stubble in his jaw. “I do.”

Bucky’s lips crashed onto hers, drinking in every soft gasp she gave him. His weight pressed her down against the plush carpet as his hand slid up the curve of her thigh beneath her skirt. The soft fabric bunched under his touch, as his fingers brushed higher until the cool air met her exposed skin. She shivered, but not from the chill. The vibranium hand moved to the buttons of her blouse, steady but reverent. One by one, the delicate closures came undone, and as the fabric fell away, and his knuckles brushed against the warm skin of her chest, drawing a quiet moan from her lips. When the blouse finally opened, he pulled back just enough to look at her, his heavy-lidded eyes dark with desire as his chest heaved with ragged breaths.

“God,” he murmured, his voice rough and full of want. The hand on her thigh squeezed gently, while his other hand grazed her exposed collarbone, slipping beneath the straps of her bra.

Her breath hitched as his fingers teased along the edge of the fabric before slipping it down her shoulder. His lips followed, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses that made her arch beneath him. The scrape of his stubble against her sensitive skin only heightened the sensations. His mouth moved lower, dragging over the curve of her breast until his lips hovered above the thin lace of her bra.

She gasped as he nipped lightly through the fabric, licking promptly to soothe the sting. “Bucky,” she whispered, her voice trembling, filled with need.

His gaze flicked up to hers as his hand came up to cup her other breast, his thumb brushed over her nipple through the lace, drawing a soft, breathy moan from her, and then repeated the motion, this time circling the stiffened peak with a deliberate slowness that had her squirming beneath him.

Her hips shifted instinctively, brushing against his, and that’s when she felt his erection, pressing insistently against her thigh through the loose fabric of his borrowed pants, and she arched into him, slipping her hands beneath his tank top to trace the hard planes of his chest.

“Feel what you do to me?” he rasped, his voice breaking as her fingers trailed lower, tracing the edge of his waistband.

Her answer was a breathless kiss, open and hungry, her teeth tugging lightly at his lower lip before her tongue swept into his mouth. He groaned against her, pressing his hips against hers in a slow, deliberate grind that made them both gasp with want.

The friction between them built as his hand moved from her breast, sliding down her side to grip her hip. He tugged her leg higher around his waist, pressing himself more firmly against her. Her nails scraped lightly down his back as he thrust his hips again, and the pressure of his cock against her clothed clit sent sparks of pleasure through her body.

“Please,” she whispered, a needy, whiney sound.

He stilled for a heartbeat, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes, and his lips curled into a sly smirk. “I need you to use your words, doll,” he murmured, voice gravelly and thick with desire.

Her cheeks heated, and the weight of his tired gaze made her shy for just a moment. But the throbbing between her thighs burned hotter than her embarrassment. She licked her lips and she found her voice, a little bolder now. “I… want you inside me.”

His smirk vanished, replaced by something darker, hungrier. He reached behind his neck to pull off his tank top in one swift motion.

The scars on his shoulder and chest caught the dim light, jagged reminders of everything he’d endured. Her fingers stilled against his chest, breath catching as she took him in. But there wasn’t fear or pity in her gaze, only awe, tenderness, and something that made his throat tighten.

“You’re so handsome,” she murmured, leaning forward to press her lips to his collarbone. Her kisses trailed across his skin, soft and reverent, lingering on the edge of a scar.

The last of his self-consciousness melted away at her touch, and he growled softly, pushing her back down onto the carpet. His vibranium hand wrapped around her wrists, pinning them above her head with just enough pressure to make her breath hitch.

“You’re so pretty, you know that?” he said, brushing his lips on her ear as his free hand slid down her body. He traced the curve of her waist, hooking his fingers into the waistband of her panties. Her breath hitched as his hand dipped beneath the fabric, teasing her, tracing slow circles over her clit with controlled and deliberate movements as if savoring every little sound she made.

“So wet for me,” he murmured, lips ghosting over her jaw before pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “All for me, huh?”

“Bucky,” she gasped, bucking her hips against his hand.

“Patience, doll, I’m a little… rusty.” he whispered, as his fingers slid lower, parting her folds and slipping inside her. Her moan was like music to his ears, her body arching beneath him as he set a slow, maddening rhythm.

She writhed against him, and her breathless gasps and whispered pleas spurred him on. He watched her intently with a dark and focused gaze, seeking each stroke and curl inside her that made her moan, learning what made her gasp his name like a prayer.

Her hands twisted above her head where his metal hand kept them pinned, and her thighs trembled as her body moved instinctively against his. "That's it," he murmured, his lips brushing over her neck. "Let me hear you. Tell me what feels good."

A strangled cry escaped her lips as his fingers found just the right spot, and his thumb brushed over her clit in perfect tandem. Her hips bucked against his hand, chasing the pleasure he gave her. Her voice was breathless, broken as she moaned, "Right there- oh! God, right there."

His tongue traced the shell of her ear “Got you, sweetheart. Just let go for me.”

She shattered beneath him moments later, tipping her head back as the waves of her release washed over her body. Her cries filled the room, mingling with the rhythm of the rain outside. Bucky felt the tight coil of his own restraint loosen at the sight of her release. Any lingering self-doubt evaporated, replaced by the raw satisfaction of knowing he’d done that, that he’d learned her, that he’d given her this.

He slowed his movements, easing her down gently, still stroking her as she trembled beneath him. When her breathing steadied, he brought his hand to his lips, his gaze never leaving hers as he licked his fingers clean, savoring her taste with a low groan.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly under his gaze. “Rusty, huh?” she murmured with a shaky laugh.

With a grin, he shifted, fumbling to rid himself of his pants. But as he pushed up onto his knees, something sharp jabbed into him, and he froze.

“Son of a-“ He hissed, lifting his knee and finding a pointy plastic game piece stuck underneath it. He held it up between two fingers, glaring at the offending object like it had personally insulted him. “Seriously?”

She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh, but the sparkle in her eyes gave her away. “That’s what happens when you’re too eager and don’t clear the battlefield first.”

“A battlefield, huh?” he grumbled, tossing the offending piece aside with a flick of his wrist. Despite his frustration, the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying a suppressed grin.

He stood quickly, tugging his pants down with a low, irritated huff. Her gaze lingered on his body, and her breath caught as her eyes traced every line of his body, every mark that told a story he didn’t always want to remember.

The heat in his expression faltered for just a second, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through his gaze, but it was gone as quickly as it came, and his lips twitched in a self-conscious smirk. Climbing back on top of her, he didn’t hesitate as her hands slid up his arms, guiding him closer. Her lips found his pulse point, trailing lower to the curve of his collarbone. When her lips brushed over a jagged scar, he exhaled sharply, and his hand caught her chin, tilting her face toward his.

“You’re dangerous, you know that?” he rasped.

Her eyes gleamed with mischief as her lips curled into a teasing smile. “I thought we’d already established this was a battlefield,” she whispered.

“Well… I’m not exactly known for doing sloppy jobs while battling sweetheart” he countered, and with one swift movement, he ripped the seams of her panties and guided himself with one hand, pressing lightly the thick tip of his cock against her slick entrance. Slowly, deliberately, he dragged it up and down her folds, catching on her clit with every pass. Her hips jerked against him, and a breathless moan escaped her lips. “You’re so ready for me,” he murmured, as he pressed himself harder against her, the friction almost too much. “Think you can take all of me, doll?”

“Well, I guess we’ll never know if you don’t-”

A satisfied smirk tugged at his lips before he eased into her slowly, inch by thick inch, interrupting her sass with a gasp that turned into a long, broken moan as he filled her completely. He groaned, pressing his forehead to hers as he stilled for a moment, letting her adjust to his size.

He started slow, rolling his hips into hers with a cautious rhythm, his breath hot against her neck as he groaned softly with each thrust. Her body arched beneath him, meeting him as best she could, though the stretch of his cock left her gasping.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he murmured with roughed voice, as his lips brushed her temple.

Her hands clutched at his shoulders, and beneath her, the scattered cards and pieces dug into her back, but the discomfort was barely registered through the haze of pleasure coursing through her body.

“Bucky…” she whimpered, scrapping, her nails lightly against his skin as she clenched around him, lifting her hips to grind them against his.

“Hold on, doll,” he rasped, sliding his hand behind her thigh, lifting her leg higher to hook it around his waist. The new angle sent a lightning bolt of pleasure through her body, and she cried out, throwing back her head as he thrust deeper, harder.

“God, look at you,” he groaned, as his dog tags swayed with each movement. The faint metallic clink added to the symphony of their labored breaths and the rain tapping against the window.

She couldn’t think as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through her body. Her fingers tightened in his hair, and the sharp tug sent a low, primal growl rumbling through his chest. He shifted, sliding his arm beneath her other thigh, resting the back of her knee on his inner elbow, thrusting deeper, harder, making her cry out, arching her back as he drove her closer to the edge. “That’s it,” he rasped, his voice rough and commanding. Her nails scraped against the rug beneath her, trying desperately to find some kind of anchor as her body writhed beneath him. “You feel so damn good,” he muttered, finding her mouth with his in a searing kiss as he continued to take her apart.

Sensing he wouldn’t last much longer, Bucky shifted slightly, sneaking his metal hand between their bodies. The coolness of vibranium against her overheated skin sent a jolt through her hips, and then his fingers found her clit. He circled it with slow, deliberate strokes, pulling a sharp gasp from her lips. But he wasn’t done. Shifting slightly, he slowly pressed his index finger at her entrance, sliding it inside alongside his cock. The new stretch made her gasp again, arching her back at an impossible angle against him.

“Bucky!” she cried, her voice breaking on his name.

He froze for a fraction of a second, giving her time to adjust, before driving his finger in knuckle-deep. The motion coaxed a pleasured cry from her lips as he curled the digit, pressing into that spot deep inside that made her see stars.

His thumb resumed its work on her clit, circling in time with the thrust of his hips and the curling of his finger. Her cries grew louder, and louder, each sound spurring him on.

“You’re so perfect like this,” he muttered, pressing his forehead against hers, his breath hot and uneven on her skin as he continued to work her over. “Falling apart for me.”

Her nails dug into his shoulders and back, the only thing grounding her as she spiraled closer to the edge. The combination of his relentless thrusts, the pressure on her clit, and the maddening stretch inside her finally shattered her. She cried out, and her entire body trembled with pleasure as the climax ripped through her body, blinding and all-consuming.

Unable to hold on any longer, he groaned deeply as he felt her tighten around his shaft, her release dragging him quickly over his own edge. He withdrew his finger, gripping her hip as he buried himself inside her with one final thrust, spilling his hot seed on her welcoming pussy. His breath came in heavy pants against her skin, and his body kept shuddering with the force of his climax.

For a moment, the only sounds in the room were their ragged breathing and the faint patter of rain against the window. He shifted slightly, resting his forehead against hers while their bodies were still entwined.

She let out a soft, contented hum, tracing lazy patterns along his shoulder. “Again, Bucky, you call this being rusty?” she murmured, curling her lips into a smile, but before she could tease him further, his expression shifted slowly, a flicker of self-doubt breaking through the earlier confidence.

He ran a hand through his hair, and a faint blush crept up his neck. “That thing I did,” he started, hesitant, “with y’know, my finger-” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely. “Was that too much? Too… weird?”

Her lips parted in surprise, but then a small, warm smile curved them. “Weird? Bucky…” She leaned in, resting her hand on his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heart beneath her palm. “It wasn’t too much. It was… creative.” She chuckled softly, her cheeks heating at the memory. “Unexpected, yeah. But in the best way.”

His brow furrowed, still caught in his head. “I just didn’t know if- it felt right at the moment, but it’s been so long since I-”

She interrupted him with a light kiss, sliding her hand to cup his jaw. “It was right,” she said firmly, locking her gaze on his. “Don’t overthink it. Just… trust me when I say you don’t have anything to worry about.” Her lips quirked into a teasing smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have pointy things prickling at my ass.”

Bucky blinked, and then his eyes darted to the floor around them, suddenly remembering the scattered game pieces and cards beneath her. “Shit,” he muttered, immediately shifting off her. “Sorry, doll, hold on.”

He backed off her quickly, rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes darted between the scattered cards and her disheveled state.

“Relax. I was a little… preoccupied with other things to notice.” She rolled onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow.

Still, he bent to pick up every piece around her, muttering about “pointy plastic landmines.” When he finished, he straightened and extended a hand to her, pulling her gently to her feet.

“I’ll make sure next time is on a battlefield… less hazardous,” he declared, quirking his lips into a small, self-conscious smile.

“Next time, huh?” she teased, brushing her fingers lightly over his chest. “Confident now, are we?”

Bucky’s grin grew, and a flicker of his earlier confidence returned to his factions. “I might be. If you’re not scared off by my… tactics.”

Her fingers continued to trail lightly along his chest, stopping just above his heart. “Not scared. Intrigued.”

Bucky bit his lip, and his eyes darkened with a renewed spark as he slipped his hand around the back of her head. With a gentle yet insistent pull, he drew her closer, capturing her lips in a sensual kiss. Outside, the rain continued with its soft and unrelenting rhythm, a distant soundtrack to the moment they shared, where nothing else mattered but the heat of their kiss.

Just in case someone is interested, this is the song that inspired the story.

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[honeekyuu]

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

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

or

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

series status: [ongoing]

taglist: [open]

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

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

previous. || masterlist. || next.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I made it, I made it.”

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

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

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

“Cup, please, Y/n – I’m dying.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Akaashi chokes on pop-tart crumbs.

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

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

“I didn’t!”

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

“It was… fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay, then I’ll get a sweater.”

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

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

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

“Order?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good luck,” he mumbles.

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

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

“O…kay. And then?”

He shrugs. “Bed? Sex?”

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

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

“It registered while you were talking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you staring at my ass?”

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow. “... ‘Kay.” 

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

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

You like men like that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, right.

Right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, I’m- I’m gonna-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And does he feel the same?

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

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

“Okay, I see what you mean.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not what you think-”

“So, you’re not an exhibitionist?”

“Not a big one!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You purse your lips. “Green.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Need to set up?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You callin’ me smart, baby?”

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

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

“How’s this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stops, just hovering over you silently.

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

“I told you to look at me.”

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

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

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

‘Is it alright if I’m a little mean?’

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

If he wants you to cry, you’ll cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit,” he whispers. “That was-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe you should eat the pop-tart.”

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

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

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

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

“No. I just don’t like them.”

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

“You’re stupid-”

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

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

He grimaces. “Boring.”

“Get out of my house, Akaashi-”

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

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

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

“We’ll make it back soon enough.”

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shockingly, I still managed it.”

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

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

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

The compliment is magically negated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I should go.”

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

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

“Okay.” You nod. “See you then.”

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

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

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

[1:24 PM]

Akaashi: dont forget to cover your hickies tonight

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

You: youre such a dick.

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s what Kuroo has left, too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

God bless Kuroo Tetsurou.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants to make you nervous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, he thinks he’s turned on, too.

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

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

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

He’s starting to understand why, tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bullshit.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It makes him want to do terrible things to you.

“Careful, Y/n.”

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

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

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

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

“Akaashi! Y/n!” 

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

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

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

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

He swears loudly on the entire walk home.

–

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

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

Akaashi.

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

[11:16 PM]

You: whewred yiu go>?!?!

You: are yoim okai???

[11:59 PM]

You: akaaaaaashiiiii

You: whyaw didn yoo leave so sunddnly?

[12:39 AM]

You: at lest tellme if tju got ahaome safew

[9:19 AM]

Akaashi: im fine thanks

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

Whatever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare at the subject lines, your head swimming.

“Holy shit.”

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

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

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

That’s rent.

That’s rent.

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

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

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

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

You have money to make.

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/n!” 

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

“Hi, Kou – How was your Sunday?”

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

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

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

“Hi, Yachi.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

It happens again, only twenty minutes later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

Your phone buzzes on the desk.

[1:45 PM]

Akaashi: what is it?

Your heart jumps, and you type quickly.

You: nothing

Akaashi: you were going to knock

You: it’s fine

Akaashi: just tell me.

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

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

You: and my other stuff is making money now too

You: my rent for november is covered

You: so.. thanks ig

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

Akaashi: …

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

Akaashi: out loud? here?

Akaashi: really, y/n?

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

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

You type an angry response.

You: well i didnt DO it, did i?

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

Akaashi: excuse me?

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

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

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

Akaashi: yet you just LOVE to keep your windows open

Akaashi: dont you, y/n

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

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

You: not the privacy of someone else’s 

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

Akaashi: oh go to hell

You: see you there, freak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorr-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then why is he so adamant about keeping you?

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

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

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

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

“Shut up,” he hisses. “Shut up, Y/n-”

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

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

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

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

[2:36 PM]

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

You type back a quick response.

[2:41 PM]

You: yes omg sorry im omw now

Kou: PLEASE DONT BE FIGHTING WITH AKAASHIIIIII

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

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

“Walk fast and eat faster, then.”

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

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

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

–

Tuesday morning doesn’t go much better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe that’s why – even though you don’t have a single piece of criticism to give him – you open your mouth when he asks ‘Any questions?’ in that gentle tone you hate so much.

“I have one.”

Everyone’s head whips around to you, because you never speak during Akaashi Keiji’s Q&A session. 

But it’s Akaashi’s reaction that spurs you on. His eyes fly to yours when he hears your voice, and you watch shock, confusion, irritation, and – finally – vague interest flit across his face in a matter of milliseconds.

“Okay?” he says, the confusion slipping through in the uptick of his voice.

“Your proposed analysis – what are the implications it has for research testing native Korean speakers?”

He lifts one eyebrow, and you feel the room shift. 

“You’re asking me-” The other brow joins in now. “-how my research applies to yours?”

You clench your jaw, searching his gaze. He’d said it like he was offended, but you can see he’s pushing you. “I’m asking how your analysis can be used by other linguists in the field – not just to study the grammar of native Korean speakers theoretically, but to study the grammar empirically. With real data-”

“I have data-”

“You have judgments,” you snap. “Native Korean speaker judgments from your consultants. Two consultants, yes?” He nods, and you nod back. “Right. And you expect your two consultants’ individual grammars to speak systematically for the whole of the Korean grammar?”

It’s a cheap shot, but a valid one – for someone else. Not for Akaashi. You know this well enough, that the primary job of theoretical syntacticians is to formulate analyses and proposals of a language’s grammar. You know well enough that it’s not his job to figure out if his analysis will make the cut if tested with a large sample of speakers.

That’s your job. And the job of experimentalists more broadly. It’s your job to take his theory and prove it right or wrong. It’s only his job to craft his logic and evidence in a way that makes the argument worth proving.

And Akaashi knows that, too.

“What would you like me to do, Y/n?” he asks tightly. “Would you like me to run the experiment myself and put you out of a job?”

“Okay-” your advisor starts to cut in, but you speak over him.

“What about all the previous research, Akaashi? The research that’s tested syntactic analyses which differ from yours but still find supporting results? Would you like the field to throw all that away and believe you instead? How do you account for those findings? What’s the bigger picture?”

His eyes light up, molten hot. “What I’d like is a unified syntax of Korean case marking, which the field has been missing for decades. It’s up to someone like you to test my theory; it’s up to someone like me to take your results and update my analysis, over and over and over again until we get it right. That’s what linguistics is about.”

You lean forward, elbows digging into the wooden table. It’s quiet enough in the room that you can hear him breathing across the room, ragged and rough and irritated.

“If you want someone like me to go through the trouble of testing your theory, you should do a better job of convincing me it’s worth my time.” You glare hard at him, your heart skipping when you watch that wall come down. He looks exactly the same, poised and perfect and well-mannered, but his eyes betray how badly he wants to tell you exactly what’s on his mind. 

So you smile at him, cold and mocking, and push him over the edge. “Or else linguistics will move on without you.”

“Okay!” you advisor says, looking between you and Akaashi with wide eyes. “I think we get it, you two. Let’s move on to someone else, please – I’m too old for this.”

You stand quickly, the chair scraping across the floor, and barge from the room. 

“Y/n!” your advisor calls just as the door is slamming behind you. A moment later, you hear his voice again, muffled. “Keiji!”

The door swings open, and the sound of the lab erupting in chaos echoes through the hall, your advisor’s ‘okay, okay, settle down everyone-’ muted by the door shutting again.

“What the hell is your problem?” Akaashi bites behind you, and you glance back while you walk, finding him stalking after you. You roll your eyes, heading for your office. 

“You heard my problem. Your research is isolated and inapplicable-”

“Inapplicable-”

“Goodbye, Akaashi,” you snap, unlocking the door and shouldering your way inside. You throw it shut behind you, but his hand slams down on the wood, startling you. You whirl around with wide eyes and watch him slam the door, the frosted glass window rattling from the force. The two of you are left in the silence of your office, both of your breaths audible in the space between you.

“Inapplicable?” he hisses again, eyes glinting.

“What do you want me to say, Akaashi?” you bark, letting him get in your face. “You want me to just ignore that you’re not thinking about the consequences of your own research?” You poke him hard in the chest. “If you don’t take responsibility for the work you’re putting out into the field, then don’t expect me to be okay with fumbling to use your grammar to explain my data.”

He pushes forward, cornering you against your desk. “That’s exactly what your job is, Y/n. It’s your responsibility to figure out what speakers are doing, just like it’s my responsibility to figure out how to explain that. And you’re not stupid enough to believe otherwise. We need each other-”

“No, what I need-” You stand tall, feeling his breath mingle with yours in the space between your lips. “-is to not be handed another ‘grammar of Korean’ that’s been decreed into a fucking void.”

He doesn’t say a word, just letting his eyes flit between yours angrily. He’s breathing hard, just as hard as you are, and his eyebrows are twitching as he glares down at you. You hold your ground, whispering an admission to him.

“You might be a genius, Akaashi, but you really need to be put in your place sometimes.”

You watch in real time as his demeanor changes.

The anger drains from his body language and his face, leaving him with shock and a lip that’s curling in amusement as he stares down at you with wide eyes.

“Oh, is that right?” he breathes. “And-what? You think you’re gonna do that for me?” You start to protest, but he just takes a step forward, sudden and forceful, and you take a surprised seat on the desk with a gasp. He towers over you, that smile dangerous. “You really think you can do that, Y/n? When you aren’t even confident enough in your own work?”

Your brows furrow, offended. “What-”

“With your shy little smile and your uncertain little laugh when you present to the lab-” he whispers, breath fanning over you as you stare up at him. “With that fucking look you get in your eye,” he growls under his breath. “Like you don’t know what to make of your own research. Of your own skills. Makes me fucking sick.”

You try to stand, but he just leans down, planting his hands on either side of you. His nose brushes yours, and his eyes fill with a heat that isn’t anger. It’s something else, and you can’t place it.

He lifts his eyebrows. “You think you can put me in my place? That would mean we’re on the same level, wouldn’t it? Is that what you’re saying?” When you don’t respond, he speaks slower, like he’s talking down to you. 

“Are you a genius, too, Y/n?”

You scowl at him. “I’m not beneath you, Akaashi. I never have been.”

He shifts, and you finally place it – that heat in his eyes, the one that burns through you and makes your heart race.

It’s excitement.

It excites him to fight with you like this.

And the smile that stretches across his face, tinged with what you can only describe as pride, is starting to excite you, too. Because fighting with him feels good. Because you can see that it makes him feel good, too. It feels good to be pushed like this, to show someone else who you really are and be accepted for that, good or bad. 

Especially the bad. 

This may be the first time you’ve ever been glad that Akaashi Keiji treats you differently.

He steps impossibly closer to you, and you find your thighs parting to let him into the space before you can realize it. His smile grows, and his breath hitches in time with the lurch of anticipation that fills you, because he’s leaning down over you, forcing you to collapse back onto your elbows.

“If you’re a genius, Y/n,” he whispers, carding his fingers ever so gently through your hair. You shudder, chest heaving with a gasp when he pulls taut, fisting your hair painfully in his hand. His eyes twinkle with that terrifying excitement that makes your veins sing for him, and you’re distantly aware that he’s hard against your inner thigh. “Then I want you to fucking act like it.”

The shaky breath you let out is laced with a moan, and his gaze flies down to your lips, his smile stretching into something wild and wicked. He meets your eyes again, that blue-green gaze piercing when he asks–

“Do you think you can do that?”

You shiver, the reaction visceral and entirely visible to him. He smiles and whispers ‘I thought so’, his breath forming goosebumps on your skin.

And then there’s a hard knock on your office door.

“Y/n?” your advisor calls, his blurry shadow visible through the window as he stands just on the other side of the door – on the other side of the terribly compromising position Akaashi has you in on your desk.

Your breath catches, and you struggle against him. “Akaashi-”

He pulls you up quickly with wide eyes, and you both frantically fix your appearances in silence for the half-second it takes you to call ‘It’s open!’ to the door. Akaashi latches onto your arm and drags you forward in a panic, stepping behind you to partially shield himself from view – you have to keep from snickering, because the door’s being pushed open cautiously. 

Your advisor stands in the doorway, examining the two of you with wary eyes. “Are you both alive and in one piece?”

You and Akaashi nod. “Sorry for storming out like that,” you say. “I was… a bit heated.”

The old man snorts. “Oh, really? I couldn’t tell. We had to end early because no one could focus.” He looks over your head at Akaashi. “And you left all your stuff in the lab. Were you heated, too?”

Akaashi clears his throat. “Uh… a bit?”

Your advisor sighs and shakes his head. “I’m gonna start putting you two through hell if you don’t cut it out. Force you to say nice things about each other, or look into each other’s eyes for a full minute, or something.” 

You laugh nervously. “We’re fine. Sorry.”

He rolls his eyes but moves on. “Did you both apply for Ling Expo? We talked about it in the meeting, but some members of the group went missing.”

You flush, shifting your weight. Akaashi’s fingers find the back of your shirt, tugging you back to where you were so he can remained covered. 

“Yes,” he says behind you. “I submitted the abstract last week.” 

You nod in agreement. “Me, too.”

The man sighs, nodding back. “We’re all going again this year, so make sure to block the weekend of November 15th off.” You both make noises of understanding, and he takes a moment to look between you. His eyes narrow as he examines you, and then Akaashi over your head, and then you again. He purses his lips and hums. “There’s something about this situation that makes me want to make you leave this door open, but I’m not your father, so…” 

A rush of heat washes over you, and Akaashi coughs awkwardly behind you. 

“Are you allowed to say that?” he mumbles, and your advisor throws his head back, giving a belly laugh as he shakes his head. 

“It’s none of my business what you two get up to in your free time.”

You chuckle nervously. “Are you allowed to say that?”

His laugh, loud and booming and satisfied, can be heard down the hall long after he’s gone.

–

Keiji collapses into his chair, slumping down over his desk and burying his face in his folded arms.

“Fuck,” he groans, muffled and inaudible outside of himself. He thumps a fist on the desk twice, overwhelming embarrassment flooding every cell in his body.

What the hell was he thinking, cornering you against your desk like that? Why is he entirely incapable of containing himself when he’s alone with you? What had you done to him – what witchcraft has taken hold over him?

When he’d woken up on Sunday, he’d spent several hours in a puddle of dread, unmoving from his bed as he’d stared at the ceiling and contemplated what to do. He’d chalked most of his behavior from the party up to the alcohol, but he also knows himself well enough to know that he’d only acted that way because those feelings – those desires that had been threaded under his skin – were lingering somewhere unreachable inside him.

He’d decided by the end of the day that he would need to overcompensate in order to keep your mutual friends from catching on to the fact that there’s a live wire inside him that sparks dangerously every time he even so much as thinks about you. He would need to be more detached than ever if he were to stand any chance of keeping this arrangement with you a secret.

And then he’d overdone it, in that cafe yesterday morning. He’d ignored you deliberately, and he could feel almost instantly when your energy had shifted. And when he’d seen you pass by his class, he’d been a mix of surprised – because seeing you had thrown his heart into his throat and had scattered his thoughts like loose paper – and desperate not to let his students see that he’d lost his train of thought. So he’d scowled at you like you were the last thing he’d ever want to see, and, in the midst of rattling off knowledge that’s been sitting idly in the back of his mind for years, he’d felt a twinge of regret that he’d reacted that way.

And he’d known that you were coming to check in on him. He’d known – by the way you’d lingered at his door, by the way your weight had shifted, by the way your steps had sounded so uncertain – that you were confused. That you wanted to know why he was acting this way. But he’d felt an overwhelming panic at the idea that you might be able to sense his real feelings for what they are – that you’d be able to see just by looking at him that he’s almost concerningly attracted to you. So he’d lashed out over text, and then he’d lashed out at the elevator bay, because even when you’d called him an ‘icy bitch’, all he could focus on was the snarky edge to your voice and how badly he’d wanted to smother it.

When you’d threatened – emptily, but anxiety-inducing nonetheless – to put this arrangement to bed and move on from him, he’d lost his mind in that stairwell. He’d lost his mind, and he’d let his nerves show. And you’d latched onto them instantly, because, as he’s coming to learn, you can read him a little too well.

And that’s terrifying.

It’s terrifying to wonder, in a room full of all of Keiji’s peers – in front of his own advisor, for fuck’s sake – if his attraction to you when you level him with that challenging glare is as palpable to everyone else as it is to him.

It’s terrifying to wonder if you can see what a confused, muddled mess of a man he’s become since sleeping with you. Ricocheting between wanting you and hating you and somewhere right in the middle, where he feels both.

He’s found himself in that middle ground often over the last 48 hours.

And then he’d cornered you against your desk, not even ten minutes ago, and bullied you to your limit – forcing the admission of your own capabilities from your lips like psychological torture, entirely unable to hide how much that had excited him. How much it had affected him, watching you fold like that for him. 

But you’d shown yourself to him, too. You’d shown him how excited you’d gotten when you’d realized how he was feeling. You’d shown him that this terrible, confusing knot of uncontainable want that twists in his gut when he meets your eyes– 

It’s mutual.

And that – that is more dangerous than anything before it.

Keiji sits up, hands shaking slightly as he presses circles into his temples and leans back in his chair. He slides his laptop in front of him and opens it, navigating to the site for Ling Expo in order to clear his thoughts.

A small part of a much larger conference event that hosts multiple different departments all engaging in their own specialized events for three days straight, Ling Expo is held every year in mid-November and boasts the largest gathering of linguistic scholars in the whole of Japan.

At least, that’s what it says on the home page when he scrolls through it.

In reality, the LEM members – all students of his advisor – are carted away for a weekend to Tokyo’s largest hotel and conference center, regardless of whether or not any of them are presenting. He gets out of a Friday of teaching and spends three days networking, and – luckily – hanging out with his friends, because every department at this university has a group that goes.

Thankfully, it’s all paid for by the university. And, hopefully, he might not find himself in any weird academic standoffs with you this year. The two of you had always been careful not to let your rivalry become clear externally, because that reeks of a lack of professionalism, but there was always something that would tip the weekend into a mess of underhanded comments and awkward encounters in the extensive buffet line.

Maybe this time, things would be different.

Well, things are already different, so he’s not really fooling himself with this positive thinking. Because different could be good or bad.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket, and he closes the tab for Ling Expo while he extracts it. It’s a text sent to the group chat of the larger friend group, only ever used when Bokuto’s too impatient to text both of his smaller groups.

[12:17 PM]

Bokuto: DID YOU GUYS SEE THERES A NEW CLUB OPENING TODAY???? 

Bokuto: WE H A V E TO GO!!!!

Keiji sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The last thing he needs is to get caught in another terrifying encounter with you, especially at some crowded club with all his friends there to witness it, but he knows how Bokuto can get when he’s told no. So he just opens his calendar, checking what else he would have had planned tonight.

There’s nothing, but there is something for tomorrow night that catches his eye and makes his heart lurch.

‘Research Updates’ is blocked off from 8pm to midnight, seemingly innocuous. Just as it had been on Saturday morning, from 8am to noon.

He sighs, staring down at the scheduled time. Is that still happening? Surely, it would be, right? 

But, things between you the last two days had been anything but cordial. And you had threatened to end the arrangement, even if it had been empty. 

You text the group chat back, an agreement to go, and he sighs quietly.

He supposes he can go, too.

–

The booming music pounds in Keiji’s head as he squints around in the dark. There’s a pair of hands on his shoulders, guiding him through a sea of people he would rather not be pressed into at the moment. He’s glad he’d decided to change into jeans and a t-shirt, because the slacks-button-down combo would have him soaked in sweat already.

And he’s especially glad you decided to change into a slinky black dress that he never would have guessed that you would own. You’re pushing through the crowd just in front of him now, and he’s sneaking glances down at you as the group fights to find an empty booth.

“There!” Bokuto eventually yells, stretching one of the hands on Keiji’s shoulder out over the distance, locating a singular empty booth. Keiji flinches at the noise, but he follows after you, anyway. You’ve got two hands on Yachi, who has two hands on Kuroo, who has two hands on Tsukishima, who’s complaining while he parts the crowd with his massive frame and leads the group to the table.

Keiji contemplates putting two hands on you, too, because it’s objectively most efficient for keeping the group together. But he doesn’t know how you’ll react – not after his total lapse in judgment in your office earlier. He doesn’t know if you even want him to touch you, now that your head’s probably a bit clearer than it’d been while you’d been trapped under him.

But then there’s a rush of people bumping into him, and he loses you for a moment, so he reaches out as soon as he finds you again – he justifies it as listening to instructions, because Bokuto’s screaming ‘Grab onto her, Akaashi!’ in his ear.

His hands slide across your waist, and a shiver runs down his spine at how you feel under his fingers. You jump at the contact and glance back in panic, probably thinking he’s some weird stranger trying to make a move. When you see it’s just him, you relax a little, but then your eyes fill with nerves, and you’re whipping your head back around to face away from him.

The crowd sways and shifts, forcing the line of you to bunch up in order to not be separated. Bokuto stumbles forward at some point, propelling Keiji right into you. You yelp, tripping, but he catches you, hauling you back against his chest. His breath catches and his heart rate picks up at the feeling of you pressed against him – your perfume wafts over him, and he finds himself leaning down close to your shoulder to breathe it in.

“What are you doing?” you hiss, tensing when his left hand subtly leaves the safety of your waist and slides around you, nestling you back against him more.

“Nothing,” he mumbles back, swallowing and retracting his hand back to your waist. “Just-nothing.”

You glance up at him, hearing his fumble, but it must be too dark to see the flush that spreads across his cheeks, because you only look forward again and focus on following Yachi. He examines you while the group nears the shockingly still-empty booth – he realizes your dress is riding up your thighs, likely from the stumbling and shoving that’s happening in this crowd right now. It rides up enough that he can see the lace edge of your pantyline, and he has to swallow hard, distracted by a memory of lace in other ways.

He reaches down, shielded by the dark, and tugs on the hem of your dress, pulling it back down over your ass. You yelp, looking up at him with alarm.

“Akaashi!” 

He shakes his head tightly, turning you back to the front and leaning down toward you. “Your ass was out – I was fixing it-”

You sigh loudly, turning your mouth to his ear. “You can’t just put your hands on me like that-”

“I can’t?” he bites, not an ounce of heat behind it. “You were fine with it earlier-” He grunts, because you’re driving an elbow into his gut.

“Dumbass,” you grumble, but he sees the warmth in your ears, and he smiles despite himself. 

Tsukishima reaches the table, and the six of you pile into the rounded booth that’s certainly not meant for six. Keiji’s chest presses against your shoulder, and you’re kind enough to angle your body with his so that you’re not digging into his chest painfully. Bokuto calls out across the table.

“I’ll get drinks!” He disappears back into the crowd, and Keiji wonders for a moment if Bokuto can carry enough drinks for six people. Kuroo seems to have the same thought, the man smacking Tsukishima on the arm and pointing out into the ocean of bodies.

“Go with him!”

The blond shakes his head forcefully. “No fucking way – you go!”

Kuroo groans but pushes Tsukishima out of the booth so he can stumble back into the crowd. Keiji relaxes with a sigh as the four of you left fill the booth more comfortably. Yachi starts rambling brightly to Tsukishima about the club, making comments about the music and the dancing. The blond just blinks back at her with empty, unseeing eyes, nodding occasionally. Keiji gets the feeling he can’t hear a word she’s saying.

You shift next to Keiji, your thigh bumping against his, and he finds himself tracing his gaze over your body while you look out at the dance floor. You feel him looking, and you glance up at him with a raised eyebrow. 

“Don’t tell me you’re about to ask me to dance,” you say, your voice barely audible to him. He just tilts his head and gives you a knowing look.

“I don’t dance, Y/n.”

“Oh, you’re so cool,” you mock, cooing at him. He narrows his eyes at you, excitement spilling into his body when he sees how you tense at the glare. It makes him feeler bold – bold, like he’d been in your office, even though he’d sworn to himself only moments after that he wouldn’t do that again.

He swears you’ve cast some sort of curse on him.

He brushes two fingers over your thigh, tugging at the hem of the dress before letting it snap back to your skin. “Where’d you get this?”

You warm, looking up at him with practiced disinterest, but he can feel when your breath changes. “I’ve had it forever.”

“I like it.”

You purse your lips, frowning up at him. “You’re being weird.”

“Am I?” he asks, letting those two fingers trace circles into your thigh and smiling when he feels the goosebumps on your skin. Your eyes flit around his face, and he can see that, under the confusion, there’s anticipation. You’re waiting for him to do something.

“Y/n, look!” Yachi yells next to you, and Keiji pulls his hand back into his lap. He watches as you try, still flustered by him, to follow your friend’s excited pointing into crowd. He tampers a satisfied smile, only pulling his gaze away from you.

It lands on Tsukishima, who’s watching Keiji blankly.

Keiji’s heart drops to his stomach.

The blond flicks his eyes between the two of suspiciously, and then his gaze drops to Keiji’s throat, because he’s swallowing nervously. Tsukishima lifts both eyebrows and then looks away, returning to Yachi’s excited monologue about the well-planned design of the club architecture and decor.

Keiji’s skin hums with adrenaline and anxiety. What is he supposed to do if Tsukishima questions him? Or worse – tells Kuroo?

As if summoned by the devil, Bokuto and Kuroo reappear – they’re holding two trays of shot glasses each, and Keiji stares in shock as Bokuto lines up five shots in front of Keiji.

“Those are for you!” his friend exclaims, doing the same for you. Keiji stares at the shots.

“This’ll put me in the hospital, Bokuto-”

“I have to teach tomorrow,” you add, giving a laugh of exasperation. Bokuto waves it off.

“A problem for tomorrow!” he yells, already picking up one of his own shot glasses. He holds it out toward the middle of the table. “To new experiences!”

Keiji sighs, lifting one of his up, too, to clink against Bokuto’s, and the rest of the table follows.

“To new experiences,” he mumbles, knocking the shot back.

–

Well, Bokuto hadn’t been lying about new experiences, Keiji thinks drunkenly.

His head swims as he stares down at the five empty shot glasses in front of him, wondering where his drinks had gone. You sway beside him, holding a cocktail in both hands as you sip at it – your shot glasses are equally empty, and Keiji’s not exactly sure where you’d pulled an extra drink from.

He watches through blurry vision as Yachi and Bokuto wriggle wildly on the dance floor together, far away enough that he can only tell it’s them by their ridiculous height difference. Kuroo and Tsukishima sit huddled on the other end of the booth, heads bent together as they whisper likely obscene things to each other.

Keiji had worried for about thirty minutes that Tsukishima would tell Kuroo what he’d seen, but the blond seems to have decided that it’s none of his business what happens in this club tonight. Keiji’s grateful for it, especially now that he can see Tsukishima slipping out of the booth, his hand tight in Kuroo’s and both their faces flushed from whatever they’d just talked about. They disappear in the direction of the bathroom, and Keiji snorts to himself.

“‘s one way to do it,” he mumbles, and you lean toward him heavily.

“Hah?” you say, your body pressed against his. “What’dya say?”

“Nothin’,” he slurs, shaking his head. And then he looks down at you, taking you in. Taking in the fact that the two of you have been left alone here in the dark, still visible but not noticeable. He shifts his body toward yours, pressing your sides together while he reaches to pluck your drink from your hands. “What’s this?”

“Hey,” you pout, reaching for it, but he just holds it behind him, forcing you to lean up into his face. Your eyes go wide when you realize how close his are, and he grins down at you, open and unfiltered.

“What is it, Y/n? Can I try?”

“No!” you complain, pressing your body against his as you stretch for the drink. Keiji slips his free arm around your waist, pulling you close.

“Just one sip?”

Your outstretched hand drops to his shoulder, and you say nothing about the arm he has around you. “You’re annoying,” you mumble, glaring hazily up at him. “Get yer own drink.”

He tilts his head toward you, the tequila in his breath mixing with the vodka in yours. “But I wanna taste yours,” he whispers, and your cheeks warm – he hadn’t meant anything sexual by it, but he’s not complaining if you’re taking it that way.

He lifts your drink to his lips, keeping his eyes on you and reveling in the way yours drop to his mouth, and takes a sip. It’s just a Vodka Cranberry, which he’d already guessed by the scent of your breath. He puts it back down on the table, letting you have it again. “Thank you,” he jokes.

“Whatever,” you mutter, cradling the drink again. “Why’ve you been so mean to me this week?”

“Aw,” he coos. “Did I hurt your feelings?”

“Yeah,” you say plainly, pouting. “You made me mad. Made me wanna do bad things.”

Desire spikes in Keiji’s body. “What kinda bad things?”

“Made me wanna be mean to you, too,” you say, oblivious to the way Keiji’s looking at you now. “Made me wanna hurt your feelings, too.”

“You did do that,” he says, laughing at you. “You were so mean.”

“Not mean enough!” you argue, leaning comfortably against him as he holds you. His hand gravitates from his lap to yours, the fingers he’d just had on your drink now cold and damp against your heated skin. You shiver at his touch, and he feels his jeans start to tighten. He draws small circles into your thigh with the pad of his middle finger, his intentions plausibly deniable even though his knuckles brush up against the hem of your dress every time.

“You don’t think calling my work ‘isolated and inapplicable’ is mean enough?” he coos down at you, watching with satisfaction as your lips part and you let out a shaky breath, because his middle finger is slipping once under the hem of your dress before completing the circle. He feels a shock of excitement fly down his spine and spread out across his skin, that live wire sparking in his chest.

He glances out briefly at the dance floor, confirming that Bokuto and Yachi are still jumping around and that Kuroo and Tsukishima have completely disappeared. He’s glad to know that he has more time with you. More time to slide his cold fingers across your flushed skin, more time to feel your body press tight to his. The thought of getting caught like this – with his arm wrapped around you and his fingers hidden under your dress – passes through his mind, and he can’t help that the live wire crackles dangerously, or that his jeans are uncomfortably tight on him now. But, still, he’s glad that no one’s seeing what’s going on over here.

He doesn’t want to share this with anyone else quite yet.

“Hey,” you grumble in his ear, low and whiny enough to make his cock twitch painfully. You grip his face with one hand, turning him back to you. Keiji stares down at you with wide eyes, his breath caught in his chest when you glare up at him and mumble, “You’re not payin’ attention t’me.”

He lets out a weak laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry – were you saying somethin’ important?”

Your pout deepens, and Keiji feels himself leaning toward you, his eyes fixated on your mouth.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding. “I was talkin’ about how you deserve to be bullied.”

He huffs in amused disbelief, just staring down at you. “Y/n.”

“Hm?”

“I have a question.”

“Mm?” You tilt your head, attention his. He starts running his fingers over your skin again, watching when you shiver.

“Are we still meeting tomorrow? Or was I too mean this week?” He swallows hard, hoping you’ll understand what he’s asking. If things are too tense between you – if the arrangement can’t be recovered, after all of his screw-ups this week. 

Your eyes widen, flitting between his, and he grows a little nervous. But then your face warms, and you shift under his fingers, and your eyes drop quickly to his mouth before lifting again.

“I thought we were…” you breathe. “Are we not?”

His skin hums with the need to feel you underneath him again, the possibility of having that tomorrow night no longer hanging in the balance. But still, he has to check. “Not gonna find someone else to fuck ‘n throw me away?”

You giggle at his quote of your own words, and you shake your head. “Unfortunately for me, there’s no one else who meets all my requirements.” You grin up at him, your eyes full of humor, as though what you say next is stupidly obvious.

“‘s gotta be you, 'Kaashi.”

Keiji really regrets sleeping with you.

–

On Wednesday at 7:30pm, you find yourself slapping your hand around on the bedside table for the alarm that’s going off. You find your phone, shutting it off and tossing it down on the bed next to you. 

You’d woken up at 7am this morning, dreadfully hungover, and dragged yourself to campus to teach. You’d stayed in the department until the very first moment that you were no longer needed, and then you’d Uber’d home, throwing your stuff on the floor in your foyer and climbing back into bed.

You repeat the process now, but you feel significantly better after the extra sleep. Instead of the hangover, however, your brain is burdened by the knowledge that Akaashi will be showing up at your door in thirty minutes. You groan, not for the first time today, at the memory of the humiliating things you’d said and done last night. At the way you’d draped yourself all over him and pouted up at him like an idiot, admitting that he’d gotten to you with his behavior this week.

At the way you’d admitted that there can be no one but him in this stupid arrangement.

You grumble the entire time you wait, stomping around the apartment until you hear his knock at your door.

When you wrench the door open, he looks mildly unsettled, and you know that means he’s as nervous as you.

“Hi.” He shifts his weight awkwardly, hoisting his duffel bag high on his shoulder. He flits his eyes around your face and then down to your pajamas, brows lifting. “Did you just wake up?”

“I took a five-hour nap,” you sigh, letting him in.

“Did you not eat dinner?” he asks, setting his bag down in the spot by the couch that’s slowly becoming his.

“No,” you mumble, wandering into the kitchen and digging through the pantry. “Not super hungry, anyway – just hungover.”

“Oh.” His voice sounds a bit tense, and you realize belatedly that he might have been asking if you wanted to eat dinner with him. You purse your lips, groaning to yourself. Things are still uncomfortable with him – how could they not be? You’ve spent the week bouncing back and forth between being insatiably furious with him and completely folding whenever he gets too close. Even if he seems to have reciprocated some of the confusing feelings wracking your brain lately, it can’t be easy to be dragged back and forth by your mood swings.

You emerge from the kitchen holding out a packet of smores pop-tarts to him, the strawberry flavor open in your other hand. He stares down at it and then takes it, eyes on yours. “Thanks.”

“Your leftovers from Saturday are still there,” you offer, nodding back to the kitchen. “If you want them.”

“Man, you really do hate kung pao chicken,” he jokes lamely, swallowing hard as he opens the silver packaging. You wander toward your room with an awkward sigh. 

“Uhm… how many videos should we film today?” You flick your lights on and move to the closet, leaving your pop-tarts on the dresser. There’s a creak in your doorway, and you glance back to find Akaashi leaning against the door frame, his fingers tapping on the crinkly wrapper while he chews slow and drags his eyes around your room.

“Dunno… Three? Four?” He flicks his eyes to you and then away again. “Same deal as last time? Foreplay first, then sex?”

You nod, digging through your drawer full of lingerie. You look him over briefly, ignoring when he tenses under your gaze. He’s wearing baggy, light blue jeans and a form-fitting black t-shirt, tucked into his belt. You hum, plucking a simple white set from the dresser and then reaching into your closet for a pair of shorts and a baby pink graphic tee, a cute strawberry drawn on the front. You brandish the clothes at him in question.

“Girl-next-door enough?”

He nods, eyes lingering on the white lace in your left hand. “Sweet and innocent.”

You shrug jokingly. “Just like me.”

“Yeah, okay,” he snorts, shaking his head. You don’t move, and he lifts his brows at you as he’s lifting the chocolate-filled pastry to his mouth. “What?”

“Uh…” You give him an expectant look. “I have to change.”

“Oh–” He lifts off the door frame and turns in place, staring out into your living room. “Is this good?”

You roll your eyes and strip from your pajamas, tossing your shirt at the back of his head. He chokes on his snack upon contact, and you laugh while you pull the lingerie on. He clears his throat quietly.

“So… you think my research is inapplicable-”

You groan, your shoulders tensing in preparation for a fight. “Please, not now, Akaashi-”

“I’m just wondering if you meant that, or…” His voice is joking, and you know he’s just talking shit in order to fill the silence, but you’re still a little rough when you brush past him, fully dressed now.

“You know I didn’t,” you admit quietly, padding over to the spare room and hearing when he follows. “You said it yourself  – I’m not stupid enough to believe that.”

“But you said it.”

“You say a lot of things, too.” You glance at him while you fluff the pillows on the bed. “What is this? Why are you picking a fight right now?”

He shakes his head simply. “Just making conversation.”

“Well, can you make conversation about anything else-”

“Like what?” he argues. “We can talk about research, or we can talk about what positions you want me to fuck you in today-”

“Okay,” you say, flushing. And then you swallow. “What… positions are we doing?”

Any heat that had been in his eyes melts away, and he lets out a breathless laugh. “Seriously?” When you shrug, a smile crosses his lips briefly before he’s smothering it. “Which one’s your favorite?”

Your eyes go wide, and you start to fluff the pillows more aggressively now, your face burning. “They’re all fine.”

“No,” he jokes, stepping close. You’d left your phone on the dresser by the door, and he brings it with him when he approaches you. “You definitely have a favorite.” He slips the device into your awaiting hand. “Tell me.”

You square your shoulders, scrolling through your apps to dim the string lights and change the color, bathing the room in a soft, pink glow. “It’s doggy,” you say without looking at him. “But they’re all fine.”

“Doggy,” he breathes back, nodding. “Understood.”

“Whatever,” you bite, gesturing to the bed in embarrassment. “Can we–?” 

He lifts his brows with a grin, waving you toward it. “By all means.”

You sigh, climbing onto the bed and pointing toward the selfie stick you keep on the desk. “I’ll just hold the phone for this first part.” Akaashi goes to get it, and you slot the phone into it with ease. “Okay. Ready.”

He props himself up next to you, both of you leaning against the headboard. You click record and fix the zoom, centering yourself in the frame.

“Okay,” you breathe, settling for looking at him in the camera, because you don’t know if you’re brave enough to meet his eye right now. “We’re good. Uhm…” You think quickly about how this should go. “Just look at something on your phone, maybe, and then come in whenever you think you should.” He reaches for his phone on the bedside table, and you joke nervously. “Not your email, though. Nerd.”

He scoffs, shaking his head with a hint of a smile. “Dumbass.”

You smile, refocusing the camera until neither of your faces are visible. You mess with your hair, watching the ends of it flutter on the screen, and trail your hand down your chest, kneading your breasts slowly and letting out slightly performative sighs. Your fingers dance along your thighs and between your legs briefly, and you see in the frame that Akaashi’s thumb has stopped scrolling. You don’t turn to look at him, but you do smile to yourself, watching his wrist start to go limp as he watches you, distracted. 

When you slide your hands under your shirt, your fingers moving the fabric as you squeeze and touch, Akaashi slowly moves to put his phone on the table. He shifts closer, turning his body toward yours, and his hand slides across your thigh. The touch makes you shiver, his palm searing hot on your skin and his fingers kneading at the inside of your thigh appreciatively. You hear him breathe in sharply, and then he presses his chest to your shoulder and drops his head to your neck.

The feeling of his lips on your skin is more intense than it had been on Saturday. You have no idea how, but you’re impossibly more sensitive tonight, and even the breath that fans over your throat between kisses has you panting. He sets two fingers on the wrist that you have hidden under your shirt, tugging your arm away from your body and angling you so he can fill the space.

His hand disappears under your top, and a quiet moan falls past your lips – because he’s cupping your breast, his palm warmer and larger than yours. You start to tremble, your stomach flipping with anticipation and desire every time his fingers move against you. You don’t know why everything feels so different tonight than it had only four days ago, but it feels like Akaashi’s experiencing the same.

His breath is ragged in your ear, and his lips are shaking slightly on your skin, even though all he’s done is touch you. His hand moves over your body almost nervously, fingers exploring in a way that falsely reminds you of anxious inexperience.

You turn toward him. “What’s with you?” you whisper, looking him over with wide eyes. He lifts his head, and you see that his pupils are blown wide. His cheeks are flushed slightly, and his lips are parted and wet. 

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. And then he tugs on your shirt. “Take this off.”

You hand him the camera stick, and he makes sure to keep you in frame when you peel your shirt off and toss it to the end of the bed. You kick your shorts off, too, while you’re at it, leaving you in your matching lingerie. He hands the camera back and scoots ever closer to you, his hand sliding across your body impatiently while he presses himself to you. You let your head drop and lean your weight against the headboard, letting him explore as he pleases.

When his fingers start to dip curiously between your thighs, that nervous anticipation is firing up. You spread your legs, breathing hard as you struggle to keep everything in frame, and he wastes no time, his middle two fingers sliding over your clothed core.

“Oh-” you moan loudly, much louder than you’d expected, given that he’s barely touched you.

Akaashi notices it too, it seems, because he lifts his head to stare at you, wide-eyed. “What was that?” he breathes, and you shake your head, your lips pursed in embarrassment.

“I was faking it,” you try, despite knowing what he’d told you last time about that.

He lifts his brows, and you see that it doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t buy it. “Liar.” He touches you again, circling your clit roughly through your panties. Your eyes widen, and your lips tremble when your breath comes out. He stares down at you in wonder, watching with a growing smile as you react much more intensely than you had on Saturday. “You’re sensitive today,” he notes quietly, a little satisfied.

You don’t bother denying it, not when he can clearly see how your body is reacting to him. “So are you,” you just whisper, eyes dropping to the front of his jeans. He’s already hard. “I haven’t touched you at all.”

He shakes his head, his fingers massaging into the wet spot in your panties with purpose. “‘s not a prerequisite.”

You lift your brows at the admission. “Good to know.”

He rolls his eyes. “Not like you’re gonna do anything with that information.” He pushes your panties to the side and touches his fingers to your soaked core, and you both gasp at the feeling. He breathes hard, eyes heated as he stares down at you. “You’re not brave enough.”

“Don’t-” you hiss through gritted teeth, resisting the urge to moan when his fingers push experimentally against your entrance. “-tempt me.” You reach your free hand toward his jeans, fully intent on unzipping them and touching him, but his hand comes down on your wrist – a smack of admonishment, gentle but firm. He narrows his eyes at you when you look at him in shock.

“I’m not gonna make it that easy for you, princess.” He pulls your thigh open over his legs to free up more space for himself, and then he’s dropping his head back to your neck and nudging against your entrance more seriously.

You’re wet enough that it only takes one try for both fingers to push into you, pressed against your walls and stretching you out. 

You gasp, your head falling back and bumping against the wall. “Oh, my God-”

Akaashi’s no better, his mouth open against your throat and his breath sharp and jagged. “Oh, fuck,” he breathes, his voice distracted and stunned. “Fuck.” 

“I’m,” you start, swallowing hard when he starts to move. “I’m not gonna last long-”

He groans, curling his fingers inside you and pressing hard against that spongy spot that makes you nervous. “I want you to squirt for me,” he breathes into your ear.

Your heart jumps into your throat. “What?” you say, high-pitched and shaky. “It’s-That’s not easy-”

You’re lying. It is easy for you, scarily so. And with the length of Akaashi’s fingers – with the way he knows how to press up against that spot every single time – it’s going to be so embarrassingly easy that you’re worried you might never live it down.

“I want it,” he breathes, persistent. He sounds a little urgent, bordering on desperate. “I want you to make a mess on my fingers.”

You whine, squirming against him as he picks up speed. You feel it forming, that pressure that’s different from the normal coil in your navel. “Uhm-I-” Your breath picks up, and his palm slaps against your skin when he slams his fingers into you again. The sting of it, repeated twice more, shoves you closer and closer to that dangerous pressure. “Mm-I’m gonna-” you heave, your body trembling in his arms and your hands struggling to keep the camera straight.

“Give it to me,” he whispers, groaning when your walls start to tighten around his fingers. “Be good and give it to me.”

You black out.

You black out, and you have no idea what happens when you do. You can’t feel anything, your entire body numb and light, floating on nothing. You feel your muscles spasm sporadically with the aftershocks, but you have no idea what had happened to get you here. Your hands are limp on the bed, but you can’t bring yourself to care if the camera had captured the moment. You feel Akaashi’s fingers still inside you – still moving – but you can’t do much more than listen as he pants in your ear and whispers ‘fuck, fuck, fuck,’ against the side of your head.

When you finally come to, you realize that you’re lying in a puddle. And Akaashi is hovering over you, his face flushed and his eyes full of disbelief and a burning heat.

“‘zzat good?” you slur, your head slumping against his shoulder, and he laughs against you, shaking his head.

“Holy shit, Y/n,” he breathes, laughing harder. “That was-fuck.” He jostles you gently. “Are you… Let me get you some water,” he says, shifting you, but you groan in protest.

“Did you come?” you breathe, dazed, and peel your eyes open to look at him.

“No.” 

“Then take your pants off,” you say, plain and direct. He looks into your eyes for just another moment, gaze tracking you and analyzing your energy, but you just level a frown at him. “Do you want to come or not, Akaashi?”

His brows lift, and his eyes flick down to the soaked blanket under you. When his gaze finds yours again, that heat is back.

He stands quickly, leaving you to shake the numbness out of your bones as he strips and moves impatiently to get the tripod. He sets your phone up with practiced fingers, and you sit up, shaking your head to clear it and sliding your panties and bra off.

“God, that was intense,” you breathe with a laugh. He glances back at you, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“You sure you’re good?”

“Super good.” You nod once, and then you beckon him toward you. “Hurry up, before I start to care what you think again and get embarrassed that that just happened.”

His burst of laughter echoes off the walls, and you feel pride at having drawn it out of him.

And then he climbs over you, and everything that’s not him fades into the background.

His eyes are steady on yours, but he moves with a decided lack of control, and that – his urgency – makes you more nervous than anything else. You lie back against the pillow and spread your legs for him, watching with bated breath as he shoves his boxers off impatiently and slots himself between your thighs. He leans over you, and one of his hands clamps down over your mouth while he lines himself up at your entrance.

He takes a breath, eyes flicking to yours, and you see the anticipation in them. Like he’d been waiting for this all week.

You’d been waiting, too, you realize.

He sinks into you in one press of his hips, and your back bows off the mattress. You moan loud against his palm, your eyes rolling back, and the groan he lets out – unfiltered, desperate – embeds itself into your skin. You struggle to breathe, to find your lungs when all you can feel is Akaashi inside you.

Your eyes focus and unfocus, searching uselessly for him while he slams his other hand down on the headboard to steady himself before setting a pace that makes your vision flicker. Your hands fly up, too, pressing back against the headboard to keep you from crashing into it. 

Akaashi’s hand falls from your mouth when he realizes that you’re not making noise, and it becomes clear that you can’t. Your mouth just hangs open, breath ragged and short while you gasp. Your eyes meet his, and he grins down at you.

“How’s that, princess?” he teases, panting tightly. “Still wanna find someone else to fuck? Or am I really the only one?”

He’s taunting you, torturing you. It makes some part of you angry – the part that hates him, so distant right now – and you try to argue.

“You’re only bitching-” You gasp sharply when the head of his cock bumps against your g-spot, scarily accurate like last time. “-because you got what you wanted-”

His next breath comes in a low growl, and he angles his hips so that he can hit your weak spot more easily. Your body shakes with each slam of his hips against yours, but you hold onto a shred of your sanity.

“You talk a lot of shit for someone who’s so needy for me-”

“Look in the mirror, asshole,” you bite, using every ounce of your energy to keep this up. But he presses two fingers against the seam of your lips, shoving them into your mouth. You choke around them, and he moans, because your walls flutter tightly around his cock at the feeling of his fingertips hitting the back of your throat.

“How ‘bout you shut the fuck up and get me off,” he snaps, gritting his teeth when your tongue curls wantonly around his fingers. “Maybe if you’re good at it, I’ll let you come again.”

You whine, despite yourself, and feel that twinge of need – the one that had reared its ugly head on Saturday. The need to give him what he wants, to fold for him and do what he says.

And then it hits you–

That this is what you’d felt all week.

That the gnawing in your chest and the frustration in your bones and the disorienting need to get his attention – good or bad – is exactly this. This need to bend to Akaashi Keiji’s will, because he’s got you wrapped around his finger.

You’re filled with an overwhelming rage, and you nip your teeth against his fingers – not hard enough to hurt, but definitely enough to shock his system.

Akaashi’s eyes go wide, and he hisses and draws his fingers from your mouth, wet and dripping saliva on your skin. “What the fuck?”

“You’re doing this on purpose,” you snarl, one of your hands leaving the headboard to shove against his chest. He stops moving, sitting up on his knees and staring down at you in confusion.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

You shove him again, and he catches your wrist, his eyebrows furrowing.

“You’ve been messing with me all week on purpose,” you spit, and then you sit up, startling him. You use the moment to latch onto him and roll him onto his back, swinging your leg over his waist and straddling him. He stares up at you, wide-eyed, as you try to take control of this. “You’ve been hot and cold, and rude and flirty,” you snap, lifting your hips just enough to sink down onto him. Your breath catches in your throat, and you watch his eyes roll back briefly, a quiet moan slipping past his lips. You plant your hands on his chest, finding a rhythm in his lap that has him gripping your waist tight. You grit your teeth and talk through the waves of pleasure, the ones that start in the crown of your head and make it hard to focus.

“You teased me at the party. And then you acted like I didn’t exist at the coffee shop.” You struggle to keep your breath, your movements growing unstable. His eyes search yours, alarmed.

“What-”

“You acted like I was a burden all day on Monday, and then you fucked with my head in the stairwell.” You glare down at him, hating wide-eyed way he’s watching you. “You fought with me in my office – you liked fighting with me-” You thump your fist weakly down on his chest while you bounce in his lap, angry – but not angry enough. It’s starting to fade into something else. Frustration that he’d played you, and confusion that he looks so confused. “And then you treated me like I was the only thing you could see at that stupid fucking club last night.”

The humilation creeps in – the embarrassment that you’d let this happen. You’d let him humiliate you. It makes your eyes prickle, and you squeeze them shut angrily. Akaashi slides his fingers roughly into your hair, holding tight when you try to shove him away.

“I hate you,” you say, choked and upset and refusing to look at him.

“Listen to me-”

“I hate you-”

“Listen to me.” He fists your hair tighter, jostling your head with enough urgency that your eyes fly open to find his. He’s glaring up at you now. “I’m not doing any of this on purpose.” You’d stopped moving in his lap at some point, too overwhelmed, but he bends his knees now, angling you against his thighs. You gasp when he starts to move, thrusting his hips up and using his one-handed grip on your waist to keep you steady.

“You think I wanted this?” he barks, snapping his hips up and bouncing you roughly against him. “You think I wanted to lose face at that fucking meeting? You think I wanted to fight in the stairwell like that?” His face twists into an angry scowl, and it’s your turn to be confused. “You think I want to get drunk and be unable to keep my hands off you? Huh?”

What-

What?

Akaashi’s hand slides out of your hair, dropping to the base of your throat. His fingers wrap around your neck, and your stomach flips with desire when he squeezes tight. You sigh in relief, the feeling of his palm against your throat when you swallow heavenly. He uses his grip to pull you close, until your nose brushes his. He sets a brutal pace with his hips, fucking up into you while he stares you down angrily.

“You know better than that,” he hisses. 

You start to shake over him, your desire mounting. “I-”

“You do know better, don’t you?” he whispers, his voice dangerously even. His eyes burn with anger. “Why are you acting like that? You told me you were smart.” His voice shakes a little, and you can see him struggling to keep up – his cheeks flush and his ears burn red, and he’s starting to pant, broken in a way that makes your stomach flip.

“I am,” you whisper, a bit whiny now. “I am smart – you’re just too confusing.”

The anger in his eyes solidifies into something worse. Something cruel and wicked.

“Then stop trying so fucking hard,” he snarls, slamming his hips up into you. You dig your nails into his shoulders, his sharp inhale clear in your ears. “Stop trying to figure this out.”

You shake your head hard. “I won’t. I can’t-”

“Oh, you can’t?” He mocks, and the edge in his voice kicks and shoves you right to your orgasm. “You won’t, is that it? Even though I just told you I’m not doing this on purpose?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. The idea that Akaashi’s just as affected as you are – just as much a victim to whatever this is as you are – fills you with a terrifying feeling. A feeling close to freedom, close to something that makes you want to throw everything away and give in to him. Because it’s not his fault, either, then. Because – if he’s not doing this intentionally – then there’s no one to blame.

And if there’s no one to blame, then you’re going to stop fighting the way you feel around him.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes open without your permission. Cyan stares back.

“You think I’m doing this on purpose?” He’s breathless and frustrated, searching your face. “Look at me.” His eyes are filled with emotion – that same caution you feel, not wanting to give into this if you’re not going to give in with him. His grip tightens on your throat, and he pulls you close, whispering into the breath of space between your lips.

“You know me better than that.”

When he falls, he takes you with him. And, as much as you want to fight it – kicking and screaming – you don’t. 

You just wrap yourself around him and fall.

[burningembers91]

Outside Looking In - Nam-Gyu x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Nam-Gyu has always been an outsider, watching as everyone passes him by. He spends his days trying to make a name for himself, and trying to show the beautiful hostess with a broken heart that he'd love her until the end of time, if only she would let him.

A/N: Based off of this ask. I wanted to say a HUGE thank you the anon who asked that I write for Nam-Gyu. I didn't really like his character in Squid Game, but I am SO happy with how this turned out. I wasn't planning on writing this so quickly, but the ask gave me such a good idea, I couldn't resist. Thank you, Anon. I hope you enjoy!

Park Nam-Gyu had spent his entire life desperately waiting to be noticed. Waiting to be noticed by his parents, his siblings, his class mates, employers, and women. But no matter how hard he tried he always just seemed to be on the edge of everyone’s periphery. He tried to be bolder, louder, a little more cocky; he’d met so many people like that who commanded attention, so he couldn’t understand why it didn’t work for him.

He'd taken a job as a Club Promoter to meet girls, but also on the hope that people would want to hang out with him, even if was just for discounted or free bar entry. He would spend all week advertising clubs and bars on Instagram, promising his old classmates he would be able to get them tickets for the hottest places in town, even the ones that were exclusively guest list only. It had worked for a while, and Nam-Gyu found himself basking in the popularity he’d always craved. But people were fickle, and once they got what they wanted, they soon left. There were hundreds of club promoters in the city, and most of them had better connections that he did. He never gave up though, spending each weekend following the crowds of drinkers that flooded through Seoul. He never quite managed to attract enough attention though, left to stand on the pavement clutching his leaflets as everyone passed him by.

Nam-Gyu knew he should throw the towel in. He didn’t make any money as a club promoter, still living in the tiny box room at his mum and dad’s house. He should really focus on a proper job, something in insurance or accounting; but then he really would be a nobody. Just another faceless ghost in a suit, robotically moving through life. He knew he was destined for greater things, if only he could just be noticed.

You were the other reason he didn’t want to quit the job that made him no money. You, the beautiful hostess, whose job it was to entertain the richer clientele who frequented the bars he promoted. Night after night you would bend to every will and demand of drunk men, smiling politely as they groped you, called you hideous names and tried to force themselves on you. You were tired of this life, tired of being nothing more than a pretty girl in a tight dress and pair of heels whose name no one bothered to learn. Except for Nam-Gyu; he knew your name; he saw the sadness harboured in your eyes. He watched as you stood in all kinds of weather, smiling and greeting people through gritted teeth. You were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and he was so madly, so deeply in love with you. He could try and bullshit the drinkers with his false bravado, but he could never fool you. “What are you doing after work?” he asked you one night as you stood shivering on the pavement, savouring the last fewminutes of your break. “I’m going home,” you sighed, “I finish at 3am.” “Maybe I could walk you home,” he offered, taking in the goosebumps that littered your delicate skin. You shouldn’t be standing out here freezing. You should be inside, curled by a fire with someone who doted on you, cared for you. Nam-Gyu wished he could be that person. “I’m getting a taxi,” you told him. “Thanks though.”

You’d noticed Nam-Gyu plenty of times. He’d been working as a club promoter for as long as you’d been working as a hostess. He’d always seemed sweet, but he tried so hard to impress people who didn’t deserve his attention. He always looked out for you, keeping you company on quieter nights, buying you dinner if your tips didn’t cover your meal. You doubted he made much money either, but he always made sure you didn’t go hungry. He made you laugh, and when it was just the two of you, he was so different to the brash, cocky persona he adopted when he was working. You wondered why he felt the need to act like someone he wasn’t.  You wished you had his never-ending enthusiasm, his ability to keep a smile plastered to his face no matter what. People spoke to him like shit, and yet he never let it phase him. You on the other hand, you were finding it harder and harder to deal with the men who grabbed at you and treated you like a life-size Barbie doll, simply there for their amusement. Your dream was to become a florist, to open your own shop. But dreams required money, and you spent all yours just trying to get by each month. You knew how much Nam-Gyu cared for you, but you didn’t have the heart to tell him he was wasting his time. You were damaged goods, too broken to ever love again.

Nam-Gyu wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting outside for when he saw you. It was raining, a constant drizzle that soaked through his shirt and jeans, plastering his hair to his cheeks. He’d tried to gain entry to the very bar he’d been promoting, but the bouncer wouldn’t admit him. “We’re full,” he was told, despite the constant stream of patrons entering. He didn’t want to go home though, didn’t want to face his parents to whom he was a constant source of disappointment. So, he sat in the rain, waiting for you to show up on your break. This time however, you weren’t alone. There was a man with you, his hands round your waist. You were pushing him away, but he’d just grab you again, clearly unfazed or unaware that you weren’t interested in his advances. “Please stop,” you snapped, pulling your arm away as he tried to plant a sloppy kiss on your lips. “Seriously, fuck off!” “Hey!” Nam-Gyu stood up, marching over to where you stood, his fists balled. “Leave her alone! She said she’s not interested.” He couldn’t make out the man’s response; the guy was too drunk to form words coherently, but apparently not to drunk to harass you. “It’s fine, honestly,” you told him, “I’m used to it. My manager has called him a cab, he’ll be gone soon.” But your eyes were so sad, your mouth trembling as you held back tears. Nam-Gyu wished he could take the sadness away from you, wished he could see a smile light up your face.

He waited for you until the bar closed, just in case anyone else tried to take advantage of you. “Why are you still here?” you sighed, pitying the rain-soaked man who never gave up on you. “I wanted to make sure you got home ok,” he told you, trying to hide the shivers that wracked his body. “I’m fine, honestly.” You started walking, your tips not enough to pay for a taxi, and Nam-Gyu followed. You wished you could open up and let him in; you wished you weren’t so broken. But a lifetime of toxic relationships had left you damaged. You were so used to being hurt that you didn’t think anyone could fix you, not even the sweet club promoter who stood waiting for you in the rain. You walked home in silence, enjoying his company but too scared to admit it to him. You stopped as you got the front of your apartment, turning to say goodnight to the man you desperately wished you could love back.

“I wouldn’t treat you like those men do,” Nam-Gyu whispered, “I’d make sure you never had to work in a place like that ever again. I’d hold you every night and tell you how lucky I was to have you.” “If you hold me without hurting me, you'll be the first who ever did.” You smiled sadly, your hand gently clasping his cheek. He leaned into your touch, relishing the sensation against his freezing cold skin. You left him standing out there, watching you as you made your way up the stairs to your place.

He forced himself to turn and walk home, the rain never once ceasing. Nam-Gyu would probably always be a nobody, but to you, he was desperate to be a someone.

[roanofarcc]

UNVEILED

pairing. ghost-bride!reader x trevor lefkowitz

summary. requested. Out of all the mysteries that lived within the walls of the Woodstone Mansion, Trevor was only curious about the mystery of you and the veil that constantly covered your face.

warnings. fem!reader, mentions of death, dead!reader, bodily injuries, talk of insecurities, murder, hurt/comfort

word count. 2.8k || masterlist

a/n. this came out a bit angstier than intended lol but don’t worry there is comfort too! also…maybe I write a part two to this?? feel free to request for all of the ghosts; I love this show so much <3

It often felt like you were on the outside of things, peering in but rarely interacting. The ghosts that shared their purgatory with you in Woodstone had tried and still sometimes did to include you in their TV-watching nights and other ghostly shenanigans. They tried to be kind, but deep down you knew the mystery that shrouded your presence unnerved them. You were the one death none of the already established ghosts had witnessed nor had they seen it coming. One day you simply were one of them, hidden behind a veil and forever stuck in your wedding dress that was ruined with deep crimson smudges.

Only Hetty, Thorfinn, and Sasappis had seen you hours before you met your fate on your wedding day. They saw your features illuminated with a blissful wedding glow. The next thing they knew, chaos had erupted throughout the mansion and you, bloodied and veiled, could see them. What had happened, they only caught pieces from wedding guests as they fled the mansion without any kind of celebration. A groom who flew off the handle and a poor almost-wife caught in the crossfire.

The three of them held more sympathy and kept the secret of your death, what little details they knew. But they had established their own friendships amongst each other and the new ghosts that later joined their strange collection. You could never find it in yourself to truly be a part of their tightly-knit circle. You floated about the house, not quite as estranged as the basement ghosts, but with an uneasy air of mystery that made it difficult for the core group of ghosts to befriend you genuinely. They were never unkind to you, but your presence seemed to unnerve them, sometimes. All you were was a sheet of off-white, faceless, and gory bride.

Your husband, the man you once swore had loved you more than life itself, had covered your face with your veil after he killed you. For a while, you wanted to believe the gesture was one of love but the more you sat in it, you knew it was one of self-preservation. He didn’t want to look at what he did to you, and you thought why would anyone else? You hadn’t even seen what you looked like, but you could feel the deep grooves of your injuries across your face. When you brushed your fingers along your cheeks and down across your chin, you were back at what was supposed to be your wedding night, lying on the ground as the man you once loved saw nothing but red. When he was done ruining the delicate skin along your face with something sharp you hadn’t even seen coming, he placed your veil back down where it had remained since.

Your blood was visible to anyone who looked at you, but your face was obstructed by the ivory, pink, and red veil. It was for the best, you believed. The ghosts and Sam already saw you as some peculiar horror movie figure that lingered in door frames and only spoke from time to time; your sudden input made them jump like they had forgotten you’d been there but you were quite hard to miss. Maybe they blocked you out, pretended they were ghosts haunted by some poor little bride in a costume people now bought in stores and wore on Halloween.

Well, that wasn’t the whole truth, necessarily. Not all of the ghosts tip-toed around you. There was one person in the mansion who seemed to be the opposite of turned off by your quiet and awfully haunting nature.

“Knock knock.”

“It’s not a courtesy knock if you’re already sticking your head inside the room, Trevor,” you said, followed by a gentle sigh.

Trevor was a stark contrast to the other ghosts, while they tried to be your friend but ended up tip-toeing too much around you, he seemed to not be put off by you in the slightest; it was odd and you weren’t sure how welcome it was. You didn’t know how to feel about his flirtatious comments or friendly attitude. Since your fiance, you didn’t have the best feelings toward men in general. You never knew what they were really thinking. One moment, they’re ready to walk down the aisle for you, and the next, they’re the reason you’re a ghost. It wasn’t like you could die again, but there were a million ways to hurt someone, even when you both were dead, which was another reason you didn’t cross the distance between you and the other ghosts.

With a shrug, he stepped fully inside your room with a smile on his lips. “Hard to be courteous as a ghost.”

“I don’t think you try too hard,” you replied, curled into your chair beside the window. You sat with your knees pulled up to your chest, the skirt of your dress spilling out along the ground. Trevor helped himself to the chair beside yours, making himself comfortable. “Is there something I can help you with?”

He shook his head. “There’s only so much of Thorfinn’s ‘cod-talk’ that I can handle. So, I figured I’d pay you a visit. You didn’t come to our morning TV time. Sam showed us another reality show called ‘Jersy Shore.’”

“I don’t think I’m the most welcome to TV time.” They invited you, sure, but deep down you knew they only did it as a formality. You often felt like you were butting in.

Trevor looked at you like you had grown another head; his brows furrowed and a little crease formed across his forehead. “What? Of course you are. You live you too, you know?” He scooted to the end of the chair that was angled toward yours and leaned forward. “And I like having you there.”

You looked at him, head tilted slightly. He couldn’t see your face nor the expression you made underneath your veil but he heard the scoff leave your lips. “You don’t have to say that, you know? You don’t have to pretend like you…” you trailed off, unsure of the right word. You don’t quite know what he was pretending to do. To like you. To see you as a friend when he hardly knew anything about you. Your presence unsettled those inside the house. The air of mystery around you wasn’t inviting but rather cold and confusing. You had made yourself that way, with the help of your fiance who had lost his mind on what was supposed to be the happiest day of your life.

“Like I what? Like you? Because I’m not pretending,” he said, his voice so matter of fact it was hard to believe he was lying, but you knew he had to be. Trevor hung around you, talked to you like a friend, but you couldn’t help but feel like it wasn’t real. How could it be?

“Stop,” you signed, hanging your head and dropping your legs back down to the ground. The taste of blood forever stuck on your tongue made you wince. “Look at me.” You weren’t something lovely anymore. And sure, the other ghosts all had something that signified their death forever stuck on them, but it was bigger than a simple appearance. You had loved someone so much and they hurt you so terribly that even in the afterlife the thought of showing your face, your wounds and blood and bridal makeup made you feel ill. Because if someone you loved had looked at you before that, someone who knew you so intimately, and still hurt you, how was anyone supposed to look at you now and feel any semblance of love or even like? What if someone looked at you again, face ruined, and decided to hurt you just as your fiance did?

“I’m trying,” Trevor said. “But it’s a little hard to see you.”

A pang, hot and deep, ricocheted through your chest as you stood up. “That’s the point.”

You weren’t sure if you wanted to cry or scream, perhaps a bit of both but you had resorted to silence considering you weren’t alone. You didn’t want to make more of a scene than you already did with your presence that felt too large and uncomfortable.

“Do you want me to get rid of them?” Sam asked, her voice laced with concern and a gentleness that was a bit lost on you. She and Jay had been cleaning out some old boxes they had found shoved into a closet. In one of them lived a couple of framed photographs of you and your fiance when you were dating. They were a little worn and so old you were surprised they held up after all that time.

You looked too happy in the photos, smiling widely in his arms. There was another taken shortly after your engagement. Your family had brought them to Woodstone to decorate with for your wedding and after the events of that night, they must’ve forgotten them. Somehow they got shoved into a box and remained inside the home ever since. A part of you felt like it was a sweet sentiment, cementing your presence inside the mansion but another part felt like it was some kind of sick joke.

“Oh, so that’s what you look like,” Flower said, peering over Sam’s shoulder. There was no malice in her voice, only the usual airiness, but it carried an unknown weight to her and everyone else.

You felt sick as you stared at the smiling face of the man you almost married. He looked happy too. The two of you together had once been a charming sight. Your families and friends always told you how good the two of you looked together like you had been put on the Earth to find one another. But you no longer looked like the person staring back at you in the photograph, and the last image you had of the man you once loved looked nothing like he did in those photos.

Tears pricked your eyes as you shook your head at Flower’s words. “No anymore.” And never again.

Back inside your room, you paced, chewing on your fingernails. Something had a tight hold on your chest, squeezing your heart was no longer beating tightly. You were so caught up in your awful, crashing waves of nasty emotions that pulled you under, that you missed someone enter your room.

“Hey,” Trevor said, softly so as to not scare you but you jumped anyway and dropped your hand quickly as your veil fell back over your mouth. “Sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were okay after that. Sam feels really bad about showing you the photos. She didn’t mean to make you upset she just-”

You cut him off with a wave of your hand. “I didn’t know they’d make me feel so awful,” you said, glad he couldn’t see the tears that trickled down your cheeks. “That’s not her fault. I…” you trailed off, falling onto the edge of your bed with your hands held tightly together in your lap.

Trevor sat beside you, leaving a space between you two. “The other dude in the photo. He was your fiance, right?” You nodded, solemnly. “And he was the one who…”

“Kill me? Yes.” The pieces weren’t impossible to put together. You were sure in Sam’s research about the house and the ghosts your story was among them. Maybe Hetty or Sass or Thor told the others what little they knew about your death. They had been off doing something else when you were murdered, but that wasn’t something that occurred silently. In the aftermath, the house was in chaos and your almost-husband was taken away red-handed.

“I’m sorry,” Trevor said.

“He wasn’t.” Your voice came out with a bite, but it wasn’t directed at Trevor. You bounced back and forth between sadness and anger, stewing it in decade after decade. You wanted it soothed but you feared you’d forever be the bitter bride roaming the halls of Woodstone. “He did more than just kill me that day. It was like he knew I’d become a ghost, stuck here forever in this stupid dress, and my face-” You stopped yourself, ghosting your hand against the fabric of your veil. “He ruined me. Both in life and death.”

Carefully, Trevor reached out and grasped your hand. His hand was cold, but as he squeezed yours, you felt warmer. “Don’t let him,” he said, simply as if he knew anything about how you felt. You rolled your eyes; he couldn’t see it but he sensed it in the stiffening of your shoulders and the slack of your hand in his. “He’s not here, you are. Yeah, he fucked up your life but…I don’t know, don’t you ever feel like us becoming ghosts is a weird second chance?”

“It doesn’t really feel like a second chance. It feels like I’m stuck.” Stuck in your dress, in your veil, in your wedding venue, in the sinking feeling that no matter what you do you’re doomed.

“But it can,” Trevor said, scooting closer to you. “It can feel like a second chance. No one here should be friends; no one here should know anything about each other but we do. That’s a second chance if I’ve heard of one.”

“And you don’t think it’ll end badly?” Because doesn’t everything good?

He smiled lightly. “I try not to think about how it’ll end, only how it’s goin’.”

You had once thought that way too. The inevitability of death or something coming to an end was one of the last things that used to occupy your mind. You lived in the moment, swept up in happiness and falling in love with every stranger you met. The ‘till death do we part’ promise your fiance made when he proposed had never weighed on you because you always thought you’d make it into your old age with him. Since you felt death, endings in your mind became bitter and you couldn’t help but believe they’d always be bad. Every end would be tragic in life and death.

“I don’t think I can do that anymore,” you admitted in a whisper, staring down at your intertwined hands in your lap.

“I could show you.” You could feel his eyes burning into the side of your face but you were too scared to look at him and see how genuine he was. You heard it in his voice but seeing it on his face, you were afraid you’d cave. A small piece of you, the part of your heart still intact that wanted nothing more than to be in love again, wanted to cave so badly. The loneliness of your act of pushing everyone inside the home away despite their efforts was tiresome.

You blinked back a couple more tears and sighed. “That might take a while.” You didn’t know if you even had it in you to take back what your fiance stole.

“Good thing we have eternity, then.” You heard the smile in Trevor’s voice and caved, looking over at him looking right at you. He was close, closer than you were sure he had ever been. “Do you trust me?”

The first answer that sprung forward in your head was yes, despite everything, every twisted worry that had accumulated in your body, your instinct when he asked was to say yes. He’d never done anything to make you say no. Unlike your fiance, you never had a troublesome inkling in the pit of your stomach that he’d lose his temper one day or that you got on his nerves when they were already inflamed. No, Trevor stayed with a cheeky grin, a crude joke, a compliment here and there, and an air of trustworthiness that everyone in the house felt but never said aloud.

Swallowing thickly, still tasting the blood on your tongue you answered, “Yes.”

He let go of your hand and touched the end of the veil’s fabric, holding it between his fingers. “Tell me to stop and I will,” he said, quietly. You held your breath and stayed still, not moving a muscle as he slowly started to lift the veil, giving you plenty of time to tell him to stop. It wasn’t until the fabric was fully off of your face that the fear of him turning away in disgust or horror fell over you. He was looking at, looking at what your fiance had done in his successful murder attempt. While you had no idea what you truly looked like, you knew the placement of every cut and groove. You knew it was unsightly and you couldn’t blame Trevor if he pulled the veil right back down over your head, just as your fiance had done after the deed was done.

You waited in thick anticipation, fear encroaching on the corners of your mind. But, Trevor did nothing you feared he would.

His lips pulled upwards in a smile, bright and warm, as he held onto the sides of your face. “Hi,” he said, seeing you for the first time really.

“Hello,” you replied.

[tyuns-world]

⌞ My personal cam girl ⌝

Pairing: Camgirl!reader x taehyun

Genre: smut

Warnings: 18+ (MDNI)

Summary: Taehyun has an obsession with his favorite cam girl but can he be cured of it when he runs into a cute stranger.

Wc: 2k

Taehyun was an ordinary man with a seemingly typical life. He worked diligently in marketing and maintained a regular exercise routine. His good looks did not go unnoticed, as he frequently received compliments on his attractiveness. Despite this, he was never seen with a romantic partner, and his sex life was virtually nonexistent.

The reason behind this was Taehyun's secret struggle: he wasn't just addicted to pornography; he was obsessed with a particular cam girl. It was a sticky situation for him, having to hide his sexual deviancies. His room was a shrine to you, with posters and signed postcards framed and displayed all over his walls and nightstands. He could never let anyone into his room because of this, keeping it locked at all times when guests are over. Who would ever understand his need to worship such a goddess?

He watched your streams religiously, never missing a single one. Even if a stream coincided with an important event, he would simply cancel the event to stay home and watch you. He followed all your social media accounts and was always the first to like your posts, the biggest gifter, and the most active supporter. You knew his username by heart, thanks to all the donations and gifts he had given you. A sense of pride and joy filled his body whenever you said his username to thank him. The only problem was that his favorite goddess remained faceless, always adorning elaborate masquerade masks during streams and in pictures.

As usual Taehyun finds himself out shopping for a new gift to give his goddess. You tend to love plushies more than the sex toys you're often gifted, a trait he finds utterly charming. As he spots a huge Rilakkuma plushie that he knows would be perfect for you, another hand reaches for it at the same moment.

"Oh, I'm sorry," says a sweet voice. Taehyun looks down to see an absolutely adorable girl. Her braided hair is tied up with a cute pink bow, and her bright, round eyes are accentuated with charming eyeshadow. Her dark skin looks soft to the touch, and her wide, cute nose adds to her endearing appearance. Her lips are plump and glossy, enhanced with alluring lipstick. She's wearing an outfit that Taehyun is certain he has seen before. "Oh no, it's okay. I'm sure there's another one I can get. You can have this one," Taehyun says, taking the plushie off the shelf and handing it to the girl. He's never found anyone this cute—besides his goddess, of course—and it's making him nervous. What is he doing, giving away the perfect gift for his goddess? The girl takes the plushie from him, and her eyes light up with happiness.

"Cute," Taehyun murmurs, taken aback by his own words. He tenses up, his heart racing.

The now embarrassed girl hides her face, her eyes peeking shyly over the big plush.

"Oh, I'm sorry, it's just—" Taehyun starts to ramble, his words tumbling out in a rush.

"No, it's okay. Um, thank you for the plush..." she trails off, waiting for Taehyun to introduce himself.

"Taehyun," he finishes, his voice softening.

"Well, this is a bit forward, Taehyun, but can I have your number? I mean, maybe we can have joint custody," the girl giggles, her laughter like honey to Taehyun's ears. He's never been this taken by anyone before, except his perfect cam girl. This girl is so different—more cutesy and shy—whereas his goddess is confident, sexy, bold, and a mistress in her own right. Her soft demeanor is a stark contrast, making his heart race even more.

"Yeah, sure, here's my contact information." Taehyun isn’t sure why he’s following this girl's whims, but her aura makes him want to do anything for her. After they exchange numbers, the strange cutie toddles off to pay at the counter. Taehyun smiles to himself, thinking about how adorable she looks, until he notices a problem at the register. He hurries over. "Hey, what’s up?" he asks the girl.

She looks at him, clearly upset. "I forgot my wallet. I’m such a ditz, and the cashier says they can’t hold it for me," she says, her voice trembling on the edge of tears. All this over a plushie—she must really love them. "It’s fine, I’ll pay. You can give me half later since we have joint custody," Taehyun says with a reassuring smile.

"Are you sure? The guy says it's $250," she says, looking at him worriedly.

"Yeah, I've spent more on a plush," Taehyun laughs it off, paying the cashier and starting to hand over the plushie. The girl stops him. "No, no, you can have the first week until I pay you back. Then our son is mine," she insists with a playful smile. Taehyun barely has a chance to respond before she leaves the store, waving his number in the window and mouthing, "I'll text you," before disappearing into the crowd. He watches her go, the playful exchange leaving him feeling lighter and more excited than he had in a long time.

It has been exactly a week since then, and Taehyun is starting to wonder if she'll ever contact him. He tells himself he'll be perfectly fine if she doesn't; he can always go back to his original plan and gift the plushie to his favorite cam girl. Sitting in his apartment, he eats a sad dinner of buldak and spam when a ping comes from his phone. He checks it excitedly, hoping it might be the cute stranger. His heart sinks a bit when he sees it's just a notification for a random live stream from you.

He shakes his head—how could he be disappointed when his goddess is doing an extra live for her fans? He abandons his dinner, bolting to his room to set up the stream on his PC for better quality. "Hello, my pups. Today, I have sad news for all you degenerates. I will be taking a hiatus to focus on some other stuff, but don't worry, I'll send out this month's care package and this stream will be extra steamy because I know whatever I do, y'all will like it." The stream is indeed steamy. Taehyun almost pathetically came without even touching himself. You were just so sexy and knew exactly how to move your body, captivating him completely. The way you move, the sultry tone of your voice, and the seductive looks you give the camera hold him spellbound, making him forget everything else.

When your stream ends, Taehyun finds himself rewatching it to get off. He can't do it when you're live; he has to focus entirely on every movement you make. As Taehyun strokes himself through his boxers, his arm flexing, showcasing his muscular stature, with pants long discarded halfway through the stream, he finds himself imagining the face of the pretty girl he saw over your covered one. Thoughts of her glossy lips wrapping perfectly around his hard cock flood his mind. He envisions the seductive scene, imagining how sexy it would be to reduce her to a ruined mess beneath him. The image of her innocent eyes looking up at him, filled with desire, fuels his arousal. That night, he comes harder than he ever has before, his body trembling with the intensity of his release.

While tidying up, another notification buzzes on Taehyun's phone. Glancing at it briefly, he's surprised to find a new number texting him: "Where shall we meet to discuss our 'joint custody'?" Hastily wiping himself clean, he discards the tissue and rubs his sticky hands against the bottom of his shirt. With trembling fingers, he responds, "There's a cozy café near the store where we met. How about meeting there?" Anxious for her reply, Taehyun nervously bites his nails until his screen illuminates with her response: "Sounds perfect! See you there tomorrow at 3."  

Today is the day—Taehyun keeps reminding himself it's not a date with the pretty girl; it's just a talk. While tossing and turning last night, thoughts kept him up, and Taehyun realized he never caught her name, and curses himself for not asking.  Whilst gazing at his reflection in his coffee cup, fussing with his bangs for the umpteenth time, a sweet voice perks him up. "Hey, hope you didn't wait long." Taehyun smiles up at the pretty stranger, taking in her appearance. She's wearing a stunning red dress, her makeup more glamorous than their first meeting. 

"No, I haven't been here long," Taehyun lies. He's been here since the cafe opened at 11 am, though he won't admit it. "I see you brought the goods," the charming woman says, gesturing over to the huge, hard-to-miss bear seated right next to him. "Yep, just as promised," Taehyun smiles. She settles into her seat as the waiter approaches. Opting for the only tea on the menu instead of coffee, she leans in to whisper to Taehyun, "I'm not much of a coffee person." "Oh no, I could've picked a different place," Taehyun furrows his brow, angry at himself for never asking what she would prefer as their meeting place.

She lets out a laugh that's like music to Taehyun's ears. "Don't fret, it's okay," she reassures him, her hands briefly squeezing his before retreating to her side. "Okay, so I only have cash. I hope that's okay," the pretty woman in red starts to pull out a thick envelope, drawing some curious glances as she prepares to hand it over. "Um, I think it's best if we wait," Taehyun nervously says. The woman looks around and catches the hint quickly, putting the money back into her purse.

"How about we go to your place for the exchange? Do you live nearby?" she asks, her eyes shining with anticipation. Taehyun hesitates; he does live close by, but the thought of her discovering his secret makes him anxious. Yet, her expectant gaze softens his resolve, and he eventually admits to living nearby. "Perfect," she responds, rising from her seat and heading to the counter to get her tea to go. 

The closer they get to Taehyun's place, the more nervous he becomes. Despite his attempts to play it off, the lady can sense his unease, offering silly jokes and remarks along the way to loosen him up. As they approach his building and ride the elevator up to his door, Taehyun's hand shakes as he turns the knob. The cute stranger notices his trembling and takes matters into her own hands, opening the door herself and stepping inside. She gives a big stretch, her comment breaking the tension, "Wow, with how nervous you were the whole time, I was expecting a dingy, dirty place."

Taehyun's place is surprisingly luxurious, boasting an amazing view and expensive modern furniture. It's a stark contrast to his plain outward appearance. She carefully takes off her shoes and plops herself on the couch, and puts her drink on the coffee table, making herself at home. "Is it that you've never had a woman in here?" she teases, observing Taehyun's reaction closely. Taehyun tenses, a subtle shift that catches the attention of the cutie.

"Oh, you haven't? Do you not go on dates? I assumed with your good looks and all, you were a playboy," she remarks, looking at Taehyun with surprise. Taehyun shrugs, setting the plush on a separate chair before settling himself beside the lady on the couch. "Nope, I haven't had a girlfriend since high school. I'm pretty busy with work and my friends," he explains. "So, are you a virgin?" The lewd question, coming from such a innocent looking girl, makes Taehyun choke on his spit. She looks expectantly at him, as if she isn't asking a very personal question.

"No, I'm not, but at least take me out to dinner first before asking stuff like this," Taehyun jokes, trying to lighten the mood. The lady's eyes widen, seeming to realize the kind of question she just asked. "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm way too open about stuff," she says, her face warming with embarrassment. "That's fine. Do you want some lemon or anything with your tea?" Taehyun offers, trying to ease the tension. She shyly declines, focusing on her drink as Taehyun excuses himself to use the restroom.

Left alone in the living room, the cute stranger's eyes wander around the space. In all honesty, she was on the hunt for a new apartment, and this building looked perfect. She mentally takes measurements of the living room and the kitchen. "Hmm, I wonder how big their rooms are," she muses.

The cute stranger knows it's inappropriate to snoop, especially into someone's room, and if it's locked, she'll give up and go back to her seat. But her line of work requires a spacious bedroom, so her curiosity outweighs her morals as she turns the doorknob. To her surprise, it's unlocked. She flicks on the light and is taken aback to find a bedroom shrine dedicated to her.

"What the hell?" Taehyun's voice, filled with a blend of anger and surprise, startles you as he swiftly moves behind you, shutting the door with a firm hand. "I—" you mumble, ready to explain yourself, but stop. "Actually, why aren't you explaining yourself? You're the stalker," Taehyun looks taken aback. "Stalker? You came over to my place and started snooping around. I don't care how pretty you are; that's just not cool," he crosses his muscular arms. A normal person would've thrown you out by now, but Taehyun was willing to overlook this if you could overlook his obsession.

"You mean you didn't know?" you say, looking incredulous as him. His face twists in confusion. "Oh god, you really don't," you exclaim. You gently pry Taehyun's hands off the doorknob and stride into his room. Taehyun follows, intending to usher you out, but you begin undressing, causing him to blush and close his eyes. "Open them," you demand, Taehyun obliges. His body is unable to resist your command. You're seated on his bed, legs spread, and Taehyun swallows nervously at the sight. "All of this," you gesture around the room, "is me," you declare. Taehyun is less surprised at your announcement because as soon as he saw your stunning naked form, he knew. How could he not? He studied it nightly, thinking of all the ways you could use him.

Taehyun's mind races, from the situation at hand. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. Instead, he finds himself drawn to you, his gaze lingering on your captivating figure. You, on the other hand, seem unfazed by the intensity of the moment. With a subtle smirk, you break the silence. "Surprised, Taehyun?" Your voice is laced with a hint of amusement. Taehyun clears his throat, trying to regain his composure. 

"I... I don't know what to say," he stammers, his eyes still fixed on you. You rise from the bed, moving closer to him with a confident stride. "You don't have to say anything," you reply softly, reaching out to trace a finger along his jawline. "Actions speak louder than words, don't they?" Taehyun is powerless against your intense gaze, not knowing what to do next. However, you do and so you take charge, closing the distance between you two and pulling Taehyun into a steamy, lustful kiss. You reach for his hands, guiding them to your ass. Taehyun quickly catches the hint and squeezes it, bringing you impossibly closer to him.

You roam your hands under his shirt, relishing the feel of his defined abs beneath your fingertips. Taehyun's confidence grows as he takes the lead, guiding you backward until you fall onto his bed, with him on top. You try to assert your dominance by nipping and sucking on his neck, playfully calling him your pup, but Taehyun's exploration of your body quickly overwhelms your senses. 

His rough hands send electric waves of pleasure coursing through your needy body, and you let out a soft sigh of satisfaction as his lips pepper fluttery kisses down your neck. You're accustomed to being in control in sexual encounters yet you find yourself completely dominated by Taehyun's presence. As his fingers expertly trace circles on your wet pussy, you surrender your body entirely to him, lost in the overwhelming sensations of pleasure. "More," you pathetically whimper into Taehyun's ear, and he happily obliges, shoving two of his fingers inside your soaked, aching core. Your back arches in pleasure as Taehyun flicks his fingers inside your cunt, each movement sending ripples of pleasure through your body. You had pegged him for inexperienced, but how wrong you were; he effortlessly has you panting and moaning with just his fingers. 

"I'm close," you moan out as Taehyun expertly flicks his fingers in a steady pace. Instead of accelerating, chasing your orgasm as you desperately want, he removes his fingers, making eye contact as he sucks your juices off them. Before you can whine or protest, Taehyun lines himself up with your pussy and roughly shoves himself inside, eliciting a loud moan from you. Taehyun sets a teasing rhythm, causing you to beg him to go faster. Ignoring your pleas, he continues to use you as he pleases, driving you wild. As he nears his own climax, Taehyun increases his pace. You cling to him, the heightened intensity bringing you even more pleasure.

Lost in the intoxicating haze that is Taehyun, he whispers dirty words into your ear, echoing ones you've used when teasing your stream. Now, he uses them against you, pushing you over the edge. Your body tenses with pleasure as you release around him. Taehyun however maintains his rhythm, smirking as he practically fucks your orgasm back into you. "I'm coming inside," he declares, leaving no room for argument as he fills you with his warm cum. 

The now worn-out boy practically collapses on top of you, spent from the intense encounter. "Shit, I'm sorry for being a bit much," he mumbles into your hair. "No, you were amazing. I loved every second," you reassure him, running your fingers through his hair. "So, what do you think about doing this again? Maybe at my place, in front of a camera," you suggest, your voice laced with anticipation. Taehyun just mumbles an exhausted agreement, too spent to realize what he just agreed to.

[fuck-you-upmusicbracket]

Bohemian Rhapsody (Queen)

Mama, ooh-ooh/I don’t wanna die/I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all

Mamaaa/Just killed a man/Put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger/Now he's dead/Mamaaa, life had just begun/But now I've gone and thrown it all away/Mama, oooh/Didn't mean to make you cry/If I'm not back again this time tomorrow/Carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters

"LIKE HELLO????? THIS SONG IS LITERALLY INDESCRIBABLE IT’S JUST AMAZING"

"Good god when the "Galileo, Figaro - magnificoo" hits (hold on for dear life)"

Poll Runner: The Song Ever. Everyone who's ever sung this can feel the sheer power of Freddie Mercuary in their lungs.

Farewell Wanderlust (The Amazing Devil)

I promise you im not broken, I promise you there's more/More to come, more to reach more, more to hurl at the door/Goodbye to all my darkness, there's nothing here but light/Adieu to all the faceless things that sleep with me at night/This here is not makeup, it's a porcelain tomb/And this here is not singing, I'm just screaming in tune

This here is not makeup, it's a porcelain tomb/And this here is not singing, I'm just screaming in tune

I'm the face that stares back when the screen goes to black/When your mom says you look healthy/But you know she means you got fat/I'm the tales that the guests will applaud and believe/I'm the child that you just didn't have time to conceive

You may have taken me, and made me, but I am more than what you think, and I will /not/ let you ruin me.

"I have literally fucked up my throat by yelling this song really loudly while driving. Like, my voice was weird for multiple days afterwards. I can't put it into words but everyone I've ever heard mention the amazing devil has been so fucked up by this song."

"Ok I KNOW that this isn't going to win because no one knows the song. therefore the only mark i can leave is this rant ok. So I apologise in advance but: but did you read that absolute CALLOUT section of the lyrics i put up there?? that is only a SECTION ok. this song is so fucking weird its like someone is reaching into your soul strings and pulling on tangling them making u Feel Things like WOW. its such a. callout isnt the rigjt word for it. it just fucks one up ok. like honestly just pls pls i beg of u listen to the song or even just read the entire lyrics its so. you'll get what I mean."

"It’s about breaking under the weight of expectations and showing the world yourself in all of your imperfect, ugly, and raw glory."

Bohemian Rhapsody submitted by @homosandhomies + others

Farewell Wanderlust submitted by @Gimme_DA_PIEEEE + @ceaseless-rambler + @xx0yeet-everything0xx + others

[selfmessages]

Miguel O’Hara x reader | reader is referred to as ‘you’

synopsis: he masterbates to you

warnings: gn!reader, masterbation, nsfw[mdmi], sex(not actually), slightly rushed

Miguel can't remember the last time he got laid. It’s pathetic, really. With his looks and build, he could easily get sex from anyone, man or woman. Since he can remember, he’s been using his hand to get any sort of release, stroking his cock to naked bodies with no particular person in mind, but those times are few and far between.

So why? Why is he huddled in his bathroom, fisting his cock, while he has a guest in the other room?

You, of course.

You were the guest in his house, and you were the one he was masterbating to. Miguel isn’t sure when it started; it might’ve been when you first started working for him, all bright-eyed and naive, so painfully eager to work with him, so painfully eager to please him and gain his approval. You weaseled your way into his life and his mind, completely taking over his every thought. If Miguel wasn’t a man of logic and science, he would’ve thought you put a spell on him.

Seriously, what was so goddamn special about you to make him pitch a tent from being in close proximity to you? You had only moved closer to him to show him some research you thought was important, pressing your thigh and shoulder against his.

That. That was all it took for Miguel to abruptly stand up and excuse himself to the bathroom. Closing the door behind him, he ran his hands down his face, which would’ve been comical if not for the situation he was in. He looked down at his crotch, seeing his embarrassing bulge present.

Miguel let out a heavy sigh. There was no way he could wait for it to go down; it would take too long, and that would make you suspicious. Miguel shook his head in shame and quickly undid his belt buckle, pulling down his pants just enough for his semi-hard cock to spring out.

He stroked it a couple of times, letting it become fully hard. He closed his eyes and sped up his strokes, biting his lip to keep himself quiet. He tried so hard to keep his thoughts ‘clean,’ trying to revert back to his old ways of picturing faceless nude bodies, but to no avail. Every time he tried, the ‘faces’ would morph into yours. He groans, stroking his cock even faster, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible.

Unfortunately for him, his mind wanders. Images of you flash through his mind, and he can’t stop himself from thinking about how you would moan. What position would be best to take you in? Would his dick even fit in your tiny hole? How fast could he make you cum? Would you ride him? Miguel grips his cock tighter as pre-cum starts to stain his hands.

-

He’s over you and fucking you hard. You wrap your arms around his neck as he plows into you. Your back arches and your eyes roll to the back of your head. The sound of your skin slapping together and your moans fill the room. Miguel grips your thighs, pushing them forward too, so he can see his thick cock slipping in and out of your pretty hole.

You can’t help but cry out. "M-Miguel please-!!"

"Shh, don’t cry, you’re taking me so well."

All you can do is moan and mumble incoherent words. He has you completely dumb on his cock. Miguel can’t help but stare at the sight in front of him. Your fucked-out face is truly a sight to behold. Miguel pushes your thighs forward even further, completely folding you in half. He thrusts harder into you as you cry out and clench against him. His thrusts start to get sloppy. He thrusts into you a few more times and-

.

..

…

Miguel looked down at his hand. It was completely covered in his cum. He swears that was the most he’d ever cum. He looks around the bathroom and sees tiny stars dance around the room. A sharp knock on the door causes him jump. Your voice rings through the silence.

"Mr. O’Hara, are you alright in there?"

God, you were going to be the death of him.

[rubycruzin4abruzin]

Forbidden Crown - V

Summary: During a sleepless night, you stumble upon Kit alone in the garden. After making up from your fight, discussions of your future lead to a night of confessions and heated passion.

Pairing: kit tanthalos x princess!reader

Contains: smut!!, oral, light fingering, kissing, first time, outdoor sex, nipple play, confessions, forced marriage trope, nightmares, making up, 18+

Word Count: 3.1k

A/N: It’s finally here!! This is not the end. There’s gonna be 2-3 more chapters after this. Also, is this intimacy lowkey beautiful? I had such sappy little feelings writing this.

Not speaking to Kit after your fight was agonizing. Each morning, you woke up and spent the day assisting your mothers with wedding planning while avoiding each other at all costs. You had to admit, you missed her terribly; there were nights you lay awake, wondering if you should go find her and apologize, until you replayed your fight in your mind and anger washed over you once more.

One morning, you had woken up slightly later than usual, and descended the stairs into the Great Hall to find Kit sitting with her mother, accompanied by two men you didn’t recognize. Sorsha chatted with the men excitedly, while Kit sat quietly, wearing a pained and bored expression.

One of the men, identifiable as a diplomatic envoy by his fine garments dyed in Galladoorn green, reached into his satchel, pulled out a document, and slid it over to Sorsha. “I can assure you, your highness, the kingdom of Galladoorn is in high spirits over this alliance. I trust the contractual negotiations are to your liking?”

Sorsha scanned over the document, humming in approval. “Everything seems very fair, yes. My daughter is immensely grateful for the opportunity to marry Prince Graydon, isn’t that right Kit?”

Kit scoffed in response. Sorsha (not-so-gently) nudged her under the table, causing her to stifle a groan and reluctantly nod. With one final nod of satisfaction, Sorsha dipped her quill pen in ink and signed the bottom of the contract, sliding it back across the table.

“All we need is a notarization,” the envoy stated, looking towards his partner. The notary, donning a modest tunic and a feathered hat, took the quill from Sorsha and signed his own name just underneath. He passed it to the envoy to tuck into his satchel, and handshakes were immediately exchanged around the table.

“Prince Graydon is quite eager to make your acquaintance, Princess,” the envoy assured Kit as he shook her hand. “And who could blame him? I would be too if I were betrothed to such a beauteous young maiden.”

He shot her a sly wink, prompting her expression to crumple in disgust. You couldn’t hold back the audible gag that left your throat at his comment, causing Kit to turn in your direction. She met your gaze, finally noticing your presence in the doorway and froze in place.

The finalization of her betrothal should have left you emotional. Normally, you would cause some sort of commotion, or rush over to the envoy to attempt to destroy the contract. Instead, you simply offered Kit a curt nod as you turned away and calmly made your exit.

That night was spent tossing and turning as a recurring nightmare from your fifteenth year overtook you. Familiar fears revisited your subconscious, using recent events to transform into a new horror.

The dream began as usual, with you and Kit making flower bouquets in the Tir Asleen garden. This time however, instead of leading you astray, she offered her bouquet and pulled you in for a sweet kiss. You closed your eyes as you savored the familiar warmth of her soft lips, almost pillowy against your own.

When you pulled away, expecting to see Kit’s shining face, you gasped when Airk suddenly stood before you. Glancing down, you found that once again, a wedding gown had replaced your everyday clothing, and the bouquet Kit gifted you had wilted in your hands. Faceless guests lined chairs in rows, the weight of their stares falling upon you as you stood at the altar.

Behind you stood a priest, wearing a stoic expression as he spoke mechanically. “We are gathered here today in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen,” chanted the guests in unison, their monotony making your skin crawl.

“Do you,” the priest eyed you. “Take Prince Airk Tanthalos to be your lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?”

“No!” You shrieked, but none of the guests reacted. You tried to break away, but found your hands had been chained to Airk’s. “I cannot take him, please forgive me! I don’t love him!”

You felt someone nudge your shoulder, and turned to see Kit standing behind you. She wore a wedding dress eerily similar to yours, and her hands were bound to another faceless character presumed to be her own groom. Any previous color had been drained from her features, and she spoke with a tone as lifeless as her facial expression.

“Marriage isn’t about love, Princess.”

Once again, you shot up in bed, gasping for breath as you clutched your pounding heart. A quick glance out the window showed a still-black sky, with no indication of the morning sun. You grabbed your pillow and buried your face in it, the linen helping to muffle your frustrated groans.

Fearing a repeat of the nightmare, you decided sleep was futile. Abandoning your bed, you quickly donned your nightrobe and prepared for an insomnia-induced stroll through the castle.

Cool January wind pricked your face as you ventured outside. Usually, you would wrap your nightrobe tighter around yourself, but tonight, you welcomed the cold air as a distraction from the whirlwind of thoughts plaguing your mind.

You wandered the castle grounds with a lantern in hand, your feet inadvertently guiding you towards the Tir Asleen garden. Yielding to your subconscious, you sought solace among the shrubs and snowdrops. Just as you reached the gated entrance, a soft rustle echoed from within the garden. You froze as you saw a shadowy figure shift in the distance, fearing you had stumbled upon an intruder.

With a trembling hand, you raised your lantern to reveal the figure. Your heart skipped a beat when Kit’s face came into view, sitting beneath the tree where you shared your first childhood kiss. Neither of you dared to speak. With a sigh, you turned to leave, reaching for the gate latch.

“Wait…” she called out.

You paused, hand still on the gate. Kit looked at you with pleading eyes, hugging her knees to her chest. “Please don’t go…”

Pity washed over you, overriding any lingering anger. Kit appeared like a wounded bird: fragile, frail, a fragment of her former self. You approached and settled opposite her, facing but keeping your body pointed away.

Silence enveloped you both. You continued to study Kit’s newfound decrepitude as she rested her head on her knees. The lantern you had set aside highlighted her dark circles, shadowed like bruised fruit yet to ripen.

“I have so much to apologize for,” she murmured eventually, her voice coming out soft and meek. Lifting her head, she tucked her chin between her knees but avoided your gaze. “I really, truly do. I’ve been so… angry, and I took it out on you.”

“Why me?” You asked sincerely. “Have I done something to offend you? Because if so…”

She shook her head, cutting you off. “There was no order, no reason. I was hurt… and I wanted someone else to feel that hurt… and you were there. That’s all.”

You continued to stare, resisting the urge to reach out and soothe her tousled hair. Instead, you remained still, waiting for her to speak again.

“I was so lost in my own despair, I neglected to consider your distress,” she continued. “I’ve been so contrite, but I don’t expect your forgiveness. I’d understand if you were to loathe me.”

She didn’t need to beg; you crawled over and wrapped your arms around her. “I could never loathe you.”

Kit looked up, her big blue eyes brimming with tears. “You couldn’t?”

“Of course not,” you reassured her. “I love you.”

The word slipped out before you could stop it, the one word neither of you had uttered to each other before. You froze, feeling her tense in your arms. Those brilliant baby blues, the ones you had fallen for, continued to stare up at you, but you refused to meet them.

“You do?” She asked, disbelief coloring her tone.

You bit your lip, nervously playing with the ends of her short locks. She studied your features for a moment before a sly smirk spread across her own. Reaching behind her neck, she grasped your hand and pulled you into a captivating kiss. Your lips immediately melted into hers, engulfed in the familiar warmth you craved during her absence. She snaked her free hand around your waist, and you reciprocated by clutching the fabric of her nightshirt, both of you desperate to draw closer.

It was her who finally broke the kiss, pulling away with a sigh. “I love you too, if that wasn’t clear,” she chuckled lazily.

“It was,” you giggled, still a bit dizzy. Unsure of what to do next, you made a feeble attempt at a joke. “Such a pity marriage isn’t about love, isn’t it?”

Kit’s smile vanished instantly, guilt returning to her widened eyes. “I didn’t—“

“No, no, you were right,” you cut her off, repositioning so your head could lean against her chest. “Marriage isn’t about love…” you admitted sadly, regretting your jest. “Though… it should be…”

The last sentence was murmured under your breath, but Kit heard it anyway. She stared off into the distance, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as she contemplated her next words. “I’ve heard whispers…” she began.

You glanced up at her, curious. “Whispers?”

“Of other kingdoms, far more… advanced than ours. More innovative. More… accepting.”

Turning to face her, your expression twisted with confusion and disbelief. “Kit… what exactly are you suggesting?”

She took your hands in hers as she carefully surveyed your features. “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to watch you walk down the aisle to my brother. I don’t want to marry Graydon, or any man, or anyone else but you…”

“Kit…” you interrupted gently, urging her to get to the point.

She sighed, squeezing your hands. “I want you to come with me.”

You couldn’t believe your ears. “Where?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted with a smile. “Somewhere that will allow us to be together, somewhere that isn’t here.”

“Kit…” you began, shaking your head in disbelief. “Surely you’re not suggesting we… run away?”

“Not immediately,” she assured you, brow furrowing in thought. “It will take some time. We’ll need a plan. Some essentials. Research on different kingdoms and villages. We could even flee to an African country! I’ve read of societies that encourage the union between two women…”

“Kit,” you cut her off with a chuckle as you tried to be the voice of reason. “How could we possibly get to Africa?”

“We’ll devise a way!” A crazed smile crossed her face as she pulled you closer. “In the worst of perils, we’ll retreat to the Wildwood and live as simple woodswomen!”

Your expression turned serious. “But our kingdoms. Our responsibilities. Even if we were to flee to a different kingdom, we wouldn’t be princesses. We would be common villagers. You wouldn’t harbor the same power you do here, Kit.”

Kit simply sent you a lopsided grin. “Perhaps that wouldn’t be such a terrible thing.”

A defeated sigh left your lips as you searched her expression for humor, but found none. “You’re truly serious about this?”

All the love and admiration in the world couldn’t compare to the way she gazed at you. “I’ve never been more serious about anyone my entire life.”

There was nothing you could do to stop the way your heart lurched at her words. You nodded. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“The weddings aren’t until next month. We can use that time to plan and leave the night before.”

Kit grabbed your face and pressed her nose to yours with an excited giggle. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” you whispered joyously before crashing your lips into hers. She eagerly reciprocated, grabbing handfuls of your hair in an attempt to draw you closer. Your arms encircled her, fingernails clawing at the back of her nightshirt as if you were underwater, desperately seeking a surface.

She moved atop you, swinging her leg over until she straddled your hips. The tree bark pressed against your back, scratching against your nightclothes like a scribe’s quill on parchment. Her lips traveled to your jaw, rolling your sensitive flesh between her teeth and eliciting soft moans from deep within your throat.

“Kit…” the name fell from your mouth in short gasps. Her hands were everywhere, roaming your body with the urgency of a desert traveler seeking water. Each brush, every gentle caress burned at your core, causing your body to tremble under her touch.

Desperate for release, your hips instinctively bucked against hers. You expected her to pull away, as she had when you were teenagers. She didn’t. Instead, her moans filled your mouth and vibrated against your lips.

You were the one to pull away, panting heavily as you pressed against her shoulders. “K-Kit? Are you… I mean… is this alright?”

Kit seemed to be lost in a daze. Her pretty pink lips were slick with spit and parted slightly as she fought to catch her breath. “I love you, Princess,” she began. “I long to share the remainder of my days… every fiber of my being with you. But only if you’ll allow me.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to. All you needed to do was sit up and pull her into a tender kiss to convey your agreement. Her hands wandered to your midsection, untying your nightrobe and slipping it off your shoulders. All that remained between you and her was your thin nightgown. She traced the hem with her fingers, looking to you for permission. You nodded, shifting to allow her to pull it up over your shoulders before casting it aside.

Kit gazed upon your naked body as if it were a work of art sculpted by the Greek gods. She layed you back down, gently lowering your head unto the base of the tree as the cool grass tickled your bare skin. Her visage could only be defined as lovesick. “Will you tell me if I should stop?”

A breathless sigh escaped your lips. “I can’t imagine I’ll want you to.”

“Promise me,” she insisted, and you saw her request for what it was. Behind her hungry stares, amidst her growing need was a real, genuine pursuit of consent. You nodded, agreeing, and she was on you again.

Her lips traversed beneath your jawline, leaving a trail of kisses before stopping at your chest. “Continue?”

“Please,” you purred.

She took one of your breasts in her hand, pinching the erect bud. The soft sounds that elicited from your throat could have been enough to cease her heart’s beating. Her mouth found its way to your other breast, suckling at your swollen nipple with careful curiosity.

You groaned as your hand flew to the top of her head. “Kit… please don’t tease…”

Removing herself from your bosom was a task that Kit was initially reluctant to do, but soon complied after your hips began rolling into her once more. She resumed peppering kisses down your torso, pausing just above your mons. “Surely you’d like to stop now?”

You gave her a small laugh, shaking your head. “Far from it.”

With a serious determination, Kit dragged her index finger up the length of your wet folds, noting the way your breath hitched when she came in contact with your clit. Lowering her head, she squinted to observe the pink pearl, barely visible in the dim lantern light, which seemed to sweeten your sounds. She experimented with her fingertips once more, gently encircling your clit with the fascination of a honeybee drawn to a blossoming flower.

“Kit…” you growled, hips chasing her touch.

Your novice lover couldn’t help but marvel at the way your juices glistened on her skin. Overcome with intrigue, she stuck her slick-covered finger in her mouth, moaning at the taste.

“Is it pleasing?” You asked.

“Very,” she replied. “Like a salted peach.”

It didn’t take long for Kit to dive into you like a woman starved, using her tongue to explore every inch of your wet slit. She didn’t know what she was doing, but she was a determined and fast learner, each breath, each shift, each guttural cry from your throat helping her to gauge your needs and proceed from there.

Soon, amidst your labored breaths and electric shocks of pleasure came an unfamiliar sensation deep inside your pelvis, as if someone had wound a spring tightly around your muscles. “K-Kit…” you sputtered. “It feels quite tense…”

Kit groaned in recognition, murmuring something akin to ‘the lewd literature.’ She spoke while her mouth was still on you, each word vibrating against your core and adding to the stimulation. “Breathe, beautiful. You’re doing so well. Trust me, lean into it, it’ll feel so good.”

You did as you were told, relaxing your muscles and leaning into the powerful sensations. The way Kit looked up at you as she lapped at your folds only spurred you forward, nearer, closer to wherever you were going. It wasn’t long before a burst of warmth exploded in your abdomen, causing your legs to tremble and your vision to blur. You squeezed your thighs together against her head, ragged breaths pleading with her to stay right where she was as you rode out your climax.

Kit lifted her head up once your breathing evened out, grinning up at you with a mouth coated in your slick. “Was that alright?”

“More than,” you assured her, still panting. “Much more than.”

She crawled back up to you and tenderly brought her lips to yours. Hints of your arousal still lingered on her tongue, irrefutable evidence of the events that just transpired. You hummed as she pulled back, goofy, embarrassing grins spread across both of your faces.

“Shall I return the favor?” You asked, trying to be seductive but your eyelids were drooping heavily.

Kit chuckled, taking your face in her hands. “At a later time,” she responded, thumbing the dark rings under your eyes. “It appears we both could use some sleep.”

Too tired to argue, you let your head fall back onto Kit’s chest. She smirked, reaching for your discarded nightrobe and draping it over both of you. Her arm settled upon your shoulders as she nestled into your hair, planting a kiss on your head. “Sleep well, Princess.”

That night, you both slept in the Tir Asleen garden, intertwined under the tree’s protective branches until the first light of dawn crested the horizon.

Tag List: @chloepricesgirl @canmargesimpson @yourelliewillms @valenftcrush @camilleee222 @prettygirlfemme @slaytillieswooo @lovinglynny @joanvisitsrome @athenalive @mih11 @j-pacifica @everybodyhatesari @vii-ofswords @sofi4v13 @detmarmalade @at1nyzen @ikyk-leeknow

[fireater]

note/tags - suicide but not jimmy.. just his mom, slight gore mention, some smut?, dry humping, jimmy is like early 20s in this.. start to a fic i couldn’t bother to finish, bad writing..

Jimmy’s mom is all over the walls. It’s like someone has set off a fucking party popper. She didn’t even have the decency to get him a banner.

Welcome home Jim! Congrats on getting bailed out! I knew you could do it!

Not even that. Not a single slice of cake. Not even a candle or a party hat or a gift box or a fucking hug. Whatever people get on their birthdays.

Jimmy stands there, jaw tight, unblinking as he looks over the mess she has made of herself, the house, and his life. She’s smoked all her cigs, drained every bottle, snorted anything fine enough to suck up through a straw, and he knows Mom, she’d never leave a needle behind. So the only thing she leaves in his name is this mess and this awful smell.

He toes at what is left of her, her legs bent awkwardly at the knee like a mistreated Barbie doll. Her face is this gaping hole that looks something like her bloody cunt the day she pushed him out. For a second he wishes that it would open up like the maw of a beast and swallow him whole, take him back to where he came from, and then he goes back to feeling nothing much.

It’s no biggie. Jimmy never liked her much. She liked Curly more than she liked him, but everyone likes Curly more than him. He’s a sole-crushed peach splattered on the sidewalk, picking up grit and dirt, and Curly is a fucking prized watermelon or a silver spoon, a real nice spoon, the fancy kind you only get out for guests—He’d come and use his polished edge to scoop Jimmy right up, shape him into something nice, clean him off and serve him for dessert.

Curly bailed him out. He drove Jimmy home in his nice new car, it smelt good and had his initials on the number plate. He did this all because he needs Jimmy to feel good. So he can go and tell anyone that’ll listen about his piss-poor junkie best friend. How he put him back on his feet. Curly is modern day fucking Christ and Jimmy is a crippled leper.

By his mother’s open hand is his father’s handgun. She’s named Mia after the chick in Pulp Fiction. Jimmy picks her up, gives her a once over, and tucks her in his back pocket for a rainy day. He goes to take a piss because he’s been busting for one ever since Curly picked him up, but the throbbing urgency numbed when he saw his fragments of mom’s skull dotting the carpet like milk teeth.

Jimmy takes his piss and then he notices mom didn’t even leave a single sheet of toilet paper behind. He shakes himself dry, returns to the couch where she lays limp, thinks of blowing off her tits and then decides she isn’t worth another bullet. Jimmy turns the gun to himself. He wonders if mom put it to the right side of her head or the left. Probably in her stupid whore mouth. She would let anyone in there.

“You’re joining the party, huh?” You’re standing in the doorway of his trailer, lukewarm and unsmiling, snapping your gum like this is no big deal. You’ve always been that way. Unaffected. Jimmy pulls the trigger and Mia jams. She’s an old girl. He forgives her. He just wanted to see you cry.

Jimmy doesn’t really think you would cry, but he likes the thought of it. You would look so fucking ugly when you cry.

“I found her earlier, heard the shot and came to check.” You’re wearing short shorts so short the inside of your pockets hang out past the cuffs. “But I thought it’d be a nice surprise.”

“Fuck you,” Jimmy says, arm dangling by his side. Mia clatters to the ground when his fingers lose grip.

“That’s not very nice,” you tell him evenly, sidestepping clumps of clotted blood to get to him.

Jimmy flops down beside his mom’s faceless body. She talked too much so the silence is kind of nice. He spreads his legs and you drape yourself over him, pressing your tits to his chest and sucking his tongue into your warm mouth.

“I didn’t forget your present.” You’re rolling your hips into his, the old couch creaks with the weight of all two and a half of you. His mom topples sideways onto his shoulder and Jimmy shoves her dead weight back the other way. Blood smears the arm of his shirt where she fell, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

“Oh, yeah?” Jimmy bites your neck, he feels the pulse of your hot cunt through those tiny shorts.

“Course I didn’t, saved the date and everything.”

He half expects you to dig into your bra and pull out a baggie of something, but you just offer him a half smile, giving a sideways glance to the stinking corpse.

[merakiui]

thinking about a concept in which your parent and step-parent are going through a bit of a rough patch in their relationship, so in order to resolve this tension, keep you and skully (mostly) out of it, and hopefully return with a stronger bond, they decide to live in separate spaces for the time being while the idea of divorce is constantly whispered about. you remain in the city with your parent and your step-parent takes skully back to their hometown—that little, misty town in the mountains and trees. the one where all the eerie folklore and stories skully adores comes from. the one with such a small population that you often tell your friends at school it's "that weird cult town."

well, (un)luckily for you, your parents want you to have an amicable relationship with your stepbrother. so when the winter holiday comes around, they make plans to ship you off to that weird cult town so you can spend the next two weeks shacked up in the woods with your step-parent and stepbrother. and skully will get to return to your home come summer break! the whole arrangement feels much too complicated, and at this point you just wish your parents would stop trying so hard and divorce already. :/

but there's no getting out of it, so you pack your bags and are shipped off to the place you've not-so-affectionately dubbed Cult Town.

you've actually never been here before. when your parents first met, it was in the city and so you've only ever known the rush that is city life. but everything is considerably slower here in a comfortable sort of way. there's no hurrying after taxis or packing yourself into a crowded train. it doesn't smell like the city either. also, the internet connection is horrible. you spend your first few minutes in this town trying to get proper reception while you wait to be picked up. it's only two weeks, though. you're certain it will go by quickly.

skully is…still strange. you were never really close when you lived in the same house. he kept to himself just as you did, but right now he’s immensely welcoming. he carries your bags, offers to show you around town, and seems so pleased you've come to visit for the holidays. your step-parent notes he spent an absurd amount of time cleaning up the guest room just for you, but skully just flusters and babbles about how it's only right to treat a dear guest with hospitality. there's even a vase of pretty flowers waiting for you on the bedside table when you enter the tidy room.

you're not very thrilled to be here, but you content yourself with the fact that it's only two weeks. skully has a long list of things he'd like to do with you while you're here. you're not sure what you can possibly do in a town this small other than look at the same trees and meet the same townsfolk over and over, but anything's better than boredom.

you fall asleep in that old, creaky cabin that never seems to settle, and your dreams are filled with macabre imagery. claws scraping at the door in angry, jagged crisscrosses, as if something wishes to get in. frostbitten corpses frozen in permanent poses of agony. a faceless, shapeless monster lurking in shadows. and cold. so much cold. snow. ice. frozen lakes. you even wake cold, shivering even though the blankets are thick and warm. it's too quiet and too dark when you look out your window. no civilization in sight unlike in the city, where there are plenty of people and buildings and traces of humanity.

out here, the people hardly use their phones and it feels so old-fashioned and it's cold.

skully doesn't like it when you talk about divorce. he's still hopeful that your parents will mend their frayed bond and then you can all live under one roof again. :D you can only roll your eyes: "they're basically divorced already. maybe not legally, but definitely physically and emotionally." skully frowns at that, refusing to argue your point further. when you continue onwards down the dirt path, bundled in a woolen coat and wrapped up in a scarf (a gift from skully), you miss the way his expression sours. the way his orange eyes cloud over.

skully tells you they find bodies in the woods all the time. accidents. murders. suicides. "a forest is like an ocean," he says conversationally while the two of you stroll parallel to a dense treeline. "sometimes you happen upon things that just don't belong. things you don't expect to find in the vastness."

that night, you're tossing and turning again. your sleep schedule has been a wreck ever since you came here and you're almost certain this cabin is haunted because you keep feeling sensations that aren't there. like a whisper of breath on your neck or a hand on your cheek. and something's moving around in your room or beneath your bed or just outside the door at night. something from the forest, maybe? a monster? one of the many restless spirits left to wander aimlessly, never to know peace? you bring it up with skully the following morning: "do you ever feel...watched?"

he smiles around a mug of hot chocolate. "of course not. we drive malevolent spirits away every halloween. there's nothing that can bother you here. aah, if only you could have been here during halloween. it's simply wonderful! you must come next year."

somehow you aren't satisfied with this response, but skully's sliding a mug your way and suddenly any thoughts of local haunts disperse from your mind.

supposedly, chamomile tea aids in sleep. hoping to get at least one good night's rest while you're here, you purchase some from the market with skully when you go on a grocery run for your parent. "there's something so beautifully quaint about shopping together!" he notes, perusing a stall of various winter fruits. "it's very intimate. wouldn't you agree?"

"sure, i guess," you reply with a shrug, not quite understanding the point he's trying to make. maybe that's exactly the point: you're never going to understand him and his unusual ideals. "but isn't that why people spend quality time with one another?"

skully beams and plucks a frostbitten flower from a nearby bouquet, tucking the beautiful blossom behind your ear. "we have similar thoughts, you and I."

do we really?

you make yourself a cup of chamomile, bundle up in the warmest sweater you packed, and drink in front of a crackling fire. skully's sat at the kitchen table, scribbling away in a book and humming to himself. you asked him about it before and he told you it was "a catalogue of daily musings. nothing of great importance." you wonder what he writes about in there... probably stuff about how wonderful jack skellington is, a figure revered in this little cult town. you've never heard of him, but he seems interesting from what skully's told you.

miraculously, you drift off in the armchair, and you sleep through the night, enveloped in sweet, sugary warmth. your dreams are pleasant, too. it's the best night's sleep you've ever had.

skully asks if you like it here. his definition of 'like' is very different from yours, but you decide to humor him anyway. "it's a fine town," you say even though just the other day you were trying (and failing) to text your friends about how unsettling this place is. how life here is just so different from the city. you can't explain it, but if you stay here any longer you think they might accuse you of being a witch next with your city slang and fancy technology box (phone). "the atmosphere and the town are both very cute. it's like a little dollhouse when it's all dressed up and festive like this."

"what a flattering description! as expected, you view the world through the eyes of a poet, seeing loveliness in every little thing," he praises, holding his hands over his chest and swooning.

you feel just a little lovelier now that your sleep schedule is fixed, so you're inclined to agree.

usually, the chamomile knocks you out for the entire night. this time, though, you've awoken to a ghost. you crack your eyes open and slowly but surely shake the heavy sleepiness off. something's on top of you, holding you down in bed, their fingers cold and bony like the ones in your nightmares. you shift slightly, and the ghost freezes, still and silent as death. in the shadows, a pair of eyes search for your face.

a mouth at your ear. something stiff prods at your thigh. "shh," the ghost murmurs. "go back to sleep."

somehow you do. you feel warm again, cradled in the fluffiest of dreams. there's an encroaching coldness, though, a frigid draft threatening to creep in. you sleep through it. you'll talk to skully about it tomorrow.

maybe some ghosts aren't banished during halloween.

maybe some ghosts are made of flesh and blood.

[edensxgarden]

onlyfans... and lando but like hes just an accessory to reader's øf shenanigans in the sense where hes faceless & most of the time hes a sub heheheh idk my brain is just lando 🥰

Omg imagine lando joking about his onlyfans allll the time on twitch but little does anyone know hes literally not joking

His pretty gf asked him to be a special guest in one of her videos one time and after that first time he literally grew addicted to it

Watching her play to the cameras and be so tantilizing and so not like her usually silly self had him BRICKED

But he was not the center of attention, in her mind it was just her, the camera, and her boyfriend's big fat cock there for her use 😵‍💫

She'd tell him beforehand that she just needed to use his dick (and that alone already sent a chill up landos spine) and told him to just sit there legs open cock out <3

and that he did and he was such a good boy keeping his pathetic little moans to a minimum and she bounced up and down on his cock fucking herself on his dick for her fans

She was faced away from him but lando could see all her lustful expressions from the screen in front of them and he was doing everything in his power to keep from flipping her over and railing her right then and there :(

But in the end he kept his restraint until she fell apart on his cock and soaked his achey balls with her cum and she finally crawled off and turned off the camera

and it was all worth it cos immediately after lando grabbed her and threw her back on the bed and bullied his fat, dripping cock back into her tight cunt and fucked her until she stained the mattress (not only with tears)

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Yandere V + H: Aizawa Shouta and Hizashi Yamada

These two are the villains and you the henchman 

A couple of villains perfectly prepared to take on the army of heroes 

You’re probably one of many 

Hundreds of henchmen under the villains are meant to be nameless and faceless 

Just a pair of helping hands to whatever scheme these two seem to come across

“Sirs! I have something important to report!”

“WHAT!? What’s the matter?”

“Out with it! Tell us, then.”

“Mittens…she…”

“Our cat? Oh yeah, you took her to the vet, right? So what’s the matter?”

“She…”

“Go on! We can take it!”

“She’s…”

“...”

“She’s pregnant!” 

“Eureka!!” “So, my suspicions were correct.”

“Congratulations! I’ve brought a cake to celebrate, the awesome news!”

"Wow that's awesome of you!" "Thank you, (Y/n)."

It's your focus on them as people that make them realize your worth

Unlike your coworkers who easily clock out the moment their hours are enough, you stay

Always asking if they’ve eaten, drunk enough water, or if they’ve been able to get to their laundry this week

First, its a key to their private home just to feed the cats

But then it's a meal plan of what they’ll want for dinner

Then the type of detergent for their clothes

And at this rate, they should will just start moving you into their guest bedroom

You’ve just become such an important part of their lives they can’t imagine their lives or their villainy without you:

Shota did a double take at the mass of eager minions he was prepared to lead. Not seeing a familiar face smiling and saluting among them. It would be unnerving if he didn’t remember that there were chores that he and Yamada assigned; it’d be safe to assume that’s where you there. 

“Uhm babe, did you see (Y/n) on the cameras?”

“No, but I was going to. Did you?”

“Yeah…”

A look of worry and unease was on Yamada’s face, he pulled out his phone pulled up the feed of multiple cameras, and turned the screen to his significant other who had a bad feeling. The feed was clear, and a video of the cats and kittens walking around the house was sped up as the hours continued on. The speed-up footage seemed to slow as you stumbled into the room, wobbling haphazardly as the felines crowded around you as you prepared their food. He watched as you jerked and jumped to what seemed like sneezing. You eventually left but the thought of your state alone was upsetting.

“They’re…sick.”

“Yeah, but what’s worse they didn’t even say anything to me! What about you?”

“No.”

The couple grew silent, enveloped in an unnerved feeling as they looked at their beloved henchman through the screen. Shota was the first to look away, reaching for a device on his belt that held a blinking moving dot. He noted the time on his watch, humming to himself as he adjusted his cape.

“We’ve got time to catch our kitten, but we must be quick.”

__________________________________________

You felt despicable. More than your stuffy nose and rising temperature, you felt despicable with yourself. For getting yourself sick in the first place. How could you be the best henchman you could if your body wasn’t working correctly? It made you feel even worse.

You couldn’t properly serve the couple after they so lovingly offer for you to stay in their home. Granted they were awfully adamant about that going so far as to start moving your clothes and other things into the guest room in their house. But who were you to question their kindness when you were just a mere stepping stool to their villainous success?

Deep down you couldn’t help but let your insipid doubts creep in. Like why your heart beat so fast when you walked in to find the couple going through your fridge. Or when the couple send an uplifting photo of your ex being waterboarded. It shouldn’t strike fear into your heart that your employers were so involved. You were being ungrateful. That’s what got you sick. Your unwillingness to let them further involve themselves in your life is to blame for the weakness in your immune system. You’re not sick from stress…right?

“Here’s your medicine! Hope you get better hun!”

“Thanks, miss.”

Thanking the old woman as you retrieved your medication from over the counter. Trudging out the pharmacy you planned to begin the long trek back home. Completely unaware of a flashy hero stopping their route to slowly float next to you.

“Oh troubled citizen! May I be of assistance?”

The loud question grated your ears as you refused to focus on anything other than keeping awake. 

“No. Go away.”

“But dear citizen I cannot for you seem to need help!”

You groaned at their insistence reminded of the enemy your employers were especially not fond of…infact—You finally looked with familiarized malice at the shining mass and recognizable hair at the hovering super-powered individual. 

“You’re that one hero…aren’t you?”

“So you know of me? Good! Then you have the honor of being under my care!” 

“We don’t think so.”

The monotone and distorted voice of The Eraser had you both looking up at the villains in shocked stupor. Both were fully decked out in their villain armor menacingly standing still in broad daylight. The Mic was uncharacteristically silent further upsetting your already flipping stomach. It didn’t seem that the hero felt any semblance of that though.

“You two? My it seems you have the most uncanny sense for where I am! Perhaps you’re stalking me?”

You could tell he was rolling his eyes under his visor but the villain still reached a gloved hand out to you. 

“(Y/n) come with me, I’ll be taking you to our home, now.” 

You didn’t know why your feet weren’t moving or why your hands shook as you reached out. Or why your heart was pumping so fast. Perhaps that was why you let the hero put an arm out in front of you as he lightly shoved you further behind his back.

“Do not hark their villainous temptations (MY/n)! They only wish to unsettle me with a hostage–” 

His heroic declarations were interrupted by the sudden closeness of The Mic their speaker enhanced mouthpiece dangerously close to their exposed ear.

“Don’t you dare touch them!”

The hero cringed further keeping you behind him as he backed up. Holding the side of his head he swung it back and forth between the villains. With an unexpected battle cry he opened his palms towards the villains before frantically shaking it when he found no reaction.

“W-what is this?! Why can’t I–?”

“Did you forget who you were fighting? Idiot.”

“Wellll the idiot is realizing just how much of a moron he is maybe we’ll grant some mercy.”

“M-mercy?”

“Yup you give us our lovely (Y/n)! And we won’t immediately squash you to bits!”

“Immediately?”

“Do I hafta keep repeating myself? Just give us the kitten we’ll be up on and on our way! Okay?”

“That is until we return to beat you to a bloody pulp for so much as talking to them. See (Y/n) this is why you should just stay home, it just means more carnage for everyone else. Besides you’re so sick I bet you can’t even think straight, come home (Y/n).”

“Yeah precious how about we just go home…”

“You want watch us obliterate him would you?”