“whatcha up to, huh, baby?” sounds like enough of a rhetorical question for you to ignore it as your grip around his neck loosens, elbows forcing the brunt of your weight on his shoulders as you shift to get into the right spot. it’s not until your cunt is lined up perfectly with the curved outline of his cock, pre mixing with yours through layers of fabric, that you try again, rolling your hips once more to try and get the perfect angle that makes him—

“oh, fuuuuckk, there she is,” he says, so quiet you’re sure you weren’t meant to hear it.

pussy aching, clenching around nothing, you exhale shakily as your boyfriend’s grip tightens for real this time, his ass sliding further back down into the couch, crooking his head to the side so your head can come down and press against the meat of his shoulder, your chest pressed right up against his. the angle stays right, somehow, the head of your boyfriend’s cock wet against your hole before he starts thrusting up into you in earnest, trying to get that feeling again, trying to get the tip of his cock to catch and slip in, just a little, just enough—

“fuck, sweet girl, cunt so good, you’re so wet—” he grunts, hips faltering as your flimsy shorts slip to the side, somehow, dirty cotton panties stretching, doing nothing to stop his cock from sliding up against your clit at its peak and tease your hole on the drop, ruthlessly slipping it in as much as the fabric covering it will allow with the next thrust before he does it all over again.

keigo’s staring down at where you’re connected, holding you in place like a toy as he rolls his hips in your stead, his grip turned bruising, thrusts aimed just right, precise, somehow, like something in his body is made for it—like he’s fucking trained himself to do it. pathetically, you let him do whatever he wants, fingers tangled in the hair at his nape as you moan in his ear.

it isn’t until his grip loosens just a tad and one of his hands lets go, trusting you not to move, that he reminds you who he is and what he does and why you’re here. when deft fingers curl around the back of your neck, keeping you still, you’re helpless to do anything but take it as one of your hands comes down to slip beneath the strap of your panties, question on the tip of your tongue.

“keigo, keigo, can i—wanna—”

you feel your boyfriend chuckle more than hearing or seeing it, feel how his chest stutters with it before his head falls back again, thrusts stilling. just barely within your peripheral, you catch his throat bobbing in a swallow, the corners of his lips curling up in a smirk just as before. 

your skin pulses beneath his fingertips where they dig into your skin as he feigns thought, chest rumbling beneath you. not once does that grip let up—it’s pretty much the only thing stopping you from slipping your right hand beneath your panties to toy with your abused clit. the threat of it, in a way, is what’s keeping you in check, whatever that means.

“fuck, baby girl, i don’t know. how bad d’you want it?”

“keigo,” you whine, the sound high and needy, vibrating against the shell of his ear in turn, “so bad—fuck, please, i need—”

“need what?” he interrupts, voice dropping an octave. his thumb is tracing the skin over your carotid, close to the ear furthest him, where your pulse is the strongest—where it only seems to kick up at the attention, making your head spin. “gotta use your words, sweet girl. can’t just grind on me like that and expect me to know what’s going on up there,”

you whine again, hips jerking involuntarily against his, seeking friction he’s no longer giving you. it’s almost as if he weren’t still hard as hell beneath you, with the way he’s holding still, twitching right up against your soaked panties. almost like he hasn’t been doing anything at all, with how he’s staring at you, golden irises shadowed over with thick lashes as he waits.

“wanna touch,” you manage, breath hitching when his grip tightens warningly around the back of your neck, as if the touch itself weren’t enough of a warning on its own. “wanna come, keigo, please—let me—”

“let you what?” he’s enjoying this, the bastard. you can feel the smirk against your temple as he pulls you closer, speaking directly against your skin, stubble tickling the side of your face. your cunt throbs at the feeling, head clearing only just so at the softer feel of a lazy kiss smoothing over the roughness, his chest rumbling again. “let you get yourself off on my cock like i’m some toy? like i’m just something warm to rub against? could just get you a pillow, huh?”

“no, no, that’s not—” you try, almost shaking your head as if his grip weren’t restricting so much of your movement. you can’t even move, restricted by both his hands and your position—he’s keeping you pliant and docile and fucking frustrated. 

“that’s exactly what you were doing, baby.” the hand on your hip slides down, fingers dragging over the damp fabric of your shorts, pressing just hard enough to make you gasp, hips rolling into the touch but not enough, his cock slipping away to fwap against your thigh. “look at this mess, huh? soaked through. been thinking about this all day, haven’t you? sitting around, what, touching yourself ‘n getting ready for me, yeah?”

“wasn’t—oh, fuck—” your denial dies in your throat as his fingers slip beneath the elastic of your panties, not touching where you need him but just resting there, teasing like a fucking asshole. 

“liar,” he breathes, lacking any malice in the slightest. “but that’s okay. i like you desperate. like you stupid with it, hmm?” his fingers slide lower, brushing through slick folds with a gentleness violently contrasting the bruising grip he’s got around your neck. “so tell me, sweet girl. if i let you touch yourself now, let you play with your clit, what’re you gonna do for me after?”

your mind blanks. he’s circling your hole with one finger, not pushing in, just tracing it while his cock twitches absently against your thigh, so much further than you want it to be, than where it’s supposed to be. he’s clearly getting impatient, but unwilling to rush this game he’s playing. 

“i’ll—” you swallow hard, his fingers stilling, blunt nail catching your gummy insides. “‘m gonna ride you, however you want.”

“however i want?” his finger pushes in further, just the tip, just the tip, and your walls clamp down around nothing, looking for his fingers or his cock or his tongue or anything, anything at all. “that’s dangerous, baby, you know what i like.”

you do. keigo likes to watch you from below, likes to slide low like he is now but lower and stare up at you as you fall apart on his cock. he likes the feel of your hands braced on his wings—if they weren’t so tiny, right now—feathers soft and tickling your palms while he fucks up into you hard enough to make your tummy ache. after, he likes to flip you over, when your thighs start to shake with exertion, likes to create a sort of canopy around you with his wings, intimacy hidden and private and overwhelming ‘cause all you can see is him and all he can see is you. he takes you apart slowly, using up all the time in the world even when he’s shaking apart himself.

“whatever you want,” you correct, voice barely above a whisper. “please, keigo, i’ll be good—’m gonna be so good for you, just let me—”

“let you?” he withdraws his finger, brings it up to your lips, painting them with your slick. “open.”

you obey immediately, lips parting to let his fingers slide inside, tasting yourself, salty and bitter and nasty with his eyes all over you. keigo groans, low and guttural, as your cheeks hollow out and you suck on his fingers like you’re going to suck on his cock later—because you will. you’ll do anything, right now, to relieve the ache.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, almost to himself again, “there’s my good girl.”

he withdraws his fingers slowly, trailing saliva down your chin that he doesn’t even bother to try and swipe away. “go ahead then. touch yourself. don’t fucking come ‘til i’m inside you, though, got it? wanna feel your pussy squeeze me dry.”

his hand leaves your neck, sliding down to join his other where it’s returned to your hips, both now working to lift you just enough so you can slip your hand beneath your panties and press down on your clit, drawing circles right away that make you cry out and tip forward, mouth open against his trap as you drool all over him. it’s too much and not enough—fucking hurts.

“easy,” keigo soothes, but his voice is strained now, control cracking. “slow, baby. wanna watch you. wanna see you fall apart real slow before i fuck you fast, ‘kay?”

you try again, feeling that pathetic urge to obey, circling shaky fingers around your clit again while he watches, slowly pushing back up so he can see your face just how you know he likes. it’s with his eyes locked on your face that he shifts, holding you up just as well with one hand while the other pulls his cock free from his sweats. the sight of it, bright red and wet and leaking, curved to the left as it’s always been, makes your rhythm falter. 

“hey, eyes on me.” he commands, your gaze snapping back up to his. he’s fisting himself in your peripheral, once, then twice, nice and easy, spreading pre over the length. “keep going. show me how you like it, baby.”

you’re not sure exactly how long you’re working yourself up to it, not sure how much more you can take with the added pressure of his eyes on you and his grip on your hip and his cock brushing against your knuckles as he aligns himself beneath you. it’s different than it has been all day, having nothing to look at but your own fingers stretching yourself out and an empty ceiling while keigo was busy filing paperwork the hour or two after he’d gotten home from patrol.

“keigo,” you gasp, feeling the coil tightening, the edge approaching despite his demand, “keigo, i can’t, ‘m gonna—”

“no, you’re not.” he grabs your wrist with the hand covered in pre, cock springing to the side. he stills your movements before shoving your hand away. “not yet. not yet, sweet girl, i got you,”

and then he’s guiding you down, pulling your panties aside with his other hand, the head of his cock pressing into your hole, hot and thick and perfect. he pushes up as you sink down, the opposing movements seating him deep in one stroke, filling you up so well after so long without that it makes your vision white out at the edges.

“fuck, oh fuck—” he groans, head thrown back again as the stubs of his damaged wings rustle against the couch cushions, spreading instinctively—the back frame creaking from the force of them alone. “fuck, you’re so tight, baby—you been holding out on me? saving it just for today?”

“yes,” you sob, already moving, already rolling your hips, “yes, yes, just for you, keigo, kei—”

“fuuuuuck,” he groans, hands back on your hips, lifting you up and slamming you back down with a strength that should be impossible from this angle, setting a brutal pace that has you crying out at every impact. he can’t seem to settle on where to look, gaze snapping up at you then back down at where you’re connected. “yeah, yeah? look at that pussy,” he shifts his grip right after he’s found that gummy spot inside you, starts nailing it after noticing how desperately your fingers are scrambling for purchase on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. one arm wraps around your waist while the other slides between your bodies, finding your clit with unerring accuracy. the dual sensation, pleasure-pain of him filling you, stretching you, hitting that spot deep inside while his fingers work you from outside, has you unravelling.

“keigo, please, canicanicani—” “come,” he begs, voice wrecked, “come on my cock, sweet girl, let me feel you.”

you break apart with a scream that he swallows with his mouth on yours, kissing you messy and desperate as your walls flutter and clench around him, milking him in waves that make him groan into your throat. he doesn’t stop fucking you through it, doesn’t slow down, chasing his release now with single-minded focus as you go boneless in his hold.

“that’s it,” he pants against your lips, “that’s my girl. so good for me—so fucking good—”

his voice pitches upwards right at the end before he comes with a shout, burying himself deep and spilling inside you, cum hot and thick, marking you from the inside in a way that has you shuddering through aftershocks. for a moment, neither of you move, just breathing hard against each other’s mouths, tears spilling down keigo’s cheeks as he comes down from it.

“all okay?” is all he gets out as his head falls back again, your head falling into the crook of his neck as you sink all the way back down onto his cock, unwilling to move and risk letting any of his cum spill out. his voice is hoarse, all the cocky bravado gone now, replaced with tenderness.

you hum, too spent to form words, nuzzling into where you can feel his pulse racing in turn.

“m’kay, sweet girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your jaw, then your mouth, all soft and careful. his grip is delicate, holding your head up carefully while he shifts to kiss you better, nothing like the desperate clash moments before.

he snorts against your lips when you shift and his cum starts to drip out onto the couch.

his eyes snap back to yours, and for a second he just stares at you. clearly he isn’t offended, nor is he confused—he looks like he’s just been caught sticking his hand into the fucking cookie jar. he’s turning red as he flounders about in his own head before it shows on his face—lips parting stupidly. you watch his throat move as he swallows, and feel the motion in your core.

“you know what.”

you hum softly, tilt your head. 

“do i?”

izuku makes a face. it’s not an especially dignified one—what with the way his eyebrows pull together, forcing those angry little lines in his forehead and between his brows to come out; his mouth opening again as he breathes a sigh—but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared as he looks past you, his shoulders rising just so with a shuddering breath as his expression turns pained.

the fingers of that same hand twitch, like he’s going to reach out, probably up to his face to cover it or something of the like, maybe up to yours. they don’t. there’s barely any room for him to move, and briefly you wonder if that’s why he looks so distressed before his gaze snaps back to you, determination written all over it.

“don’t—” he starts and stops, “don’t act like—” stops again. 

his gaze drops, and you follow it. it kind of makes you want to laugh, but you only almost do.

“like what?”

it’s been so long since he’s looked at you like this—such a long time since you’ve been the only other person besides him in the room, since you’d tried to be the center of his attention. a part of you had forgotten what being on the receiving end of this unwavering stare felt like, but the rest of you remembers what it means, what it’s supposed to do.

his face does something strange, briefly, though it’s not because he’s embarrassed. you know embarrassed. all of you do when it comes to izuku. this is worse, though, arguably, it’s exactly what you wanted—what you were banking on—when you’d followed him back here and waited for him to finish in the bathroom. it’s the look he gets right before he does something stupid. 

“you know what you’re doing,” he says, and whether he knows it or not you can hear it.

you stare at him, gaze just as unwavering as his, still as all hell as you both refuse to move. it feels ridiculous, suddenly, how many years you spent learning this man only for him to still think he’s subtle—how many times you’d watched him talk circles around things he wanted because even the concept of wanting them on its own made him nervous. 

you do know what you’re doing, and clearly he does too. still.

“then tell me.”

a challenge. simple as that, and fuck it all if your ex of exes isn’t competitive. izuku’s lips draw into a hard, humorless line, his jaw clenching tightly enough for the edge of it to pop in your peripherals for just a second. there’s the sound of wood creaking under pressure right then, and  it’s as you glance down at that hand—pale white—gripping the edge of the table you’ve backed him up against that his other one comes around your waist, pressing into the small of your back.

before he does anything else, he makes sure to search your face—looking for permission, because he’s still izuku midoriya, the golden boy, before he’s just another man.

he must find whatever he’s looking for there, because the next moment the pressure is back and it’s almost suffocating. he’s closing the gap with a sort of violence that manages to feel careful and calculated and everything he must know you’ve needed the past couple months. he must’ve been bracing himself in that bathroom, given how you’ve been looking at him the entire night. 

his mouth is on yours before your brain can catch up, teeth clashing the way they always used to do when izuku lost his composure, ever the clumsy boy as the frustration he’s probably been letting build up leaks into his breath, present even before his mouth reached you. 

his right hand comes up to your jaw, slips behind your head to press your lips more firmly against his, egging you on. even after so long, the ease at which your arms come up to wrap around his neck in response is unsurprising. his other hand is pushing you up right against him, and you can feel how hard he is already through the fabric of his sweats, his cock fattening up against the thigh you shove between his as he licks into your mouth.

you feel the shudder rake through his entire body as you push, press harder, smirking against his lips as he breaks to breathe out a whine into your mouth, eyes rolling back a little in his head as his knees give out just enough to snag that perfect angle with just enough force to make his grip loosen, a louder noise slipping out before he can help it.

“yeah, izuku? how’s that feel, hmm?”

you try, only sure enough to know he can hear you, not that he can respond. it’s less that he’s unable to—‘cause he’s better than that—more that he’s too embarrassed to open his mouth in fear of being found out. your voice is low, sultry, and he can do little more than shift to grip at your arms in an effort to get you to slow down (not stop, because he doesn’t think he’ll be able to take it). 

all you get is another whimper as you flex your thigh, his head falling against your shoulder as you get him off without actually touching him at all. if he were any less desperate he’d probably worry more, but as it is all he can worry about are the tears gathering in his eyes and the press of your nails into the back of his neck—possessive, threatening.

izuku’s a crier. he always has been, and you’ve always made the best of it.

“come on, tell me, sweet boy. how’s it feel? cock feel good? you’re humping me like a dog,” you murmur, so quiet right up against his ear he’s the only person in the world meant to hear it. he’s so hard it hurts, and this isn’t doing much to help besides making it worse. the only thing he can get out is a harried “uhn, uhn, ‘s good” almost beyond your understanding as he shifts the angle a little more so less of his weight is completely on you, more on the table behind him.

you still don’t let up, quietly appreciative.

“yeah? tell me how good. you’re so wet, you know, i can feel it through your pants. ‘s making mine all wet, too,” you murmur, the hand not holding him down like a leash coming around to slip underneath his shirt, pawing at his abdomen, where he’s ticklish, so sensitive. izuku can’t help but shudder at the touch, muscles drawn taught under the attention. he’s breathing out of his mouth, now, and there’s drool collecting on the shoulder of your top where he’s just shy of biting down—you’re not exactly sure when he’d shifted to get there, but his breath is so hot.

he’s grinding against you in earnest, rolling his hips every which way, trying to figure out whether he wants it or he doesn’t, whether he should or shouldn’t, giving in and taking away and giving in all over again because he can’t decide, can’t choose for himself, can’t ever put what he wants before what anyone else thinks, what anyone else needs—but it’s so painfully obvious he wants nothing more than to cum, right here, against your thigh, in the back hallway of a restaurant in tokyo central with his friends just a few yards away.

“come on, ‘zuku, come on, sweet boy,” you push, ‘cause he’s so sensitive right now and you can tell, he hasn’t changed a bit—he’s loosing control, circles loosening, hips faltering, not quite able to hold himself up the right way as he gets closer and closer to that precipice. 

“please, please, please—pleaseplease,” is all he can say, followed by what he seems to think is a last-ditch hail mary of your name, over and over again, as the tears spill and he starts to cry a little for real. he does it as silently as he can, given the circumstance, but he’s so close, begging so sweetly, it can’t be helped just how many of his words manage to spill out a little louder than they should—so you use the hand chaining him down to circle his neck and cover his mouth.

his eyes roll back the second you mistakenly, momentarily, cover his nose, too—you’re only able to catch the failed inhale, cut-off gasp for air, in the way his shoulders hunch in and his nails dig into the skin of your arms, his forehead crashing into the dip of your clavicle as he cums, cock twitching against your thigh even as he’s still grinding into it.

“thank you, thank you, thankyouthankyouthankyou,” he whispers, now, eyes a little hazy as your hand goes back to the back of his neck, fingers toying with the hair at his nape. somewhere past the paper-thin shoji separating the back hall from the rest of the restaurant, you can hear one of your friends ask where you two went.

he’s still looking when he finally pulls into a spot just outside your place, slow and careful as to avoid the wheels making that loud nails-to-chalkboard noise they always do when he brakes just a little too fast. the hum of the engine running is quicker to cut out than he would’ve liked, after that, when he turns the key. it makes him cringe before he lets himself look back at you.

you shift a little when the car settles, leaning off the door, still half-asleep in that soft way that makes everything feel slower than it is. you’re rubbing at your right eye with the same hand you’d been resting on, other hand coming up to rub at the left as you straighten up, stretching out the curve of your spine as you do so. it cracks once, twice, thrice, before you slouch again.

he’s getting out of the car without so much as a word as you’re blinking your eyes open.

the passenger door opens before you’ve even fully registered him getting out and moving around the front, cold air slipping in as he leans into your space, close enough that the scarf around your neck shifts with his movement. the one end of it slung over your shoulder slips off, cotton fabric pooling in your lap as your boyfriend’s cologne overpowers the smell of takeout.

“hey,” he says, quieter than he needs to, reaching around you to get to something you haven’t quite identified yet. it doesn’t startle you in the least, his hand finding the buckle like he’s done it a hundred times already, even with the bulky fabric of your coat scrunched up on top of it. he’s so careful with it, careful with you, like both of those things matter in the same way.

you don’t really give him space to finish properly.

your arms are already around his neck before he’s fully pulled back, still half in your seat, half in his space, as the buckle snags around your right shoulder and sort of traps you there. you’re not that out of it, anymore, the light above the rearview a little too uncomfortably bright for your eyes now that the door is open. not to mention the quiet alarm signalling the open passenger.

it’s clear izuku can see that, given he stills, gives into the whim just like that. 

when he leans in, it’s not by any means rushed. 

it starts slow, almost tentative in a way that doesn’t really match how carefully he’s been acting all night, like he’s making sure you’re really awake enough for this, really there. his palm settles on your thigh just beside the console, in a way that’s grounding not for you but for him, above all else—he fumbles for the buckle with his other hand, but misses badly enough he tries to cover it up by cupping the curve of your jaw, and realizes, suddenly, that you’re smiling against his lips.

he falters when he feels it, his brain short-circuiting between continuing what he’s doing and acknowledging that you’re very much awake now and very much aware of him, but he doesn’t stop. his approach just changes a bit, back to something a little more familiar—he’s much more certain, now, less careful, the hesitation finally giving out.

when he finally pulls back, it’s slow in the same way everything else has been.

“you’re awake.” he says, hand still at your jaw. he sounds so fond, so content, it makes your heart twist. you hum something under your breath in response, not even sure it actually comes out as anything more than a muted mmmh, but it seems to be enough for him.

his hand drops from your jaw as your arms unwind from around him, the hand he’d had on your thigh coming up to move the belt at the same time his other hand moves your arm, freeing you from the restraint as the buckle clinks against the the edge of the door just beside your head.

“c’mon,” he murmurs, already shifting back out of your space. “let’s get you out.”

he steps to the side, just in front of the back door, giving you room as he opens yours wider. the cold hits him like a bucket of icewater after the intense proximity, and it hits you similarly as it comes around you full-force, your body no longer blanketed by his. his cheeks are turning red, from the cold more than anything—he’s not that bashful, easy-to-embarrass teenager anymore.

once you’re both outside, he shuts the door behind you with another click, and moves a little further back to open the back door. he ducks behind it, momentarily, his windows so tinted you almost can’t see him, then comes out—smacking the back of his head on the edge of the door with a murmured yowch—again holding the takeout you’d driven almost a half-hour out to get.

you reach over the open door to cradle his head, tangling gentle fingers through his hair even as you’re smiling at him, a tease on the tip of your tongue as his free hand comes up to clasp over yours. nothing ends up coming out as he steps out of your reach, letting your hand fall and slip into the pocket of your coat as he shuts the car door. 

there’s no hesitation in it, this time, when he steps in. his arm comes around your waist, palm to the small of your back as he kisses you again—shorter this time, but surer than it has been all night. it’s only a little open-mouthed, no ulterior motive evident as he presses his chest to yours and smiles against your lips this time, instead. 

when he pulls back, he doesn’t go too far. only enough to look at you properly.

“okay,” he says, like that settles everything. “now we’re going inside.”

he’s lucky most of those people are those who’ve sparingly seen him anywhere else—who he’s met on the field. first impressions are always the last, and all that. not that he wouldn’t have gone to the potluck bachira’s hosting right now if it weren’t just the guys from blue lock, but ah. it’s reassuring to know it’s just them. yoichi figured he’d be okay just being himself. as it stands, no one really seems to mind, anyway—they’re all too busy catching up with each other, because damn, everyone is here. he hadn’t, for some reason, expected bachira to invite so many people, let alone that so many of them would show up—isagi’s sure this group would look a little out of place, made up of athletes from across the fucking nation, the world. 

“isagi!” calls the aforementioned host, unsurprisingly giggly and practically tipsy already given the early hour. he nearly tips yoichi over in his rush to touch—his best friend has always been a clinger, and it’s rather sweet—but catches himself with an arm looped loosely around his neck, letting yoichi bear all his weight as he leans in to pointlessly whisper in his ear at top volume.

“kunigami ‘n chigiri are gonna go grab more beer, and uhh, i think nagi’s letting reo take him with them? ’m thinkin’ we go ahead ‘nd grab some food, i know you don’ wanna be left alone but everyone’s kinda gone off already and—”, he starts whipping his head around, hair smacking yoichi in the eye as he makes for a headcount, which could take forever.

isagi cuts him off before he goes on that tangent—he’ll probably try for a guessing game to see where everyone else went, which could last far longer than whatever free time they have right now—with a soft “that sounds good, bachira.” this earns him a hearty grin, and before he knows it, they’re stepping out of his building’s elevator and hightailing it across the street. yoichi’s always been a little jealous of the neighbourhood bachira lives in—there’s a bustling little plaza a five minute walk away, the area nothing compared to the towering highrises back where he calls home now. his best friend tugs him into a bakery just off the intersection.

“mmm, smells good!”, he hears bachira say, and it’s true—it smells nutty, kinda caramel-y, perfectly paired with the faintness of something floral, likely from the various flower pots scattered throughout the shop. isagi hums in agreement and inches to the side a little bit, just short of knocking into a stool. it’s a cozy little place. the speakers are playing something r&b.

“—just give me a sec!”, he hears someone say, sees a shadow ducking out from beneath a curtain, behind which yoichi could assume hosts dry ingredients and whatever else. he hadn’t registered the ding of the bell above the door signalling their entry

“sorry, we’re near closing. what can i get you?” you ask, ripping out a couple old receipts from the machine and leaning over to toss them into what he can only, again, assume is the trash (he can’t see behind the counter), before turning and giving him and bachira—

yoichi looks around, and thinks, only a little exasperatedly, where the fuck is bachira.

—your full attention.

he offers you a small smile, which feels easier to do than expected despite the million-and-one questions running through his head right now. he doesn’t know why exactly he’s surprised, but it’s been a while since he’s had to feel like a fucking parent who just lost their kid. it’s been way too long since he last came to visit. he hadn’t even felt the guy’s weight leave his shoulders, and wonders how appropriate it would be to turn around and start calling for him like a lost cat right now ‘cause honestly, where the fuck did he go? it’s a tiny ass shop, and he’s nowhere in sight.

see, the thing is, he would, but you end up smiling back at him with something that he knows, logically, is a customer-service smile, and he’s kind of abruptly hit with the fact that he’s standing before probably one of the most attractive looking people he’s ever seen in his life—which is saying a lot, because half his time is spent around people who end up on billboards. forgive him for feeling and probably looking a little stuck between giving you his full attention and ensuring his grown ass man of a best friend is perfectly safe being left alone for all of five seconds.

he tells himself it wouldn’t be appropriate and would actually be pretty embarrassing. you’re giving him your full attention right now, so it’s only fair he returns it. bachira can fucking wait.

he glances up at the menu on the displays above your head, and just then hears someone call for you from the behind the curtain you dipped under. your name sounds like heaven to his ears, and god, he’s such a fucking sap. you sigh, letting an exasperated little chuckle slip out before shouting back a hang on, we have a customer! and looking back at him. yoichi’s tempted to test out your name on his lips, but refrains from doing so after almost actually trying it. he’s stupid.

“i’ve never been here before,” he says instead, and cringes at himself before the last word even comes out.

fortunately for him, you don’t seem to mind, glancing up at the display behind you while he opts to stare at you. who would’ve thought, yoichi isagi, world-famous football star would meet some pretty stranger in the middle of the night and act stupid because of it—whether you know who he is or not remains up for debate, actually, but the point still stands.

you hum thoughtfully, gaze locked on the weekly special on the screen furthest to the right—he has really good eyes, he’s not staring that hard, he can just tell, his peripheral vision is good, it doesn’t take a genius, okay?—before it slides back over to him and fucking rakes over his figure. he tries to pretend he doesn’t feel electricity race up his spine at the weight of your gaze.

“hmm. we’ve got an assorted box for cheap? we’ve got a bunch of random stuff left, i think, so you’d be doing me a favour. some might be a little stale, though.” you trail off, stepping to the side a bit to peek into the display, where there are a ton of things he can’t really identify, much less so while he’s busy watching you. yoichi follows you with his eyes, pulling out his wallet. if it’s for cheap, he thinks, it means he can get rid of a couple loose coins and hopefully feel that same rush up his spine at the touch of your hands. holy shit, he’s pathetic.

once again, he’s not that socially adept. sneaky is a better term.

“is that in a dozen?” he asks, and glances up at the weekly special you were looking at, which isn’t, surprisingly, what you’d offered. he pauses, “my friend also might want—”

“—a pineapple puff pastry? i can just toss that into the box, too. it actually comes in a half-dozen, but i can get you two.”

you’re tapping the screen of the register in front of you as you speak, leaving yoichi a little dumbstruck. it’s not really at the fact he’s been interrupted, but moreso.. well, you. he has to shake himself out of it the best he knows how before he gets to counting. a part of him screams you’re jealous at the thought of bachira coming in here every day, that he gets to see you often enough for you to know something as trivial as his favorite food, while the other part swoons because you’re thoughtful enough to remember it.

“that’ll be…” you trail off and glance up at him, surprised to see him sliding way too many coins across the counter and stuffing his wallet into his pocket.

it’s just then that bachira decides to reappear, almost bringing both him and his friend down as he pounces, entire body weight falling onto your customer. you can’t help but snort at the gesture of affection, so like him that you’re used to it; bachira’s come around so often he probably knows more about you than you do yourself, spending so much of his free time here even though he’s probably crazy busy just to chat with you a little in the evenings.

as you sift through the register for his change, which you’re ninety-nine percent sure isn’t even going to cover the generous ‘tip’—he’d mouthed this to you as he slid it over—you listen to the two of them bicker. it’s not hard to admit he’s caught your eye. it was his eyes first, a solid cobalt blue, then the unruly black hair, and then his smile. you’re interested, duh, and you’re far from stupid. the way he reacted to you checking him out, paired with the way he’s been looking at you since he walked in? clearly it isn’t one-sided.

you hold out a closed fist, change heavy, curled between your palm and practiced fingers, waiting for the two to notice before bachira’s friend leans a little closer to you—bachira letting go of him to wave at your coworker, who has suddenly appeared to fill the boxes and bag them up—and knocks his fist against yours in what couldn’t be interpreted as anything but a fucking fist bump?

um? the fuck? it takes you a second, but you snort before you can help it, and bachira, who also froze up, follows with a bout of laughter. before you know it, your coworker is patting your arm in consolation as she walks away, and you’re suppressing a smile. bachira’s smacking his friend’s arm and has dissolved into uncontrollable laughter, the guy looking at the two of you as if he’s just completely embarrassed himself in front of thousands of people—he looks mortified.

really you are trying your best not to laugh any more than that, but christ.

“isagi..” bachira says, clutching his friend’s arm—isagi? you think, and oh, shit, the famous football player?—as he leans in to whisper something in his ear. you really, genuinely, try your best not to stare, fist still held out between the two of you, and wait for them to finish.

once bachira’s done and leans away, this sneaky little smile on his face that should only mean trouble ever-present, he skips on away, the front door bell going off upon his exit. his friend is still standing there, the hand he’d used to do that resting loosely on the edge of the countertop. he looks like he’s at a bit of a loss, but the sigh he lets out is a quiet thing that somehow elicits that juvenile feeling of butterflies in the pit of your stomach, and man, maybe you’re the pathetic one.

you reach out and grab that hand with the hand not holding his change, carefully uncurling his fingers and dropping the coins into the palm of his hand with a cupped fist. to his chagrin—he’s not stupid, he knows he totally lost his chance with you, holy shit, this is the worst thing he’s ever done—, you don’t let go as you rip the receipt from the machine with the coin hand, holding his wrist firmly in a way his mind, traitorously, hopes leaves a bruise.

unfortunately for him, you’re holding him too gently for that, and he has to remind himself of that as you crumple up the receipt a little on top of the change, and fold his fingers back in. with both hands. he can feel how clammy his hands are, between the calloused tips of his fingers and rough edges of his palms—but all he can focus on is how the touch feels electric, something far surpassing what he’d expected from the touch he’d been seeking.

“your change,” you hum, sweet as sugar and a little mocking, taking the pastries from your coworker, who’s giving you an all-too-knowing smile and holding it out to him. you only briefly breaking eye contact to glance at the movement of his hands as he dumps all of his change into your tip jar.

“um,” his right hand, which you’d just held in both of yours, comes up to rub at the back of his neck, his left gently taking the plastic bag from you. “thanks.”

fuck it, shot in the dark, he’s fucking adorable.

“too late to ask for your number?”, you ask, and swear the pink in his cheeks increases tenfold—but he only looks bashful at the request, not uncomfortable or disgusted, which you aren’t all that surprised by. you watch as he scrambles to flatten out his receipt, then as he palms his pockets to find what you can assume is something to write with, wanting to see him fumble for only a little bit before fondness wins out and you slide a pen across the counter.

now you’re the one staring, as he scribbles the digits that make up his very, very exclusively given out number—’cause of his status and all, he’s gotta stay safe!, his mother always says—and folding it up all nicely to give it to you.

“finally,” your coworker groans from behind you, prompting a laugh from both of you.

yoichi doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone with a smile as alluring as yours.